Chapter 23
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through me at the thought of what Bastian’s permanent solution might entail.
“No. Absolutely not. We are not unleashing ancient winter justice on a sleazy real estate developer. This is not a fairy tale.”
“Then what is the alternative?” he countered, a new frustration in his tone. “We have confirmed he is involved. We know he is trying to crush this town. We are sitting here, while the binding itself screams for action, doing nothing.”
“We are not doing nothing! We’re fighting back with joy! With the Good Deeds Extravaganza! With a community tree!” I stood up, wrapping the comforter around me like a shield. “Your way isn’t the only way.”
“But it is my way,” he said, rising to his full, imposing height. He was fully himself now—all horns and fur and dangerous intent. “It is the very essence of my being. To deny it is to deny myself.”
“And to embrace it is to lose yourself!” I shot back, my voice shaking. “You told me. Unmade. Is that what you want? To unravel because of a greedy man in a cheap suit?”
“It is not about what I want!” he roared, the sound cracking like thunder in the small apartment. The lights in the tree flickered violently. The windowpanes rattled in their frames. The cat, who had just rejoined us, shot under the couch with a yowl of pure terror.
The power in the room was terrifying. Not just the volume, but the ancient, elemental force behind it. For a second, I saw him not as Bastian, the grumpy, surprisingly tender being I was falling for, but as a Krampus. The punisher. The harbinger of winter’s reckoning.
He saw the fear in my eyes. He had to. And the fire in his own died as quickly as it had ignited. The rattling stopped. The lights stabilized. He slumped, the sheer effort of regaining control visible in every line of his body.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, the words heavy with exhaustion. “The binding… it is strong.”
I took a hesitant step towards him, my anger replaced by a wave of fierce, protective pity. “It’s not just the binding, is it? It’s you. You want to go after him.”
“Yes,” he admitted, not looking at me. “Every instinct I possess screams for it. He is a parasite, feeding on the light of this town. My purpose is to excise such parasites.”
“But you’re fighting it.”
“Because the alternative is… unacceptable.” He finally met my gaze, and the raw turmoil in his eyes made my chest ache. “I am fighting myself, Noelle. A battle I have never had to wage before.”
“Then we’ll be a two-person army,” I said, closing the distance between us and taking his massive, clawed hand in mine. It was cool to the touch, but it immediately warmed under my palm. “You fight your nature, and I’ll fight you. We’ll balance each other out.”
A flicker of something akin to hope crossed his face, so fleeting I might have imagined it. “A fool’s hope.”
“It’s the only kind I have,” I said with a shrug. “And so far, it’s working pretty well.”
I let go of his hand and went to the window, peering out at the snow-covered street. The town was quiet, dark, and fragile.
“What if,” I said, thinking aloud, “you could follow the trail? But not for punishment. Just for information. Reconnaissance.”
His ears perked up, a subtle but clear sign of interest. “To what end?”
“To find proof. Not magical residue, but something tangible. Something we could use against him without resorting to… well, that.” I gestured vaguely at the air, which still felt electric with his spent power.
“Your human laws are… inefficient.”
“Maybe. But they’re safer. For you.” I turned back to him, my expression earnest. “Please, Bastian. Try it my way. Just for tonight.”
He watched me for a long, silent moment, the internal debate visible in the tense set of his shoulders. The binding, I imagined, was screaming at him. A primal roar for action. But he was fighting it. For me.
Finally, he gave a curt, reluctant nod. “Information. Only.”
Relief washed over me, so potent my knees felt weak. “Okay. Good. What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing,” he said, already moving towards the door. “This is not a task for mortals. You need to be here. To be a point of… stability. An anchor for me while I am on those pathways.”
The thought of him venturing into some unseen magical realm while I waited, helpless, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through me. “An anchor? What happens if the anchor fails?”
“Don’t fail,” he said, his tone grim. He paused at the top of the stairs, turning back to me. The apartment lights cast long shadows behind him, making him seem even larger, more formidable. “Lock the door. Do not let anyone in. Especially not Grinchly.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He descended the stairs, and a moment later, I heard the click of the shop door opening and closing, followed by the unnerving silence of an empty building.
I hurried to the window, but there was no sign of him on the street.
He hadn’t walked out. He had simply… vanished.
The lock on the apartment door felt flimsy and inadequate.
I slid the deadbolt into place, then leaned against the wood, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.
The apartment, which had felt so safe and warm just minutes ago, now seemed vast and echoing.
Every creak of the old building was a potential threat.
The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was a held breath.
I needed a distraction. I tidied up the remnants of our impromptu dinner, the gingerbread crumbs and empty mugs a testament to a happiness that now felt very far away.
Jingle Bells, sensing my distress, wound around my legs, purring a loud, rumbling comfort.
I scooped him up, burying my face in his soft fur.
“It’s okay, little guy,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince. “He’ll be fine. He’s an ancient, powerful being. What could possibly go wrong?”
Everything. Everything could go wrong.
I carried him to the couch and sat, pulling the down comforter around my shoulders.
The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled, a cheerful, meaningless dance.
I tried to focus on them, to lose myself in their simple beauty, but my mind kept replaying his words.
Pathways. Ley lines. Sewage in a pristine spring.
What did that even look like? What kind of creatures might he encounter?
The binding had been insistent, he’d said.
A primal scream for justice. What if the temptation on those unseen pathways was too great?
What if he gave in, not just to punish Grinchly, but to save himself from the magical pressure?
And what, I wondered with a sickening lurch, would happen to me if he was unmade? The bond was a two-way street. Would I feel it? Would it hurt? Or would I just be… empty again?
Time stretched, thin and taut. Every minute that passed was a small victory, a sign that he was still out there, still fighting.
I got up and paced the length of the apartment, my bare feet silent on the rug.
I looked out the window, but the street remained empty, bathed in the cold, white light of the single streetlamp.
I couldn’t just sit here. I was a person of action, of hopeless plans and stubborn optimism. Being an anchor wasn’t a passive role. It was a job. And I was going to do it right.
If I was his anchor to this world, to the light, then I needed to be as bright as possible.
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
While it boiled, I gathered every candle I could find and placed them around the living room, on the mantelpiece, the windowsills, and the coffee table.
I lit them one by one, the warm, steady flames pushing back the oppressive dark.
The soft, flickering light filled the room with a sense of purpose.
I poured hot water into my favorite mug, the one shaped like a smiling snowman, and added a spoonful of my strongest, most festive herbal tea.
A blend of cinnamon, orange peel, and something my grandmother had always called “good tidings.” I carried it back to the living room and sat on the floor, cross-legged, right in the middle of the candlelight.
I closed my eyes and focused. I pictured Bastian, not as the terrifying predator who had roared, but as the tender being who had brought me hot chocolate and bandaged my knee.
Who had reorganized my stockroom not out of obligation, but because my chaos caused him “psychological distress.” I poured every ounce of my hope, my affection, my stubborn belief in him into the bond.
A silent prayer to a universe that might not even be listening.
Come back to me. Come back to the light.
A jarring, metallic clatter echoed from downstairs.
My eyes snapped open. The mug in my hand trembled. Jingle, who had been dozing beside me, shot upright, the fur on his back bristling. The sound came again—a heavy thud, followed by a scraping, dragging noise. It wasn’t the gentle jingle of the shop bells. It was the sound of an intrusion.