Jesse searched for the great Krampus, for the monster that held the Belsnickels in such dread, and almost overlooked the thing sitting cross-legged on the floor. It sat shivering in the ash and dirt, rocking back and forth, clutching the Santa sack. The stumps of two broken horns twisted out from its forehead and strings of matted hair curled down its gaunt, haggard face. It grinned, then snickered, revealing stained teeth and jagged canines. The creature appeared to be starved, so shriveled and frail, like a corpse, like death itself. Jesse could see every vein and tendon beneath its thin, liver-spotted skin. Something twitched behind it; for a second, Jesse thought it was a snake, a hairy snake, but then realized the thing actually had a tail.
It cradled the Santa sack to its bosom like a long-lost child, caressed it with quivering, arthritic fingers. It let out a laugh, then sobbed, then laughed some more, tears rolling from its slanted, filmy eyes. It lolled back its head and cackled wildly and Jesse noticed the thick manacle clamped around its neck. A chain ran from the manacle to the wall; the smooth metal glistening like no ore Jesse had ever seen. Jesse didn’t know whether to be terrified or just feel pity for the wretched creature before him.
Isabel dropped down behind Jesse, strolled quickly over to the creature. “Krampus?”
The creature didn’t look up.
The Belsnickels stood well away as though afraid to get too close, glancing nervously at one another and back up the shaft as though the wolves might come sliding down the shaft at any second.
“Krampus,” Isabel said. “Santa Claus and his beasts . . . they found us. Can’t be far behind.”
Still the creature ignored her.
She laid a hand on his shoulder, gently shook him. “Krampus,” she said softly. “The monsters, they’ll be on us soon.”
The creature didn’t respond, only shivered, rocking back and forth with its sack.
KRAMPUS CLOSED HIS eyes and pressed his face against the sack, inhaled deeply. Yes, I can still smell it, the fires of Hel, after all these centuries. The smell reminded him of his mother, of blissful days when the dead danced around her throne and all things were right in the world. I have suffered long, Mother. He could see her face, a shimmering mirage floating in Hel’s blue flames. The vision slowly evaporated. No. Mother, don’t leave me. Not now. He shoved his nose deeper into the velvet, sniffed again. He jerked his face away as though bitten. What is this? He glared at the sack, his face a knot of hate and confusion. His foulness. The sack came into focus and he truly saw it, realized that it wasn’t black as it should’ve been, but a deep dark crimson. The color of blood.
Krampus peeled back his lips. “You pervert all you touch,” he growled in a deep, rumbling voice and then the horror of it struck him. How? How had Santa mastered Loki’s sack? Such a feat should never have been possible, as the sack only answered to those of Loki’s blood— line. “Such sorcery does not come without a price.” His voice rose. “How many did it take? How much blood did you spill for such a prize?” Krampus shoved the sack away, stared at it as though it were evil itself. How powerful he must be to do this. How his sorcery has grown. And for the first time Krampus felt doubts. While I rot and wither, he has grown ever so mighty. Krampus pulled his knees to his chest, clutched his arms around his legs, and pressed his forehead against his knees. There is much here to overcome.
“Krampus?” The voice sounded far away.
“Krampus, they’re coming. The monsters are coming. Krampus, please?”
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
Krampus looked up. It is her. My Isabel of course. The girl with the heart of a lion. “The monsters?” he said, more to himself.
She nodded.
“What form do they take?”
“We saw at least two creatures, wolves we think. Giant creatures as big as horses. The ravens are leading them to us. We should—”
“So Odin’s great beasts live on. Then all of the old gods are not lost.” This brought on a smile. “The ravens are Huginn and Muninn, and the wolves, Geri and Freki, mates for life . . . magnificent beasts.” He grimaced. “How is it they came to serve Santa’s hand?”
“Krampus, we should—”
“Hurry. Yes, I am only too aware. If he finds me, this time he will not leave me for the elements to erase. He will have me torn limb from limb and devoured by his monsters.”
She looked anxiously at the sack. “Well?”
“You mean what am I waiting for?”
She picked up the sack and set it down before him. “The key. How long now have you been talking about that key? C’mon . . . grab it and let’s get the heck out of here.”
It should be just that easy. He should only have to envision the key while holding the sack, command it to seek it out, and the sack would open a doorway—a threshold between the here and the there—and the key would be waiting for him to reach in and take. For it was Loki’s sack, after all, a trickster’s sack, a sack created for the sole purpose of stealing. The very one Loki used to snatch what he pleased from the other gods. It was certainly never meant to be something as trivial as a gifting sack, to deliver toys to good little boys and girls. Only Santa Claus could have so twisted its purpose.
“What is the matter?” Isabel said. “Where is your fire?”
He looked at her, at the Belsnickels against the wall, could feel their mounting distress. And why doI dally when all is so dire? Am I afraid? What if after all this the sack does not hear me? What if I cannot break Santa’s spell? Then I will be left here to await my death with Loki’s sack to mock me. The final proof that Santa bested me . . . and as such it would be this sack, this steward of my very salvation that would drive me into madness.
Krampus pulled the sack to himself, opened it, and peered into its smoky depths. He didn’t dare insert his hand, aware that the sack would still be open to the last place Santa had used it. Probably his castle, a storehouse, someplace where he stored the toys he gave out at Christmas. Someplace where his magic would be strong, where my hand might be caught and I might become trapped. This door must be shut.
He set both hands on the sack, took in a deep breath. “Loki, aid me.” He closed his eyes and reached out, tried to find the sack’s spirit, to touch it with his own. “See me. Hear your master’s voice.”
He felt nothing, nothing at all.
Again he searched for its spirit, focused all his will. The cavern and all his surroundings faded from awareness until it was only him and the sack. “It is Krampus, Lord of Yule, bloodline of the great Loki. Recognize your lord.”
Nothing.
Krampus gasped and leaned heavily on his hands, breathing deeply and slowly, trying not to succumb to the exertion. He regarded the sack, contemplated its crimson sheen. “Blood,” he said, and then laughed. “His spell is bound in blood, and so only blood can break it. Such should be obvious, but alas, I fear my mind is clouded.”
He stuck his finger between his teeth and nipped the tip, watched a droplet of blood form. He pulled the sack into his lap and held his finger above it. One single drop fell onto the sack, beaded upon the plush velvet like a red pearl. “Honor my blood,” he whispered and slowly rubbed the drop into the fabric.
Nothing happened.
“Loki, hear me.” He waited and still nothing, nothing but the sound of his own labored breathing. And when he could stand it no longer, when he felt sure he would indeed go mad, the sack billowed ever so slightly, like a light breeze was blowing from the inside. A faint draft drifted from the opening, smelling of the wilds of Asgard. And he heard his name—faint and faraway.