“Your face,” Krampus said. “It is worth all my days below the earth.”
Santa tasted the blood. “Impossible.”
“A house built on lies has a weak foundation, my dear old friend.”
Santa looked at him, still not comprehending.
“You do not see? Have you lied to yourself for so long that you have forgotten the truth? Think. Remember.”
Krampus saw it, confusion turning to alarm. “Yes. Yes,” Krampus jeered. “Santa Claus might be untouchable, but . . . Baldr . . . he is not.” Krampus held the spearhead up so that the lantern light caught the ancient ore and flickered across Santa’s face. “You can fool the world, you can fool yourself, but you cannot fool this.”
Santa squinted at the weapon, his brow tightened. “How? It was destroyed. Odin ordered it destroyed.”
“Apparently, he did not. I found it at the bottom of the sea, there amongst your bones. Amongst Baldr’s bones.”
Santa’s eyes grew wide, confusion turning to betrayal, and then, for the first time ever, Krampus saw fear on Santa’s face. Santa fell back a step, glanced toward the great doors.
Krampus laughed, loud and full. “Who? Who is trapped now?” The Yule Lord raised himself to his full height, inhaled deeply, felt his heart drum with the sweetness of his own wrath. He peeled back black lips, exposing long, sharp teeth. His tongue flashed from his mouth, he snapped his tail back and forth. His laugh turned into a snarl as he leapt at the white-bearded man.
Santa seemed to be in shock, a man in deep water who has just forgotten how to swim. He raised his sword, but too late; Krampus drove past his guard and caught him across the forearm, not a nick this time but a deep slash, cutting all the way down to the bone.
Santa let loose a howl, a sound of outrage, of complete incredulity, and stumbled against the railing, struggling to keep hold of his sword.
Krampus spun away, almost dancing. “How sweet the taste of revenge. How very, very sweet!”
Santa clutched the wound, face aghast at all the blood pumping from between his fingers.
Krampus hopped from foot to foot, prancing on his toes, grinning and tittering.
Santa kept his sword pointed at Krampus as he backed away, edging toward the double doors. Krampus followed, stalked him around the ring, allowing him to reach the door. Santa struggled to maintain his guard while attempting to slide the latch with his injured arm.
“Where are you going?” Krampus asked. Santa wet his lips, sweat beading on his forehead as he inched the slide over.
“You are a beast!” Santa cried. “Not but a low-caste demon. And that is all you shall ever be!”
The Yule Lord snorted and feigned attack. Santa lashed out with his sword, a wild, aimless swing, catching nothing but air. Krampus dashed forward, striking Santa atop the wrist and knocking the sword from his hand. The sword landed in the dirt between them. Santa made to grab for it when Krampus slashed the spearhead across Santa’s thigh, the mythical blade cutting easily through his britches and muscle, biting into the bone. Krampus yanked the blade free and Santa collapsed onto one knee, cradling his leg as he screamed through clenched teeth. Blood from his forearm, his wrist, and the deep slash to his leg spilled onto the ground and turned the blond straw red.
Krampus kicked the sword away, stepped up to Santa. “It is time you faced yourself.” All the play left Krampus’s voice, his tone became somber. He pressed the spearhead against Santa’s neck. “What is your name?”
Santa closed his eyes, began to shake.
“What is your name?”
“Santa Claus,” he mumbled.
Krampus kicked him, knocked him onto his side, planted his foot on his neck and set the spear into his gut. “No, it is not Santa Claus, it is not Kris Kringle, not Father Christmas, nor is it Saint Nicholas.” He pressed the blade into Santa’s flesh, an inch—two inches. Blood pooled beneath the spear tip. “What is your true name?”
“Santa Claus!” Santa cried. “My true name is Santa Claus!”
Krampus kicked him hard in the stomach. “No!” he yelled, unable to hide his outrage. “The charade is over! Your name is Baldr, the son who betrayed his own mother and father. Betrayed all the ancients. Claim your true title—Baldr the thief, Baldr the liar, Baldr the traitor, Baldr the murderer. That is who you are! Now you will claim it!”
Santa opened his eyes, glared up at Krampus, a steady resolve set into his face. “No, I am not Baldr. Baldr and all Baldr was is dead. I am Santa Claus. I serve a god of peace and love.”
Krampus squinted at him. “You serve only yourself. A world of lies contrived to hide your wicked deeds.”
“Whoever I might once have been, that person is dead, has been left behind. I have been reborn and have found my redemption through compassion and charity to others.”
“No!” Krampus spat. “No! No! No! What utter bile. One does not get to forgive one’s self. You cannot just walk away from your guilt. Forgiveness can come only from those against whom you have trespassed. Only they can absolve you of your crimes. Perhaps in the afterlife, after they have ripped the skin from your bones a thousand times, then and only then may you beg their forgiveness. And now, unless you claim your name, beg my forgiveness, then I will send you to them here and now.”
“I am Santa Claus. I answer only to God.”
Krampus stuck the blade into Santa’s chest, pressed slowly downward, toward his heart. “Claim your name.”
Santa grasped the blade, the edge cutting into his fingers. “Your efforts are in vain,” he gasped. “Santa Claus cannot die . . . he lives forever.”
Krampus saw that Santa believed it, believed it to his very soul. Krampus hated the solace it seemed to give him. “We shall see,” Krampus sneered, gave the blade a heavy shove, felt ribs snap and flesh rip, watched the blade sink deep into Santa’s chest.
Santa’s eyes grew wide, blood bubbled from his lips. “God will be wrathful, there will be . . . no place . . . you can hide.” Santa Claus fell still, his eyes staring ever upward toward the heavens.
Krampus yanked the blade free. “There. There. You are dead!” he spat. “And this time you shall stay dead!” He raised the blade, brought it down with all his might onto Santa’s neck, over and over he hacked—blood and gore spattering across his face with each strike. He hacked until Santa’s head rolled away from its body. The Yule Lord jabbed the spear into Santa’s skull, lifted it skyward, and shook it. “Where is your great god now? Where is his wrath? Nothing! For you are nothing but one monstrous lie!”
KRAMPUS THREW SANTA’S head into the courtyard, watched it bounce across the lawn, and then just stood there in the doorway for a long time, studying the stars.
Jesse stared at the body, tried to accept what he had seen, what he had been through, all of it, any of it—that there could truly be a Santa Claus at all and, if so, that this headless body lying in the dirt could be him. And if not Santa then what? He knew he should be shocked, horrified, but felt only a grim numbness. He’d seen too much, been through too much, knew on some level if he looked too hard he would have to question his own sanity, and for now all he wanted was to hold it together long enough to get through this madness and somehow make it back to Abigail.
He caught movement in the rafters. The little people, whom Jesse assumed to be elves, had left their hiding places and were peering down in horror and disbelief. Jesse glanced around, found Vernon, Isabel, Chet, all with the same shell-shocked expressions upon their faces.