by Dan Thompson
Lizzie shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lizzie, and you’ve already met Fluffy.”
“Technically, no dogs are allowed. We serve food, and there are all sorts of rules.” Gretchen gave John a wistful look then brightened. “Heck. I’m sure it’s fine just this once. Only a few regulars are in right now.”
The interior of the bar was dark, but the dim lights caught the bits of tinsel strung throughout the room. A pool table dominated the center of the room. Small tables were scattered around the periphery. But the three customers that Gretchen had called regulars were all stationed at the bar. “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” played quietly in the background, which added to the forlorn festive feel of the bar.
Two of the customers seemed unremarkable, but the third caught Lizzie’s eye. An older man, eighty or more at a guess, sat hunched on his barstool. Gnarled fingers curled around a plain coffee mug.
Lizzie cast a ward on the room—and there it was, a tiny little sprinkling of magic. Whereas John shone brightly, as if a star burned from within, this man looked like he’d been dusted with a handful of glitter. So little magic clung to him that Lizzie couldn’t pinpoint what kind it was. She wondered if even he knew that there was something more inside him. Curious.
Lizzie chose a seat next to the old man, leaving one empty stool between them.
As John settled into a sit at her feet, the man said, “Wolf don’t bite, does it?”
Shaggy grey eyebrows dominated his face, and Lizzie found it hard not to stare. “Depends. If you bite first, I’m guessing he would.”
“Humph.” He coughed and then took a sip of coffee. As he raised the mug, Lizzie caught a whiff of whiskey.
“Earl, that’s no wolf. It’s a—what did you say he is?” Gretchen had moved behind the bar and was wiping down the already clean counter. She looked expectantly in Lizzie’s direction.
“Oh, Fluffy’s a malamute mastiff mix.”
“My rear end.” Earl’s grumbly response was again punctuated by a cough. He cleared his throat loudly and took another swig of coffee. When he set his cup down, he pointed at John with a crooked finger and said, “Wolf.”
Maybe, just maybe, this man could see the truth around him. Just enough magic to see but not enough to understand or to practice magic. Lizzie glanced again at his whiskey-spiked coffee. She didn’t know, but she could guess what kind of strain that placed on a person. Sadness welled inside her.
John pushed into her, his warm fur brushing her hand.
“Gretchen, do you have hot tea?” Lizzie asked. “Also, another drink for Earl?”
Earl tipped his head in thanks.
“You from around here, Earl?”
“Yep.” Earl drank the last of his coffee, pushed it away, and glared in Gretchen’s direction until she brought him another cup. Immediately, he wrapped his hands around it.
Subtle probably wouldn’t work, so Lizzie went with direct. “What do you think of all these pranks the local boys are pulling?”
“Know ’bout that, do ya?”
Lizzie blew on her tea then took a sip. The warmth zinged right through her. “Uh huh. I got four slashed tires. Some prank. Good thing I like to hike, or I’d have been stuck at the house all day.”
A cold nose brushed her hand. Whatever—it was a tiny little fib. Not even. More like a slight rearranging of the facts than a fib.
“Not boys. Little people.” Earl stared hard into his mug—but this time he didn’t take a drink.
“Little people, like fairies?” Lizzie tried to reconcile the Krampus she’d seen with the idea of fairies and failed.
“Ha!” Earl’s sharp laughter resonated in the bar, quickly followed by a wheezing noise as he regained his breath,
“Ah. Not fairies.”
Gretchen came back to check on both of them, pulled from the kitchen by the ruckus Earl had made, no doubt. “Can I get you something to eat?”
Lizzie perked up at the sound of food. “Sure thing. I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger and side salad. Fluffy will have two double bacon burgers, plain and dry, if that’s okay.”
Gretchen shrugged. “Why not? But is that okay for him to have people food?”
“Yeah, I think it’s fine every once in a while. Right, Fluff?”
John let out a long sigh.
That’s what he got for dragging her ass out while he was in wolf form: baby talk and whatever food she felt like ordering for him.
“Do you want fries with that?” Gretchen poured Lizzie a glass of water and placed it on the bar in front of her, along with a napkin wrapped around utensils.
“Oh, no thanks. But also”—Lizzie lowered her voice—“anything Earl might want.”
Once Gretchen was gone, Lizzie turned back to Earl. “So, about those little people—what do they look like?”
Earl turned the full force of his bushy-eyebrowed countenance on her. And then peered at her like she was a nutcase. “People. That are little.” He held his hand out about three feet high. “’Bout so.” He sniffed and rubbed the end of his nose. “And they got horns—long ones.”
Earl held his hands out about a foot and a half.
Shit. He had definitely seen a Krampus at some point.
Earl grunted. “Shot one once.”
Lizzie swiveled in her seat, both fascinated and appalled. “Really? You killed it or…”
What did Earl have against the little people?
Before he could answer, Gretchen came back with her side salad and Earl pinched his lips together.
He wasn’t spilling and she was starving, so Lizzie tackled her salad. But the unease she felt over Earl’s bald statement stayed with her. Just as she was chomping down the last leaf of lettuce and tomato wedge, Gretchen returned with two plates and a to-go bag.
As Gretchen set one of the plates in front of Earl, he shifted in his seat and sat up straighter. His arthritic hands unfolded his napkin and wrestled the fork loose faster than Lizzie would have guessed possible. Then he paused, his fork hovering above a pile of hash browns, and turned to Lizzie. “Not right, those little people. Demons sent to do the devil’s work. But I didn’t kill him. Got away ’cross the river.” And he proceeded to give her concise directions to the out-of-the-way spot where he’d winged a “little person.” When he was done, he pointed his fork at John. “That’s a wolf.” Then he started shoveling hash browns in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in a week.
Sure, her and John’s front door had been peed on. And four truck tires punctured. But that Earl thought those silly pranks were the work of the devil—that idea was deeply disturbing to Lizzie. Maybe Earl’s ability to see magic in the world had hurt him: fueled a religious fervor or strained a delicate mental balance. Whatever the reason, it was sad and troubling.
Gretchen brought Lizzie’s check out after she’d finished her burger. And since Earl hadn’t said another word to her even after he’d finished his meal and, in fact, looked like he might be snoozing in his chair, she figured she’d gotten as much as she could out of him. She threw a few bills on top of the check, grabbed her doggy bag, and stood up. But before she could leave, Gretchen stopped her.
Leaning across the bar, Gretchen asked, “You’re with one of those magazines, aren’t you?”
Lizzie shook her head in confusion.
“The kind with the aliens and the ghosts.”
Lizzie smiled as understanding dawned. “No, just curious. And I really like to hear local stories when I travel.”
“Well, Earl always appreciates a meal. And everyone around here has heard about his little people. Can’t get him to stop talking once he gets going.”
An hour and Lizzie had gotten maybe half a dozen sentences out of Earl. She shook her head. Most people opened up to her—just not Earl. “What do you think about his little people?”
Gretchen lowered her voice and dipped her head closer. “I think Earl’s had a rough life. And he drinks.” She gave Lizzie a weak smile. It was obvious to Lizzie that Gretc
hen had a soft spot for the old guy and that she worried about him.
“Thanks again.” Lizzie lifted the doggy bag.
“No problem. Have a nice holiday.”
As Lizzie opened the door for John, she was tempted to tweak his tail. He’d chosen their vacation getaway, so that made him at least partially to blame for this mess. Right?
Before they headed back to their condo—a walk Lizzie was not looking forward to—John stopped and gave the boat launch a good look.
“No. Not today.” When he tipped his head at her, she added, “Not one word. We have a three-mile hike home. And we’ve probably missed the tow guy.”
He chuffed.
“Laugh all you want. Just because you’re talking doesn’t mean you’re talking. We are not crossing the river today. Our little Krampus problem can wait until tomorrow.” Lizzie started down the road. “When we have our car back. And I haven’t walked a gazillion miles.”
She felt a little tug on the leash then John appeared on her left, jogging slowly. No sniffing, no scanning the surroundings, simply keeping pace with her.
“Sorry—I know, it’s not your fault.” She slowed down a little. She still had three miles to go.
Chapter 3
“So, what’s the plan?” Lizzie leaned back against the arm of the sofa. ”Don’t you dare stop.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” John picked up her other foot. “And I’m sorry I made you walk six miles.”
“Don’t fib. You’re not sorry.”
“Okay. I’m sorry your feet hurt.” John paused mid-rub. “Do we have any idea if Krampuses can talk?”
“Huh. I’m not sure. But I get your point. It’s not like we charge in—assuming we can even find them—and start knocking heads. They haven’t actually hurt anyone.”
“That we know about. And don’t forget the small dogs and cats.” John tapped her foot.
Lizzie sighed and moved her feet so he could get up. “We can hope they’ve got some language skills. Really, all we need to do is tell them to stop. Somehow. Sign language, maybe?”
Lizzie could barely hear John over running water in the kitchen, when he replied. “Right.”
“Do I detect sarcasm?”
He shut the water off, and leaned over the bar separating the kitchen from the living room. “How do you suppose we mime: no more public outings; no more peeing; no more toilet paper adventures or punctured tires?”
“Well, miming ‘no pee’ is a much better idea than ripping out some poor creature’s throat because he gave the truck a flat.”
John reappeared around the corner with two mugs. The rich smell of hot chocolate filled Lizzie’s nose as John set the mugs down on the coffee table.
“A foot rub and hot chocolate. You’re completely forgiven.” Just as Lizzie was reaching for her drink, she felt the warning pull of magic. She groaned. “My sensing ward just tripped.”
“That son of a—” The rest was cut off by the slam of the front door.
How she could still be amazed at the speed John could conjure up in an emergency, she didn’t know. She squeezed her eyes shut and wished as hard as she could for a normal vacation. When the world failed to send her any overt signs she’d been heard, she sighed and put her shoes on.
By the time she made it onto the porch, she couldn’t see John. The moonlight was faint and the damp from earlier in the day had settled into a patchy fog. She opened the front door and reached inside to flick on the porch light. When she turned back around, she could just make out a dark shape. She squinted. “Oh, my.”
A small figure squirmed in John’s grasp.
Lizzie trotted down the steps. She reached John only a little out of breath. “How did you manage to catch, ah—” Lizzie paused, scanning for some sign of gender in the darkness. Scruffy pants. She peered closer. An old T-shirt?
“Him. Definitely a boy.” John grip relaxed slightly as the bundle of Krampus stopped struggling. “He was having a go at the neighbor’s—what the fuck.”
John dropped the vicious bundle of rags, horns, and teeth the boy had become. John’s mouth stretched wide in pain, his arm cradled close to his body.
Lizzie stood frozen as his torn flesh dripped blood. Her stomach heaved, and she swallowed. Eventually, words fell from her mouth. “No, no, no—that is not okay.”
John gave her a dark look as he gasped for breath.
Lizzie swallowed again. She would not puke. “Right. Sorry. Uh, why aren’t you changing?”
He shook his head.
Couldn’t? Shouldn’t? Lizzie wasn’t sure. She yanked off her sweatshirt, intending to wrap it around John’s arm. But the moment she touched his arm, he flinched and doubled over in pain.
“Shit.” She backed up a step. “Maybe I shouldn’t touch it.”
John panted, clearly trying to recover some control. Several seconds later, he held her gaze and said, “Stop…” He fell silent as his body shook. “Stop the bleeding.”
“Oh, God.” Lizzie’s stomach knotted from just thinking about touching him—making him hurt even more. But something was terribly wrong. She’d seen John injured before—seriously injured—and he’d never looked like this. Stoic was his thing. And changing healed wounds—why wasn’t he changing forms? That had to be bad.
She squeezed her eyes shut as her stomach rolled again. She blew out a breath and opened her eyes. “Okay.”
She steeled herself then grasped his wrist firmly. She wrapped the sweatshirt tightly around his forearm. Not thinking about the sounds of pain he made. Not thinking about his blood covering her hands. Not thinking about how dark and wet the cloth became. Not thinking about how cold his skin felt.
She used the arms of the sweatshirt to tie it into place. Then she bawled. Tears pouring, snot running, bawling. She tried to sop up the mess with the sleeves of her T-shirt—because her hands were covered in John’s blood. She groaned and half laughed. “What is wrong with us?
Eventually John said, “I’m poisoned. Not sure what your problem is.”
“Poisoned?” Lizzie whispered in an urgent tone. “The sorry little pestilent rodent. I am going to kill him.”
“Eh. Nonlethal, very painful poison.” John listed to the side. “I’m pretty sure.”
She wasn’t about to call him out on his complete bullshit. No way could he know if that poison was lethal or not.
Lizzie shifted quickly to John’s good side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Please, please, please, don’t pass out.”
John grunted in response, but he did start to move in the direction of the stairs.
One hand firmly wrapped around John’s good arm, she yanked her phone out of her back pocket with the other. A chill washed over her at the sight of the caked blood on her hands. New rule: she was only allowed one meltdown per traumatic event. She’d already had one, so she wasn’t allowed to see that blood. It didn’t exist. She dialed Harry before her rational mind decided that was just stupid.
Please pick up, please, Harry.
“Harry.” Relief washed through her so quickly she felt lightheaded.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.
No nonsense, straight to it. Always with that wonderful, mostly British, somewhat-Americanized accent. And he’d answered his dang phone. “I think I might love you, Harry.”
John grumbled next to her.
“Shush. You’re the one who went and got bitten. No complaining.” Lizzie shifted so her shoulder was under John’s good arm, supporting part of his weight now. Halfway up, but he was starting to lose steam. “Sorry, Harry. John’s been bitten by a Krampus. He says he’s poisoned, and he doesn’t look so good.”
“A Krampus? Big guy, hates Santa, lives in Germany?” Harry sounded confused—and who could blame him?
“Yes, Krampus. Not big, no clue about Santa, lives currently in Texas with a bunch of his buddies. Hang on.” Lizzie shoved the phone in her back pocket and opened the front door.
John made it the few steps to the sofa t
hen collapsed in a heap. In better light, he looked even worse. She knelt down next to him and checked the improvised bandage. Soaked through.
Lizzie’s numb fingers pulled at the phone. It took her a few tries to retrieve it from her pocket. “Harry—he’s kinda grey. And I think it’s still bleeding.” She swallowed the beginnings of a sob. “He can’t change. Or won’t.” Lizzie heard a murmured conversation on the other end of the line.
“Yeah. A friend I’m with just explained what they are. He’s going to be fine—but you have to do a few things.” Harry’s voice was soft, reassuring. He didn’t mention John’s inability to shift forms.
Lizzie tried to catch John’s eye, but his lids were drooping.
“He’s barely conscious. What do I do?”
Harry quickly relayed instructions. Simple. Flush the wound, stitch it up, and let him sleep it off.
An image of the ripped flesh flashed through her mind. “I can’t do that.” Before Harry could reply, she asked, “How do I do it?”
Lizzie gathered up the supplies she needed as quickly as she could. But even in the few minutes she’d been away, John had lost consciousness.
Lizzie set the phone down on the coffee table and tapped speaker. “Harry, he’s not awake. What should I do?”
“Good that he’s not awake for this part. You’re going to flush and clean the wound as best as you can.” A moment of silence followed, then Harry continued, “Marin says that the venom is in their saliva, not injected with their fangs. Cleaning and flushing out the wound can reduce the healing time significantly.”
Lizzie nodded. Somehow, knowing Marin was Harry’s source made her feel better. Dragons were old—they knew more than most people. It would be fine. “Okay.”
Then she unwrapped the sweatshirt and listened to exactly how she was going to clean and flush the wound. It was definitely not okay.
Twenty minutes later, Lizzie had followed Harry’s instructions—and at one point Marin’s, as she’d joined him on the line—with complete commitment. She was exhausted. And disgusted. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image was still there. Flesh shouldn’t look like raw meat. At least John had been unaware as she’d scrubbed and rinsed, then soaked, then scrubbed and rinsed some more.
