Chapter 1

Liselotte

Goodbye, mortal world. I can’t wait to return to Christmas Island to start my retirement. Why is the snow so cold in this realm? As many advances as I’ve witnessed over the past century, why haven’t humans figured out temperature-controlled snow? One last stop, and I’ll never slog through the wet stuff again. My favorite stop on my Christmas Eve route is last, and for once, Dirk’s name isn’t on my list of baddies needing correction.

He moved out this year—off to college. I hope he stays the course—not that there’s anything I can do to a nineteen-year-old. There are strict rules on who can receive a Krampus visit. He’s over the age limit. My visits to Dirk’s house started fourteen years ago when his parents plunged into their downward spiral to divorce. He’s a good kid who acted out for his parent’s attention, only to receive my spankings instead. If I can think of this family’s history with the fondness of a distant relative, why am I so nervous?

Because tonight, my visit’s a social call.

The tiny saltbox house sits unobtrusively behind two busted streetlamps amongst the other square houses. It’s as unassuming as the rest of the Germantown suburb within the bustling city of Columbus, Ohio. My shaky hands rattle the chain link fence as I open the gate. It’s never locked. Dirk broke the chain years ago. The Christmas lights are off, but the porch light illuminates the festive wreath and wooden Santa Stop welcome sign leaning against the door. The sign is an inside joke between Gerhard and me. Santa would never stop at this house—not with Dirk’s hobbies of lighting fires and car theft. Do I dare assume Gerhard placed the sign outside for me, or is it an annual habit?

Since last Christmas, I’ve been checking on Gerhard through the Krampus Industries’ scrying bowls. What started as a quick peek at his toned body as he worked out each morning turned into a genuine interest in his everyday activities. I guess my heart knew I wanted him before my mind caught up to speed. His fallout with Dirk broke my heart. Brat blamed his parent’s divorce on his father, and like a good parent, Gerhard allowed him to believe the lie. He never once trash-talked his ex when I would’ve squashed Dirk’s misconceptions like ants. Maybe Gerhard was tired of fighting. The fallout happened at the end of May—just after Dirk’s graduation and Gerhard’s retirement announcement. Gerhard’s emotions were already frayed before Dirk dumped on him.

Here goes nothing. I lick my frozen lips, smooth down my skirt, and check my hair for flyaways due to static cling.

Snowflakes jump from the door and swirl around my horns as I knock. I strain to hear his lumbering footsteps approach the door from the other side. The same movie he watches every Christmas Eve plays inside. Gunshots, breaking glass, and banging mean the hero has already climbed through the vents to escape a boring Christmas party—my favorite part. But what if Gerhard planned to fall asleep to the movie in bed? He wasn’t expecting me. Maybe I should hide behind the welcome sign.

This is a stupid idea. I should let him be.

My heart races as his dual deadbolts, door chain, foot brace, and standard door lock disengage with clicks resembling gunfire. I make frequent stops on this street…so I’m not surprised he beefed up security. I’d move…but then again, I’m not a single dad and pillar of the community. Hopefully, his retirement from his thirty-five years of teaching high school physical education last spring works in my favor…if I have the courage to ask him…maybe I should turn back…

“I didn’t expect to see you. If you’re looking for Dirk, he’s in his campus apartment,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. His wide shoulders strain the same ugly Christmas sweater he’s worn for ten Christmases, but paired with threadbare, grey sweatpants, he’s as delicious as a gingerbread cookie. He’s fitter than punks one-third his age but with a silver crown of thick hair. I’m struck by my attraction to him, temporarily speechless. But he’s used to my reaction…I stammer my greeting every year.

“I didn’t come for Dirk,” I whisper in a husky voice that conveys more feelings than I wish to admit out loud. My gaze stays glued to my cuffs as I straighten my sleeves to cover my wrists.

“No children live here, Ms. Krampus.” His pectoral muscles bunch and his biceps plump as he crosses his arms over his chest. Why did I have to look?

“I came here for you,” I say with an avalanche of vulnerability laced into the words. Tonight won’t have our usual banter, dancing around the feelings that have grown over the years. Each Christmas Eve up until tonight, I squeezed in every unspoken flirtation I could to sustain myself for the rest of the lonely, warmer months.

This year, it’s different.

It’s more than playing cards at the end of a stressful shift…it’s laying all my cards on the table…and asking for eternity. I suspect he will hear me out, but what do I know when we spend one night a year together?

“I made your favorite,” he says, opening the door completely and inviting me in.

“Peppermint Coffee? Hmm, I smell it. Did you brew coffee at this hour—just for me? How did you know I’d come?” I step into his warm house, brushing my shoulder across his chest, over his heart. A heart I hope to steal. This close, I’m reminded how tall and strong he is…for a human. If he agrees to become a Krampus, he will be ginormous.

“I brewed the pot with hopeful optimism. If I’m to receive a Christmas miracle, it’s tonight,” he whispers in my ear as he removes my green peacoat. His cheek grazes my curled horn. My shiver dances down my spine to my hooves. This is Gerhard, a flirt, a seducer. A man who lets me leave at the end of the night because I constructed the boundaries years ago.

Boundaries I’m breaking tonight.

My favorite mocha-flavored Irish cream whiskey, a shaker of chocolate sprinkles, and peppermint liquor sit on the Formica countertop. Two mugs adorned with cartoon children await their confection. He’s even laid out a box of candy cane spoons. Of course, he knows I love a blast of peppermint to help me pay attention to cards after a grueling night. He lays the same spread every year, but I’ll never tire of a man paying attention to my quirks to spoil me…not to undercut me. Oh, to have Gerhard as an ally in Christmas Town will be a dream come true!

“You pour, and I’ll deal,” he says, sliding past me toward the card table he’s unfolded in the living room. It’s as rickety as the plastic Christmas tree standing guard in the corner.

“No way,” I say with a chuckle. I swat his chest in jest, but it’s an excuse to touch him. Before tonight, those swats, brushes of elbows, and hand squeezes sustained me. I could cope with the bullying of the other Krampuses in my caste when I could close my eyes and recall the tenderness of Gerhard. “I remember how you count cards. You stack the deck, too. No, you pour the booze, I’ll pour the coffee, and we’ll sit together before anyone deals.”

“Fair enough.” The space between his kitchen counters seems to shrink as we glide past one another. His hand trails over the waistband of my wool skirt as he retrieves whipped cream from the fridge.

“Behind,” I say as I caress between his shoulder blades on my way to return the coffee carafe to its stand. My hip presses his backside as I step my hoof between his legs.

“Behind,” he repeats as he glides toward the fridge to return the opened whiskey cream. I choke on my tongue when his palm caresses my lower back in retaliation. Is the escalation of our flirting a good omen, or is he getting his jollies before he must say goodbye?

“Should we play a warmup game, or get right to the wagers?” He snags the cards before my mug hits the table. His steel-grey eyes twinkle with merriment. I study the reddish ring around his eyelids. My charming host sampled a little liquid courage before I arrived.

Why does his nervousness boost my confidence? Simply that misery loves company? Or is it that we’re miserable without one another’s company? I arrange my skirt on the seat so it doesn’t ride up as I cross my legs at the knee. On second thought, perhaps sexy siren is the play I should make tonight. Krampus does have quite a scandalous reputation in the human world. How often has Gerhard wondered if my behavior contributed to the gossip?

The slap of the cards, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and the tone of his voice settle my spirit. I slump in my chair and sip my boozy drink. How can I count the cards flying between his fingers? Usually, my fried attention span doesn’t matter because we play for popcorn kernels, but tonight…I want more.

“Wagers” I blurt out so fast, my words part the whipped cream on my drink. At least this way, I won’t work myself into a tizzy as I wait for the right moment.

I’m sure he’ll ask many questions, but I must settle my libido’s reaction to his presence first…and remember he is my one friend in all realms. It’s lonely being the singular female Krampus in the elite caste. My peers sabotaged my work and bullied me like it was their favorite sport…until they decided they wanted to breed me. Now, they resent each day I spend with my legs closed.

But I’m the type of female who’s attracted to character as much musculature.

“Popcorn?” He asks the question as he fumbles with the television remote. The movie pauses on an extreme closeup of the heroine’s flared nostrils.

“I love it when you do that.” The words fly out of my mouth on a dreamy sigh like one of the vapid teens I punish.

“Offer you popcorn? I know you—”

“No, pause the screen when we play so I don’t have to shout over the background noise. I hate competing for attention.”

“Kleine dame, if the male Krampuses you associate with don’t pause their devices at the sound of your voice, they don’t deserve your attention.”

“We don’t have devices in Christmas Town. I didn’t bring any popcorn because we don’t have that either,” I reply with a sip of my drink to hide my coy smile.

The devilish smirk on his lips and the icy burn of his blue eyes are reasons not to trust Gerhard, but I do. From the first game, where he let me win a punchbowl of salty popcorn despite obvious mistakes, he’s proved I’m safe in his care. It’s not just the popcorn. Although I love salty snacks, which aren’t found in Christmas Town, where chocolate pillars grow like trees. He didn’t take advantage of my inexperience or ridicule me for making mistakes.

Usually, once we finish our games, we curl up with our winnings to watch the end of his favorite Christmas movie—which has more violence than a Christmas movie should have, but what do I know? He always reclines in his brown pleather chair with a tear at the top, so I can snuggle under blankets on his orange-flowered couch.

If I play my cards right, tonight we will celebrate on the couch together…movie be damned.

“I’ve got the microwaveable stuff. It’s better served hot. Be back in a jiffy—get it?”

I don’t have a clue, but I laugh with him anyway. He mumbles about Jiffy Pop and campfires while gesturing like he’s stabbing someone. With a shake of his head, he gives up on explaining his joke. Pops punctuate the whir of the microwave. The aroma of artificial flavorings permeates the kitchen. Nothing growing in any realm has that smell. I scoured the labs and libraries for its origins and found an organic chemistry synthesis—not a recipe.

“Here’s a bowl for the lady,” he says, placing a small bowl of popcorn in front of me. More popcorn sizzles in the microwave. I blush fiercely at the implication that I will eat my bets before the game begins…again. Without a word, he anticipates my needs and provides what I desire. Is it his deep need to serve or special treatment for me? Do I dare hope it’s the latter?

Giant bowls of popcorn are settled on the edge of the table, shielding us from the front door like we’re hiding behind a low wall. An empty bowl sits in the center to act as the pot. Ironically, three elves decorate a tree at the bottom of the bowl. Burying the two largest threats to his life, elves and trees, once we get to Christmas Island will be my main focus…at least until he’s converted. At least the elves generally stay on their side of Christmas Island and only attack Christmas Town’s water supply.

I miss Gerhard dealing our pre-flop cards facedown because I’m rocked off-kilter by a cartoon in a bowl.

I bet he cheated—two aces, diamonds and hearts, make up my hand—maybe not.

“Ante up,” he teases before sipping his coffee. “We haven’t all night.”

“You’re right,” I quip, making his silver eyebrows climb his lightly lined forehead. “I bet five kernels.”

“And eat three.”

Busted.

I pause with the rest of my handful poised over my upturned mouth. My eyes practically cross to count the kernels in my hand. “Four, your bet.”

“I bet it all. Tonight, I’m raising the stakes.” His whisper lodges popcorn hulls in my throat, as do his strong hands pushing his bowl of popcorn between us.