5

Feather.

I like the name.

Feathers are light and pliant, yet resilient. My book of creatures had birds in it, with sketches of their bones and wings, and I’ve examined feathers that worked their way out of the down pillow on Wife’s bed. Feathers can survive all sorts of circumstances. They might come through a storm looking wet and ragged, but a little preening and they’re good as new again.

“Feather,” I say aloud to the Imp, who returned to me shortly after Krampus left. “How do you like my new name?”

The Imp lashes his scaly tail and gnaws on a pair of iron tongs that I heated red-hot for him in the fireplace .

Somewhere in the house, a door bangs.

It’s not the first strange sound I’ve heard during the hours I’ve been working. The old mansion creaks almost constantly. Various rustling, scraping, and shuffling noises echo through its walls and corridors.

But there’s a sharp definition to that slamming door, an intentionality that catches my interest. Is Krampus back? He’s been gone for at least a couple of hours. I wipe my hands and go to the kitchen door, eager for the supplies he promised to bring me.

When I open the door, my breath catches. The kitchen is huge, rambling, and piled with dishes and debris that cast frightening shadows, but it seems downright cozy compared to the hallway that stretches away into the dark.

The Imp slinks past my feet and scampers a little way down the hall, his immense round eyes glowing like yellow lamps.

“I rather wish I hadn’t offered to clean and care for this house,” I confess to him.

He makes a clicking sound and bounces away into the dark.

Without him, I feel horribly alone.

I’m used to having someone . At the cabin, there were always three of us. Wife, Mother, Little Sister. Even if one died, a replacement would arrive within a week at most.

A scratching sound rasps down the hallway, distant but coming closer. Like nails dragging along the wall… dragging slowly, jerkily, constantly. No footsteps, only the interminable scraping.

The sound grows louder, until I can see grooves forming in the wallpaper. I can’t see what’s making the scratches, but it’s headed straight for me.

A cold breath stirs the stagnant air, and the sudden aroma of cinnamon makes my nostrils twitch. I want to rub my hand under my nose, but I resist the urge. I stay perfectly still, because I know predators. I know what it is to live alongside someone whose control could snap at any moment. Sometimes hiding is best, and sometimes, when it’s too late to hide, you must watch, and wait, and be absolutely motionless.

A whisper seems to come from within the wall itself. “Nerves of stone, with skin so soft. Pretty thing. Mortal, yes?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Only monsters live here,” croons the voice.

“Monsters, and me.”

The voice laughs—lilting feminine merriment. It sounds bodiless, untethered, without the warmth, solidity, and dimension of a voice that comes from a chest, lungs, and a throat. This laugh is a thought or a memory. It has no physical source.

Pale mist slithers from the scratches on the wall and condenses before my eyes, taking on opacity and color until a woman stands there. She’s tall and wistful-looking, with pale, translucent skin, white antlers, and golden eyes. Blond hair cascades down her body, all the way to the floor. Streamers of white mist surround her, fluttering and billowing like the ragged remnants of a white gown, its design fluid and ever-changing.

“Krampus didn’t tell me he had a guest,” she says.

My mouth is dry with shock. When Krampus took off his mask, I was stunned by his beauty, and she’s just as lovely, in a ghostly way. Eddies of icy mist whisper across her skin when she moves, and I suspect if I tried to touch her, my hand would pass right through.

“I’m the new maid,” I manage to say.

“The maid?” She titters softly. “He could use a servant to keep this place in order, but a human ? Seems dangerous, with the beasties loping about, don’t you think? What’s your name, pretty thing?”

“Feather. May I ask… what are you?”

She sweeps her golden hair behind one pointed ear. “I was Fae once. Now I am nothing, a mere ghost of myself, except when I have a task to complete. Then I receive physical form for a short while. My name is Perchta of the Wild Hunt. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

I shake my head.

A quiver of displeasure distorts her lovely face for a second before she smiles gently. “No matter. I am not so dramatic and dreadful as Krampus.” She drags one long nail through the wallpaper. “Like him, I can appear in two different guises. But I doubt you’d want to see my other form. People tend to piss themselves with fright.”

“I can handle terrible things,” I reply.

She sweeps forward suddenly, while her hair lifts and floats around her like a writhing cloud of frothy gold. Her gaze pries me open, as if she’s peeking into the parts of my soul that I don’t want anyone to see.

“Oh,” she breathes. “You’re a wicked one, aren’t you? Does Krampus know what you’ve done?”

My heart turns into cold stone.

She can’t know. Anyone who knew is dead now. Which means she must be reading my mind.

“Stay out of my head,” I hiss.

She retreats, mist draining off her translucent shape in curling tendrils. “As you wish, Feather. Is Krampus here?”

“He went to purchase supplies.”

“That’s a new term for ‘fucking, drinking, and gambling,’” she muses. “Ah well. I’ll roam the house a bit and wait for him. Maybe I’ll come back later and we can have a real conversation. This house is much too full of males—we girls have to stick together. I know you and I are going to be excellent friends.”

She drifts away down the hall. Once she’s out of sight, I go back into the kitchen and close the door. No doubt she could pass right through it, but still… I feel better with a barrier of solid wood between me and ghostly Perchta of the Wild Hunt.

Krampus returns like a blizzard, like the wild winds that used to batter the cabin and howl through the chimney. He bursts into the kitchen and flings two large bags onto the floor, along with a bundle of sticks.

“There.” He gestures to the supplies with a lazy flourish. “Everything you need.” His words are slurred, his balance uncertain. I know the signs of drunkenness. Caution flares through me, tightening my nerves as I gauge whether to hide, to run, or to stand my ground.

He doesn’t have horns at the moment, and he’s dressed in a fine sky-blue shirt with white pants, a dark overcoat, and black leather boots. As I watch, his rounded nails turn sharp, while his human ears grow pointed. But the horns don’t reappear.

Last time I saw him, I understood his beauty as a fact, as an essential piece in the puzzle of his character. A potential weakness. Beautiful people are far more likely to believe themselves beloved or invincible.

I’m wearier now, exhausted from my hours in the kitchen. More vulnerable to his striking features. His jaw has such sharp corners, such straight, crisp lines. His nose is perfect, decorated with a small ring between the nostrils. Bold, angled cheekbones slash along each side of his face, accentuating the subtle hollows of his cheeks. His ears and brows glitter with jewelry, and he wears rings on every finger. I could have sworn his eyes were red last time, but they’re green now, and glowing faintly.

When he takes off his overcoat, I can’t drag my gaze away from him. His body is obtrusively gorgeous, commanding the room. It’s almost offensive how broad his shoulders are, how smoothly they taper to his waist, how fluidly his hips move, how long and strong his legs look in the close-fitting white pants and the tall boots. I never imagined a man could have such a form, that he could project masculine power and sinuous grace at the same time.

“A friend came by to see you,” I tell him.

“Friend? I don’t have friends.” He scoffs and flings himself into a kitchen chair. One of the chair legs has rotted, and it snaps before I can warn him, dumping him onto the floor. He glances around in offended consternation, like he’s unsure what happened or how to get up.

I step forward and extend my hand. He blinks at it and frowns ferociously. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Helping?”

“Well, stop it.”

Withdrawing, I watch him climb to his feet with many a muttered curse. He stares around at the kitchen, which is far cleaner than when he left, though I still have hours of work before I’m satisfied.

“You have too many dishes and pots,” I tell him. “They won’t all fit in the cabinets.”

“I buy new ones when the old ones are too dirty to use,” he says. “I hate washing things.”

I can’t imagine such wastefulness and laziness, but I only say, “What shall I do with the extras?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Your friend… she may still be here if you want to speak with her.”

“I told you, I have no friends. Who is it?”

“Perchta of the Wild Hunt.”

He frowns. “She’s floating around here again? God-stars. How did she behave?”

“She was pleasant enough.” Then I venture a question. “What is the Wild Hunt? ”

“A collection of assholes,” he replies. “Wretched bastards who did terrible crimes in life, who are now condemned to ride between worlds as ghost-Fae and bring justice upon those who do similarly terrible crimes.”

“You’re not a ghost.”

“How well you state the obvious,” he sneers. “Do you want a treat for your cleverness?”

“You punish those who are cruel to children. Does that mean you once did something terrible to a child?”

Instead of answering, he strides through the kitchen to an area I’ve not yet tackled. He kicks aside some rubbish and opens a cabinet, brushing away the bugs that instantly swarm up the inner walls. “There should be a fruit pie in here,” he mutters. “Ah, there you are.”

He knocks more bugs off the crust and digs his fingers in, scooping up a dollop of cherry-red filling. His long tongue snakes out, and this time I definitely spot more than one piercing along its length. His fangs glint as he licks the pie filling from his fingers.

“Don’t eat that, I beg of you.” I cringe as a small insect scurries along his knuckles and down his wrist. “Surely there’s some food in those bags you brought. I can fix you something.”

He evaluates me out of the corner of his green, glowing eye. “I need something sweet. If my eating habits offend you, go away.”

His sharp tone reminds me how precarious my position is. I duck my head and give him a small curtsy. “Yes, sir. Tell me how to get back to your room, please. I’d like to collect more of the laundry and bring it down for washing.”

He holds my gaze while his long tongue snakes around his fingers, polishing them clean. There’s something wicked in the way he does it—something in the wet slither of his tongue that makes my knees weaken and my pulse flutter. Something flutters between my legs, too—a soft, insistent, ticklish sensation. Something I’ve only felt a few times.

The glow of Krampus’s eyes intensifies. “Do you like what you see?”

“Please tell me how to get to your room,” I repeat.

In a disgruntled mumble, he gives me a few words of guidance, then advises, “Check the bags I brought. There may be a set or two of clean linens in there. I asked the shopkeeper to give me everything a maid would need for taking care of a large house.” He goes back to eating the terrible pie.

Sure enough, one of the bags contains brand-new sheets, towels, and kitchen cloths, as well as a few sets of clothes and underwear. I select clean sheets and a set of clothes before heading for his room. I don’t ask for his company or protection, even though I’m fearful of meeting monsters on the way.

Lucky for me, no monsters materialize. Once I’m in Krampus’s bedroom, I quickly change into the maid’s outfit he purchased for me. It’s far different from my nightgown or the childish frocks I’m used to wearing. The black, lace-trimmed dress is very short, barely reaching the middle of my thighs, and the neckline dips low in the front. White thigh-high stockings and buckled shoes complete the outfit, but I leave the shoes off, for now.

There are a few mirrors in the room, half-buried in clutter, and from what I can glimpse of myself, I like my new look. Far from hiding my breasts, hips, and legs, these clothes seem designed to celebrate them. Which is new for me, and a little terrifying—yet it feeds some part of me that has been hungry for a long time. Revealing myself like this, as a fully grown woman, is a satisfying kind of defiance.

Once I’m dressed, I strip the bed, fighting back queasiness as I notice how stained and filthy the sheets and pillowcases are. The feather pillows will need a good airing. Back at the cabin, when bedding needed to be aired out, we simply moved it to the front room for a while, where a little fresh air leaked through the chimney. Here in the house, cool currents of air circulate through the hallways periodically. The air doesn’t have an outdoor freshness, exactly, but it’s better than stagnant mustiness.

Under the bedsheets there’s a thin pad, also soiled, so I strip that away as well. The mattress beneath looks and smells decent enough, so I proceed with making the bed. It’s a much wider bed than I’m used to, but I manage to get the sheets in place. I crouch to tuck them under the end of the mattress, then lean across to smooth out a few wrinkles in the center.

I’m in that position, bent over the bed with my arm outstretched, when my skin prickles with the sensation of being watched.