Krampus: The Yule Lord Read Online Free Page B

four plastic watches, and a tall stack of play money later, he got the message: the sack only made toys.
    He slid back against the wall. “Well, crap.” He leaned his head against the paneling and stared up at the water stains on the ceiling. “Shit never seems to wanna go my way.” All at once everything that had happened this long, strange evening caught up with him and he just wanted to crawl in bed and stay there. He glanced toward the bedroom. “Probably build a snowman in there by now.” He sighed, plucked the seat cushion from the chair, propped it behind his head, and lay down right there on the floor. He watched the emergency lights flicking through the shades. His eyes wandered over to the dolls. He managed a smile. “I got every one of those little super-tramps . . . every single one.” He thought of Abigail’s face and his smile turned into a grin. “For once, baby doll, your daddy’s not gonna be a loser. For once your daddy’s gonna be a hero.” He closed his eyes. “Abigail, darling . . . just you hold on to your britches, ’cause Santa Claus is coming to town.”
     
    “T HERE . A T LAST, my Belsnickels . . . they return!” Krampus lifted his ear from the stone and stared up the shaft, pulling against his chain like a hound awaiting a feeding. The light above now bright enough that he knew it to be dawn. He could see their shadows approaching.
    It was nearly fifty feet to the top of the narrow shaft; he wrung his hands together as they clambered down. Where is it? He searched their silhouettes for some sign of the sack.
    Makwa, the big Shawnee, dropped down first, landing on all fours, his bear fur and buckskin garb torn and soiled, his flesh scraped and bloody. He stood and Krampus clutched his shoulders. “Do you have it?”
    Makwa pushed back his hood, shook his head. “No.”
    Three more Belsnickels slipped down: the brothers, Wipi and Nipi, also of the Shawnee people, and the little man, Vernon, his long, bristly beard full of pine needles. They, too, appeared to have suffered dearly. They’d obviously been in a desperate battle with someone or something. Krampus looked from one to the next; none would meet his eye. “You do not have it? None of you have it?”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    They shook their heads, continued to stare at the ground.
    No. The word cut through him like a shard of ice. No. His knees threatened to buckle. He grabbed the wall to steady himself. “Was it him? Was it Santa Claus?”
    “Yes,” Vernon answered and the three Shawnee nodded.
    “Where is he? Where is the sack?”
    “We did our very best,” Vernon said. “He was terribly strong and crazed . . . it was unexpected.”
    Krampus slid to the ground, cradling his head in his large hands. “There will never be another chance.”
    The girl, Isabel, dropped down. She flipped back the hood of her jacket, looked from Krampus to the four men. “You didn’t tell him?”
    No one answered her.
    “Krampus, the sack might still be out there.”
    Krampus looked at her, confused. “The sack?”
    “Yes, the sack. It’s out there somewhere.”
    Krampus found his feet and grasped her arm. “What do you mean, child?”
    “We had it. I mean almost. We were in the sleigh, fighting the old man for it, and— Ow! Dammit, Krampus. You’re hurting my arm.”
    Krampus realized he was pinching her in his distress and let loose.
    “It was crazy. Santa Claus went berserk. Biting and clawing and . . . and . . .” She trailed off, a look of intense sorrow fell across her face. “He kicked Peskwa out of the sleigh. We were so high . . . I don’t know it he made it or—” She hesitated, glancing at the others.
    “Oh, he’s most certainly a dead little Indian,” Vernon put in.
    “We don’t know that,” Isabel shot back.
    “Unless he sprouted wings, he’s dead. I see no reason—”
    “Enough!” Krampus cried. “Isabel. What happened to the sack?”
    “Well, when Peskwa fell, he took the sack with