Chapter 9
Dinner. Right. I tried to focus on food and not the awareness humming through my body. Opening up the refrigerator, I stared at the contents.
“So. Options are eggs, or… eggs.”
“There is cheese in that drawer.”
“A near-expired block of cheddar that I’m hoping will last until Friday.”
“Potatoes.”
“One.” I held it up. “A single, slightly sprouted potato. We could call it rustic.”
He looked from me to the potato, then sighed.
“I will cook.”
“You? You can cook?”
“I have existed for centuries. I have learned many skills. Move.”
I moved, perching myself on one of the barstools next to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.
He took the sad potato, the lone onion I hadn’t seen in the back of the crisper drawer, the eggs, and the block of cheese.
Using a knife I didn’t even know I had, those huge clawed hands diced and sliced with mesmerizing speed.
He found spices I’d forgotten I owned—paprika, a tiny jar of dried thyme—and soon the aroma of something savory and wonderful was filling my small apartment, chasing away the lingering scent of dust and desperation.
I watched him, my mind a whirlwind of contradictions. This creature of judgment and fear was making me dinner from the dregs of my refrigerator. He was the answer to my prayers and the source of my panic. He was terrifying and strangely comforting, all at once.
“There is more to cooking than combining ingredients,” he said, without turning around. “It is about transformation. Taking what is humble and making it nourishing. Taking what is broken and making it whole.”
“Is that what you do with people?” I asked, my voice quiet. “Transform them?”
He paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. “That is not my purpose. I ensure that deeds are met with consequences, that joy and sorrow are weighed equally. It is not transformation. It is… justice.”
“Or punishment.”
“The two are often the same thing.”
He worked in silence for a few more minutes, the rhythmic sound of the knife a strange counterpoint to the soft jingle of his chains. When he was done, he produced a pan I also hadn’t known I owned and began sautéing the potatoes and onions. The smell was intoxicating.
“That smells better than anything I could’ve made.”
“I suspect that is a low bar.” He cracked two eggs into a bowl with one hand, whisking them with a fork he’d retrieved from my cutlery drawer. His movements were economical, graceful, and utterly foreign to the chaotic energy of my own kitchen episodes.
In an astonishingly short time he slid a fluffy cheese omelet onto a plate next to a pile of perfectly cooked onions and potatoes, and placed it in front of me along with a single fork.
“What about you?”
“I told you. I do not require mortal sustenance.”
“But—”
“Eat, little human.”
I took a bite, then moaned with pleasure. It was simple food, but prepared with a skill that had in fact transformed it.
“This is amazing,” I said around another bite, and looked up to find his eyes on my mouth. He looked… hungry, but I didn’t think it was for food. I took another bite, slower this time, and he made a sound deep in his chest, something between a growl and a sigh.
“You’re making it hard to focus,” I said, my face growing warm.
“Good,” he said. “You should always be aware of me.”
I finished my meal in silence, the scrape of my fork against the plate loud in the quiet room.
When I was done, he took the plate and rinsed it in the sink with an efficiency that was frankly insulting to my own dish-washing habits.
He fit into my life like a hurricane fit into a dollhouse—too big, too powerful, too wild, and rearranging everything I thought I knew.
“We need to discuss the terms of our arrangement,” he said, turning to face me, drying his massive hands on a dishtowel with little Santas printed on it. The sight of those dark claws against the cheerful fabric sent another jolt through me.
“I thought the terms were already set. You judge me, and if I fail, you drag me to the underworld.”
“That is the default outcome,” he corrected. “But you called for aid. Aid requires more than simple judgment. It requires… participation.”
“Participation,” I repeated, my stomach knotting. “What kind of participation?”
He moved out of the kitchen, the chains draped over his shoulders shifting with a soft, musical menace. He settled onto my couch again, which groaned in protest but held. “I will observe your business. I will identify your failings. And you will correct them, under my guidance.”
“I don’t want guidance from a Krampus. No offense.”
“None taken. But the bargain is struck.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the sheer size of him making the gesture feel predatory. “Your ‘festive relaxation’ has brought you to this point, little human. Perhaps my guidance is what you need.”
The little human comment was starting to grate, but I had a feeling that was the point. “And if I don’t want your help?”
“The binding requires my presence. Not your acceptance. You may fight me at every turn, if you wish to make these ten days unnecessarily unpleasant for us both.”
I thought of the electric awareness that had zinged through me when he’d cornered me against the fridge. Unpleasant didn’t begin to cover it.
“Fine,” I said, sighing. “What’s the plan, boss?”
“We begin tomorrow. Your current marketing strategy is not sustainable.” He gestured vaguely at my festive sweater. “Your customers are intrigued by novelty, not by substance.”
“I have substance!”
“You have Christmas themed dish towels and an overabundance of glitter. We will need to address this.”
“I happen to like glitter,” I muttered, but he either didn’t hear me or chose to ignore it. Probably the latter.
“For now,” he continued, “rest. Tomorrow will be a long day. Your transgressions have been noted and will require… correction.”
The way he said ‘correction’ made a shiver crawl down my spine that had absolutely nothing to do with being cold.
I spent the rest of the evening in a state of heightened, nervous energy, trying to read a book while he sat across from me, sharpening his claws with a small whetstone he’d produced from seemingly nowhere.
The rhythmic shink, shink, shink of metal against…
whatever Krampus claws were made of… was not conducive to relaxing.
Eventually, I retreated to my bedroom, my cat giving me a look of pure betrayal as I shut the door.
I lay in bed, the fairy lights casting gentle shadows on the ceiling, and listened to the soft jingle of chains as he moved through my apartment.
I was no longer terrified, or at least only a little.
Mostly I was… aware. Aware of his presence on the other side of the door, a heavy, warm weight that somehow felt less like a threat and more like an anchor.