December 2nd, 2025
Pine Ridge, New York
Imogene spends the morning in bed, with Laurel sleeping on her chest. When Laurel moves, Immy’s hands curl around her protectively. When my phone buzzes, Imogene puts up her hand, a block.
My heart breaks.
The house is perfect. You’d never know anything went wrong. No blood. No gouges. New doors. Mr. Wickstaff said he’d pay for it. His insurance covers it.
No police show up. There are no suspicious holes in the yard.
Everything seems normal. Even Imogene’s arms and hands look better. There are just some faint lines and bruises.
I don't know if that's because of krampus healing, but I don’t want to ask Imogene. I feel like that word might cause some stress, and I hate that, because I don’t think you should lump a whole group together based on the actions of a few. Or even the majority.
At noon, Imogene is awake, somber, and eating eggs while feeding Laurel a bottle. “We can try rice cereal soon. The baby books say so,” she murmurs.
“Da! Mama!” Laurel announces around a nipple.
I stop at the foot of the bed.
Imogene looks like the weight of last night was magically lifted. “Mama?” she whispers.
“Mama mamamama.” Laurel’s sweet coo turns into a string of mms and aahs. It’s utterly adorable.
“She said Mama. To you. She knows who her mother is.” I beam and kiss both my girls.
“Mama. She said it.I’mMama! I’m a mom.” Imogene beams and her eyes fill for the hundredth time in twenty-four hours, but this time, I think they’re happy tears.
I almost suggest a celebration. I almost remind her that today’s the day we were supposed to meet Alban Wymark to take care of marriage license stuff. But I don’t. “You sure are.”
Imogene sits up higher in the bed. “I heard a car pull up.”
I peer out the window. “I think that’s Tessa. I’ll go.”
IT IS TESSA. AND ALBAN, and Mr. Minegold, who dashes into the house under a wide-brimmed fedora and his long black frock coat with the velvet collar turned up to shade him from the watery December sun.
“We’re here with information—and a grasshopper pie from the River House. We heard about the dinner that wasn’t to be. Has she eaten at all?”
“Eggs and toast. Laurel said ‘Mama,’ today,” I welcome them in with a confused smile. “Thank you for the pie.”
Alban Wymark pats my shoulder. “Can we see her? It’s important that she knows she isn’t alone.”
“And I want to talk about the wards.” Tessa winces. “I don’t know what you must think of us, but I promise we did do our best. If we’d known where he was—”
“Ah, and that ties into what I have to say as well!” Mr. Minegold raises one slender finger. “May we see her?”
I WANT TO CURL UP ANDhide. I’m not a hero. I don’t feel like the victim. I just feel... broken. Unsafe in my safe place, and my happiness is fractured. I guess I’m afraid of what happens next.
Mr. Minegold, Tessa, and Alban all hug me, and something warm and rich coats my heart and soul. The outpouring of concern, of physical affection and touch, is alien. And I’ve been “bad.” That’s when Barton would scream the most, then lock me in my room, or ignore me more than usual. I guess my mind isn’t sure what happens when I feel bad, but then don’t get “punished” in some way.
“This is all our fault. Well, half our fault!” Tessa cries, squeezing me hard. “Those wards should have worked.”
“Ah, Tessa, that is what I have been researching. As you know, I’ve been trying to find a few old friends I had back in Europe who were krampuses orkrampusse, if you want to use the German plural, and it’s been a very long time. I was finally able to get hold of Hilda’s sons last night, and they had much to tell me—they also wanted you to know, Imogene, that they were horrified that you met Blase, and that he doesn’t represent modern krampuses. They gave me their emails and phone numbers. You can contact them anytime. One will be visiting in the new year, and he’d love to meet you and the little one.”
I nod in a daze. “Good krampus?” I murmur, feeling as shy and awkward as I did on the day of my escape from Barton and my old life.
Mr. Minegold nods as we all sit in the living room. “Let’s go over a bit of what they told me first, and then how it goes along with Tessa’s wards, which are excellent.” He gives the redheaded witch a reassuring glance. “Blase is a member of a sect of Bavarian krampuses who are what we would call extremists. Purists. Their numbers are dwindling as more and more krampuses meet and mingle with humans and learn that there are other ways to instill order and discipline in those thatneed reform. Krampuses are drawn to order and eliminating what is flawed. Some legends say the first of their kind were dark, demonic demi-mortals, a counterpart to Saint Nicholas, instilled with a hellish delight in punishment. Over time, most enlightened ones have realized that acting like murderous demons and killing children puts evil into society, and that’s the opposite of their intention, as in those barbaric acts should be punished. But the purists and extremists believe humans are inferior, that they deserve to be hunted, and that Krampusnacht is a ritualistic night of hunting and sacrifice. Members of this sect kidnap and kill children, and they also ‘punish’ adults. In the modern world, when an adult goes missing, they’re often easily traced, and no one believes they’ve just ‘run away from home,’ so they have to be creative. This idea of seducing a ‘bad’ woman and then having her give birth to a half-krampus child is a favorite way to bring shame and humiliation, and eventual madness. When one of these purists finds a human they like, they bring them back to live with them in their colonies—deep underground places scattered through Bavaria and a few other parts of Europe. But, those humans are basically servants or pets, and the children they produce are regarded as trophies, proof of a human’s submission to the superior krampus.”
