by J. T. Bock
“We residents of Karmish-Partenkirten strive to be the premier designation for vacationers in the Alps.”
That’s when it hit me. “Wait – Karmish-Partenkirten, not Garmisch-Partenkirchen?”
The bellhop recoiled in shock. “Oh no! Garmisch-Partenkirchen is so last decade! Too overdeveloped and commercialized. That’s fine for those distasteful scoundrels lacking in fashion or style.”
Well, shit. Gregory had been on the mark in his navigation. I’d just Googled the wrong city. I looked at the brochure in my hand again and wondered if Karmisch-Partenkirten had a sightseeing trolley.
The porter gave us a knowing look. “I can’t name names, but a certain American celebrity often vacations here. You’re in good company.”
My tastes had always run to the gutter, and I could be classified as a distasteful scoundrel, but it seemed, in my error, I’d stumbled onto a burgeoning ‘hot thing’. Hopefully the celebrity would show up this week and I could photo bomb a few of the paparazzi pics with him. My tabloid appearances so far had been attributed to Moth Man and the Hallows Horror. It would do me good to be seen rubbing elbows with Brad or Angelina. As the Iblis, the leader of the demons, I had a responsibility to appear high society.
I tipped the bellhop and dragged my suitcase into the room. Gregory’s was following him by itself. The fact that the hotel staff hadn’t noticed was a side benefit of his angelic powers. With a wave of his hand, it stored itself handily in the closet, the clothing I’d packed for him neatly on hangers and stacked in an open dresser drawer.
I hadn’t managed that skill yet, so I heaved my suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it, sorting and hanging my various outfits while the angel perused the stack of brochures he’d gathered in the lobby.
“There are some lovely architectural examples nearby, as well as picturesque landscapes. Cockroach, I think this will be an edifying trip.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the derogatory name he’d given me that had somehow become an endearment over the last two years. Wait, edifying? That wasn’t the adjective I was going for when I’d arranged this vacation, but it would have to do.
“Hmmm. What should we tour while we’re here? Churches? Graveyards? Sights of miracles? Relics of saints?”
Uhhh, not me. Not in this lifetime. “I’m going for the Ayurvedic treatment the hotel spa brochure raves about. Why don’t you go ahead and eye up the flying buttresses and gothic arches, and I’ll meet up with you in a couple of hours?”
The angel arched an eyebrow at me. “You’re not a demon anymore; you’re an Angel of Chaos. Contemplating miracles and learning about humans who were pious enough to have ascended will increase your vibration level.”
Fuck that. I had no intention of increasing my vibration level, or any of that other angelic crap. “After my Ayurvedic treatment, I’ll meditate or something, okay?”
Yeah. Meditate naked in a hot tub with a big mug of Gluhwein. I don’t normally drink wine, but when I do, it’s warm and spiced.
Gregory always knew when I was trying to weasel out of something. “After your treatment, we will visit the site of Saint Ragnhild Fried’s martyrdom and contemplate her steadfast refusal to deny her faith.”
“Yes. I’ll do that.”
Gregory’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Vow?”
Demons lie, and the acquisition of my wings hadn’t deterred me from that sin. Didn’t mean I was any good at it though.
“I swear on all the souls I used to Own but gave up because I thought I was dying that I’ll go visit some martyr’s holy place and think about her death and shit.”
Demons also tended to acquire souls with the fervor of a hoarder. There were days when I mourned the loss of my collection. It was one of the things that sucked about having an angel watching your every move.
Gregory’s expression warmed, and he lifted a hand to run it through my hair. “All right, Cockroach. Enjoy your spa treatment. I’ll see you afterward.”
***
Gregory headed off to visit some chapel, while I began a lengthy search for an Ayurvedic treatment – whatever the fuck that was. The inn brochure had totally sold me on the necessity of having one, touting it as the ultimately sinful spa experience, but, clearly, truth in advertising didn’t apply to these folks. There was no Ayurvedic treatment at the inn. There was no spa at the inn. There wasn’t even an indoor pool at the inn. I’d considered taking my wrath out on the stern blond woman at the front desk, but it was my own fault I’d gotten the two towns mixed up. Besides, time was ticking and I wasn’t about to go one more day without enjoying the ultimately sinful spa experience.
The town wasn’t big, and soon my search led me out of the tourist areas and into where the locals clearly lived and worked – the locals who didn’t make much money. Row houses grew narrow with tiny windows and chipped brick. Empty bottles littered the corners of the sidewalk next to the trash cans, as if the residents had very poor aim. This didn’t look like the spa kinda section of town, but given the supposed sinful nature of the treatment, perhaps this was where I would find it.
“Hey,” I shouted in German to a man across the street. “I’m looking for a place that does Ayurvedic treatments.”
He started, looking around in alarm before cautiously crossing the street toward me. “Friend, you don’t want to be visiting prostitutes this week, not when one sin can send the scales tipping against you. Best to wait and do those sorts of things after the New Year.”
I’ll admit my German was rusty. Everyone’s accents had changed considerably in the last few centuries, and I’d been further north on my last trip. Maybe the man hadn’t understood me, or perhaps Ayurvedic treatments did involve a happy ending. Hmmm, made sense with the whole “ultimately sinful experience” description.
“I’m only in town for a week, and I think the scales of good and evil were tipped against me a long time ago. Can you hook me up, dude?”
He shook his head. “I don’t dare. Even recommending a place of sin could count against me. Bronwyn Schmidt was taken last night. I don’t want to be the one chosen tonight.”
This was getting ridiculous. “Look, just nod in the general direction, stomp your feet for the house number or something. Or how about if you just write it on a piece of paper for me? I promise I’ll burn it right after I read it.”
The man backed away, waving his hands in front of himself. “He’ll know. He knows if I’ve been good or bad.”
“Santa? What are you, five years old? So you get a lump of coal and some switches in your stocking. That’s no reason to lay off kinky spa sex, or any other sin.”
He frowned. “He doesn’t leave things in stockings; he kills you. Being an American tourist won’t exempt you from his justice. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be an angel during this week.”
An angel? This guy obviously didn’t know who he was talking to. “Okay, fine, but the hotel spa was supposed to have this Ayurvedic treatment, and I’m determined to experience it. I really don’t care about some vengeful Santa killing me or leaving disappointing gifts by the fireplace. Just stroll down the street with me and lift your index finger when we’re at the spa.”
That must not have been acceptable. The man took off, darting into an alley and leaving me to kick garbage along the curb as I searched for another spa. An hour later, I gave up and found the nearest bar. The cheerful murals of a Heidi-looking shepherdesses quaffing beer didn’t lighten the foreboding atmosphere of the dimly lit room. The place was practically empty except for a drunk woman and a young couple fondling each other in the corner. I wondered if they knew about crazy killer Santa?
The idea of some fat guy spying on me and judging my morality sounded pretty farfetched, but so did the idea that an angel and a demon could fall in love with each other. After a few swigs of beer, I decided I should probably investigate further, just in case there was a jolly man with a homicidal bent roaming the town.
“Hey,” I shouted to the bartender, “w
hat happened with that Bronwyn Schmidt woman?”
It was as if the guy was suddenly struck with rigor mortis. “She wasn’t a good person. It’s a good thing she’s no longer in Karmish-Partenkirten.”
“What did she do?” It was important to know these things. I’d spent a lifetime avoiding getting killed by angels, no way I was going to get slaughtered by a nasty-ass Santa for eating my steak with my hands.
“Embezzled from the elderly. Oh, and she wrote bad checks. Definitely not the sort of person we need in here.”
Crap, I was so toast. “So this evil Santa dude snatched her up?”
The bartender’s eyes grew as big around as the highball glasses. “No, she just was arrested. Incarcerated. Away from town.”
He was lying. With the acquisition of my wings, I could sense human falsehoods. It wasn’t infallible — sociopaths and people hopped-up on acid were two examples I’d discovered so far that were immune to my newfound skills. This guy must not have been either, because his words sent a distinctive itch through me.
“Arrested by Santa? Is that what you German folks call your Sherriff? Because I swear the guy on the south-side alluded to Mr. Klaus as the deliverer of justice this particular week of the year.”
“There is no such thing as Santa. Bronwyn Schmidt was arrested. She’s gone, and good riddance. People like that only give our town a bad reputation.”
More lies. The itching feeling had become annoying.
“Obsessing about Saint Nicholas legends, Cockroach?”
I spun around, my heartbeat going into overdrive at Gregory’s voice. “How was the church, or the graveyard, or whatever you went to see?”
I immediately wished I hadn’t asked as the angel went into a lengthy description of transepts, spires, and other shit. It took two beers for me to get through the speech, but finally he finished.
“Sounds lovely. Let’s go fuck in a hot tub. I saw one back at the inn. I’m sure the staff won’t mind.”
“After we visit Saint Ragnhild Fried’s shrine.”
Damn. “I haven’t been to the spa yet. Every time I try to get directions, someone warns me against it. Evidently Ayurvedic treatments end with Santa giving me fossil fuels then murdering me.”
Gregory shook his head. “Leave it to you to wander around one small town all day and still not manage to find a spa.” He turned to the bartender and conversed rapidly in German. A few seconds later, he handed me a slip of paper with an address on it. “There. You’ve got two hours. If you’re not at the shrine by sunset, Santa will be the least of your worries.”
I loved it when he threatened violence. “Oh, I’ll be there,” I lied.
***
The Ayurvedic treatment was indeed sinful, although not in the way I’d expected. Instead of a sexy masseuse, I got an old wizened guy with a scraggly, white beard who gave me an enema, shoved oils up my nose and made me drink a gallon of some bitter tea. He would have made an excellent demon. I could still feel the tea rolling around my very empty digestive system, ensuring that any remaining foodstuff vacated promptly. Hopefully this shrine had a port-o-potty nearby.
The highlight of the whole experience had been when Gregory burst through the door, glowing with irritation at my tardiness. The old guy was more than willing to give him an enema too, but the angel declined, dragging me from the spa in the middle of a sun salutation. All the oils had made me rather slippery, and the resulting wrestling match with the angel more than made up for the lack of sensual massage.
“Feeling balanced in spirit, Cockroach?”
“Trust me, I’ve got more in common with this Ragnhild Fried woman right now than I ever thought possible.”
Evidently the saint had gone on a hunger strike after the local church declared her a loony. I was particularly sympathetic to her death by starvation as I sat in front of her shrine with my stomach grumbling loudly.
“Excellent. Let’s return to the inn where you can undo any fleetingly obtained enlightenment with sin.”
I stood, stretching muscles that had stiffened from hours on the cold, hard stone of the shrine. “You know I’m going to drag you down with me. Bubbly water, hot wine, sex – but first, I need some food. Otherwise I’m liable to pass out. Do you have any idea what an Ayurvedic treatment entails?”
I explained my experience in great detail as we walked back toward the center of town, keeping my eyes peeled for an open burger joint. Or curry. Or schnitzel. There hadn’t been a lot of people out and about during the day, but after dark, Karmish-Partenkirten was a ghost town. So you can imagine my surprise when a piercing scream rent the still air.
I ran in the direction of the screaming with Gregory behind me. When human women reached that particular pitch of terror, something dramatic was happening – and I wasn’t about to miss it.
Rounding the corner, I nearly collided with a tall, thin woman bundled in a huge lavender wool coat. She shrieked in my face and backed away from me. “I thought you were. . . I thought he’d come for me. I saw him on Brotgasse Street, and I knew he was searching for me. You’ve got to help me. I was good; I swear it. I was good. Don’t let him take me!”
“Calm down,” Gregory commanded, rubbing his ears and scowling. Angels had particularly sensitive hearing, and this woman was wailing at a pitch that could shatter crystal. “Even if there is a vengeful Santa, I sincerely doubt you’re on his naughty list for lying about your weight.”
Shit, I hoped not or I’d be really fucked.
“He was just here a moment ago.” The woman knotted her hands in Gregory’s blue polo shirt, probably sensing he was her best bet of surviving the jolly murderer. “Heading toward the square.”
Hot damn. Maybe I’d catch a glimpse of this guy. He couldn’t be hard to spot with all that red clothing. “You stay here and comfort that poor woman,” I told Gregory, ignoring his glare. “I’m going to hunt for Santa.”
There was no sign of the fat man. I searched up and down streets, pausing to check in garbage bins and dumpsters, just in case he was hiding in wait for his victim. Nada. Finally I gave up, after snagging a partially eaten bratwurst out of a trash bin, and headed back to the alley. Hopefully Gregory had calmed the hysterical woman by now. Hopefully he wasn’t too pissed at me for leaving him with her — although an angry Gregory was a sexy Gregory.
The angel carefully took in my appearance and snack with a raised eyebrow. “While you were experiencing the joys of dumpster diving, I discovered the name of the assailant from Ms. Joanna Marsh, here.”
The woman turned calm, composed eyes toward me. “Krampus.”
“I thought it was Santa. You know: red suit, jolly laugh, sack of toys he uses to beat his victims to a pulp.”
Her eyes grew round, and Gregory soothed her with a calming hand and a wave of blue. How I loved the blue stuff. It was better than any human narcotic. I swear that angel could turn the entire population of the planet into stoners if he just exerted himself a bit.
“It’s Krampus. Every year he comes and rids Karmish-Partenkirten of the sinners. He has a list. He’ll grab the sinners, one each night, stuff them in a bag and beat them with a stick. Then he takes them into the mountains to eat them.”
“Well, whoever this murderer is, it’s not Krampus. He hasn’t left Hel for the last three centuries. Dude caught a bad case of food poisoning last time over. Besides, he only grabs kids – nobody over the age of twelve. Says humans older than that give him heartburn.”
I’d met the demon a few years back and wasn’t sure whether his endlessly boring digestive issues were all in his head, or if a steady diet of children had taken a toll on his ability to form functioning internal organs. Either way, the demon beating the crap out of the residents of Karmish-Partenkirten couldn’t be Krampus.
“You know this demon? Why am I not surprised?” Gregory slowly shook his head. “The woman is not lying. Perhaps this Krampus has changed his dietary practices in the last decade and is now expanding his prey to include adults.�
��
I frowned. Could be. I wasn’t going to rule it out, although how a demon like Krampus managed to get through a gate was beyond me. The guy had a huge energy signature – only slightly lower than one of the ancients — and he leaked like crazy. He’d never been able to put together a convincing human form either. A furry-legged, horned man with glowing red eyes and a tongue so long it wouldn’t fit in his mouth wouldn’t be unnoticed for long – by humans or angels.
“This woman didn’t even get a good look at him. Just because she honestly believes the guy hunting them is Krampus doesn’t mean it is. My money is still on Santa.”
“Fine.” Gregory stood and brushed the snow from his jeans. “Let’s escort Ms. Marsh safely back home then go find whatever demon or gift-giving fat man is terrorizing these townspeople.”
So much for our relaxing vacation.
“The ‘terrorized’ are sinners. Why do you give a fuck what happens to them?” I didn’t give a fuck what happened to them – sinners or not. Punishment for this killer Santa could wait until tomorrow. I had a snuggly evening ahead of me with my angel, and no twinkling-eyed obese dude was going to get in the way of that.
Gregory sensed my ambivalence to the situation – he did that sometimes. With a monumental sigh, he took my arm with one hand, and the woman’s with his other and marched us down the street.
“There is a demon who has crossed the gates in violation of the treaty. Now, I don’t care whether he’s Krampus or not, he’s going to pay for his trespass with his life.”
I shivered a bit, because when Gregory went all action-hero on me, I wanted to jump him right here on the street and fuck his brains out. That Joanne woman could watch. She might learn a thing or two.
“As appealing as that sounds, we’re on vacation now. Can’t one of your angel minions do it for you?”
