CHAPTER 17

MR. DAMIEN DEVERE the second flips off the light in his son’s room. His pride and joy slumbers away, dreaming—no doubt—of tearing the wings off of sugar plum fairies. It’d been a long night. He touches his cheek and winces. She put up more of a fight than the others. But—in the end—it all worked out.

Taking his time, he inspects every room, locking doors that aren’t needed and shutting off lights until only the fireplace remains. He pauses at his room just above the main parlor where the festivities will take place. After being banned by every babysitting service, he had to rely on other means to procure the bait.

A cook who claimed she was a chef. The meal was so-so for Christmas Eve. He didn’t feel a pang of regret as he empties out her purse and—one by one—tosses her things into his blue fireplace. Flames shift to red and white as they chew up her credit cards and driver’s license. The phone he places in an envelope to be mailed to a PO box where one of his associates would dump the contents into a lake.

For ten years, he’s done this to evade the Krampus’ wrath. And he will continue it for twenty more to guard his namesake. Imagine the laughing stock the DeVeres would become if one of theirs was taken by the Christmas god of punishment and forced to do menial labor. He couldn’t show his face at the club for years.

“No one’s going to miss a cook,” he declares, hurling her knockoff bag into the fire. Poking at the ashes, he hears a jangle below. She must have woken. Good. He probably likes his bait wriggling.

Leaving the fire to purify his sins, Damien pops open a bottle of schnapps and pours himself a full glass. A loud thud breaks from downstairs. He takes a sip and smiles. “Showtime.”

In his younger days, he would watch the beast furrow its brow and fight over whether to come for its prey or take the bait. It always chose the half-naked woman. Older and not able to flee as quickly Damien prefers to sit in his room sipping waiting until the all-clear. The moment the monster is gone, he will load his son into their BMW and take off for the airport. They’re due in Aspen by the morning.

A second thump hits the floor. That must be the beast scurrying down his chimney.

Damien raises a glass for another year. He starts to take a second drink when the staircase creaks. That can’t be…

Listening so hard his jaw aches, he hunts for any sign of the monster daring to break into his son’s room. Was the cook not to his liking? She was rather old and doughy. Damn it. He knew he should have demanded another.

In a panic, Damien slams his glass down and reaches for his poker. A cool wind shoots across the floor, banging his door shut. The fire vanishes.

Darkness.

Panic sets in and Damien swings the poker around, hitting nothing.

Stop this. You’re a DeVere. We don’t act like children.

A muffled sound echoes down the hall followed by the noise of a door closing in the direction of his son’s room. “No one steals from me!” Damien roars. He fumbles his way to the doorknob, but it won’t turn. The damn thing’s stuck. Just as he tries to wedge the poker in for leverage, small cries of terrified children leech through the wood.

“Son!” he shouts and bangs on the door. “So help me, if you’re kidnapped I’ll disown you!” He digs the metal into the doorjamb and starts to pull.

A floorboard creaks from the edge of his room.

The poker falls from his hands. Damien scrambles to find the source. He fights with his phone until a single halo of light parts the darkness. His son is forgotten. All that matters is his safety.

“Where are you?” he shouts, shaking his flashlight all around the room. His bed, the window curtains, the dresser, the…

A lurking brute of black hair stands in the corner. Yelping, Damien struggles to keep it in the light as he fumbles for his poker.

“Mr. DeVere,” a voice rumbles from the shadows.

“What are you doing here?” he cries out. “What about the girl? Take her!”

“She’s already freed and is on her way to the police.”

Damn it. Another loose end for him to solve. No matter. Who’s going to believe one hysterical woman over the word of a DeVere? He brandishes the poker while keeping the furry monster in focus. There’s no hint of a face, only a body seething below the black hair.

“Your reign of kidnapping and torturing innocent women is over,” the creature sneers.

“What do you care? I gave you what you wanted. If you fucked then ate them, all the better for both of us.”

The monster shifts closer and Damien walks backward. His ass hits the table, sending his drink and the two-hundred-dollar bottle of schnapps across the floor. “Why are you doing this?”

“You know why.” The creature growls.

“My son.” He gasps, feeling a pinch where his heart should be. “Take him then. Go on. Take what you came here for.”

Fur lurches for him. He tries to wave the poker at it, but in fighting to keep his flashlight on the creature, his hands slip. The poker falls, jabbing into his foot. He cries out just as claws puncture his cheeks. They rake over his skin and tug his head up.

“Exactly the kind of loving sacrifice I’d expect a man like you to make,” the creature taunts him, but the voice is strange. It’s higher than he expected from the great Krampus. And also familiar.

“Who…?” Damien lifts his flashlight. The beam pierces through the shadows of a drawn hood and the black fur. A hairless face catches him and he gasps at the woman in the heavy coat. “Who are you?”

Her smile widens, but he can only find madness in her eyes. Fuck this crazy bitch. He should be able to overpower her. Damien lifts his hand to take a swing, but his arm grows heavy.

“Having troubles?” she says looking at his weighted arm. He lifts the other to knock her teeth out, but it lands on her with a pathetic plop. She shakes it off, then laughs. “It’s not so much fun drinking your own poison, is it?”

What? He cranes his head around, but it’s getting harder to keep upright. Who is this batshit woman? What does she want with him?

“I…” He gulps, fighting off the encroaching darkness. “I can give you…money.” Fuck, do Krampus people even understand money? “Gold. Whatever you want.”

“Oh, Mr. DeVere…”

His body gives up, slumping him to the floor. She bends down with him, pressing her claws deeper into his face. “I am the Krampus’ Queen, and I have everything I could ever want.”

“Don’t you know who I am?” he moans, his eyes growing too heavy. “I don’t deserve this.”

Just as he bobs on the edge of consciousness, her face pings a buried memory. Oh, fuck…

In the darkness, her laugh chills him to the marrow. “Merry Christmas, Mr. DeVere.”

THE END