“It’s them,” Lucy said. “Y’know. The ones from the paper.”
“What ones from the paper?” Nelly asked.
“Dan,” Horton said sharply. “Hey, Dan. Back me up.”
Dan sat next to Lucy. Horton had spent half a tour in Nam with Dan, knew Dan didn’t go anywhere without his piece, knew he was a good man to have at your back. Dan saw that Horton had his hand under the counter, looked to the door, and sobered up quick. He shifted round, dropped his hand into his jacket pocket.
The lean man with the sack approached the end of the bar. The man was even creepier up close. The makeup and that odd glow to his eyes looked so very real. Horton had no idea how he got his eyes to do that. Some new type of contacts?
“Mister,” the slim man said. “Beg your pardon. Got a question for you.”
Horton stared at the man from where he stood, not about to take his hand off his shotgun. “Yeah, what can I do you for?”
“Like to open the bar for the evening.”
Of all the things Horton had expected the man to say, that wasn’t on the list. He cut a glance over at Dan, but Dan’s eyes stayed locked on the man.
“I bet you would, son,” Horton said. “Bet everyone in here would.”
“Don’t worry . . . we’ll be paying up front,” the man said and shoved his hand into his sack.
Oh, shit! Horton felt his heart leap into his throat. He’s going for his piece. Horton yanked the shotgun out from beneath the counter, leveled it at the man. Dan tugged out his .38.
“Whoa!” the lean man said. “Hold on a sec, now. It ain’t what you’re thinking.”
“How about you take your hand out of there nice and slow,” Dan said. “Then we’ll figure on what we’re thinking.”
The man nodded, then did something funny. He shut his eyes as though concentrating real hard. Horton wondered if maybe the guy was jacked up on something. Horton stole a quick glance over at the rest of the gang, knowing this would be when they’d make their play. Only they hadn’t moved, weren’t even looking his way. Just standing there watching the band like nothing in the world was going on.
“Okay,” the man said. “I’m gonna pull my hand out nice and slow. I’d appreciate it if you two don’t shoot me when I do.”
“Well, now that all depends on what’s in your hand,” Dan said. “Don’t it?”
The lean man slowly withdrew his hand and instead of a gun he held a clump of tarnished triangular coins. He laid them on the counter. “These are gold. Should be enough to cover it.”
“This some sort of joke?” Horton asked.
The man shook his head. He didn’t look like he was joking.
“He wants to pay with play money,” Dan said and chuckled.
Horton started to join in when a glint of gold caught his eye. He stepped forward for a closer look. Horton had done a spot of panning in his day with his grandfather in the hills. He knew what real gold looked like, felt like, tasted like. He picked up one of the coins, weighed it in his hand, bit it. His breath left him. “Well, I’ll be damn, Dan. This is real.” He counted seven coins in front of him, more than enough to buy all the beer and liquor in the joint.
“If you let me stick my hand back in this sack, I can add a bit to that.”
“What?” Horton said, still mesmerized by the amount of gold sitting on his bar. “Why, yeah, son. Go right ahead. Knock yourself out.”
The lean man pulled out five more coins. “That oughta do it. Don’t you think?”
Horton didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words.
“What’d you say? We got a deal?”
Horton nodded. “We sure do. We sure as hell do.” He set the shotgun back in its hitch and quickly slid the coins into his bar towel, wrapping them up, getting them out of sight. He was amazed at how heavy they were. Hell, he thought. Got rent covered for a year or so. Maybe even a vacation or two. He hid them up under the ice chest, out of reach of any sticky-fingered barflies.
Nelly, who’d been nursing the same beer all night, gave Horton a sheepish smile. “Why, I’ll take a shot of bourbon, Bob, straight up. And, hey, make it the good stuff, will ya?”
“Yeah, me too,” Lucy said. “Make mine a double.” She looked the lean man up and down. “Hey, just who the fuck are you guys?”
The man smiled. “You’ll see. Just keep your eye on the tall ugly one over there.”
JESSE NODDED TO Krampus and gave him the thumbs-up. Krampus nodded back and proceeded across the dance floor, headed toward the stage. The two dancing women stopped and stared at him. Jesse pulled up a stool, having no idea what Krampus was up to, not sure he wanted to find out.
Chet, Vernon, and Isabel wandered over, pulled up stools next to Jesse. The two Shawnee stayed in the shadows, keeping a close eye on the Yule Lord, looking uncomfortable and out of place in the bar.
Krampus stopped in front of the chicken wire, turned, and surveyed the crowd. Now, with the stage light on him, people were starting to notice that there was a seven-foot-tall devil in their midst. But they didn’t react the way Jesse would’ve expected, especially after what had happened at the church. No hysterical shouting and screaming; instead, plenty of confused double takes, pointing, and drunken laughter, but mostly curiosity, folks trying to make sense of what they were seeing.
Krampus said something to the band, a three-piece, and they stopped playing. Instead of angry protest, a few folks actually clapped.
The stage—or platform, rather, as it wasn’t more than a foot high—was draped in Christmas lights, two slow-spinning spotlights of yellow, red, and green, shown from either side, adding a festive, dramatic touch to Krampus’s presence.
“Hey, asshole,” someone shouted. “This ain’t Halloween.”
Jesse realized that no one understood that a true monster stood among them. They obviously thought Krampus was in costume. Jesse hoped it stayed that way so they could soon be on their way without anyone getting stabbed or shot.
Krampus raised a hand. “Please, hear me . . . for I would speak.” It was his tone that captured their attention, powerful and resonating—the voice of a god. Krampus waited as the snickers died down and the hall slowly fell quiet.
“Well, get on with it then,” a stout woman called from the bar. “Ain’t got all night.”
Krampus grinned, and there was something beguiling in that grin, like an invitation to play, and, to Jesse’s surprise, he found plenty around the bar smiling back.
A brash young man over by the pool table took a couple of steps forward and shouted, “Hey, just who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
Krampus set eyes on him, intense, piercing eyes, eyes that made it clear they’d hold one accountable for what was said. “I am Krampus, the Yule Lord,” he boomed. “I come to celebrate the splendors of life and seek worthy souls to join me. People who wish to make merry . . . to shout, dance, love, brawl, and sing. Souls willing to turn their backs on the angels and share in a little debauchery. To be alive now . . . this very night. To shake their fist in the face of death, knowing whatever ills tomorrow may harbor nothing can steal this moment if you live it with all your vigor. What say you? Will you drink with me this night and chase the Draugr from the shadows? Will you sing with me to Mother Earth, to all the ghosts of Asgard? Will you herald in Yuletide with me?”