He closed his eyes, connected with the sack, could feel its pulse. It was so easy now that he had his strength, almost effortless. He thought of the ancient sleigh, pictured it in his mind, and the sack responded. He saw the sky and ocean streak by, a fortification, just a glimpse, but enough to see this was not a place of candy canes and snowmen, but instead imposing walls of stately white stone. There it is . . . the sleigh! Krampus opened his eyes. “The door is open.”
Krampus left the circle, walked over to where the two wolves lay side by side. He squatted, stroked their thick pelts. “Geri, Freki, we must go now. Guard the sack. Let none take it. If you smell him coming, then we have failed.” Geri let out a low whine. “It is my wish that you should then tear the sack to shreds. Understand?” Freki barked.
Krampus stood, stared at the sack. All was in play. He picked up the spear, ran his finger along the edge of the blade, testing its sharpness for the hundredth time, took in a deep breath. It is time to take back that which is mine.
SANTA CLAUS REMOVED a small, leather-bound book from the shelf in his study, carefully sat it upon his desk, and touched the mark inlaid upon its cover. He caressed the frayed edges and cracked binding, opened the book, carefully turning the brittle parchment until he reached a crude ink drawing of a thin, stern-faced, bearded man holding a shepherd’s hook. Santa Claus ran his finger across the rough parchment, lightly tracing the inscription below. “Charity unto others brings its own reward,” he whispered.
He looked out from his window, out across the Mediterranean Sea. The last vestiges of sunlight glittering across the waves. He closed his eyes, inhaled the warm, salty air, and made himself remember, remember the flame as his prison burned, remember the screams as Ragnarok consumed all in Hel, all in Asgard, remember his wife’s very soul burning before his eyes.
“The flame licked my flesh,” he whispered, talking to the book. “But there came no end, no relief from my torment. I watched until all was consumed, until I stood alone, the only soul amongst a world turned to ash and blackened bone.
“God, the One God above all, sent down her angels, the Valkyries, and they carried me away to Midgard, left me naked to roam the earth. For years I wandered aimlessly. I forewent food and drink, bore the elements, all in the hope I would perish. Even threw myself from great cliffs, all in vain, for my flesh would not die.
“Krampus found me, forced me into servitude—me, the son of Odin, a slave to a low-cast demon. I did not care, did not feel. Hollow of heart and soul, I came to believe this to be my fate, my penance, that I had been spared to bear torment not just for my own vanity and arrogance, but for that of all my forebears.
“I was lost, dead in all but flesh.” He gently closed the book and clutched it to his chest. “Your words, Saint Nicholas, your words found my soul, reminding me of the days before Ragnarok, before Hel, before all the scheming, treachery, and petty games of the gods. Of a time when I roamed the land, charitable and gracious, seeking the simple joy of raising the spirits of the downtrodden. The only time I ever truly knew happiness.”
“I thought I would find you here.”
Santa turned.
A thin woman with flowing white hair and ageless eyes entered the room. She wore a dress of dark crimson trimmed in gold. She took the book from him, sat it back upon the shelf. “You need not the teachings of a dead saint to show you what is in your heart.”
“Sometimes I forget,” Santa replied. “The play of gods makes one yearn for a simpler time.”
She touched his hand. “Your charity is not to please the gods. It is your nature.”
“True. I know no joy greater than spreading hope and cheer. But do I also enjoy hearing my name in song, seeing my image celebrated in every corner of this earth? Yes. I must admit I crave such, that my heart will not be content until everyone sings my songs.”
“Charity is your vanity. So what of it? No one has put it upon you to be a saint. Charity is its own nobility, regardless of purpose.”
“The only truth I know for certain is that when I fly around the world giving gifts, helping those in need, it is only then that I forget the pain of my past. Beyond that, beyond the gods and where I might fit in their great designs, it matters not.”
“He is coming.”
“Krampus?”
She nodded. “The signs are in the bones.”
“I knew he would.”
“I believe it will be soon.”
“I am ready.” Santa Claus hefted his broadsword from the corner, sat it on the desk. “Did the bones give away any other secrets?”
“No. Do you fear him?”
“He can do me no injury. The gods have seen to that.”
“Why then do I read worry upon your brow?”
“It is the sack I fret over. He could bring it harm. I do not know where I could ever find another of its like.”
“Then you must see he does not escape.”
“He will not. Not this time. This last of Loki’s treachery will die with him.”
Chapter Eleven
Dark Arts
Krampus held the sack wide-open; Jesse watched the darkness shift and swirl. The Yule Lord nodded and Makwa set one foot in, then the other, slid down to his waist. Krampus tugged the sack up over his head and just like that, the big man was gone. The brothers, Wipi and Nipi, followed without hesitation, needing no command. Isabel went next, and Vernon, who gave Krampus a look of utter contempt but went in without a word.
Krampus looked at Chet and the General. The General took a step back, his fear plain on his face. He shook his head. “No, sir, I ain’t going in there.”
“You’re all hot air, ain’t you?” Jesse said with a sneer. “Always figured you weren’t much of nothing without your kin backing you up.”
The General seemed not even to hear him, just stared at the sack.
Jesse shoved the General aside and stepped up, ready to get this show done and over with. The mead warmed his blood, making him feel a bit crazy, a bit mad, and he liked the feeling. He stuck a foot in, sucked in a deep breath—he was still having a bit of trouble breathing, but the pain was fading. He slipped in the other foot.
Krampus sat a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Time to put things to right.”
“Just don’t get us killed,” Jesse said and slid down into the sack. There came a moment when he felt nothing below his feet, a sensation not of falling but more like sliding down a velvet chute. A second later he found himself on his butt in soft dirt and scattered hay. He blinked and the world came into focus. It was night, the air warm. Jesse had never been to the ocean, but knew that must be what he now smelled. He heard the distant sound of waves crashing on rocks and stood up.
“Get down,” Isabel whispered, grabbed his arm, and tugged him into a stall. The Belsnickels were crouched against the inside wall, sharing the stall with an old green sleigh. They peered out into a courtyard surrounded by white stone walls, at least twenty feet high. They saw not a soul, but there were gas lanterns flickering about every fifty feet along the wall. The stall butted up against a larger structure. Jesse smelled hay and manure and guessed it to be a stable. Across the courtyard stood a stately house of arches and turrets, built of the same white stone as the walls and stable but topped with a red-tiled roof.