“I am not your friend. And I do not seek an excuse to prostrate myself such as you. I am a lord, I kneel for no one. You, you are but a pathetic ass, and shall always be a pathetic ass, one who suckles upon the end of your god’s cock like a gutter whore. I will kill you as many times as need be to be shed of your stench. Now, come hither. I hunger to taste your blood.”
Santa shook his head, a contemptuous sneer upon his face. “Sadly, you still do not see what is right in front of you.” He nodded to the two angels. They drew their swords, shimmering blades of silver light, and came for Krampus. The wolves shot forward, snarling, leapt for the angels. The angels’ movements were quick, precise, their swords but blurs of silver. The blades passed through the wolves; there came no blood, no wounds, only a loud yelp, and a second later both wolves lay dead upon the ground.
“More death, more murder!” Krampus cried. “How much blood does it take to placate your god?”
“Krampus?” Isabel called. She stood on the porch, clutching the door frame, her eyes wide and terrified. Vernon and Chet leaned out the door behind her. There came a wild cry, and Wipi and Nipi pushed through them, running for the angels, spears raised.
The angels faced the Belsnickels.
“Wait!” Krampus shouted, raising his hand to Wipi and Nipi. “Stay back.” The Shawnee halted, poised, glaring at the angels. “There is nothing here for you but death.”
The Yule Lord pointed his spear at Santa. “So, the son of the great Odin shows his true face at last, hides behind the skirts of angels. Come, coward. Face me!” Krampus came for Santa Claus, tried to dart around the angels. The angels intercepted him, brought their swords up and down in a great arc. Krampus made to block the silver blades, but the swords passed through his spear, through his arm, and down his torso. Searing, biting cold followed their path, yet they clove nothing, not spear, arm, nor torso. Still, the pain was beyond his experience. He grit his teeth, glared at the angels, determined to keep his feet.
The angels exchanged troubled looks.
“I still stand!” Krampus taunted, letting loose a mad laugh. “Seems your great god is not so great!”
They struck him again.
Krampus roared, his voice thundering across the icy landscape, shaking limbs and knocking snow from the church eaves. The sound blocked out the song of the angels. They flinched as though struck. Krampus rushed them, driving into the foremost angel, knocking one into the other, knocking them to the ground.
He headed for Santa, his breath bellowing out in blasts of steam and spittle. “You will never be shed of me,” Krampus snarled. “Not so long as a single man still lives . . . for I am the wild spirit that dwells within their breast. And there is nothing, nothing you nor your god can ever do to change that!” He stumbled onward, spear leveled at Santa’s chest.
Santa Claus backed away, his contemptuous sneer replaced by dread. He stumbled, fell, but before Krampus could close the distance, the angels were upon him. They struck the Yule Lord again, and again, their swords carving paths of numbing cold through his body. The world began to fade, to lose its color and density, sounds muffled as though coming from behind a wall. Still he pushed onward, one step, another—each step harder than the last as they continued to strike and stab.
The Yule Lord dropped to one knee, then to his hands, panting, the world now ghostly shades of gray. Yet he persisted, crawling, one hand after the next, determined to put the spear through Santa’s heart.
Krampus collapsed. The angels did not relent.
“Wait,” Santa called, climbing to his feet and stepping forward.
The angels stopped and Santa Claus knelt, prying the spear from Krampus’s fingers. He stood, slid a boot beneath the Yule Lord, and flipped him onto his back. Krampus glared up at him.
“You are a most mulish beast,” Santa spat. “But your time is done.”
With supreme effort, Krampus managed to laugh—a wild, mocking laugh.
Santa raised the spear high and drove it into Krampus’s heart.
All the pain disappeared. Krampus found himself light as the air. He began to drift. The world now so faint he could barely see the outlines of the figures around him, their voices came as from far down a tunnel.
Wipi let out a wild, mournful howl and attacked. “Stop!” Krampus shouted, but his voice was small, only an echo. No one heard him.
The angels cut Wipi down, came for Nipi.
Krampus didn’t see what happened after that, the gray shapes, the voices, all of it faded away, leaving nothing.
JESSE HIT THE highway and raced north toward Goodhope. Until that very moment, his focus had solely been on getting away, but now he realized he wasn’t getting away, he was going somewhere and that somewhere was Dillard’s house.
He had no idea how much time he had. Was he on Santa’s death list? Had God condemned him for his role? How did one escape the wrath of God? He had no answers, he only knew he was still alive, and so long as he was breathing, he might still have a chance to do something about Dillard.
With the General gone, it was only between them now. Am I gonna shoot him?
Jesse thought back to when Dillard challenged him to do that very thing. How many times had he wished for that chance again? If he did get the chance, what would he do? One thing’s for certain, gonna see to it he never hurts Linda or Abi again. Abigail’s scream echoed in his mind, the terror in her eyes. I’ll at least blow his knees out . . . take him down a notch or two. Hard to beat a woman from a wheelchair. Hell yes, it is.
Jesse drove fast, but not recklessly. It was early Sunday morning, so other than the occasional big rig, the road belonged to him. He made good time, hitting the edge of town just as dawn’s glow began to spread across the eastern sky. This time he slid up the river road that ran behind Dillard’s house, hiding the vehicle in the trees.
He killed the engine, started to get out, stopped. Slow down. Don’t fuck this up again. Jesse slipped out the Colt, double-checked that it was fully loaded, and shoved it into his pocket. His eyes fell upon the velvet sack; he stared at it for a long moment. What am I supposed to do with that? Fuck, for all I know it might lead Santa and his monsters right to me. He shook his head. Have to figure it out later.
He quietly pushed the door shut, moved quickly from tree to tree, toward the back of Dillard’s house, stopping every dozen yards or so to look and listen. He held the gun out, finger on the trigger—steady and ready. Jesse wasn’t counting on God or luck this time; he was counting on himself.
The kitchen and dining room lights were on. His heart sped up—someone was home. He followed the hedges around the shed then up to the garage. He peeked around the front of the house. No sign of the cruiser or the Suburban. Linda’s sad little Ford Escort still sat in the drive and, judging by the clumps of snow around it, hadn’t been moved in a long while.
Jesse returned round the house, deciding the back garage door would make the best entrance. The door was locked. He tugged out the skeleton keys. The first key let him in. He hit the light and found Dillard’s Suburban inside. The hood was cold. Jesse took a deep breath, aware that Dillard may be home after all.
Everything in the garage was neat and tidy, all the tools in their outlined spots on the peg board, the boxes labeled and stacked evenly along the shelves. His eye fell on a sewing box with red roses, and he froze. Chet had at least been telling the truth about the sewing box. Jesse wondered if it were all true. Keep going. He started away, and stopped. I gotta know the truth of it.