Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1)

by Halbach, Sonia

  “There’s no need to be frightened,” Harriet said, stopping in front of a corner bookcase. But her tone was anything but reassuring.

  Maggie watched in shock as Harriet began to scale the shelves, fearlessly climbing toward the ceiling as though she had done it hundreds of times before. When she reached the top shelf, she pulled on a thin green book. Then the entire bookcase slowly opened, revealing a crevice just large enough for a person to slip through.

  When Harriet climbed back down to Maggie, they both entered the dark chamber. Harriet grabbed a candle from the back of the bookcase and lit it with a match. The light billowed throughout the space as they approached a short table in the back of the secret chamber. Lying on top of the table was a massive book with elaborate carvings on its dusty, purple cover.

  “It belonged to Nikolaos of Myra,” Harriet boasted. “Not many people know of its existence.”

  Harriet lifted the fragile cover. Bits of dust and paper fragments swirled up from the pages in the glow of the candle, which Harriet held off to the side so wax wouldn’t drip on the frail paper full of ornate calligraphy.

  “The last pages in the book were added after Nikolaos of Myra disappeared.”

  With a permitting nod from Harriet, Maggie delicately turned one page at a time. The pages were filled with some kind of ancient script, but Maggie didn’t bother studying the foreign words. Instead she focused on the mosaic illustrations.

  The images of Nikolaos of Myra didn’t resemble the St. Nicholas described in ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. Nikolaos of Myra was thin with a short shadow of a beard, receding hairline, and piercing eyes. The next illustration was of the three sisters about to be sold into slavery by their oppressive father. Grace, Sarah, and Lily appeared young and beautiful but deeply unhappy. A page later showed Nikolaos of Myra giving the sisters their gold.

  Maggie’s favorite illustration was Nikolaos of Myra receiving the gift of unlimited time as the four of them sailed across the sea. The waves reached up toward the silver ship and its glowing passengers like a spirit guiding them to a new home.

  “The Sister Wheels were given to Nikolaos of Myra on the twenty-fifth of December over a thousand years ago,” Harriet said. “This was before December twenty-fifth was known across the world as Christmas Day. And the wheels can only be reunited on the day they were first bestowed onto Nikolaos of Myra. Which is why it’s imperative we act now.”

  “If we haven’t much time, then why are you bothering to show me this?” Maggie asked.

  “Because I don’t know you,” Harriet said bluntly. “And if we’re going to place all our trust in someone I don’t know, I want that person to at least understand what they’re trying to save.”

  Page after page, the story unfolded, from the early days of Poppel to Nicolas Poppelius coming to the Martyrs of Gorkum’s aid. Then there was the blissful union between Grace and Jan Lookerman, where Sarah joined them in the village of Turnhout, and then a haunting illustration of Lily embarking on her own. But when Maggie turned the page to see what became of the youngest sister, a horrifying illustration was sketched into the brittle paper.

  Harriet quickly shut the book, nearly slamming Maggie’s finger within the pages.

  “What was that?” Maggie asked as the frightening outline of the horned figure pulsed through her mind.

  Harriet grabbed Maggie’s hand and led her out of the chamber. “We should find the Van Cortlandt address and return to the others.”

  Maggie wanted to ask Harriet about the terrifying image in the book, but Harriet was now too focused on their task to reply. Or at least that’s how she tried to appear when brushing off Maggie’s questions.

  They headed back to the first level where Harriet dashed between rows of bookcases. She began climbing another ladder, but this time Maggie did not follow. Moments later, Harriet jumped back down; a crimson book filled with jagged beige paper was stuffed under her arm. She dropped the heavy book onto the wooden floor and swiftly flipped it open, her eyes scanning and fingers turning each page before Maggie could even make out a single word in the thinly scribbled columns.

  “Oloff and Annette Van Cortlandt’s grandson, Philip, had five sons of his own, but only two married and had children: Stephen and Pierre. Pierre married Henry’s great great-aunt Joanna and inherited Van Cortlandt Manor where Henry and your sister, Catharine, are headed now,” Harriet read quickly, her finger slithering down the columns of names and dates. “The older son, Stephen, meanwhile, inherited his father’s house in the city and lived there with his two sons, Philip and William. Philip inherited the house for his large family, most of which either died young or childless. But his daughter, Elizabeth, and her husband, William Taylor, were eventually given the house.”

  “Elizabeth Van Cortlandt Taylor? That’s Grandmother Catharine’s mother. Well, Grandmother Catharine clearly didn’t inherit the house, so who did?”

  “Your grandmother’s brother, Sir Pringle Taylor,” Harriet read. “But he currently resides in England, so the Van Cortlandt house stands empty.”

  “Where is it?” Maggie asked.

  After closely studying the text, Harriet’s eyes popped open.

  “Ten Sylvan Terrace.”

  And with that, Maggie and Harriet slipped out of the Boeken Kamer just as quietly as they’d arrived.

  Maggie and Harriet met up with Ward, Clemmie, and Louis near the Sleigh Pit. The plan was to go as far as they could within the Foundling tunnels and then sneak upon a sleigh running toward Sylvan Terrace, which was located near the northern end of Manhattan.

  “When you get to the caverns with the passages leading to the ash pits, look for the inscriptions above the doorway,” Harriet explained. “You want to exit at 188D. Ward will know what to do.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” Louis asked.

  “The fewer Foundlings to get involved, the better,” Harriet said.

  “And we need as many Foundlings as we can in Poppel right now. We’ve been planning an uprising against the Garrisons since they took over,” Ward explained. “Because we’re monitored closely, it’s been difficult to build weapons of our own. Over the years, we’ve had to sneak into the workshop during the night and between Garrison shifts.”

  “And have you actually built anything?” Louis asked. “Or are you just going to fight them with sugarplums?”

  Ward’s eyes widened. “We’ve made many weapons. The problem is even if we did overthrow the Garrisons, more officials from the outside could be sent down and we’d be right back where we started.” Ward’s voice dropped and he added, “Or they may just wipe out Poppel and the Foundlings completely.”

  “But,” Harriet interrupted. “We won’t need to worry about that once Henry and Catharine return with the final Sister Wheel and all of you retrieve the key.”

  “And what if we aren’t successful?” Maggie asked hesitantly.

  “Then the Garrisons will still know the Foundlings helped the Van Cortlandt descendants,” Ward said. “And we’ll have to protect ourselves either way.”

  “Then maybe we shouldn’t go,” Clemmie suggested a bit too eagerly.

  Ward shook his head. “It’s too late to turn back now. And even if it wasn’t, we need to take this chance. So we shall either bravely save or tragically lose Poppel. But whatever happens, it will happen tonight.”

  he steamboat treaded up the Hudson River as Catharine and Henry remained below in the hull, huddled behind sacks of cargo. The water was relatively calm that night, but every bump tossed about the stowaways.

  Exhaustion eventually caught up with Catharine and Henry, and they were soon drifting in and out of sleep. Henry would occasionally stir awake, fearing that the Garrisons were about to discover them. Also, Catharine had gravitated to the nook of his arm after falling asleep, and Henry found it difficult to focus on anything but how her body situated perfectly within his own. But sleep did finally overtake him.

  However, Henry wasn’t asleep for long. Loud
screams erupted in the air outside and feet pounded on the deck above.

  Henry’s eyes shot open.

  “What’s happening?” Catharine whispered, but she was barely heard over the sound of gunshots.

  “Someone’s attacking the boat.” Henry pushed aside a sack with his shoulder before leaping out of the hiding space. “Stay here,” he instructed Catharine.

  But Catharine ignored Henry and toppled out from the gap, chasing after him. Henry was climbing the mound of sacks when she caught up.

  “I told you to stay hidden,” Henry said, pulling Catharine up beside him.

  Catharine shot him a glare as she crouched near the hatch. “And for your own wellbeing, we’re going to pretend that you hadn’t.”

  Henry quickly joined her at the top of the mound and they both anxiously peered out of the hatch.

  The deck of the steamboat resembled a battlefield―and the Garrisons had lost the fight.

  Garrisons were slumped on the bloodstained deck as well as one man wearing a gray jacket. Being the closest body to the hatch, the gray-jacket man’s motionless eyes were quite visible. A single bullet had pierced his heart, and dark blood pooled around his body. The man’s outstretched hand rested inches from a pitchfork that he must have held in his last moments. But his death seemed relatively peaceful when compared to the murdered Garrisons who had been sliced and stabbed by less conventional weapons.

  Henry stood on the deck next to the hatch, bent over with hands bracing his knees. He tried to steady his breath as the smell of death filled the cold air. But he couldn’t contain his dry heaving. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a group of men approaching. Bloodied scythes, sickles, and hammers gleamed in their hands.

  “Henry!” Catharine cried, leaping from the hatch.

  Grabbing the pitchfork from the dead man, Catharine jumped in front of Henry, aggressively waving the weapon at the strangers.

  One man tentatively stepped forward. Thick sideburns ran down his stubbly cheeks.

  “We mean you no harm, Catharine.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I’m Albers from Furnace Brook. Ward sent sugarplums preparing us for your arrival. We were told you must be taken to Van Cortlandt Manor, and also that the Garrisons could be on your trail.” Albers looked down at the dead bodies and sighed. “But we didn’t know they were on the steamboat with you. I’m afraid we surprised them as much as they surprised us. Terrible tragedy.”

  Another man with curly blond hair tilted up the straw hat on his head before spitting over the side of the boat. The ball of saliva splashed into the river.

  “Any dead Garrison is a good one.”

  “Not if it costs us the life of our own, Wesseling,” Albers said, nodding down at the body in front of Catharine and Henry.

  “Ah, Schaddelee,” Wesseling murmured, respectfully touching his hat’s brim with two fingers. “Ain’t much of a thinker, but had a good heart.”

  An older man next to Albers sniffled through his bulbous red nose that hung over a gray handlebar moustache. Bringing his forearm up, the old man blew his fat nose into his sleeve.

  Albers rubbed the man’s shoulder. “There, there. It will be all right, Boe.”

  A few other men tried to hide tears as they looked at their dead friend.

  “Where is Captain Noble?” Catharine asked.

  Albers pointed toward the wheelhouse. “Captain Noble is unharmed. My men are keeping watch over him, and will do so until you have successfully returned from the Van Cortlandt Manor. Then we can head back to Poppel.”

  Henry finally regained his composure and approached the armed men, carefully stepping around the bodies. Catharine continued to keep a safe distance, pitchfork firmly grasped in her hands.

  “You know how to get to Van Cortlandt Manor?”

  “Henry Livingston, is it?” Albers passed the bloody scythe he was holding to his left hand and then dropped it to his side. “A Poughkeepsie lad, I hear.”

  Henry couldn’t take his eyes off the glistening weapon even when Albers reached out and offered his empty right hand. Henry slowly shook it, but his eyes remained on the scythe.

  “We know the history of the Van Cortlandts quite well,” Albers said, looking around at the other men.

  “How are we getting to Van Cortlandt Manor?” Henry asked.

  “Don’t worry none,” Wesseling spat, nodding toward the shore. “We’ll get you there.”

  Bordering the river, there was a visible stretch of rocky land in front of a wintry forest where a dozen horses pawed at the ground, exposing snowless patches of brown flattened grass. Shaking their long manes, the horses let out a cadence of snorts and whinnies.

  While Boe and the rest of the Furnace Brook men carried the dead bodies off the steamboat and lined them along the dock, Albers and Wesseling took Catharine and Henry over to the horses.

  “Van Cortlandt Manor is a few miles south of here,” Albers explained, grabbing the reins of a white horse. “Wesseling and I will ride with you, offering whatever assistance we can.”

  Catharine looked over at the dock just as Schaddelee’s body was delicately placed beside the row of dead Garrisons.

  “I think your men have done enough,” she said coldly. Seeing Albers and Wesseling stiffen at her comment, Catharine added, “We do appreciate all of your help.”

  “Our job isn’t complete until you’ve successfully reached Van Cortlandt Manor,” Albers said. “But we shouldn’t experience any trouble. This area is fairly peaceful. I’d be surprised if we came upon so much as a squirrel.”

  “I’m not too concerned about getting there,” Henry admitted. “It’s finding what we’re searching for that may pose the greatest issue.”

  Albers locked eyes with Henry and whispered, “The Sister Wheel.”

  “You know of it?”

  Albers smiled for the first time―not out of happiness but rather understanding. “We in Furnace Brook do not experience the same, shall I say, life as those in Poppel.”

  “You mean extended time,” Catharine said bluntly.

  Albers nodded. “Some in Furnace Brook resent this. Others are happy for a life of more freedom, since we’re not always under the watchful eyes of the Garrisons.”

  “We’re allowed to live our lives,” Boe said, approaching the group with an armful of coats. Henry and Catharine each took one to put over their colorful Poppel attire. “Our village is east of here, and we farm, raise our families, and occasionally the Garrisons will come by to check on our work. But so long as we deliver what is asked, there’s no trouble. It’s a simple existence, but I wouldn’t trade places with a Foundling for any extra day of life.”

  Albers frowned. “Not everyone from Furnace Brook has felt that way.” And without saying an additional word, he stomped away to gather the other horses.

  Catharine and Henry looked to Boe for an explanation.

  “Ah, poor Albers,” Boe whispered, shaking his head. He took off his hat and slipped it underneath an arm. “Once was in love with a young Furnace Brook girl. But Albers crossed a Garrison, and as revenge, the Garrison offered the girl a position in Poppel.”

  “And she went?” Henry asked.

  Boe nodded. “Crushed Albers’ heart. Not just that she had left, but knowing that she’s still the youthful girl he had loved, while he fights to hide the gray hairs that sprout up, more frequently nowadays.”

  Albers returned guiding a horse on each side of him. He handed a set of reins to Wesseling. The blond man effortlessly hopped on the horse and looked down at Catharine.

  “You can ride with me, lovely,” Wesseling said, reaching down to her.

  Catharine hesitantly grabbed his hand.

  “I should’ve worn trousers,” Catharine muttered as she climbed behind Wesseling with the assistance of Henry.

  As Catharine uncomfortably situated sideways in her dress, Henry glowered at Wesseling, not appreciating the man’s wandering eyes.

  “Don’t worry
, girl,” Wesseling said to Catharine, even though his wink was directed at Henry’s brutal glares. “I’ll take it nice and easy.”

  There was a pause before Catharine harshly replied, “Sir, you better be addressing the horse with that tone.”

  Embarrassed, Wesseling was only able to mutter, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Albers rubbed the neck of the unoccupied horse next to Wesseling and looked over at Henry. “Although we’re not going far, I think we’re too heavy to double up. Would you be comfortable riding her alone?”

  “Yes, I am quite capable,” said Henry defensively as Wesseling beamed down at him.

  “Very good,” Albers replied, bringing over the horse.

  Catharine’s gaze was focused on the forest up ahead. “We haven’t much time.”

  Waving goodbye to Boe and the others, the riders dashed through the great mass of trees.

  Henry looked back only once before the forest completely vanished the sight of the river.

  As the Furnace Brook men returned to the dock, no one spotted the face that was peeking between the blades of the steamboat’s paddlewheel. Although Catharine had never encountered the face before, Henry would have recognized it, for the bruise on his chin offered a chilling reminder.

  McNutt.

  The redheaded Garrison had crouched behind the paddlewheel when the Furnace Brook men raided the steamboat. And after listening to their conversation, McNutt realized that the new Foundlings were indeed the feared Van Cortlandt descendants and they were trying to unite the Sister Wheels.

  Not wanting to end up like the dead Garrisons, McNutt patiently planned his next move. Unlike many of the Garrisons, McNutt was unarmed. But even if he had a weapon, he wouldn’t have tried fighting the Furnace Brook men after seeing what had occurred earlier. McNutt knew that his best chance was to flee as fast as he could.

  As the Van Cortlandt descendants disappeared on the horses, McNutt knew he only had a small window of time before he would lose them. He lowered his body into the freezing river, making sure not to make even a pinprick of a splash. After taking a deep gulp of air, he dipped down until he was completely underwater. If the Furnace Brook men happened to see his submerged form, McNutt knew he would be met with a quick, fatal blow.