by Brom
“Shit,” he said, switching to his rifle. “They’ll get the drop on us.”
But no fire came from above, only the occasional eyes peeping down at them.
“Don’t like this,” Jesse said, keeping a bead on them. “Not one bit.”
Something flew through the door, hit the ground, and rolled across the straw-littered dirt, coming to a stop at Krampus’s feet. It was the General’s head—the neck cut clean, the eyes gone. Jesse’s mouth became dry, his heart drummed in his chest, he forgot about the figures above, could only stare at the gory sockets that used to be the General’s eyes.
“Fuck me,” Chet whimpered.
“Krampus,” a voice thundered from outside. “Your time is done.”
Krampus smiled, glanced back over his shoulder. “Hold your places. Watch the rafters. And don’t waste any bullets on our dear old friend Santy Claus.”
Jesse caught sight of a dark shape approaching the carriage doors. Far too wide to slip through the gap, it gripped the massive doors and effortlessly shoved them apart to arm’s length. It was him, there could be no doubt, Santa Claus, Baldr. He stood there in the flickering lantern light with a look of supreme confidence on his face. Not as a man coming to battle for his life, but a man coming to stomp upon vermin. He was as far from the image of the plump, jolly Santa Claus of vintage Coca-Cola ads as Jesse could imagine. Jesse even had a hard time making this be the same man he saw running across the snow so long ago in the trailer park. This man looked more like a Viking lord. Gold hoops in his ears, his white hair tied into a topknot, his long beard braided and running down his bare barrel of a chest. He wore red leather britches with stockings and curled-toed shoes adorned with big brass buckles, thick leather wristbands, and a wide harness studded with brass rings atop white fur. Much shorter than Krampus, but stout, solid, hard-packed muscle like a bull, thick through the neck, wrist, and ankle. Hands and forearms that looked able to easily tear apart phone books. He held a broadsword, blood dripping from its long, wide blade. Jesse could see the smoke burns from the gunfire, they ran across his chest, his face, but found no trace of any wound.
Santa Claus slid the heavy doors shut behind him, pulled the slide bar in place, barring them all in. He shook his head, a look upon his face of a man who has a distasteful chore before him. “Krampus, you have become most tiresome.”
DILLARD FLIPPED THE deadbolt and opened the basement door. Linda sat midway down the stairwell, her back to him with Abigail sleeping in her arms. Her lip was swollen and an ugly bruise was blooming along her cheek. He tried not to look at it, tried to pretend it wasn’t there. He let out a deep sigh. “How about we give this another try? What’d you say?”
She didn’t answer, just slowly got to her feet, cradling Abigail. Abigail woke, saw Dillard, and pressed her face into her mother’s chest. Linda marched up the steps, tried to push past him.
Dillard didn’t budge.
“Move!” she hissed.
“I think it’d be good if we talked.”
She pressed her back to the wall, refusing to look at him. He could see her trembling, fighting to control her temper.
“I need you to understand I done what I done because I had to . . . to protect you, to protect that little girl of yours. Jesse, now he’s the one that fucked up. What he got, he done to himself. You know it. He crossed a line with the General. That’s done and over with . . . ain’t nothing you, nor me, nor anybody but Jesus can do for Jesse now. Time to think about what’s best for you and Abigail.”
He reached out, stroked Abigail’s hair. “Linda, you need to understand that the only reason that little girl of yours is here safe and sound is because of me. The General, well, he had other plans, wanted to use her to get at Jesse for what he’d done, and it weren’t easy to convince him otherwise.”
Linda glared at him. Dillard saw the fire and blinked. “What you done,” she said, “amounts to murder. No different than if you done it yourself.”
Dillard ground his teeth, fought down the heat rising in his chest. “I need to make something clear to you . . . absolutely crystal-clear. The General, he gets dangerous when he thinks someone might start gabbing about his business. And if you were to get it into your head to talk about what went down with Jesse, so much as a single word, there wouldn’t be a goddamn thing I could do to keep you and Abigail safe. And after what you said in front of Chet and Ash, about the sheriff, they’ll be watching you, you can count on it.”
She stared at the wall, shaking her head.
“Christ, Linda. Can’t you see I’m doing my damnedest here to keep you two safe? Can you not try and understand?”
He waited for a response, some sign that all was not lost, but she continued to stare at the wall as though he wasn’t there.
“Why are you making this so hard?” he asked.
“Really? Are you kidding me?” The venom in her voice surprised him.
Dillard made himself look at her swollen lip. Why do things always have to go this way with me? “I’m . . . sorry,” he said. “Sorry I lost my temper. About as sorry as I can be. Do anything I could to take that back. I mean it, Linda. Things got out of hand . . . won’t ever happen again. I swear it. Swear to God.”
Linda’s lip began to tremble and she wiped at her eyes.
Dillard thought maybe some part of her understood. He hoped so. “You got every right to hate me right now. But I’m hoping you won’t. That maybe after a bit you’ll come to forgive me. All I ask is that you try and remember I made my decisions, right or wrong, for you, baby.”
He gave her another minute, hoping she would say something. She didn’t.
“Listen,” he said. “However you might feel about me, I still need you to stick close for a few days . . . until things with the General calm down a notch. That will give me a little time to convince him you understand the ways things are. If you want to leave me after that . . . well . . . I won’t stand in your way. But, Linda . . . I’m hoping you won’t. I’m still hoping we can build a life together.”
Linda’s face was stone, he saw nothing for him in her eyes, nothing. Ellen had worn that same look, like part of her was turned off, dead. He couldn’t stand it another minute, afraid he’d start tearing up. “I have to go out. I won’t be far. If you see any of the Boggses driving by, you be sure to call me right away.”
Dillard left them on the stairs, slipping on his jacket. He patted the pocket, making sure Linda’s keys were still there, and headed out the door.
“WHY DO YOU come here?” Santa Claus asked, his voice deep and low.
“You know too well the answer to that, my dear old friend,” Krampus said, his tail swishing back and forth like that of a cat on the hunt.
“You could have lost yourself in the wilds. Lived out your existence in the forest.” Santa spoke softly, but his words resonated. “Instead you must make a nuisance of yourself . . . force my hand. Make me kill you when I have no desire to do so.”
“Kill me? That sounds a bit presumptuous. Would you not agree?”
Santa shook his head. “Why does the blood of Loki know only vileness? I showed you charity, tried to show you the truth, tried to save you from yourself. Gave you every chance.”
“Being chained beneath the earth did not feel very charitable.”
“Pity made me weak. I see now that I should have killed you and put an end to your suffering. But, you see, I spent an age in your mother’s prison. That time in Hel gave me the chance to better understand myself, to meditate on the consequences of my choices. My hopes were that solitude would give you that same chance. A chance to see beyond yourself for once.”
“Shit spews from your lips as from the ass of a pig. You did not find yourself in Hel, you were lost. It was I who tried to save you, that brought you into my very home, tried to give you purpose, to heal the great wounds in your heart. The truth is you chained me in that pit for one reason, the hope that I would be forgotten and fade away, and the spirit of Yule would fade away
with me.”
Santa shrugged. “Yule is dead. It is the past. Men need a path to enlightenment, to be set free from trivial earthbound concerns, to see beyond the limitations of flesh and blood. Life is fleeting, but the hereafter is eternal. I see no greater calling than to help illuminate that path. I offered you a chance to assist.”
“You worship death. You and all the One Gods. They seduce mankind with their promises of glory attained in the hereafter, thus blinding men to the splendor before them here on earth. One can never expect to achieve enlightenment if one does not first live life to its fullest.”
“Your words only serve as proof that there is no longer a place for you on God’s earth.”
“Earth belongs to no god! Mother Earth is god. Have you forgotten everything? Do you pretend not to see that she is dying beneath your feet? Or do you not care? She needs rebirth, needs the spirit of Yule to heal her. You talk of enlightening men, but there will be no men without her!”
“Foolish beast, earth is nothing more than a rock in space.” Santa shook his head. “The world has moved on and left you behind. You have become nothing but a pathetic relic of days long dead. What I must do now is a mercy, so let us not prolong this. I have you, there is no escape. Kneel now before me and I will give you a quick death.”
“A very gracious and tempting offer, indeed,” Krampus chuckled. “But I believe it is you that should kneel.”
“This is madness, you know you cannot harm me.”
Krampus laughed.
Santa frowned. Krampus could see his mirth annoyed his rival, and laughed the harder.
“It appears five hundred years in that pit has addled your mind.”
Krampus sneered. “Five hundred years in that pit has made all things clear. Clear as spring water in Asgard. Or have you forgotten Asgard? Forgotten the face of your mother, your father? Forgotten your own name? Well, I have come to help you remember.”
Santa’s mouth tightened.
“You have blood on your hands,” Krampus said. “How much? How many did you murder in order to bend Loki’s sack to your will?”
“I have grown weary of your prattle,” Santa said and sprung forward, brought the great sword to bear, swung it high and down hard, a strike meant to cleave Krampus’s head from his shoulders. Krampus skipped aside, the blow intended for his neck instead striking deep into the soft dirt.
Santa appeared surprised by Krampus’s agility. He yanked the blade free, hefted it, ready to strike again.
Krampus made no move to retreat; he pointed the spear at Santa. “It is time I reminded you who you are.”
Santa shook his head, appeared almost bored. “Why must you put us through this? Surely you know your efforts are futile? Save yourself some dignity.”
“You have much to learn,” Krampus hissed. “Much to answer for. I am here to see that you do. For Huginn and Muninn, Geri and Freki, for all those you used then tossed aside, all those you betrayed, who bled for your ambitions. But most of all . . . for me.”
Santa charged, a great sweep of the blade. Krampus ducked, swept beneath the sword, came up as Santa went barreling past, lashed out, one quick strike, and slipped away.
Santa turned, prepared for another lunge, then hesitated, appeared unsure, his face twisting into something approaching befuddlement. He lowered his sword, looked at his arm. A small red line ran just beneath his shoulder, growing thicker as he stared at it. A crimson drop pooled and slid down his arm. Santa touched the cut, looked at the blood on his fingers. “What trickery is this?”
“Your face,” Krampus said. “It is worth all my days below the earth.”
Santa tasted the blood. “Impossible.”
“A house built on lies has a weak foundation, my dear old friend.”
Santa looked at him, still not comprehending.
“You do not see? Have you lied to yourself for so long that you have forgotten the truth? Think. Remember.”
Krampus saw it, confusion turning to alarm. “Yes. Yes,” Krampus jeered. “Santa Claus might be untouchable, but . . . Baldr . . . he is not.” Krampus held the spearhead up so that the lantern light caught the ancient ore and flickered across Santa’s face. “You can fool the world, you can fool yourself, but you cannot fool this.”
Santa squinted at the weapon, his brow tightened. “How? It was destroyed. Odin ordered it destroyed.”
“Apparently, he did not. I found it at the bottom of the sea, there amongst your bones. Amongst Baldr’s bones.”
Santa’s eyes grew wide, confusion turning to betrayal, and then, for the first time ever, Krampus saw fear on Santa’s face. Santa fell back a step, glanced toward the great doors.
Krampus laughed, loud and full. “Who? Who is trapped now?” The Yule Lord raised himself to his full height, inhaled deeply, felt his heart drum with the sweetness of his own wrath. He peeled back black lips, exposing long, sharp teeth. His tongue flashed from his mouth, he snapped his tail back and forth. His laugh turned into a snarl as he leapt at the white-bearded man.
Santa seemed to be in shock, a man in deep water who has just forgotten how to swim. He raised his sword, but too late; Krampus drove past his guard and caught him across the forearm, not a nick this time but a deep slash, cutting all the way down to the bone.
Santa let loose a howl, a sound of outrage, of complete incredulity, and stumbled against the railing, struggling to keep hold of his sword.
Krampus spun away, almost dancing. “How sweet the taste of revenge. How very, very sweet!”
Santa clutched the wound, face aghast at all the blood pumping from between his fingers.
Krampus hopped from foot to foot, prancing on his toes, grinning and tittering.
Santa kept his sword pointed at Krampus as he backed away, edging toward the double doors. Krampus followed, stalked him around the ring, allowing him to reach the door. Santa struggled to maintain his guard while attempting to slide the latch with his injured arm.
“Where are you going?” Krampus asked. Santa wet his lips, sweat beading on his forehead as he inched the slide over.
“You are a beast!” Santa cried. “Not but a low-caste demon. And that is all you shall ever be!”
The Yule Lord snorted and feigned attack. Santa lashed out with his sword, a wild, aimless swing, catching nothing but air. Krampus dashed forward, striking Santa atop the wrist and knocking the sword from his hand. The sword landed in the dirt between them. Santa made to grab for it when Krampus slashed the spearhead across Santa’s thigh, the mythical blade cutting easily through his britches and muscle, biting into the bone. Krampus yanked the blade free and Santa collapsed onto one knee, cradling his leg as he screamed through clenched teeth. Blood from his forearm, his wrist, and the deep slash to his leg spilled onto the ground and turned the blond straw red.
Krampus kicked the sword away, stepped up to Santa. “It is time you faced yourself.” All the play left Krampus’s voice, his tone became somber. He pressed the spearhead against Santa’s neck. “What is your name?”
Santa closed his eyes, began to shake.
“What is your name?”
“Santa Claus,” he mumbled.
Krampus kicked him, knocked him onto his side, planted his foot on his neck and set the spear into his gut. “No, it is not Santa Claus, it is not Kris Kringle, not Father Christmas, nor is it Saint Nicholas.” He pressed the blade into Santa’s flesh, an inch—two inches. Blood pooled beneath the spear tip. “What is your true name?”
“Santa Claus!” Santa cried. “My true name is Santa Claus!”
Krampus kicked him hard in the stomach. “No!” he yelled, unable to hide his outrage. “The charade is over! Your name is Baldr, the son who betrayed his own mother and father. Betrayed all the ancients. Claim your true title—Baldr the thief, Baldr the liar, Baldr the traitor, Baldr the murderer. That is who you are! Now you will claim it!”
Santa opened his eyes, glared up at Krampus, a steady resolve set into his face. “No, I am not Baldr. B
aldr and all Baldr was is dead. I am Santa Claus. I serve a god of peace and love.”
Krampus squinted at him. “You serve only yourself. A world of lies contrived to hide your wicked deeds.”
“Whoever I might once have been, that person is dead, has been left behind. I have been reborn and have found my redemption through compassion and charity to others.”
“No!” Krampus spat. “No! No! No! What utter bile. One does not get to forgive one’s self. You cannot just walk away from your guilt. Forgiveness can come only from those against whom you have trespassed. Only they can absolve you of your crimes. Perhaps in the afterlife, after they have ripped the skin from your bones a thousand times, then and only then may you beg their forgiveness. And now, unless you claim your name, beg my forgiveness, then I will send you to them here and now.”
“I am Santa Claus. I answer only to God.”
Krampus stuck the blade into Santa’s chest, pressed slowly downward, toward his heart. “Claim your name.”
Santa grasped the blade, the edge cutting into his fingers. “Your efforts are in vain,” he gasped. “Santa Claus cannot die . . . he lives forever.”
Krampus saw that Santa believed it, believed it to his very soul. Krampus hated the solace it seemed to give him. “We shall see,” Krampus sneered, gave the blade a heavy shove, felt ribs snap and flesh rip, watched the blade sink deep into Santa’s chest.
Santa’s eyes grew wide, blood bubbled from his lips. “God will be wrathful, there will be . . . no place . . . you can hide.” Santa Claus fell still, his eyes staring ever upward toward the heavens.
Krampus yanked the blade free. “There. There. You are dead!” he spat. “And this time you shall stay dead!” He raised the blade, brought it down with all his might onto Santa’s neck, over and over he hacked—blood and gore spattering across his face with each strike. He hacked until Santa’s head rolled away from its body. The Yule Lord jabbed the spear into Santa’s skull, lifted it skyward, and shook it. “Where is your great god now? Where is his wrath? Nothing! For you are nothing but one monstrous lie!”
