Krampus: The Yule Lord (12 page)

“We need to hurry,” Vernon urged.

“Fuck!” Jesse said, but shut off the light and got out of the truck.

The Belsnickels headed up the heavily wooded slope at a fast jog. Isabel pushed Jesse along after them. “You know what’s after us, Jesse. Do your best to keep up. You hear?”

Jesse heard the cawing from somewhere far above them, heard the drumming in his chest, and wondered if he’d ever see Abigail again.

J
ESSE STUMBLED ALONG,
clutching his side. The cold air seared his throat, his thighs burned, yet his fingers were numb from the cold. The hole in his hand throbbed. They’d been marching, climbing, and running up the mountainside for what Jesse guessed to be over half an hour. Isabel waited for him at the top of the trail. The rest of the Belsnickels were no longer in sight, had darted off as though unbothered by the cold and icy ground, three of them not even wearing shoes.

Jesse caught up with Isabel and stopped. He leaned heavily against a tree, gasping for air.

“Jesse,” Isabel said. “We gotta keep moving.”

Jesse shook his head, spat repeatedly, trying to clear the burn out of his throat. “I can’t.”

“Just a bit farther.”

“Tell you what,” he gasped. “Just leave me here for the wolves. I’d actually prefer to be eaten at this point.”

She shook her head and managed a half smile. “Don’t make me carry you.” She grabbed his arm and tugged him along. She might be small but he could feel her strength, felt she really could carry him if she had to.

A lone caw echoed through the trees. It sounded far away, farther down the hill perhaps. Jesse glanced up, but couldn’t see anything through the dense spruce limbs.

“I think maybe we’ve lost ’em,” Isabel said.

“You already told me you were an optimist. I don’t trust optimists.”

They slid down a slight incline into a ravine. She pointed ahead. “There.”

Jesse could just make out a cluster of boulders at the base of a cliff.

“Just where are you taking me?”

“You should be fine.”

“
Should
be? What does that mean?”

“Just be careful what you say. Don’t upset him.”

“You mean the Grumpus guy?”

“It’s Krampus.”

“Just who’s this—”

Isabel put a finger up. “Enough.” She gave him a tug, led him into a recess between the boulders. They stooped down and entered a narrow cave. She guided him toward a faint flicker of light near the rear of the cavern. They stopped before a shaft. Jesse peered down, wrinkled his nose—it smelled of something dead, of decay, of a caged beast living in its own filth. A howl echoed up the shaft. It didn’t sound like man or beast. Jesse took a step back, shaking his head. “No way.”

Isabel grabbed his arm. “Jesse, there’s no choice here.” All the lightness had left her voice, what remained was cold and stern. Her eyes glowed, she looked wicked—like a devil—and Jesse knew now that she was leading him into a den of devils.

Jesse shook his arm loose, gave her a damning look, and started down. The flickering light below illuminated the shaft just enough that he could pick his way down the stones without falling to his death. A moment later, his foot hit the black sooty dirt. He turned and froze.

It was a cavern, not much larger than a standard living room, the floor littered with liquor bottles, bones, animal hides, and charred wood. Wads of blankets and hay nestled in the back recesses. Piles of newspapers and books were stacked nearly to the ceiling. Candles and oil lamps perched on every ledge and nook. There hung a large, yellowing map of the earth with what looked to Jesse like astrological symbols, charts, and lines plotted out in charcoal across the continents. Pictures of Santa Claus covered the soot-stained walls: newspaper clippings, magazine ads, children’s books . . . and every single one had Santa’s eyes poked out.

Jesse searched for the great Krampus, for the monster that held the Belsnickels in such dread, and almost overlooked the thing sitting cross-legged on the floor. It sat shivering in the ash and dirt, rocking back and forth, clutching the Santa sack. The stumps of two broken horns twisted out from its forehead and strings of matted hair curled down its gaunt, haggard face. It grinned, then snickered, revealing stained teeth and jagged canines. The creature appeared to be starved, so shriveled and frail, like a corpse, like death itself. Jesse could see every vein and tendon beneath its thin, liver-spotted skin. Something twitched behind it; for a second, Jesse thought it was a snake, a hairy snake, but then realized the thing actually had a tail.

It cradled the Santa sack to its bosom like a long-lost child, caressed it with quivering, arthritic fingers. It let out a laugh, then sobbed, then laughed some more, tears rolling from its slanted, filmy eyes. It lolled back its head and cackled wildly and Jesse noticed the thick manacle clamped around its neck. A chain ran from the manacle to the wall; the smooth metal glistening like no ore Jesse had ever seen. Jesse didn’t know whether to be terrified or just feel pity for the wretched creature before him.

Isabel dropped down behind Jesse, strolled quickly over to the creature. “Krampus?”

The creature didn’t look up.

The Belsnickels stood well away as though afraid to get too close, glancing nervously at one another and back up the shaft as though the wolves might come sliding down the shaft at any second.

“Krampus,” Isabel said. “Santa Claus and his beasts . . . they found us. Can’t be far behind.”

Still the creature ignored her.

She laid a hand on his shoulder, gently shook him. “Krampus,” she said softly. “The monsters, they’ll be on us soon.”

The creature didn’t respond, only shivered, rocking back and forth with its sack.

K
RAMPUS CLOSED HIS
eyes and pressed his face against the sack, inhaled deeply.
Yes, I can still smell it, the fires of Hel, after all these centuries.
The smell reminded him of his mother, of blissful days when the dead danced around her throne and all things were right in the world.
I have suffered long, Mother.
He could see her face, a shimmering mirage floating in Hel’s blue flames. The vision slowly evaporated.
No. Mother, don’t leave me. Not now.
He shoved his nose deeper into the velvet, sniffed again. He jerked his face away as though bitten.
What is this?
He glared at the sack, his face a knot of hate and confusion.
His foulness.
The sack came into focus and he truly saw it, realized that it wasn’t black as it should’ve been, but a deep dark crimson.
The color of blood.

Krampus peeled back his lips. “You pervert all you touch,” he growled in a deep, rumbling voice and then the horror of it struck him.
How? How had Santa mastered Loki’s sack?
Such a feat should never have been possible, as the sack only answered to those of Loki’s blood- line. “Such sorcery does not come without a price.” His voice rose. “How many did it take? How much blood did you spill for such a prize?” Krampus shoved the sack away, stared at it as though it were evil itself.
How powerful he must be to do this. How his sorcery has grown.
And for the first time Krampus felt doubts.
While I rot and wither, he has grown ever so mighty.
Krampus pulled his knees to his chest, clutched his arms around his legs, and pressed his forehead against his knees.
There is much here to overcome.

“Krampus?” The voice sounded far away.

“Krampus, they’re coming. The monsters are coming. Krampus, please?”

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

Krampus looked up.
It is her. My Isabel of course.
The girl with the heart of a lion.
“The monsters?” he said, more to himself.

She nodded.

“What form do they take?”

“We saw at least two creatures, wolves we think. Giant creatures as big as horses. The ravens are leading them to us. We should—”

“So Odin’s great beasts live on. Then all of the old gods are not lost.” This brought on a smile. “The ravens are Huginn and Muninn, and the wolves, Geri and Freki, mates for life . . . magnificent beasts.” He grimaced. “How is it they came to serve Santa’s hand?”

“Krampus, we should—”

“Hurry. Yes, I am only too aware. If he finds me, this time he will not leave me for the elements to erase. He will have me torn limb from limb and devoured by his monsters.”

She looked anxiously at the sack. “Well?”

“You mean what am I waiting for?”

She picked up the sack and set it down before him. “The key. How long now have you been talking about that key? C’mon . . . grab it and let’s get the heck out of here.”

It should be just that easy. He should only have to envision the key while holding the sack, command it to seek it out, and the sack would open a doorway—a threshold between the here and the there—and the key would be waiting for him to reach in and take. For it was Loki’s sack, after all, a trickster’s sack, a sack created for the sole purpose of stealing. The very one Loki used to snatch what he pleased from the other gods. It was certainly never meant to be something as trivial as a gifting sack, to deliver toys to good little boys and girls.
Only Santa Claus could have so twisted its purpose.

“What is the matter?” Isabel said. “Where is your fire?”

He looked at her, at the Belsnickels against the wall, could feel their mounting distress.
And why
do
I dally when all is so dire? Am I afraid? What if after all this the sack does not hear me? What if I cannot break Santa’s spell?
Then I will be left here to await my death with Loki’s sack to mock me. The final proof that Santa bested me . . . and as such it would be this sack, this steward of my very salvation that would drive me into madness.

Krampus pulled the sack to himself, opened it, and peered into its smoky depths. He didn’t dare insert his hand, aware that the sack would still be open to the last place Santa had used it.
Probably his castle, a storehouse, someplace where he stored the toys he gave out at Christmas. Someplace where his magic would be strong, where my hand might be caught and I might become trapped. This door must be shut.

He set both hands on the sack, took in a deep breath. “Loki, aid me.” He closed his eyes and reached out, tried to find the sack’s spirit, to touch it with his own. “See me. Hear your master’s voice.”

He felt nothing, nothing at all.

Again he searched for its spirit, focused all his will. The cavern and all his surroundings faded from awareness until it was only him and the sack. “It is Krampus, Lord of Yule, bloodline of the great Loki. Recognize your lord.”

Nothing.

Krampus gasped and leaned heavily on his hands, breathing deeply and slowly, trying not to succumb to the exertion. He regarded the sack, contemplated its crimson sheen. “Blood,” he said, and then laughed. “His spell is bound in blood, and so only blood can break it. Such should be obvious, but alas, I fear my mind is clouded.”

He stuck his finger between his teeth and nipped the tip, watched a droplet of blood form. He pulled the sack into his lap and held his finger above it. One single drop fell onto the sack, beaded upon the plush velvet like a red pearl. “Honor my blood,” he whispered and slowly rubbed the drop into the fabric.

Nothing happened.

“Loki, hear me.” He waited and still nothing, nothing but the sound of his own labored breathing. And when he could stand it no longer, when he felt sure he would indeed go mad, the sack billowed ever so slightly, like a light breeze was blowing from the inside. A faint draft drifted from the opening, smelling of the wilds of Asgard. And he heard his name—faint and faraway.

“Loki?” Krampus asked in a hushed voice. “Loki . . . are you there?” The sack fell silent and stilled. Tears welled in Krampus’s eyes. “Loki?” Krampus watched the dark stain of his blood bloom across the fabric, tendrils of swirling blackness swimming and intertwining like a nest of eels until at last the sack changed from crimson to black.

He wiped his eyes and smiled. “One drop. But one drop of my blood is all it took. How many casks of blood did it cost you, Santa Claus?” He laughed.
The sack remembered, because the sack wanted to remember. And the first wrong has been put right, the first of many. And the first drop of blood has been spilled, the first of many . . . the prelude to a flood.

He swayed, noticed his hands were shaking, and his smile turned into a grimace. He clasped them together, tried to steady himself. He felt strong hands on him, propping him up. Isabel. “Will it work?” she asked. “Will the sack find the key?”

“I am the master of the sack. Let us just hope I have strength enough to command it.”

He needed the sack to shift, to seek, to find the key, then open a new door. All of this had been so easy before, when he was a virile, robust spirit, but now, now the sack would exact a heavy toll, as such magic did not come without a price. He looked at his quivering hands, his frail, feeble arms and legs.
I have nothing left to give.
He realized the effort could very well end him. A wry smile crept across his face.
And if you do not retrieve the key? What then?

He clasped the sack. “I am used up, my old friend. I need your help.” He closed his eyes and envisioned the key, held it clearly in his mind. If he had known the location, then he could’ve steered the sack, made the finding easier, the cost less severe. But he only knew the key, and so the sack would have to search, and it would use his spirit, his energy, to do so.

He felt a charge and the sack pulsed faintly in his hand. He saw the cosmos, then clouds, then forest—shooting over them at the speed of a meteor—then trees, a vast lake, then its depths, finally the muddy lake bottom.

“The key . . . I see it!” Krampus cried, and opened his eyes. He swooned and slumped in Isabel’s arms. The cave slipped in and out of focus as he fought to hold on to consciousness. He knew if he passed out now he wouldn’t come back, not in time.

He reached for the sack, got his fingers around the mouth, and shoved in his hand. His hand entered water, cold water. He pushed deeper until his whole arm was in the bag. His fingers found the lake bed, clawed the mud and clay, pawing, digging, trying to locate the key. His hand bumped something rigid. He clutched the object and slid his arm from the sack.