4

When I finally wake up, I’m instantly furious.

That was the best sleep I’ve had in months and I can’t stand the thought that maybe it was because of the girl, because I needed something to hold, like a fucking toddler with a stuffed toy.

I’m also angry because the girl ran off and she’s probably already been eaten, which means I’ll have to dispose of the wet skin and melted flesh the Bahkauv will have left behind, after extracting and gulping down her bones. Wolpertinger is neater with his meals, but if he got her first, there will still be leftovers to get rid of. Worst of all, the Imp may have found her before the others. If so, the girl will be diced into bloody bits within seconds. The Imp will pick up one cube of flesh at a time, set it afire, and swallow each flaming tidbit with clicks of pleasure. I’ve seen him do it before. His meals take hours and always result in a lake of blood. Not to mention I’ll be stepping on bits of diced bone for days—they always seem to get scattered through the entire house.

God-stars, I hate cleaning.

I used to have the same abilities many other Fae possess—the skill to swiftly clean entire rooms or to conjure food with magic. But I was separated from those powers when I was exiled to the mortal world and turned into a demon. I’ve often imagined the god-star Andregh snickering with satisfaction as he condemned me to centuries of mopping, dusting, and washing my own clothes. Joke’s on him, because I simply purchase new dishes or clothes when the old ones are too filthy. Some of my targets are obscenely wealthy, and in those cases I always take some of their money and possessions for myself. Nocturis has never rebuked me for collecting such treasures, so I continue to do so, liberally, whenever I get the chance.

After pulling on a pair of undershorts and shrouding myself in the cape again, I hunt for the girl, traversing this huge carcass of a mansion, marching up staircases and down hallways, checking each unlocked door. I slam one quickly when I see the Wolpertinger lunge up from his resting place and gallop toward me, his red rabbit’s eyes glazed with greedy hunger and his huge front teeth snapping. Each of Wolpertinger’s four legs is far taller than I am, so I doubt he could fit through the door and get to me, but I’d rather not test the theory since he seems out of sorts today. His body is that of a huge brown hare, skinny and stretched to impossibly tall proportions. He always looks half-starved, even though I bring him most of my victims. Hawk wings protrude from his back, narrow antlers stick straight up from his skull, and the tail that lashes behind him is reddish and bushy, like a fox’s but longer .

I didn’t expect him to be in one of the rooms. He’s usually slinking through the gaps between the walls, making a shushing sound as his lanky body drags along the slats and plaster.

He doesn’t have the girl, so I keep looking. The Bahkauv doesn’t show himself at all.

As I approach the kitchen, I hear the clank of a pan, and I curse myself silently for not checking there first. Of course the human would be looking for food.

I push open the door, surprised by the warmth and humidity of the room, and by the pungent smell of soap.

The girl stands by the sink, smiling, her tender little fingers held out to the Imp.

My whole body tenses in horrified shock. This foolish mortal has no idea how deadly the Imp can be. Another second, and her soft human flesh will be chopped into pieces no bigger than the end of my smallest finger.

“Stop!” I command her tersely. “Don’t move.”

The girl looks my way, startled. The Imp hisses at me, then ducks and rubs its head along the girl’s palm. She smiles and scratches the Imp’s ragged ears. Then, with another angry hiss at me, the Imp bounds across the floor, jumps up to the fireplace spit, and disappears into the chimney.

“You scared it,” says the girl reproachfully.

“ I scared it?” I stare at her, incredulous. “Do you know what it is? What it would have done to you?”

“We’ve spent a couple of very pleasant hours together.”

“You… you what?” I brush aside a few mouse droppings and sit down heavily on a stool. “You’re lucky you’re not in its belly right now.”

“That little thing?” Her eyebrows rise.

“Oh yes. The Imp can devour a full-grown human. Dices them up first with those sharp teeth. As it consumes each morsel, it transforms the flesh and bone into magical energy. It’s a powerful, intelligent creature. ”

“Oh.” She rubs her forehead with the back of her soapy wrist, leaving a smear of tiny glistening bubbles on her brow. “I didn’t realize. I thought it might be dangerous, but… I think it likes me.”

“Imps don’t like anyone.” With a sigh I take off the skull-mask, lifting it free of my horns. I wore the mask while I searched for her, since it seems to elicit respect from my monstrous housemates—but I’m weary of its weight on my face.

The girl stares as I toss aside the mask and it vanishes in midair. With a groan, I shake out my long red hair and massage the roots of my black horns. I could banish the horns, as I do when I go out drinking and carousing among humans; but they’re impressive, and I like the way the girl looks at them with such awe. She needs to know I’m someone to be feared and respected, even in this form.

After a few seconds of staring at my unmasked face, she turns back to the sink, runs the hot water, and rinses off a frying pan. After she has cleared the suds from its surface, she adds it to a stack of freshly washed dishes on the table between us.

“Why are you doing that?” I challenge her.

“Making myself useful. I’m a good worker.” She opens her brown eyes very wide. “And this place is filthy.”

I know it is, of course. But her judgment irritates me. “It’s fine,” I snarl.

She shrinks a little at the force of my tone. “I could help. I could make this a comfortable, clean place for you. Isn’t that something you’d like?” Her voice is softer now—light, delicate, and soothing, with a coy playfulness that’s almost childish. It grates on me, because it’s false. An affectation.

“What’s your name?” Again my tone is harsh, and she looks as if she might sink down and melt right into the floor.

Her dark eyes turn mournful and liquid. “I’m Little Sister.”

“What is your name?”

She shakes her head .

“You don’t have a name?”

“Sometimes a Wife or a Mother would try to give me one. But I never allowed it. I was afraid I might accidentally answer to the name in front of him . And he wanted me to be Little Sister. The role was the thing, not the person playing it. Whenever he killed someone and they went to the fjord, we called the new person ‘Wife’ or ‘Mother,’ and the game continued as if it never stopped.”

As an instrument of death upon the wicked, I’ve seen my share of twisted souls. But it sounds as if the man I killed last night was a whole new kind of demented.

The girl wipes her wet fingers on the shirt she’s wearing— my shirt—and comes around the table toward me. She clasps her hands in front of her, tilts her head to one side, and looks up at me, blinking her long, dark lashes prettily.

“I’ll be your Little Sister,” she says in the same childish voice.

“Stop talking like that,” I growl. “We haven’t yet discussed the fact that you summoned me again . No one summons me a second time. How did you do it? You stole one of my bells, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to.” She’s in earnest now, no longer playing a role. “It was an accident. I thought I could wear it as a necklace, but when I entered the tavern, everyone was terrified of me. They said I was Fae-cursed, and that I would summon the Krampus. They were ready to throw me out.”

“Shit.” I rub a hand across my face. “The bell is a telltale sign. You should have discarded it.”

“I didn’t realize that at first.” She looks down at her feet, one bare and one bandaged. I can smell faint traces of blood from the injured foot. I’m shocked that one of the monsters didn’t gobble her up the second she ventured into the hall, with that fresh blood scenting her steps .

She continues speaking, with a shamefaced expression. “I went to a place with red lamps, where they said they could use a Little Sister… but I don’t think it was the same kind of play I’m used to. They asked where I was from, and when I told them, they were frightened and told me to leave. But I made them give me food and some other things first.”

“How did you make them give you things?”

“I held up the bell and told them if they didn’t do what I said, I’d call the Krampus.”

The corners of my mouth tense, and I have to frown ferociously to keep from smiling. “That was incredibly foolish.”

“It was the only thing I could think of. I was alone. You left me.” There’s a faint accusation in the last three words.

“And you want me to, what? Let you stay here?”

She nods, blinking prettily at me again.

“Stop that,” I snarl.

Her eyes widen. “Stop what?”

I rise from the stool, towering over her. Fuck, the top of her head only comes to mid-breast on me. Though there’s fear in her eyes she stays perfectly still, her expression smooth, controlled, and submissive.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” I tell her. “I’m not like the piece of shit who kept you prisoner. Simping and fluttering won’t work on me. This isn’t a safe house, nor is it a jail. It’s a fucking carnival of ravenous monsters who will devour you in a moment and make it hurt so much that moment seems to last forever. You don’t belong here. You’ll die here.”

“I’ll die out there .” Her voice is frail, but her chin is set. “I made friends with the Imp, didn’t I? I saw the other beasts, but they didn’t eat me, and they could have.”

My heartbeat kicks up at the thought of her encountering either Wolpertinger or the Bahkauv and surviving. “That’s very fucking strange. ”

“I’d like to stay and clean. I’ll do your laundry, clean the house, organize everything—and change your sheets. When was the last time you had clean sheets?”

Couple decades ago, maybe… “You want to be my maid?”

She hesitates as if the word is only distantly familiar. “Yes.”

“It’s a big job. There are many rooms, and this house has a personality and a mind of its own.”

She raises her eyebrows at that, but determination conquers the caution in her gaze. “I can do it.”

“Fine. I’ll allow it, on a trial basis. But if you get eaten, it’s your own fault.”

“I’ll remind myself of that while I’m being chewed.”

Again I feel the ridiculous urge to smile, and again I scowl. “Very good. You’ll need clothing that’s appropriate for the task, and more cleaning supplies. I’ll take you into the city with me today and we can purchase the necessary items.”

At that, she retreats to the other side of the table. The pile of clean dishes is so high she’s nearly concealed behind them. “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want to go into any more villages, towns, or cities. Not yet.”

“You’d rather stay here alone, with the monsters?” She looks as if she might scurry away and hide in a cabinet if I deny her, so I shrug and say, “Fine. Suit yourself. I’ll go alone, then. You stay here and keep doing… all of this.” I wave my hand at the wreck of the kitchen. Mountains of dishes, years’ worth of moldering food. In my line of work, I’m used to foul odors, but that doesn’t mean I like them. I burn magical incense both here and in my room every so often to keep the smell under control, but the odor still annoys me. I’m not sure how she can stand it.

The girl turns her back to me as she picks up a stack of plates. Her soft brown braids swing against the cream-colored shirt she’s wearing, their curled ends brushing the swell of her ass. I remember how she felt in my arms—feather-light.

“Feather,” I say suddenly.

She looks at me, suspicious and alert.

“That’s your name now. Feather.”

Her lips pucker as she considers my statement. She has a pretty mouth. I didn’t notice it before.

“Feather,” she says. “Yes. And you? What’s your name?”

“You haven’t earned that knowledge yet. You can call me sir , or my lord , or master .”

I’m half-joking, though my tone doesn’t change to indicate the sarcasm. But she accepts my statement with an earnest nod. “Yes, sir.”

Her compliance makes me irrationally furious, and rather than yell at her, I leave the room.

I don’t bathe often. Fae don’t generally smell, so there’s little need for it unless I’m coated in blood, and even then I usually just sponge off the gore. Today I wash myself a little more thoroughly than usual. Once I’ve dispelled my horns and put on a suit of human clothes, my geistfyre takes me to the city of Rothenfel.

When the Wild Hunt gave me this role and restricted my magic, they allowed me the ability to glamour or dispel a few telltale aspects of my person, like my horns and my pointed ears. In my regular form I have no tail, but my tongue is noticeably longer than that of most Fae. When I am judging the wicked, my tail appears, my size increases, and my tongue grows longer and turns venomous. With one lick, I can paralyze a human for several minutes.

Sometimes I use my tongue on the innocent, to keep them quiet and out of the way while I do my work. Other times I use it to immobilize my target if I’m feeling particularly lazy and I’d rather not deal with them struggling or screaming. But I like it best when I’m in my Fae form, when there’s no venom involved, and I can use my tongue for more pleasurable purposes. During my jaunts into various cities and towns, I usually leave it un-glamoured. I find that showing its pierced length to women has a tempting effect. I’ve lured many pleasant lovers into bed that way. But I rarely reveal its full extent, lest someone suspect my Fae origins.

Few kingdoms in this world are friendly to the Fae, and Nocturis has made it clear that the Wild Hunt will not help me if I get myself captured by humans or attacked by Fae-hunters. I’m expendable. There are plenty of wicked Fae, and they could replace me easily. So when I’m out among humans, I must remain glamoured, and I must keep my guard up, despite the influence of beer or bawdy women.

I make a stop at a general store in Rothenfel, hand a bag of silver coins to the owner, and ask him to pack up everything that a new maid in a large household might need, including clothing, linens, and cleaning supplies.

“My new maid is about her size, but slightly smaller,” I add, pointing to the owner’s petite assistant. “I want her to look the part.”

“Of course, sir,” replies the shopkeeper.

I’ve been to this shop before, and as far as the owner knows, I’m a wealthy young lord from a nearby estate. He’ll fill the order to my satisfaction, I have no doubt. Meanwhile I’ll be drinking at The Holy Boar down the way.

As I stroll along the street, looking into the occasional shop window, I notice several pieces of paper tacked to a wooden lamppost, their tattered edges fluttering in the cold breeze. Sketches of missing men, women, and children from this province, which is called Visseland. Most of the posters are badly frayed, but two are recent. One is a girl with a pert face and braids wrapped around her head. But it’s the second, an image drawn with bold black lines, which catches my eye. I spread the paper out so I can see it better.

It’s a “Wanted” poster—or perhaps more of a warning poster—of me. The people of this region and the other provinces I’ve visited call me Krampus—an old trollish word from the northern cave systems of Faerie, where I was raised. No doubt the term was carried to the mortal world by some realm-traveler. The paths between worlds are fewer now, but they still exist, though all of them are closed to me. I am forbidden from returning to Faerie ever again.

My nails scrape shavings of wood from the lamppost as I crumple the poster and cast it aside. The artist’s depiction isn’t a goat mask, but an ugly, demented visage with a rictus grin. The long tongue, the black horns, the goat hooves, and the heavy cape—those are accurate. But the manic glee on my face, the stooped posture, and the arrow-shaped tail are all wrong. I’m not some hideous fiend.

Worse still, the scrawled lines at the bottom of the poster blame all the disappearances on me. And while that may be true in some cases, I’m certainly not responsible for all the kidnappings, runaways, murders, infanticide, and cruelty that go on in Visseland.

Still seething from the sight of that poster, I shove open the doors of The Holy Boar, my favorite pub in Rothenfel. I saunter to the bar and take a stool, flinging down a few coins.

“Lord Brandt!” The bartender uses my false name. “A pleasure, I’m sure. What’ll you have?”

“Beer, with a wedge of lime and a dash of heat, and salt the rim. ”

He nods and hurries to prepare the drink.

I hesitate to broach the topic of the Krampus with the bartender, but I’m concerned about who might have pinned that notice to the lamppost. If suspicions are riding too high around here, I may need to move my house elsewhere.

Geistfyre magic requires a stationary anchor point, creating a radius in which I can move from place to place—and the house serves as that anchor. When my reputation in a certain part of the world becomes too dramatic and the stories becomes too vivid, I use geistfyre to move the whole house to another country or province. It’s a difficult process which weakens the house’s energy, so I try not to do it often.

When I came to Visseland, I anchored my geistfyre magic—and my house—in an abandoned quarry not far from Rothenfel, where the natural aura of the quartz in the ground provides a strong energy source. It has been a good enough place, and I’ve grown attached to certain pubs, brothels, and gambling houses in the region at large and Rothenfel in particular. It would be a shame if I had to move away.

Besides, I have plenty of work here, without having to travel far. The people in the northern reaches of this continent are a depraved lot—and it’s not the commonplace sort of acceptable depravity, either. No, this goes far beyond drunkenness, thievery, or licentious behavior. Maybe it’s the length and severity of the winters, or the parts of the year when they go days without seeing the sun. Maybe it’s the bone-deep ache of the freezing air, a cold so ferocious I feel it myself, though the Fae are typically resistant to temperature variation.

Whatever the reason, the people scattered throughout these ravines, mines, and mountains are a cruel kind, with hearts as cold as the landscape and wicked as the Unseelie. Vices run rampant among them, more so than in the other places I’ve visited. Here in Visseland, I’ve judged many a family where a parent, friend, or relative was beating the children… or committing worse acts upon them.

I don’t deal out death in every case. Depending on the severity of the offense, sometimes it’s just a warning—a mutilation, a dismemberment, or a brutal thrashing, with a caution to do better, lest I return for a more final judgment. It’s those survivors who report my existence, who give rise to rumors and legends and posters like the one I just ripped down.

The bartender slides my drink toward me, and I catch the tankard in my hands. “I saw a strange picture on a poster during my walk here,” I say. “Fucking ugly creature with horns.”

“The Krampus.” The bartender speaks low, with an anxious glance around. “He killed my wife’s brother a while back. Not that we missed my brother-in-law much—he was a rotten bastard. But the way he went… the blood all over the floor…” He shakes his head. “His daughter was four at the time. She came to live with us afterward. Hasn’t spoken a word since.”

It’s not my place to worry about the ones I save. I judge, I punish—I do not rescue. When I do take payment, I’m careful to leave plenty of money for the care of those left behind. Mother Holle follows in my wake and ensures that any orphaned children are found and cared for, or she takes them to a safe place herself. I merely remove the wicked; I don’t waste time rehabilitating their victims.

But the tale of the silent child troubles me, even though I know her speech difficulty is likely due to her father’s wickedness, not my judgment.

“How awful,” I murmur.

The bartender nods. “The Mayor is interested in finding the beast and destroying it, so it can’t terrorize good, law-abiding folk no more.”

I almost spit out the swallow of beer I just took, but I manage to control myself. “No, we wouldn’t want good people to be terrified. ”

“Don’t you worry,” the bartender assures me, swiping at the polished counter with his cloth. “The Mayor called in some help. Couple of Fae-hunters from a southern province. Experts in all things dark and magical. They should be here in a month or so. They’ll catch the monster.”

“Perfect.” I fake a smile as he moves off to polish a silver tankard.

Fae-hunters. Shit.

Other members of the Wild Hunt, being ghosts and all, don’t fear Fae-hunters; but since I’m corporeal, I have to be more careful. The house, in its role as a geistfyre anchor, is a noticeable piece of magic, and it will blaze out like a fucking beacon to anyone who knows what they’re looking for. That could be a problem if these Fae-hunters venture too far from Rothenfel.

I’ll need to find out who they are and gauge the severity of the threat. Which means attending one of the Mayor’s parties, where wine flows freely and loose tongues spill secrets. As “Lord Brandt,” I have a standing invitation to all such gatherings. There’s one coming up five weeks from now, in fact.

No use worrying about the hunters until then. Right now, I require distraction and delight.

I survey the room, displeased that there aren’t many women here at this time of day. I need to see admiration and desire in someone’s eyes when they look at me. I need them to want me, to crave me so badly they’re willing to make fools of themselves to gain my attention. Being wanted like that—it makes my life bearable, somehow.

A young man down the bar nods to me, appreciation shining in his eyes. I devour that look, basking in the scent of his lust, and I give him an answering smile, which encourages him to abandon his seat for one next to me.

Men aren’t my preference in bed, so this won’t go farther than a little flirting and a few drinks. But for now, that’s all I need.