Krampus put on a mischievous grin. “You just want to be careful not to fall in. You would wander about those endless catacombs until your body wasted away, the dead following your every step . . . waiting to claim you as their own.”
Jesse swallowed loudly, did his best to focus on the coins, and stuck his hand back in. This time his fingers found what he was searching for. He pulled out a handful of the triangular coins and held them out to Krampus.
“Good, place them in the shoes.”
Jesse did. Six coins total. “Those are gonna be some happy kids,” Jesse said. “Probably buy themselves a right decent car with that.”
Krampus handed each of the Belsnickels a piece of candy and held one back for himself, a red lollipop. He stared at it a moment, the way someone would upon a long-lost photo from their youth, then pulled off the wrapper and slipped it into his mouth. “Our work here is done,” he said, and headed down the drive to the sleigh. Jesse noticed a light spring to Krampus’s step. The Yule Lord hopped aboard, glanced back at the house, and nodded, the moonlight glistening off his broad smile.
“The Yule Lord has returned at long last.”
KRAMPUS PRACTICALLY SKIPPED up the drives of the next several houses, his tail swishing playfully back and forth, almost wagging. He did not sneak or creep about, not anymore, he entered boldly with a loud cry and cheer of Yuletide greetings. The Belsnickels scrambled to subdue alarmed parents while Krampus thrilled and terrified the children with his tales and gifts. At one home, a man actually unloaded both barrels of his shotgun and would’ve most likely killed Vernon had Chet not managed to wrestle the gun away. They flew from house to house, skimming the treetops, Krampus shouting out Yule cheer to any and all he saw below, and soon Jesse lost count of the homes they hit.
Sometime well past midnight, they heard music as they were flying fast above a lonely stretch of highway well out in hill country. They flew around a bend and saw a building set off the highway. A handful of cars, motorcycles, and trucks were parked in the glow of the neon beer signs. Krampus circled over the place, watched a cluster of people carrying on and laughing as they stumbled their way into the joint.
Jesse caught the name, Horton’s, and realized he knew the place, that he’d actually played there once, a while back. He recalled it had a rough crowd, one of those joints where they put chicken wire up in front of the stage to keep the players from getting hit with beer bottles.
“Is it a feast hall?” Krampus asked. “Or a tavern, perhaps?”
“It’s a bar,” Chet said. “Another crappy little honky-tonk.”
“What are they celebrating?”
Chet shrugged. “Another day on this shitty planet be my guess.”
Krampus nodded. “It is indeed a good day to celebrate.” He dropped down, landing the sleigh behind the bar. He grabbed the sack and hopped out.
Jesse recognized the tune; a sloppy version of that old Oak Ridge Boys’ tune, “Elvira.” Jesse had always hated that song. But it’s loud, Jesse thought, and sometimes that’s all that matters.
“Come,” Krampus said and started away.
“Don’t suppose I might sit this one out?” Vernon asked.
“No. It is time to celebrate the return of Yuletide. Time for all of us to celebrate.”
“Yes, well, I was afraid of that.”
They climbed out and followed the Yule Lord around to the front.
Chet began chuckling to himself. “If this goes even half as well as that church, then we’re in for one hell of a fine time.”
“Might be more his crowd,” Jesse added.
“No,” Vernon moaned. “He doesn’t have a crowd. This will be another disaster.”
“Can’t wait,” said Chet.
HORTON WHITE STOOD behind the bar. A picture of Neil Diamond autographed to him hung on the wall above the rows of liquor, right beside the one of Hasil Atkins. Everyone around Boone County had a soft spot for old Hasil, but Horton couldn’t say the same about Neil. Folks just didn’t care much for the old crooner and weren’t the least bit shy about letting him know it. Horton kept the picture up nonetheless, because he liked Neil Diamond, a lot, and because this was his bar and he’d put up anybody’s picture he damn well felt like. Of course if folks didn’t start buying some drinks soon, this wouldn’t be his bar for much longer, be just another run-down shack along the highway.
The first of the month was almost on him and Horton had no idea how he was going to make rent. He knew he couldn’t afford to be late again, not with the General threatening to bust up the place if he was. He usually pulled in a pretty good crowd between Christmas and New Year’s, counted on it to catch up financially, but not this year, especially not tonight. Maybe thirty folks had shown up, tops, about half his usual crowd, and the worst of it, no one was buying. He’d had to let his cook go last month, which left him managing the bar while trying to take short orders. Not that anyone was exactly lining up for his burned French fries and microwaved hot dogs.
He scanned the sullen faces. Folks were out of sorts, appeared beaten down, tired, even the band couldn’t keep the beat—kept screwing up their sets. Nothing too unusual about that, what was unusual was the fact that no one seemed to give a hoot. No boos, or catcalls, certainly no one throwing bottles. Only two people were on the dance floor, Martha and Lynn, dancing with each other as usual on account that none of the men wanted to dance with them.
Other than a handful of bikers, it was mostly regulars: Rusty, Jim, Thornton, and the rest of that bunch from the mill. Tom Mullins and his four brothers had shown up, making Horton a bit nervous at first, as trouble followed that family around like a hungry puppy. But even Tom was mellow tonight, sipping—not drinking—his beer, just playing pool with that butchy gal Kate from down Goodhope way. The bikers were mostly keeping to themselves over in one corner. Horton smelled weed, wanted to ask them to take their smokes outside, not because it bothered him none, only because maybe then they’d drink a bit more. But he didn’t know these boys, didn’t want to stir anything up, but he sure wished someone or something would stir things up—something to get the evening going.
“Shit,” Horton said, speaking to the handful of dour faces before him at the bar. “Someone die I don’t know about? Or maybe the post office just forgot to deliver everybody’s welfare checks?” No one gave him so much as a snicker.
The door opened; Horton didn’t bother to look over, at least not until he caught the look on Lucy Duff’s face. A man, a very tall man, entered the bar along with a cold gust of night air. The lights were dim, but not so dim that Horton couldn’t see that the man had horns twisting right out of his forehead.
“Well bend me over and fuck me silly,” Lucy said, her words slurred. She elbowed her friend Nelly. “Hey, Nell, check that one out.”
Six more figures came in behind the tall devil man, dressed in old-time costumes, their faces streaked black. Some of them wore furs, and masks with horns. But it was their eyes that made Horton uneasy, the way they caught the light and gleamed orange in the shadows.
Is this a joke? Horton wondered. Someone’s gotta be playing a prank on me, because last I checked we weren’t running any costume contests. He spied a large sack; the tall one handed it off to one of his gang, a lean-looking man, spoke something in his ear and pointed to the bar. Oh, fuck. Horton understood the disguises, realized that they were actually about to try and rob his place. Horton stepped quickly over to the icebox, set his hand on the sawed-off under the counter. Are they nuts? Do they have any clue the kind of folks they’re dealing with? Horton guessed half his patrons were packing right this minute, and the rest carried a knife or some other means of defense. Hard men and hard women, the kind of folks that didn’t back down from a fight. Horton had no doubt that if these fools drew weapons, someone was gonna end up full of holes.