6

I drank too much, and the pie isn’t soaking up the liquor. I need to sleep.

I stagger down the hallway, drawling loudly, “Listen well, beasties! If you want to gobble me up, now’s your chance. Come on, bitches. Come out and get me. Wake up, Wolpertinger, you mange-riddled old bastard. Let’s end this now.”

It’s stupid to call them out like this. But I’m in a doleful, dreadful, reckless state of mind, and I can’t help taunting my housemates as I stumble through the halls, crashing into corners and tripping on steps .

Why haven’t they come to devour me? Perhaps they’re munching on the girl at this very moment, too full of her tender flesh and sweet blood to bother with me.

The thought sobers me for a second—just enough that I’m quiet as I approach my room. The door squeaks faintly as I push it open, but my maid is too involved in her task to notice. She’s crouching at the end of the bed, tucking in the sheets. Her brown braids swing as she stands up—and then she bends over, reaching to flatten a crease in the center of the bed. Her ridiculously short skirt rides up, exposing her ass to me.

The panties don’t conceal her entire bottom, and the lower curves of her ass cheeks peek out. Between her thighs I glimpse a little mound of white—her pussy, covered only by thin, soft fabric. The lace-trimmed black skirt frames the picture for me as I stand dumbfounded by the door.

She tenses suddenly. Straightens and whirls around.

Her thin fingers smooth the black skirt of the dress, and her breasts swell against the neckline as her breath quickens.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” I rasp.

“The… the clothes you bought me.” Her eyes widen, dread pooling in their brown depths. “Is something wrong?”

Something is wrong because I want to bend you over that bed and fuck you so deeply you scream my true name …

The drunken part of my brain sees nothing amiss with doing exactly that, but a sober remnant of my mind protests. She may be a woman, but she’s been treated like a child for years. She has no experience with sex, and little understanding of it, I would guess. She is exactly the sort of person that a debauched bastard like me should never touch.

“Those clothes are all wrong for you,” I snarl. “You look ridiculous. Take them off at once and put something else on. I’ll return these to the shop tomorrow.”

She makes a little face, like a child’s pout of displeasure. I know immediately it’s a face she used to make for her captor, to soften his anger and appeal to whatever flecks of affection resided in his merciless heart.

I hate that she’s making that face for me.

“Stop pouting,” I tell her.

“It’s just that… I rather like the dress.”

The quiver in her voice tells me she’s not used to choosing things for herself, or expressing her own preferences.

I know what it is to have your path marked for you by another being, to have that path barricaded on both sides so that you must trudge onward without hope of escape. I know what it is to live with survival as the only goal. And for a moment, I cannot speak.

“Do you really think I look ridiculous?” Her fingers toy with the little black-velvet bow at her waist.

“What I think shouldn’t matter to you.”

“You’re my master. You’ve given me a place to live and a new role. Of course it matters.” She keeps her head low. Her lashes droop, and her lower lip still protrudes with a slight pout.

I blink away another hazy flush of pure lust and try to ignore the increasing tightness of my pants. I don’t want her to see the shape of my erection, so I gather up a great armful of filthy clothes and hold them in front of myself.

“Keep the fucking dress, then,” I snap. “I’ll take these to the kitchen.”

“That’s my job, sir. You need sleep.” She approaches, holding out her arms. “Give that to me, and I’ll leave you to rest.”

Reluctantly I place the laundry in her arms. I can smell the staunched blood on her wounded foot; I can feel the flushed warmth of her body. A subtle fragrance of earthy florals and spiced citrus emanates from her. Humans can smell each other, of course, but the Fae are uniquely sensitive to the scent and taste of humans. And the longer I’m around this one, the more strongly she seems to affect me .

Or I’m drunker than I thought.

“Go,” I tell her, and she hurries away with the laundry.

Dimly I wonder if I should have told her to rest, too, or given her a room. Other than her brief time sleeping on the hearthrug with me, she’s been on her feet, working. She’s probably exhausted.

The image of her pretty round ass and lovely stocking-clad legs surfaces in my mind as I move toward the bed. I keep picturing the glimpse of her pussy—that little mound peeking between her thighs.

As if the god-stars are conspiring to tempt me, I spot the panties she discarded when she put the new frilly ones on.

For a moment I refuse to touch them. I fight the impulse to—fuck, I’m bending down, snatching them up. They’re still warm.

I drop onto the bed, lie back, and hold the delicate garment over my nose and mouth, inhaling through it.

Her scent. Fuck. It spirals through my nostrils up into my brain, sending a violent thrill through my belly, down to my cock. Again I breathe, and the fragrance curls sweetly in my lungs, in my chest, around my heart… turns me dizzy and sick with want.

How can anything smell this good?

With one hand I hold her panties over my face, while my other hand works open the buttons of my pants, tugs out my cock, and begins to stroke.

This is a temporary drunken indulgence. After a nap, I’ll be in my right mind again.

Long legs… perfect ass… I picture myself nudging aside the cloth of her new panties to reveal her pussy… and there they are, two rosy lips, pink and shining, and between them a tempting little slit just right for my cock to squeeze inside, slippery and tight… I’d push deep into her body and then I’d come inside her …

I wrap her panties over my cock and groan while hot jets of cum spurt into the fabric. I’m gasping, almost sobbing at the intensity of the pleasure coursing through my veins.

After a few moments of recovery I force myself to get up and toss the cum-slicked panties into the fire. Much as I’d like to keep them and soak them with my cum again, I can’t risk her finding out what I’ve done. My depravity is my own. I refuse to corrupt her with it.

As I’m leaning a forearm on the mantel, watching the flames blacken the fabric, I hear a wispy female voice. “Naughty, naughty Krampus. Stroking yourself to the fragrance of that sweet, innocent girl.”

Shit .

Perchta emerges from the wall, taking on misty form. She blinks innocently at me.

“You shouldn’t spy on someone when he’s… occupied,” I mutter.

“Not much of a greeting for one of your oldest acquaintances.”

“I thought you’d been reassigned to another world.”

“Mmm,” she hums softly. “I was, yes. But I came back here, because I like this one.”

“Perchta, you must be careful. You’ve broken the rules too many times. One more act of rebellion, and they’ll annihilate you.”

“I’ve bent the rules, not broken them,” she says. “And I had to come back to see if you’ve considered my idea and perhaps changed your mind.”

“Your plan won’t work, Perchta. No one defies the Wild Hunt, and none of us can alter the existence we’ve been given.”

Perchta’s situation, like my own, sets her apart from most of the Wild Hunt’s members. Because of her continued defiance, she lost her chance at a Final Task. There is no longer any opportunity for her to complete one last challenge and regain corporeal form. Her service to the Hunt is now eternal, but she lacks the one advantage I possess—a physical body. Ever since it happened, she has been hounding me to help her find a way around the dictates of the Hunt.

“There’s no harm in trying my idea,” she says. “If you could harness the magic at the heart of the house—”

“I said no .”

Her ghostly form flares brighter for an instant. “You refuse to think of anyone but yourself. You have a body , even when you’re not performing a task. You can feel . You can eat. You can fuck.”

“My existence isn’t the blessing you seem to think it is,” I counter.

“And yet I envy you.” Her laugh is quiet and hollow. “I envy you until I think I might go mad with jealousy. Maybe I have gone mad. It’s been so long, I barely know what I’m doing, or why. Nocturis never checks in anymore to see if I’m performing my duties correctly. No one cares, and no one would notice if we took the power of the house and used it for ourselves.”

“They would notice, and our punishment would be worse than anything you suffer now.” I push myself away from the fireplace and head for the bed.

“The house is weak, Krampus,” she says. “But it’s growing a little stronger with her here. It’s waking up, recovering its old spirit. If your maid can stay awhile and keep herself alive, she and the house will grow stronger together, and its power will be replenished. More power is a good thing, for all of us. So I’ll wait until the time is right. But I will be back again, with the same question.”

“And you’ll get the same answer.” I bunch the pillow under my head and lie back on the bed. “I am not the architect of your existence, Perchta. I didn’t put you in this state, and I can’t change it for you. You have your work, as we all do. You must find satisfaction in that.”

She drifts nearer, a low moan echoing through the chamber. “ Satisfaction , you say. My work was never as satisfying as yours, Krampus. You are an avenging demon of death. I turn into a monstrous, ugly old crone and rebuke disobedient children. I frighten the cruel little brats who terrorize their parents and torment their peers.” Her tone shifts to one of mockery and disgust. “They are wretched, whining, disgusting creatures, and yet I’m only allowed to scare and admonish them. Just once, I’d like to deliver the punishment they truly deserve. Set me free, Krampus, before I do something dreadful.”

“You’re asking me to risk my own existence, as well as that of the house and those who live here.”

“The girl could go back to her own kind,” Perchta says. “And the other creatures have existed long enough. It’s their time to dissipate, to become one with the Void. Besides, you don’t know that my plan would destroy the house. And if it did, you could always live elsewhere.”

“And be vulnerable to humans and their hunting parties? Or risk drawing the anger of the god-star Andregh himself? We could be annihilated for even talking about this, Perchta.” I sigh, throwing an arm over my face. “You need to leave. And stay away from Feather, do you hear me? She doesn’t need your despair added to her own sadness.”

A faint chill passes over my body, as if icy mist rolled through the air of the bedroom. When I lift my arm and look around, Perchta is gone.

I don’t know where she’ll go. Out into the Void, perhaps, where she’ll float until there’s a task for her to fulfill, at which point she’ll appear wherever she’s needed. She has no home, no dwelling place.

Since I have physical form, I was given this house. I don’t know its whole history, but I do know that it’s sentient, temperamental, and filled with enough power to draw the attention of Fae-hunters if they have tools that can detect magical energy. All the more reason for me to attend the Mayor’s next party and learn more about the hunters he hired.

The Mayor has complained that he’s growing bored of the same crowd, and he has made it a requirement that for the upcoming gala, every invited guest must bring someone new. If I know the wealthy citizens of Rothenfel, they will make this into a contest of sorts, as they do with everything. They’ll vie with each other over who can bring the most beautiful, the wealthiest, the most interesting, or the most lascivious guest to the event.

I have a few potential companions in mind, but I also have concerns. I can’t very well conduct a thorough investigation with a lady hanging on my arm all night. And what if I’m summoned as Krampus while I’m at the party? I’ll have to leave my companion, and that’s sure to draw attention and raise questions.

What I need is a companion who already knows who I am and what I must do, and who understands that I might be called away suddenly.

My brain is too beer-addled to think on it further, so I roll over in bed, pushing the troublesome thoughts aside and yielding to the pleasant oblivion of sleep.

Finding a companion for the party is a problem for my future self.

I have no schedule, no predictable routine of nights and days. I sleep when I can, eat when I’m too hungry to ignore the need, and fuck whenever the opportunity presents itself .

When I wake up, my stomach is growling. I push myself upright, noticing once again how much smoother and fresher the bed feels with the new sheets. I should have purchased a set sooner. I could have been lying in comfort all these months. But it hasn’t occurred to me to do so, not for at least a year. I’ve been busy dealing out the wrath of the god-stars and gorging myself on beer and pussy.

Speaking of pussy—I haven’t had sex in almost a week, which is a long time for me. Most Fae need frequent sexual encounters to fuel their magic, and while my powers remain sufficient whether I fuck or not, I find my existence easier to endure when I’m balls-deep in a beautiful woman. When I don’t fuck often enough, I grow profoundly uneasy, and my body hums with a frantic, restless energy I can’t subdue.

I head for the kitchen, intent on finding something more substantial than moldy pie to sustain me. If there’s nothing appetizing there, I’ll go to Rothenfel, or into one of the towns or villages within the range of my geistfyre. I have a collection of favorite eateries that I visit often.

When I push open the kitchen door, I stop short on the threshold and gaze around in shock.

It’s clean. Every single dish has been scrubbed till it shines, and those that won’t fit in the cabinets repose in neat stacks in one corner of the room. Gleaming copper pans hang from the racks overhead. The counters are bare, the hearth has been swept, and the wall tiles are glossy and vibrant, rather than grimy and dull. Not a cobweb remains, and no insects are visible. The flagstone floor is so spotless I would eat my dinner off it without a second thought.

Laundry hangs on lines tacked across the ceiling, from beam to beam, most of it near the chimney where the heat from the fire can dry the clothes. More damp clothes and sheets are draped on the half-rotted kitchen chairs .

A pot bubbles heartily over the fire, with an occasional hiss as a drop or two spills from beneath its lid into the flames. Its contents smell savory and delicious, but there’s a faint tinge of something beginning to burn, and I suspect if it stays there much longer, the meal will be ruined.

Using a folded towel to protect my hand, I unhook the pot and set it on the hearth to cool. As I straighten again, I see her. Slumped in the entrance to the pantry, with her head tilted against the doorframe as if she sat down to rest for a moment and nodded right off.

Her braids have loosened, and tendrils of brown hair lie across her face, fluttering with each slow breath from her parted lips.

Slowly I ease myself onto the floor, lean back against a cabinet, and look at her.

Her neck is slender, elegant. Graceful. I like the delicate lines of her collarbones and the dip between them, at the base of her throat. Her breasts form two points against the tight bodice of the black dress; she isn’t wearing a corset or bustier. Her ribs jut out a bit above her flat stomach, a sign that she’s been underfed for years.

Her hands are red and swollen from cleaning for hours, and two of the fingers have been hastily bandaged. I glance at the bandage on her foot again and shake my head. There must have been shoes among the supplies I brought, and yet she didn’t put them on. Maybe they hurt her feet. Or maybe she didn’t want to stain them with blood.

The cut on her foot needs care, and so do her hands.

When I receive wounds, they heal rapidly. I haven’t tended a human’s injuries since I was very young, but I do know that a wound requires cleansing first, then some sort of herbal poultice to prevent infection and promote healing. I’ll have to visit an apothecary’s shop for the necessary items. Until then, water and soap will have to do .

I’m tempted to remain here and stare at the girl for a while. But the angle of her neck looks uncomfortable, and she did more work for me in a day and a night than I could have imagined possible. She deserves a bed. Since there are no safe bedrooms in the house except mine, she’ll have to rest there.

First I collect a few items from the bags—a small bar of herbal bath soap wrapped in paper, a couple of clean cloths—and I tuck them into my pockets.

Bending down, I gather the girl’s body in my arms and head out of the kitchen, back toward my room. But as we round the first corner, I stop short, a gasp in my throat.

Wolpertinger stands in the corridor. His legs are the legs of a hare, long and crooked, the bones barely covered by a thin layer of light brown fur. Those legs end in cloven hooves. His hunched rabbit body is shrouded in the shadows of the ceiling, but I can distinguish the outline of his wings and the plume of his tail.

His antlered head snakes down, the neck stretching unnaturally, and his red eyes fix on the girl in my arms. His rabbit nose twitches, and he champs his huge yellow teeth. Two tiny arms, like those of a raccoon, protrude from his chest. The little raccoon fingers open and close, grasping, begging.

I let my horns emerge, and I snarl at him, monster to monster. When I’m angry, or when I’m in my avenging form, my eyes change from their usual green to scarlet pupils in a sea of black. I allow it to happen now, hoping the effect will make Wolpertinger back off.

He lifts one towering leg and stamps his foot. It’s a demand. He thinks the girl is a sacrifice of food, and he’s tired of waiting for me to offer her up.

I lay her down on the floor and step in front of her, my fangs lengthening as my tongue lashes between them. “She’s not for you. ”

He howls, loud and sudden, a hideous scream that sends terror twisting through my gut. This creature is an eldritch thing, much older than I am—old as the bones of the world, and he’s been trapped in the house for centuries, if not longer. His sole purpose, his one delight, is devouring human flesh—but he’ll take Fae when he can’t get anything else.

“She isn’t yours,” I shout at him. “I’ll bring you something later, but this one is not to be touched, do you hear me? She’s mine.”

She’s awake now. I can hear her rapid breathing behind me, but I don’t dare take my eyes off Wolpertinger or speak a word to reassure her. Not that reassurance would do much good. We’re both about to die.