Jesse bent, picked the sack up off the floor. He cleared his throat and held it out toward Krampus. “It’s night. Can’t be no Yuletide without the Yule Lord.”
Jesse waited.
Krampus continued to stare at the stove.
“Are you giving up then? Is the Yule Lord turning his back on Yuletide?”
He saw Krampus stiffen, knew the beast heard him.
“I guess he won after all. Santa Claus . . . he beat you.”
Krampus’s troubled frown deepened and the end of his tail twitched.
Jesse sat the sack down on the box next to Krampus. “You might have your sack, your freedom . . . might have his head, but it appears he still won.”
Krampus took a sip from the flask.
“You were asking earlier how to go about making people believe. Well, I say if you want them to believe . . . you have to give them something to believe in. You have to get out there and be great and terrible. You have to make them believe.”
Krampus shifted his weight as though suddenly very uncomfortable.
“Well, shit sure ain’t happening so long as you’re moping around, so long as you’re sucking on that bottle like it’s your mama’s tit.”
Krampus took another swig, a long swig, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes as though the world didn’t exist.
Jesse snatched the flask from Krampus’s hand.
Krampus’s eyes popped open; he stared at Jesse, utterly stunned.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Jesse cried and smashed the clay bottle to bits upon the floor. “Merry fucking Christmas!”
Krampus leapt up, gave Jesse a tremendous shove, knocking Jesse off his feet, sending him sliding backward across the floor and into Freki. The wolf yelped, hobbled to its feet, and limped away from the fray.
“I will tear your heart from your chest for that!” Krampus snarled and stomped after Jesse. Jesse sat up, met Krampus’s burning eyes, grinned. “There! That’s it!” Jesse cried. “Be terrible! Come on. That’s what you do, be the Yule Lord, not some sulking brat!”
Krampus stopped, glared. “Who are you to lecture me about giving up?” He sneered. “You, a music-maker who is afraid to face his own muse. Who turns his back on the great gifts bestowed upon him, and denies the very core of his soul.”
“Yeah . . . okay, great. You’re a loser like me. Way to go.”
“Bah,” Krampus growled, throwing his hands up in disgust. He turned away, headed back to the stove, and snatched the sack up off the chair. He held it a minute, crushing the lush velvet in his hands, appeared to be carrying on a silent conversation with it, his head nodding slightly. He let out a grunt, picked up the birch switches. “Let’s go.” He tromped out the door and into the night.
The two Shawnee exchanged a troubled glance, but hopped up and rushed out after the Yule Lord.
Vernon slapped his marbles down on the checkerboard, glared at Jesse. “Thanks! Y’know, this was probably the first enjoyable evening I’ve had in . . . oh, I don’t know . . . a hundred years. Now instead of playing games around a warm fire, I get to go creeping into people’s houses out in the freezing cold. Gosh, somebody pinch me.”
Jesse gave Chet a kick. “Wake up, fuckhead. Time to go.”
Chet groaned, sat up, looked around as though trying to figure out where he was. Once he caught on, he let out a pitiful moan.
“Tall, Dark and Ugly is waiting for you outside,” Jesse said.
Chet looked as though he wanted to curl up and cry, but managed to crawl to his feet and zombie-shuffle his way out the door.
Isabel grabbed Lacy’s jacket, quickly bundled her up, wrapping a thick scarf around her neck and face and tying the panda cap earflaps securely under her chin. Lacy had to pull the scarf down and push the hat up in order to see. “Are we going for another ride in the sleigh?” she mumbled through the scarf.
“We sure are, dumpling.”
“You can’t bring her,” Vernon said.
“Well, I ain’t gonna be leaving her here.”
“Isabel,” Jesse said carefully. “You know we’re gonna have to find someplace for her.”
Isabel shot him a cutting look. “We’ll just have to see.”
Lacy clutched Isabel, clung tightly to her waist.
“Don’t you worry, shug,” Isabel said. “You can stay with me if that’s what you want.”
Lacy nodded that she did.
Jesse sighed. “Isabel, you know this won’t work.” And he saw by her face that she did, but he also saw how much Isabel needed this little girl right now.
“We better get going,” Vernon said and headed out the door.
The wolves came out on the steps and watched them load up. Isabel and Lacy hopped up front, Vernon in the back, Jesse started to climb aboard, stopped. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” Isabel asked, following his hard stare over to the fallen downspout.
“Santa’s head.”
They all looked, but there was no trace of the trophy.
“Coyote must’ve got it,” Chet said.
“No,” Jesse said. “Not with them wolves around.”
“Must’ve sprouted legs and wandered off on its own then,” Chet said with a snort.
Jesse noticed something even more disturbing: footprints in the snow, human in size and shape, they led a few steps away, then ended. As though the owner had just flown off.
Krampus stared at the spot where Santa’s head had been, stared for a long time, his face troubled. “It seems my time . . . it grows short,” he said under his breath. Then he slapped the reins and once again the Yule goats leapt forward and pulled them into the sky.
Chapter Fifteen
Christmas Demon
Dillard pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. He tugged the plastic bag open, peered in at the gloves, the duct tape, the knife, and the ball-peen hammer he’d taken from the General’s shop, at the hat and screwdriver from Jesse’s truck, and the wad of hair he’d plucked from the brush he’d found in the glove compartment—enough evidence to place Jesse at both crime scenes. Dillard knew investigators wouldn’t dig much further once they had all the pieces, and he planned on making it real easy to find all the pieces.
Dillard took a moment to gaze at the white Christmas lights illuminating his front porch, sparkling across the snow and ice, at the pretty evergreen wreath perched on his red front door—a picture-perfect Christmas scene. They’re in there, waiting, got no idea what’s heading their way.
He’d killed plenty of people over the years; some died easy, some died bad, but regardless, once the act was done, he’d never felt much of anything. Things were different with Ellen: not a single day passed that he didn’t think of her. Would it be the same with Linda? He didn’t think so. He loved Linda, but he could never love anyone like Ellen. He felt that, with time, Linda’s ghost would fade and he’d move on. He hoped so, because this wouldn’t be a clean, execution-style death: their deaths would have to match those at the General’s compound, would have to look like the work of an enraged, jealous spouse. That sort of thing just might haunt a man.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, tried to turn his feelings off. Linda would no longer be the woman he’d made love to, nor Abigail the little girl he’d made smile and giggle. Once he walked in that door, they were meat, to be bled and cut up.