Nicholas and the Krampus
Author: Michael Scott
Date: 2021-01-19 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel have rescued the world from destruction countless times over—but can they save Christmas as well? Now, that lost story is told. . . . It is the first Christmas after the end of World War II, and something evil is moving through New York. The ancient immortal human Sinter Klaas, better known as Kris Kringle, is being hunted by a terrifying horned creature: the goat-demon called the Krampus. When the Flamels receive a desperate call from their old friend Kris, they must devise a plan to trap the monster—and get it all done before Christmas Eve.
Publisher: Delacorte Press

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2020 by Michael Scott

Cover image used under license from Shutterstock.com

Cover design by Regina Flath

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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Ebook ISBN 9780449819173

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Monday, 24 December 1945

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Tuesday, 25 December 1945

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

My dearest Virginia,

Wishing you a belated Happy Christmas and the very best for the coming year.

Apparently, the holiday of December 1945 is already being called the Greatest Christmas Celebration. And why not? The war is over, there is the promise of lasting peace, and the troops are coming home. A couple of months ago, the US military started a program called Operation Magic Carpet, designed to get as many of their eight million service men and women home in time for Christmas. Over twenty thousand now return every day, and more are on the way. Everyone wants to help the war heroes reach their homes, no matter where they are, and I have heard stories of ordinary people driving the men and women hundreds of miles just to reunite them with their families. The roads out of every port city are experiencing the worst traffic jams in living memory.

What a time to be alive!

I am over two hundred years older than you, and even though we have lived so long and seen so much, the last few years have been difficult. All of us—human and nonhuman alike—did our bit to bring this terrible war to a conclusion. Scathach’s stories could fill volumes, and Joan and Saint-Germain were instrumental in the liberation of Paris. We have not heard from Aoife since the Battle of Stalingrad, but Scathach assures me that her sister is alive. Will Shakespeare has promised to write about his experiences with Palamedes in MI6 during the Blitz, but I doubt he will do it. He will claim that his reticence has to do with the Official Secrets Act, but in truth, I think he has writer’s block. Palamedes tells me that Will has been working on Love Labor’s Won for centuries.

I heard whispers about a Miss Dare in the Pacific and guessed they referred to you, and I have it on good authority that you were in Tibet during the Nazi expedition there in 1939. Next time we meet, we will share stories.

I am sorry Nicholas and I missed you in Nevada. We had to leave in rather a hurry, as you can imagine, and I know that the army and the FBI are still looking for us. I am not too concerned; we change identities as easily as other people change clothes.

I trust you are well and fully recovered from your adventure in the Grand Canyon. I am so glad you took my advice and brought Billy with you. All I can add is a warning to stay away from archaeologists: they are too much trouble! (Or perhaps it is just the archaeologists you associate with.)

Since your little run-in with the Rattenfenger, I know you like to keep up with the latest mythological immigrants to your land. Toward the middle and end of the nineteenth century, the nonhumans could mingle unnoticed with the waves of immigrants and slip into the country. Now I am afraid that the war in Europe has displaced those immortals and the were-clans who chose to remain on their native soil. I understand it is the same in the Far East. With their homelands in ruins, the immortals have been forced to travel farther afield. It was inevitable that some would come to America. No doubt they believed that with so many distracted by the war, their efforts would go unnoticed.

They were wrong, of course.

Over the centuries, I have come to know most of the protectors of humanity, those of you who stand against the Dark. What would the humans say, do you think, if they knew that a legion of immortal humans, Next Generation, and a few Elders protected them against the ever-present danger of the return of the Dark Elders or the Earthlords?

One of the truths Nicholas and I have discovered—and one you know all too well—is that at the heart of every legend, there is a grain of truth.

Well, this Christmas, December 25, 1945, three legends came to New York.

One of them was Nicholas—and for once, I am not talking about my husband. The others were Frau Perchta and her companion, the loathsome Krampus.

Perenelle Flamel

1 January 1946

Hell’s Kitchen

New York, New York

PS: Rather than send you a Christmas card, I thought the following pages from my diary might be of interest! (Use the da Vinci cipher to decode them.)

Monday, 24 December 1945

Christmas Eve

1

And there it was again!

An odd odor on the chilly air, something distinctly alien to New York streets. I had caught a hint of it earlier, when I had stepped off the subway train in the Herald Square station. A musky odor, completely out of place among the scents of hot metal, smoke, and a mass of heaving—and often unwashed—humanity.

The same instinct that has kept me alive for centuries sounded an alarm in the back of my mind.

It might have been nothing—some natural scent I’d not encountered before. Perhaps someone in the crowd was carrying a food I’d never experienced. It was Christmas Eve—the first Christmas since the end of the war—and a madness had gripped the people. Soldiers, sailors, and airmen were coming home. Everyone was out looking for whatever meat and vegetables they could find for their Christmas Day feast. Looking around, I could see a dozen nationalities in the crowd. Was one of them carrying some unusual herbs or spices?

I allowed the crowds to push me along toward the stairs that led up to Herald Square.

I had spent the morning working with the ladies in the Salvation Army, wrapping donated presents for servicemen and servicewomen recuperating in the local hospitals who would not make it home to spend Christmas with their families. I was dressed in a plain blue two-piece utility suit with an A-line skirt, my distinctive white-steaked hair tucked up under a hat of the same color. It had been snowing on and off over the past week, and I was wearing my heavy gray wool wraparound coat, which I’d made from old blankets. As I slipped in alongside a group of similarly dressed women, I tugged the belt open and allowed the coat to hang loose, giving myself easy access to the secret pocket I’d sewn into the coat’s satin lining.

The women pushed up the stairs and I kept pace with them, being careful not to touch anyone. Halfway up, I caught just the faintest hint of the odor again: it was definitely a musk, and it triggered a memory. I had smelled this before, and even without turning my head, I knew it was coming from behind me. I was being followed.

At the top of the stairs, I turned left in Herald Square toward Gimbel’s, the huge department store. The streets were crowded, and Gimbel’s windows were bright with Christmas gifts, toys, and decorations. The pavement beneath the red awnings was heaving with people staring through the glass, with more queued to get into the store. I stopped before a window filled with the latest kitchen gadgets. I focused on a $2.95 Pyrex coffee percolator, which made six cups of coffee, and allowed my eyes to adjust.

Using the glass as a mirror, I quickly scanned the crowd behind me. After half a millennia of running, I knew what to look for.

Ah, there you are.

I found the tail almost immediately. A surprisingly tall woman was standing on the opposite side of the street. She had a vaguely military bearing and was wearing trousers beneath a double-breasted wool trench coat. She had her hands stuffed deep in the slit pockets, and I noted that, like mine, her belt hung loose. It was hard to make out her features—she was wearing a Homburg hat with a net that came down over her eyes. While everyone else on the street was watching the crowd or staring into the windows, her eyes were fixed on me.

I looked into Gimbel’s window again, weighing my options. I had no idea who the woman was; Nicholas and I have made many enemies over the course of our lives. We have lived long enough to see allies become enemies, and in the preceding few years, we had worked for—and then against—the British and the Americans. We had successfully prevented German scientists from developing the atomic bomb, and for the past eighteen months we had been trying to sabotage the development of the American atomic bomb. We’d failed, of course. We were there, in Alamogordo, when the first bomb was detonated. We were both terrified that the explosion would rip a hole in the fabric of space and create an opening to a Shadowrealm. Thankfully, it didn’t, but our desperation had made us sloppy, and the American military became suspicious. We managed to get out just before they came for us.

The wartime intelligence service, the OSS, had only recently been dissolved, but I wondered if the woman was one of their agents. If she was, then it was highly unlikely that she was working alone, which probably meant that I had at least one more watcher.

I moved on to the next window: a complete kitchen, showing all the latest mod cons and linoleum patterns.

In the glass, I watched the woman across the street shift to keep me in sight. So she was definitely following me; it was not my imagination. The musky odor which had first alerted me was stronger now. It must be coming from the woman. That immediately suggested she was nonhuman…and that opened up a world of possibilities, none of which were pleasant.

Closing my eyes, I focused on the scents surrounding me, identifying and then eliminating wet clothes and unwashed humani, as well as the parcels they carried: freshly baked bread and stale fish, overripe fruit and raw meat. Homemade perfumes and tobacco mingled with horse manure, hot metal, and oil from horses, cars, and belching trucks crowding the street.

When I had put a name to all the smells, I was left with not one, not two, but three distinctive and unnatural signatures swirling on the New York air. They did not belong in the city: these were animal odors, combining to form a rich forest musk.

I was jostled by the crowd and opened my eyes in time to notice a second woman at the end of the street. She was as tall as the first woman, and dressed in an almost identical costume. But I had smelled three odors….

Looking up, I suddenly saw a tall, hatchet-faced women bearing down on me. For a single instant her face flickered, planes and angles shifting, revealing something bestial, a hint of fur and slablike teeth.

I knew then that these were not humani spies—these were shapechangers.

2

Ignoring the lines—and the disapproving shouts—I pushed my way into Gimbel’s.

The huge department store was heaving with people, and the noise was incredible, a cacophony of voices in a dozen languages, along with the pinging of cash registers. I knew Gimbel’s well—it was one of my favorite places, though Nicholas hated it. The store was vast, filling twenty-seven acres, and had everything—including a restaurant and a bank—and I was counting on the fact that my pursuers would not know its countless entrances and exits. I could cut straight through the store and out onto the opposite side of the square. I needed to get to Nicholas and let him know that we were being hunted by one of the Torc clans. I was unsure of which one: wolf, dog, and boar immediately came to mind. The Torc were usually neutral, but some hired themselves out as trackers and hunters. The real question was: Who was employing them?

I deliberately did not look behind me, but I used every reflective surface I passed to see if I was being followed. I could no longer smell the creatures’ musk. The stink of massed humani, plus Gimbel’s vast array of goods, filled the cavernous interior of the store with a thick fog of odors.

I took an elevator to the third floor, got out, and stepped into the next elevator going down. I deliberately moved through the perfume department, allowing the cloying scents to attach themselves to my clothing, disguising my own scent. In the candy department, I lingered before a display of freshly made chocolates. The air was thick with the aromas of sugar and cocoa.

I knew I could take the elevator to the underground passageway that led to Penn Station, but I was sure this hunting pack would have someone stationed below. I wondered how long they had been following me and how they had picked up on my scent. I would worry about that later. Right now I needed to get to Nicholas. Then we’d need to make a decision. Should we stay and fight, or should we run? We still had not really unpacked since we’d escaped from Arizona, so it would only take us ten or fifteen minutes to shove everything into a bag and get on the road again. But to be honest, I was tired of running. I was going to suggest to my husband that we grab one of the were-creatures and find out who was employing them. We could make a decision then.

I headed back downstairs, confident that the thick stew of Gimbel’s scents would completely disguise my own unique signature.

I was guessing that my pursuers would be watching the entrances. But Gimbel’s had a vast number of doors, leading out to Herald Square and also to the subway station. They could not be watching all of them, and I had only smelled three scents.

Doubling back the way I had come in, I pushed against the crowd and stepped out into Herald Square through the same door I’d come in thirty minutes earlier. The blast of chill December air cleared my sinuses, and in the same instant, I caught the musky odor and was aware of movement on either side of me. Iron-hard grips locked onto my elbows and practically lifted me off the ground.

Without saying a word, the two tall women half dragged, half carried me across Broadway into the warren of side streets behind West Thirty-Fifth, before finally turning into a narrow, filth-piled alleyway, where the third were-creature was waiting for us. This was the hatchet-faced woman I had seen earlier. When she looked at me, she deliberately allowed a partial transformation to flicker across her face, revealing huge eyes and a soft nose, flat fur, and blunt teeth. For the briefest of moments, there were hints of antlers on either side of her skull.

I knew what she and her companions were then: Torc Fianna. Were-deer. The rarest and most dangerous of the were clans.

3

“Did you think you could run from us, Madame Perenelle?”

There was a hint of Eastern Europe to her accent, or perhaps even farther north, Sweden or Russia.

The two creatures on either side released me, dropping me staggering to the ground. I glanced at them. I doubted they were related, but they looked alike enough to be sisters. Now that I knew what they were, I could see the inhuman look in their eyes and cheeks. The last time I had encountered the Torc Fianna, they had been in the service of the Elder Artemis, and that had not ended well.

“Did you think you were going to lose us amongst the stench of humani in their temple to commerce?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” I answered, and moved toward the speaker, putting as much distance as I could between myself and the two figures flanking me.

“We have your scent now, Madame Perenelle. You cannot disguise it with perfumes or chocolates. The humani possess a mere five million sense receptors; deer have two hundred ninety-seven million. We could track you across the world.”

Now that I was close, I could tell that the woman stood at least six feet tall. Her hair was cropped close to her skull, emphasizing her huge brown eyes. Her musk was undeniable: the rich odor of a deer. She was dressed like her two companions, in trousers and a double-breasted coat, but she was leaning both hands on a thick walking stick, which I was sure she did not need.

“You are Torc Fianna,” I said.

“You know us.”

“I have encountered your race before,” I answered. “I am not your enemy.”

“We have heard of you, Perenelle Flamel, and of your husband, the Alchemyst, Nicholas.”

I took another step forward. It was clear that the creature was struggling to hold her human shape. Fur was appearing and disappearing on her cheeks, and I watched the bones in her hands thicken, welding her fingers into a hoof as she tried to clutch the walking stick. She had clearly spent a long time in this human form. Most of the were can transform only for short periods, the timing usually triggered by phases of the moon. The last full moon had been on the eighteenth, and the next would not occur until the seventeenth of January; the fact that the Torc Fianna were holding their human forms between full-moon phases was testament to their incredible strength of will.

“Well, you have found me. What do you want?” I moved slightly to one side, allowing my coat to gape open. In the secret pocket sewn into the lining, I carried a silver-handled whip. The thong was woven together from snakes pulled from the Medusa’s hair.

“You will come with us,” the Torc Fianna leader said.

“I do not think so,” I said.

“This is not a request.” The were-deer bared her teeth in what she probably thought was a human smile. She raised her stick and pointed behind me. “And if you touch the whip in your pocket, my sisters will drive arrows into your thighs. Not fatal, but very painful, I can assure you.”

I glanced at the two Torc Fianna behind me. They were both holding elegant crossbow pistols, aimed at my legs.

“Do you think you can get to your whip before my sisters dart you?”

None of the Torc clans I had encountered used modern firearms. Most preferred the traditional weapons of swords and spears. The Torc Arzh Gell, the were-bears, used axes and war hammers. The Torc Fianna, however, were archers, and their skill with bow and crossbow was legendary. I raised my hands, signaling a truce.

The senior were-deer stepped closer, enveloping me in her rich odor. “We know you are a skilled sorceress, Madame Flamel. I am sure you could unleash myriad spells, but you should know that we already have your husband, and if you wish to see him again, you will come with us.”

I worked hard to keep my face expressionless, but something must have shown in my eyes, because the Torc Fianna took a step back. “He is unharmed,” she said hastily.

“He had better be. If you are lying to me, there is no place in this world, or on any Shadowrealm, where you can hide,” I promised her. “Now. Take me to Nicholas.”

4

Not another word was spoken as we moved across New York City.

The short-haired woman walked on my right side, while her two companions took up the rear. My mind was whirling in confusion, but I was not fearful. I was born in the year 1320, and one of the lessons I learned early is that humans spent a lot of time worrying about things that might never happen. I was confident that I could escape these three easily enough. I was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and my natural powers had been honed by centuries of training and study with some of the most powerful immortals and Elders, including Circe and Medea. I knew some Babylonian spells that could turn these creatures to grains of sand, and a particularly nasty Nubian incantation designed to reduce them to assorted liquids. I had my whip in my coat pocket, and I was confident I could pull it out and strike all three were-deer before they could react. A single touch would turn them to stone. All that prevented me from acting was knowing that they had snatched Nicholas. Once I knew he was safe and unharmed, I would allow them to experience the powers of the Sorceress. What really troubled me was the question of who had employed the Torc Fianna to track and find us, and then go to the trouble of kidnapping us in broad daylight. We had enemies aplenty, but most of them would have been happy to see us dead. I briefly wondered if it might be John Dee again. The English Magician was still in search of the Codex, the extraordinary compendium of knowledge that included the spell that kept us alive. But Dee was not subtle; he had burned cities to the ground, unleashed powers that caused earthquakes and set volcanoes to erupt. I doubted he would come after us with Torc Fianna; he’d use something cruder, like golems.

We kept away from busy thoroughfares, moving northward, heading toward the docks. Streets started to get narrower, buildings poorer, cobbles and pavement more broken. New York was a relatively new city that, like most cities, had its share of slums. Slowly but surely, they were being cleared, but I knew where we were going: the area known as Hell’s Kitchen, one of the poorest and roughest parts of the metropolis.

There were no brightly lit shops, and the people had no time to linger. Half a dozen blocks away, the streets were bright with Christmas, but here, there were few signs that the holiday was upon us. Most of the people hurrying past were wearing mismatched bundles of clothes. The accents had changed also: outside Gimbel’s, they’d been mostly English, but now they were Irish, German, and Italian, and while the Irish spoke accented English, the Germans and Italians used their native tongues.

We turned down an alleyway that looked like it had not changed in two hundred years. Slimy walls speckled with tattered flyers pressed close together, and gutters were heaped with stinking rubbish. Rats, some as big as cats, perched on discarded boxes and watched us.

We must have made for a strange sight as we moved through the alleys and crossed open courtyards: four well-dressed women, walking in grim silence. I was sure we were being watched; no doubt people took us for members of the Salvation Army or one of the hundreds other church groups who worked in the tenements.

What little daylight remained quickly faded to gray gloom. Huge snowflakes spiraled down, but rather than disguising the dirt and squalor, the soft whiteness only served to emphasize it. I resolved that when—no, if—Nicholas and I concluded this adventure, we would return to Hell’s Kitchen and use some of our vast wealth to improve conditions here.

We turned into an alley so narrow we were forced to march in single file. I caught a peculiar mixture of scents—unwashed humani, tobacco, oil, boiled cabbage—just before two men stepped into the alley’s opening. Wearing ill-fitting bowler hats, stained overalls, jeans, jackets, and battered army boots, they looked like they worked the docks. And they were carrying chopped-down baseball bats.

They were both big men, but it was the smaller of the two who stepped forward and stretched out his right hand, holding his bat. “Ladies, ladies, ladies. This is a dangerous part of the city for those like yourselves to be wandering so late in the day….”

The Torc Fianna in front of me did not even slow down. The walking stick she carried flashed out, catching the bat and snapping it in two. Both pieces ricocheted off a wall and bounced back onto the startled man. Then she jabbed with the blunt end of the stick. It caught the man in the center of the chest, propelling him back into his companion. They both went down in an untidy tangle of limbs. The Torc Fianna simply walked right over them. The big one reached out to catch my leg as I passed, but one of the were-deer behind me stomped on his wrist. I might have heard bone snap.

Another alleyway brought us to a dead end. A mountain of filth was piled high against the rear wall, and I could see strands of barbed wire and sparkling shards of glass set on the top. Looking over my shoulder, I realized that the two Torc Fianna who had been following me had retreated to the mouth of the alleyway and taken up position on either side. As I watched, one flickered in and out of her human-deer aspect.

I turned back just as the senior Torc Fianna tapped on the wall with her metal-tipped stick. The movements were lightning quick, the musical plinking clearly a code. And even though I’d been expecting it, I was startled when the outline of an arched doorway appeared in the wall.

The moment the door solidified into metal-riveted decorated wood, it was opened by an elderly woman dressed in the black bonnet and long black dress of the previous century. Her face had collapsed in on itself and was such a mass of wrinkles that it was impossible to discern an expression. It took me a moment before I realized that her dramatically hooked nose was made of metal. Her eyes were a vivid sky-blue. They stared at me with such intensity that I actually felt my aura flare, and wisps of white smoke curled off my fingertips.

I looked over the woman’s shoulder and saw there was a second door behind her. Carved from a rich golden wood, it was arched and decorated with incredibly detailed twisting holly and mistletoe.

“You are the Sorceress, Perenelle Delamere.”

It was a statement rather than a question, and the voice did not match the body; it belonged to a young girl. She spoke the ancient Breton dialect of my youth. I did not bother to answer. Clearly this was no human, and I did not think she was an immortal, either. Who, then? An Elder, probably, and one I had not encountered before.

In my experience, the reclusive ones are those you definitely do not wish to meet.

The woman stood back. “Enter freely and of your own will.”

I did not cross the threshold. “You know me, you know my name.” I started in Breton, slipped into French, and finished in English. “There is power in knowing a person’s name. Will you share yours with me?”

“You will not know me by my original name.”

“I might.” I thought I detected something like amusement in the woman’s childlike voice.

“I have many names. Once, when the humani were young and I had power and worshipers, I was called Berchta.”

I shook my head. She was right: I had no idea who she was.

The old woman giggled in her little-girl voice. “Now, I am known as Frau Perchta.”

I knew who she was then, and felt the cold wash of fear slide into the pit of my stomach. I was in serious trouble! The old woman looked at me with her bright blue eyes, and then, from deep within her long black dress, she produced a thick scroll of paper and allowed it to unfurl. “Are you on my naughty list, I wonder…?”

5

“Will you bring Madame Perenelle in? Don’t leave her freezing on the doorstep.” A deep male voice came from behind the second door. “And stop teasing her, Holle.”

The old woman grimaced—or it might have been a smile—and respooled her paper. It was covered in what looked like runes. “I will check this later.”

I bowed to the old woman and stepped over the threshold. Immediately, the three Torc Fianna darted into the hallway, and Frau Perchta closed the door, leaving us in a thick darkness.

Then the ornate second door opened, flooding the small dark hall with bright light. I squeezed my eyes shut, but too late: tears flowed down my face, and I was momentarily blind.

Feather-soft fingers closed around my left hand, tugging me forward, and I moved from cold to warmth.

I blinked and blinked again, but the world ahead of me was a shimmering mess of liquid colors. I heard the muted crackle of fire and smelled the rich pine of logs. The comforting aroma of freshly baked bread made my stomach rumble.

I knew what had happened: we’d stepped through a leygate into a Shadowrealm. But I knew the location of all the North American leygates. And the nearest New York gate was on Bedloe’s Island, which held the Statue of Liberty; certainly not here, deep in Hell’s Kitchen. Yet over the centuries, Nicholas and I had encountered a handful of Elders—and Marethyu—who had the ability to create their own gates.

A shadow moved before my watering eyes, and I smelled that rich mint I had first breathed nearly six hundred years ago: my husband, Nicholas. And then his arms were around me, his breath soft against my ear. “I’m fine,” he said, answering the question I was about to ask. “But I’m not sure we’re safe. Something is off here.” He dabbed at my eyelids with a handkerchief that smelled of motor oil.

My vision cleared.

I have lived a long time, and have traveled the length and breadth of this world. I have walked some of the myriad Otherworlds that border our Earth and have seen wonders and terrors in equal measure. So since I had encountered Torc Fianna and Frau Perchta in this one day, I’d been expecting something spectacular.

I was disappointed. The place was surprisingly ordinary.

I had stepped through from New York’s bitterly cold Hell’s Kitchen into a brightly lit, almost uncomfortably warm log cabin. The place was huge. The wooden floor was stained and warped with age, and there was a high arched ceiling, spanned by exposed beams. Directly ahead of me, a log fire blazed in an enormous grate. The wall to my left was filled with leather-bound books of all sizes, while the mismatched shelves covering the right-hand wall were filled to overflowing with snow globes.

A fir tree grew directly out of the floor in one corner of the room. The tip of every outstretched branch held a thin, lighted candle. I wondered if it was an illusion, because I could see no strands of dripping wax

Standing in front of the fire was a small dark-skinned man, wearing what looked like a monk’s brown robe, belted with a white cord.

Nicholas caught my hand and led me forward. “Come and meet our host,” he said in archaic French. He always slipped into that dialect when he was nervous or excited.

I was aware of movement beside me and turned in time to see Frau Perchta shimmer into black smoke, which swirled into grayness before finally coalescing into a gaseous egg shape. A slender, pale-skinned, white-haired girl stepped out of the smoke. When she turned to look at me, I saw that her eyes were still bright blue. Whereas before, she had been dressed all in black, now she was in a short white shift dress, which revealed that her left thigh was thickly covered in white feathers and the leg below was coal-black and stick-thin, with webbed feet, like a swan’s.

While I had been looking at Frau Perchta, the three Torc Fianna had shrugged off their human form and taken on their magnificent deer aspects, complete with branching antlers.

“Come, Madame Perenelle. Stand here and warm yourself.” The dark-skinned man darted forward and ushered us toward the blazing fire. “You must be freezing. New York is so cold at this time of year.” I caught the hint of an accent—Greek, perhaps?

Nicholas helped me out of my coat, and I saw his hand feel the coil of the whip in the inner pocket. He draped the coat over the back of a chair and came to stand beside me, in front of the fire.

The small man shifted nervously from foot to foot as he looked at each of us in turn. “I know your husband will have nothing—I have already asked—but surely you, madame, will have something warming to drink after your long walk. Hot chocolate, perhaps? Mulled wine? I have the most delicious cinnamon, and my cloves are fresh from the Maluku Islands this very morning.”

“Hot chocolate would be lovely,” I responded.

“Oh, an excellent choice. I had some Criollo delivered only yesterday. It is the rarest of all the chocolate varieties, and my personal favorite. Though I have cut down of late.” He patted a flat stomach and hurried off.

I watched him as he moved away. There was an almost childlike nervous energy about him. He was constantly moving, adding wood to the fire—even though it didn’t need any—adjusting random books on one side of the room and then darting over to run short, stubby fingers over the snow globes. As he touched them, the snowflakes within came to swirling life. The door at the far end of the room opened as he approached, and where there had been a dark corridor I could now see a vast workspace, bright with copper piping and metal vats.

I glanced sidelong at Nicholas, but he shook his head almost imperceptibly. We had been together long enough that I knew to ask no questions.

“I saw a wonderful coffee maker in a window at Gimbel’s today,” I said, making casual conversation as we took in our surroundings. “Makes six cups at one time.”

“How much was it?” Nicholas asked.

“Two ninety-five.”

“So expensive! I can buy a cup of coffee for twenty cents,” he said.

“You don’t drink coffee anymore,” I reminded him.

The small man reappeared with a carved wooden goblet filled to the brim with luscious chocolate, and I got my first real look at him. He was a little shorter than me, with the deep olive skin of one from the Mediterranean countries. His thin hair was twisted in a mess of tight curls, and his eyes were the same color as the chocolate. His nose had been broken at least once, so it bent to one side.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said as he unwrapped a cinnamon stick from a twist of paper and allowed it to sink into the thick chocolate.

“And what is that?” I asked, wrapping both hands around the goblet and breathing deeply. The scent of chocolate and cinnamon—and was that a hint of chili?—was mouthwatering.

“You are wondering if I am who you think I am?”

“I do wonder. But you do not look like”—I paused, unwilling to insult him—“what I imagined you might look like.”

He grinned, revealing a mouthful of perfectly white teeth. “Well, it’s complicated. I was born in the year 270 in the town of Patara in what is now known as Turkey but was then part of the sprawling Roman Empire. I became a priest and then a bishop and finally a saint. By then, of course, I had also become immortal. You know what that’s like. Stories spring up around you. Sadly, you’ve no control over them—even when they ruin your reputation and are completely untrue.”

Frau Perchta slid up beside the small man and gently kicked him with her swan’s leg. “Ignore him,” she said, her girl’s voice no longer eerie, as it matched her appearance. “He loves celebrity. Besides, he’s created most of the stories himself.”

“Well, not the new ones,” he said indignantly. “They’ve got nothing to do with me.”

“So what do I call you?” I asked.

“My name is Nicholas of Myra. You can ignore the ‘saint’ bit.”

I glanced at my husband. “Two Nicholases. That’s going to be confusing. Do you mind if I call you Nick?”

“Just don’t called him Santa Claus,” Frau Perchta said with a cheeky grin. “He hates that!”

6

Four Torc Fianna in their human form carried in a large circular table and set it down in the middle of the floor. The surface was etched with a series of interlocking Celtic knotwork designs that shifted when you looked at them, forming new patterns. It was both hypnotic and unsettling. One of the Torc Fianna, a delicate-looking woman who moved with the same deadly grace I’d seen in Scathach, arranged half a dozen snow globes in a circle on the table. Two of the were-deer carried over one of the largest globes I’d ever seen, easily the size of a human head, and set it down in the center of the polished wood. The white flecks within twisted and whirled, obscuring whatever lay inside. Finally, the Torc Fianna arranged four high-backed wooden chairs around the table.

“Please, sit,” Nick said to us, indicating the chairs closest to us.

Neither Nicholas nor I moved. “You owe us an explanation,” the Alchemyst said. “Although technically, your Torc Fianna did not kidnap me—they implied that my wife was already in your hands.”

“And they told me that they’d already taken Nicholas,” I added. “So we were coerced.”

Nick shrugged his broad shoulders. “You must forgive the Torc Fianna. They are warriors beyond measure, but not too bright sometimes. They take instructions rather literally.”

“How did a Christian saint end up with deadliest of the Torc clans?” Nicholas asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell us the short version,” I suggested.

Nick sighed. “Before I became immortal, I did a favor for the Elder Saule.”

“We’ve met her,” Nicholas said shortly. “She nearly killed us.”

“She nearly killed me,” I reminded him. “You, she liked!”

“She was not always so short-tempered,” Nick said. “But I would not take any payment from her. So she gifted me with her sleigh and her Torc Fianna bodyguards, who pulled it. There are eight…” He lowered his voice and glanced toward the door. “I can’t get rid of them. They are oathbound to me for eternity.”

Frau Perchta, who seemed to be called Holle when she was in her young girl form, snorted. “Ignore him. He loves to ride that sleigh across the night sky.”

Nick looked vaguely embarrassed. “It is rather wonderful,” he admitted. “You must come out with me some evening.”

I bit my lip and said nothing. Over the course of my long life, I have done many wonderful, extraordinary, exciting, and stupid things. But I’ve never imagined riding through the heavens in Santa’s sleigh.

“So before San…before your legend of the reindeer and the sleigh, Saule rode the heavens in a similar sleigh?” I asked.

Holle barked a quick laugh. “Before Saule, the sky belonged to Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, the goats who pulled Thor’s chariot across the sky; Freyja’s celestial chariot was pulled by cats; and before Nick was given Saule’s sleigh, I commanded the skies in a sleigh of my own, pulled by eight Perchten.”

“Must have been a very crowded sky,” Nicholas remarked.

“In the days following the sinking of Danu Talis, the world was indeed a place of wonders,” Holle said. “And terrors,” she added, blinking away the sudden tears in her blue eyes.

I looked at Nick. “You still haven’t told us what brings you to New York or what you want with us.”

Nick gestured to the four chairs set around the table. “Sit, please. And I will tell you all I know.” He pulled back one of the chairs. “Madame Perenelle, please?”

We remained standing.

Nick sighed. “I once did a favor for a hook-handed man. I am sure you know of him: Marethyu. It starts with him.”

Nicholas and I looked at each other, and then, without a word, we took our seats at the table. Centuries ago, Marethyu, the hook-handed man, sold us the Codex and started us on this long immortal journey. He appeared occasionally to ask for a favor, something he was either unwilling or unable to do himself. Though, to be honest, I don’t think there is anything he could not do. If Marethyu trusted Nick, then we knew we could trust Nick also.

Holle took the seat directly opposite me, while Nick sat facing my husband.

Reaching across the table, Nick picked up a tiny snow globe. Glittering speckles of sand swirled within. “Marethyu gave this to me and said that if I was ever in trouble, I could use it to call upon him.” He pushed the globe toward us and we looked into it. The sand settled to reveal a sickle-like hook spinning in a circle. “Yesterday, I used it for the first time, and I spoke to the man known as Death.”

“And what did the hook-handed man tell you?” Nicholas asked.

“Surely the better question is why you chose to contact the hook-handed man in the first place,” I said. I waved around the room. “Clearly you are not without power.”

Nicholas smiled at me. “That is a better question.” He raised his thin eyebrows and looked at the round-faced man.

Nick sighed. “For centuries I have been trailed by a monster, a creature born of chaos and old night. I thought I’d lost it in Europe decades ago, but yesterday I learned that it is en route to this New World. My past has caught up with me,” he said dramatically. “I contacted Marethyu to ask for his advice. He told me you were both in New York and that I should seek you out. He said, ‘Find the Alchemyst and the Sorceress; only they have the peculiar combination of powers that will help you.’ ”

Nicholas and I exchanged a look.

“You still haven’t told us why you contacted Marethyu…,” my husband said.

Nick rubbed his hands together and sighed again. “Well, it’s complicated….”

“Everything is complicated with you,” Holle snapped. “This, however, is not.” She looked from Nicholas to me. “The Krampus has come to New York to kill—”

“And eat,” Nick interrupted. “Don’t forget that. Eat like a piece of gingerbread.”

“The Krampus has come to New York to kill and eat Santa Claus.”

“Don’t call me Santa Claus.”

“Kris Kringle, then.”

“Hate that.”

“Sinter Klass.”

“Hate that even more!” he muttered.

7

“I have no idea what a Krampus is,” Nicholas said.

But I did. The goat monsters were common to all the Celtic lands, including Brittany, where I had grown up.

Nick pushed another snow globe across the table. My husband picked it up and shook it. Glittering black sand swirled and spun to reveal a monster.

“The Krampus,” Nick said. “Or a version of it, at least.”

Within the small glass globe, the creature moved and turned, almost as if it was real. Tall, with the muscular body of a man, the Krampus had a huge goat’s head, with thick horns curling on either side of its head. Beneath leather and metal armor, it was completely covered in shaggy, dirty-white fur, and its eyes were bloodred. But through the matted coat, there was almost the outline of a human skull. A thick chain was wrapped around its waist and trailed on the ground behind it.

“It is Torc Gabhar? A were-goat?” Nicholas asked.

“I have dealt with the Torc Gabhar many times,” Holle said. “This is not a creature of the were.”

“This is something older, far older,” Nick said. “I have often wondered if it was one of the fabled Earthlords.”

Nicholas and I shook our heads. “Earthlords are serpentine,” I said. “This definitely has the look of a goat about it.”

“And those are not the teeth of a goat,” Nicholas said, tilting the globe so that I could see into the creature’s mouth: it was filled with a double row of needle-pointed teeth. “Guessing it’s not an herbivore either.”

“It has a taste for humans,” Nick said softly.

“Humans in general or, special humans?” Nicholas wondered.

“There was a time when the Krampus was not too fussy. But in the past few centuries, I understand it has developed a taste for immortal humans. Now it will eat nothing else. It considers them a delicacy.”

“It will think its entire Christmas dinner has come at once if it sees the three of us,” I said. “Nicholas will be the starter, you the main course, and I the dessert, of course.”

Nicholas pushed back from the table. In his plain blue suit, rumpled shirt, and stained tie, he looked like an accountant, but even Leonardo da Vinci admitted that Nicholas Flamel was a genius. Without looking at me, my husband said, “So you expect us to help you—what? Fight the Krampus? Why?”

Nick looked confused. “Marethyu said I should talk to you. He said only you have the peculiar combination of powers to help me. I’m not sure what he means,” he added. “You know the hook-handed man. He can be a bit cryptic sometimes.”

The small man tilted his head to one side and smiled sadly. “Before the war, the Krampus had busily devoured his way through a dozen European immortals. This war, and the previous one, have complicated matters.”

“I would have thought the chaos of war might have helped conceal its crimes,” Nicholas said.

“On the contrary. Individuals and communities are so much more suspicious now. The Krampus, like many of us, lives in the shadows. European society is shattered, entire communities scattered, and when it reforms, it will be very different indeed. It would be impossible for the Krampus to remain invisible. Also, the Krampus’s preferred meal, the immortal human, has moved on. Most of the immortals chose to fight in the war, for one side or another. Many gave their lives in the ultimate sacrifice. Those European immortals who survived are seeking anonymity in America. I knew it was only a matter of time before the Krampus made his way across the Atlantic. And now that he has reached these shores, I have no doubt that once he has finished with me, he will start to munch his way through those immortals he finds here.”

I looked at Nicholas and nodded. We could not allow the Krampus to roam freely across the Americas. We had too many immortal friends here.

I looked across the table at Holle. “Before we come to any agreement, however, we need to know who we are fighting alongside. I know a little about the legends of Saint Nicholas, and something about Frau Perchta. Is it not unusual to find you together?”

“Once, perhaps,” Nick said with a grin, “but no more. We have joined forces. We are two halves of a whole. I reward the good, whereas Holle punishes the wrongdoers. For centuries, separately, we roamed this world and the Shadowrealms, protecting the innocent and punishing wrongdoers. Now we do it together.”

“Why don’t we hear more about you?” I asked Holle. “Santa Claus is everywhere.”

She jerked her thumb at Nick. “I prefer the shadows, but this one, well, he is his own best publicist. Have you seen the latest images he’s come up with—the red suit, the white hair and beard, the sack bulging with gifts?”

“Hey, that had nothing to do with me,” Nick protested.

Holle continued to stare at him, until he finally relented. “Well, maybe just a little.”

“And the poem,” she persisted.

“Which one?”

“The one with the reindeer names. Dasher, Cupid, Comet…”

“Shhh. For goodness’ sake, keep your voice down. Don’t let the Torc Fianna hear. That was not my doing!”

The three of us stared at him.

“Well, maybe just a little. Look, I might have put the idea in a couple of writers’ heads at the same time, but I definitely did not give either of them the names of the reindeer.”

“Dunder and Blixem…,” Holle said.

“I changed those names….”

“To Donder and Blitzen.”

Nicholas rapped on the table with his knuckles, silencing the squabbling pair. “Quick question: Have we any idea where the Krampus is right now?”

“Moving across Europe. Later tonight it will arrive on Bedloe’s Island, stepping through the leygate in the tunnels beneath the Statue of Liberty.”

“He will not be alone,” Frau Perchta said. “We’ve learned that he is bringing the Turon with him. And while the Krampus prefers immortals, the Turon love the taste of human flesh. If they get off the island, they will level this city.”

“So we have to stop him on the island,” Nick said.

Nicholas raised a finger. “And the Turon. What are they?”

Nick tapped the largest of the snow globes in the center of the table. The smoke within swirled and cleared to reveal a heaving mass of beasts. They looked like a cross between a bull and a man, with huge pointed horns jutting from their heads. Their jaws hung loose, revealing ragged teeth and lolling black tongues. And then, one by one, the Turon stopped moving, before turning to look directly at us. They surged forward, pressing themselves against the glass, peering out, and for a heart-stopping moment, I imagined they were trapped within, pushing to break out.

“They are on a distant Shadowrealm,” Nick said quickly. “We are looking at them through a slab of ice. They should not be able to see us….”

“The big one is definitely looking at me,” Nicholas muttered.

“Perhaps they see shadows moving on the ice.” Nick touched the globe, and the image faded.

“How many will answer the Krampus’s call?” I wondered.

“Eight.”

“Eight Turon, eight Torc Fianna,” I said, and looked at Holle, “And you had eight Perchten to pull your sleigh.”

“Eight is the magic number,” she said.

“And if I were to ask you when the Krampus will arrive with his eight friends,” Nicholas said, “you would tell me…”

“Tonight,” Nick said. “At midnight, when Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day.”

8

Nick and Holle left to round up the Torc Fianna and arm themselves, leaving us alone in the huge wooden room. We wandered around, saying little, aware that there might be eavesdroppers. Without Nick in the room, the Shadowrealm no longer seemed so solid. Occasionally the walls would thin and flicker, revealing what looked like an ordinary warehouse outside. The tree growing out of the floor was no longer as green or as vibrant as it had been, and most of the candles—which I’d initially thought were a terrible fire risk—had gone out.

“Not a true Shadowrealm, I think,” Nicholas said finally. “More of a simulation. A powerful one, though—it takes extraordinary skill to keep something like this together.”

“Not all fake. The hot chocolate tasted real.”

“Probably was. Table is real also, as are these.” He stopped before the shelves of snow globes.

There were thousands, of all shapes and sizes. Most were filled with white speckles to simulate snow, but others had red, black, gray, or brown particles. The scenes within the globes were fantastically detailed, and those containing characters—human or monster—were extraordinarily realistic. A scrawl of indecipherable words was etched onto a brass plate at the base of each globe.

“I feel I know some of these places,” Nicholas muttered.

I ran my finger over the text. “Looks like Ogham, or Runic. Frau Perchta has a list covered in similar writing.”

“The naughty list?” Nicholas asked with a smile. “Were you on it?”

“We didn’t find out. If we don’t come up with a plan to defeat the Krampus, the next list we’re going to be on is a menu.” I realized Nicholas was not listening to me. He was staring intently at one particular globe. I followed his gaze. Within the globe, a city of crystal towers perched on a spit of land. Shifting sunlight turned each of the towers into refracting rainbows. “That’s the Lyonesse Shadowrealm,” I said.

Nicholas smiled. He pointed to another globe: a golden city encircling an enormous pit in the ground, surrounded by sand dunes and desert. “And that looks like the Ophir Shadowrealm, built around the fabled gold mine.”

I looked along the shelves. “Here are Tir Tairngaire and Tir na nÓg together. This looks like Asgard, and this is definitely Lyonesse.” I squinted into the Lyonesse globe. I could actually see tiny flea-sized people moving on the golden streets.

Another shelf held a series of globes showing places around the earth: the Eiffel Tower, the Taj Mahal, the recently opened Golden Gate Bridge with Alcatraz Island in the background. The Tower of London sat alongside the Colosseum.

The top shelf held a dozen empty globes. Nicholas picked one up and turned it over in his hands. “These are leygates,” Nicholas said finally, unable to contain the excitement in his voice. “This is how Nick can be all over the world at the same time on a single night. Miniaturized portable leygates,” he said in an awed whisper. “He can hop from world to world, place to place, in a heartbeat, be everywhere simultaneously.” He stopped.

“And the empty globes?”

“For when he discovers a new Shadowrealm.” Nicholas held up the globe. “He can capture its…” He paused, struggling to find the word.

“Address,” I suggested.

“I was going to say essence, but yes, address will do. Then he can add the location to his list of places to visit.”

“But if he’s that powerful…why does he need us?” I said, then answered the question myself. “Because he did not create these.”

Nicholas held up the empty globe. “These are ancient beyond reckoning.”

“So Nick’s powers are limited. Which is why he needs us.”

Nicholas blinked at me, his almost colorless eyes taking on a gold tinge from the surrounding wood. “Madame Perenelle. You are a genius.”

“So you keep telling me.”

He caught me in his arms and hugged me close, his mouth close to my ear. “And can your genius shed any light on our present predicament?” he breathed.

“I’m wondering whether we’re allies…or bait.”

9

It may sound rather wonderful and dramatic in poetry and song, but dashing through the snow on a sleigh pulled by eight enormous reindeer is anything but wonderful. Dramatic, yes; spectacular, of course. But no one tells you that those reindeer smell!

Nicholas and I were huddled in the back of the sleigh, behind Nick and Holle, who’d transformed back into her Frau Perchta aspect. Nick was dressed in an all-black version of the red suit we’d come to associate him with, while Frau Perchta was wearing what looked like a collection of tattered rags, which flew around her like flapping wings.

Nicholas and I were unrecognizable, wrapped up like enormous mummies, in furs and blankets, with gloves, boots, and hats. And I was still freezing. Even my eyeballs were cold. Usually, I’d bring up my body temperature with my aura, but we were afraid that any flaring aura might alert the Krampus.

Also, the sleigh ride was terrifying!

I’ve ridden nathir and peist, elephants, several ill-tempered camels, and even a thunderbird, and I have never been more frightened than I was in that sleigh. At first I thought Nick was showing off, or, more likely, he was simply a bad driver unable to control the Torc Fianna. When we set off from the flat roof of a nearby warehouse, we immediately plunged three floors before the Torc Fianna’s special powers kicked in and they found traction in the thin air. We careered around Hell’s Kitchen, clipping chimney tops with the edge of the sleigh while reindeer hooves scattered tiles onto the deserted streets below. We flew dangerously low, weaving between buildings so close together that the sides scraped the edges of the sleigh, scattering a rainbow of sparks behind us.

It was only when I caught glimpses of wide-eyed children watching us from bedroom windows, or stunned adults on the streets below dodging falling slates, that I realized Nick was doing this deliberately. He wanted to be seen. It was Christmas Eve, and he wanted people to know that Father Christmas was abroad. Perhaps, as Frau Perchta had suggested, he was publicity hungry, but I also saw the immediate blossoming of joy and wonder in the eyes of children and adults alike. And in that moment, I liked him just a little bit more.

New York spread below us in a glittering dusting of light and smoke. It had snowed on and off throughout the day, giving the city an almost cardboard-cutout appearance. Cities from the air are the most magical of places—you can see their twists and curls, the sweep of roads and stretches of boulevards. London is a scattered mystery from the air; the black line of the Seine cuts through Paris, emphasizing the straight lines of the boulevards and the confusion of narrow side streets; Rome is a wonderful jigsaw; Hong Kong is a glittering jewel. New York is different. The straight lines make it look like a child’s drawing of what a city should look like…until you get to the big rectangle of Central Park cut out of the middle, which looks like someone erased the center of the drawing.

It was quiet now, that special Christmas Eve silence. The bars and restaurants had emptied, and the chill and snow had driven almost everyone indoors. I saw a few poor homeless souls on the streets. Most slouched along, wrapped in rags, head down, but a couple looked up and watched in wonder the sight of a sleigh pulled by reindeer flying over the rooftops. I hoped the image would remind them that there was magic in the world and that if Santa was real—and reindeer really could fly—then everything was possible.

We rose through thick, wintry clouds made bitter from the smoke of countless fires, and then, suddenly, we were above them, and a light from the half-moon thickened the clouds to a brilliant silver carpet. Water droplets became silver beads for a single moment, before Nick dipped us back into the snow-filled clouds again. When we burst out, we were over Jersey City, with Ellis Island directly ahead of us and Liberty rising on her plinth on the island beyond.

Nick took us low over the red roofs of Ellis Island, which was still a prisoner of war camp and hospital. As we neared Bedloe’s Island, we dropped even lower, until the Torc Fianna’s hooves were actually splashing across the surface of the waves. Lady Liberty was ahead to our left, standing tall on her eleven-pointed base. Nicholas had been friends with Bartholdi, who had designed the statue and whom I’d never liked, and the interior metal frame had been created by Gustav Eiffel, whom I’d liked and Nicholas hadn’t.

Almost as if he knew I was thinking about him, my husband leaned closer. “When this is all through, we will take the ferry over and climb to the top. There is supposed to be an incredible view from the windows in the crown.”

“We still haven’t climbed the Eiffel Tower,” I reminded him.

“We should make a list,” he muttered.

And then the sleigh swooped in and the runners scraped loudly on the hard pavement an instant before the clattering rattle of thirty-two hooves struck sparks from the ground.

Nick swiveled around, cheeks bright red with the bitter air, and grinned. “Just in time,” he said. “Happy Christmas!”

Over the icy waters of the bay, we heard the bells of New York ring in Christmas Day.

Tuesday, 25 December 1945

Christmas Day

10

When the bells faded away, everything fell unnaturally silent; even the lapping of the waves sounded muted and distant. Although it had snowed over the city, none of it had stuck here, and the rocks radiated a bone-freezing chill.

Nick hopped out of the sleigh and extended a hand to help me alight. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“You seem pleased for someone about to meet the Krampus,” I remarked.

“Hard to feel down on Christmas Day,” he said. “Besides, I have the famous Alchemyst, Nicholas Flamel, and the legendary Sorceress, Perenelle Delamere, with me.”

“What about me?” Frau Perchta demanded in her little-girl voice. “I am not an immortal human, but I am an Elder, older than most civilizations.”

“And I am grateful to have you here,” Nick said hastily. “Between the four of us, we should be able to defeat the Krampus and save this country from horror.”

Frau Perchta grimaced and then slipped away into the night, ragged clothes swirling around her. “I will check around the other side of the statue. The bells should have awakened the Krampus.”

Nicholas helped me out of most of the heavy, confining clothing. I kept the hat but had to lose the gloves. I’ve never been able to properly work a hand spell wearing gloves.

Half of the Torc Fianna morphed back into their human form. The four women were now wearing leather and chain-mail armor, and from the big sack on the back of the sleigh they pulled out an impossible number of swords, spears, bows, and crossbows. Without saying a word, they split into four teams of one woman and one deer and disappeared into the night, leaving Nick, Nicholas, and me alone at the sleigh.

“This is not how I intended to spend my Christmas Eve,” I said, blowing into my cupped hands.

“Nor I,” Nick said. “I have visits to make.”

“Well, we’ll try to defeat the monsters and get you on your way as quickly as possible,” Nicholas said sarcastically. “A plan might be useful,” he added.

Nick turned to look at Lady Liberty. “Frau Perchta tells me that the Krampus started moving across Europe a couple of days ago, jumping from leygate to leygate, from the Black Forest to Rennes-le-Château, on to Carnac, through Stonehenge into Newgrange, then across to Mystery Hill in New Hampshire. We believe he arrived in New York yesterday or Sunday. Liberty’s plinth was built on the ruins of Fort Wood, and there is a warren of disused tunnels below. He’s somewhere down there, close to the leygate.”

“Might be better to tackle him in the tunnels than allow him up onto open ground,” Nicholas said.

“I did suggest that to Frau Perchta. She reminded me that the Krampus is a creature of tunnels and caves. He can see in total darkness.”

“In the tunnels his size will be a disadvantage, though,” Nicholas said. “We’d be able to control him.” He glanced at me, and I nodded. Something did not add up.

“Agreed,” Nick said, peeling off his gloves and shoving them in his pockets. “I had the same thought.”

“And what did Frau Perchta say?” I asked.

“She said that we would only be able to come at the Krampus one at a time. Whereas out here, in the open, we can tackle him from all sides.”

“And what about the Turon?” Nicholas asked. “Are they with him?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“I think I would rather fight one Krampus in a tunnel than a Krampus and eight bull-men in the open,” Nicholas said.

“We lose the advantage of the Torc Fianna in the tunnel,” Nick said.

“And I am guessing Frau Perchta told you this?” I said.

Nick looked at me curiously. “She did.”

I looked over at my husband and, even in the dim light, saw him nod.

Nick looked at each of us in turn. “What’s wrong?”

“Run or fight?” Nicholas asked me.

“I’m chilled through to my bones, I’m feeling nauseous from the sleigh ride, and the caffeine in the hot chocolate has given me a headache,” I said. “We stand and fight. If the Krampus has jumped through a dozen leygates in the past few days, maybe he’ll still be confused and disorientated.”

“And we might just have the advantage of surprise,” Nicholas said.

Nick was looking hopelessly confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Frau Perchta has betrayed you. You haven’t come here to kill the Krampus,” Nicholas said.

“You’ve been lured here so the Krampus and Frau Perchta can kill you,” I said.

11

“Call the Torc Fianna back,” Nicholas said. “We’ll fight here.”

“No.” I pointed toward the plinth. “Over there, on the other side of the plinth. This way.” I wanted to put the bulk of the statue and the plinth between us and the city so that whatever happened would be invisible from New York. “Meet us on the east side of the statue.”

“I’ve no idea where east is,” Nick said. “The Torc Fianna navigate; I just hold the reins.”

“East is the direction the statue is facing,” I told him.

Nick darted off to find the Torc Fianna.

“We’ll get our backs against a wall,” I said to Nicholas. “Liberty is built on a plinth in the shape of an eleven-pointed star.”

“A hendecagram.”

“Show-off.”

Nicholas grinned. “I was always better at math than you.”

“And yet you still manage to get your formulas wrong. How many laboratories have you burned down?”

“I get confused between grams and ounces.”

We turned a sharp-edged corner and stopped. The hendecagram shape meant that a long wall and a short one sloped inward to a point. “There.” I pointed to a black metal door set into the wall.

Nicholas hurried after me. “You’re sure Frau Perchta is behind this plot?” he asked.

“Something she said earlier stuck with me. Do you recall when she was talking about flying in her own sleigh…”

“Pulled by eight reindeer.”

“No, not deer,” I reminded him. “She said they were Perchten.”

“I assumed Perchten were deer.”

Digging into my pocket, I lifted out the small snow globe showing the image of the Krampus. From a second pocket, I lifted out a second globe. It showed a crude wooden sleigh sailing over what had once been a postcard-pretty village. Now every second building was on fire. I held my hand steady and allowed the flakes of artificial snow to fall. “What do you see?”

Nicholas leaned forward to squint at the tiny sleigh. “Frau Perchta,” he said. And then he stopped. “Those are not deer pulling her sleigh.” He took the first globe from my hand and held it up to compare the two. “The Perchten are astonishingly similar to the Krampus.”

“Same tribe,” I answered. “Now look at the Krampus again. Notice anything odd?”

Nicholas smiled at me. “You mean aside from the whole goat-monster oddness in general?”

“His foot,” I said.

He tilted the snow globe again, squinting in the half-light. “Oh. He has one cloven hoof…and one human foot.”

“And Frau Perchta, or Holle, or Berchta, or whatever name she chooses, has one human foot and one swan’s leg.”

“Coincidence?” Nicholas suggested. “A lot of the Elders have animal aspects to them.”

“You know we don’t believe in coincidences.”

We both stopped, nostrils flaring. The salty, slightly sour air was fouled by something bestial. It was similar to the deer musk I’d smelled earlier, but this was stronger, so much more powerful. “Like a cowshed on a farm,” Nicholas murmured.

“A very dirty cowshed,” I said.

12

Led by Nick, the Torc Fianna appeared first.

They were all bloodied and battered, with two of the women leaning heavily against those still in their deer aspect.

“Ambushed,” Nick snapped. “They didn’t get a close look at what attacked them.” He helped one of the women sit back against the stone wall. There was a long gash across her forehead, and she was flickering between her human and deer forms. Nick tore the furry end off of his sleeve and rubbed her face. “Take on your true aspect, rest, recover.”

“We are bound to protect you…,” she muttered.

“And you cannot protect me if you are dead,” he said gently. “Rest now. Heal yourself.”

The woman closed her eyes, and immediately the transformation shivered her back into her deer form. The beast tucked into a protective curl and closed her eyes.

The leader of the Torc Fianna limped over. This was the hatchet-faced woman I’d encountered on the street only a few hours earlier. It seemed like a lifetime. “We were setting up around the entrance to the underground when thick black smoke poured out and enveloped us. It smelled of burned wood and tar, and sickened us. That’s when they attacked.”

“And you didn’t see any of them?”

“They fought like cowards, striking from behind,” she said bitterly. “They stank of goat and bull, rotting meat and things long dead.” She shook her head. “We have failed you.”

Nick rested his hand on her arm. “You have not. We have been betrayed by Frau Perchta.”

The Torc Fianna’s eyes widened. “I warned you about her.”

“You did. I should have listened to you.”

“What did you not like about Frau Perchta?” Nicholas asked.

The Torc Fianna leader shook her head. “We’ve encountered Frau Perchta over the centuries, but only in passing. She specializes in punishment, whereas Saint Nicholas chooses to reward. About a century ago, she started appearing more and more regularly. Then she suggested she and Nicholas should join forces, remind people about the old ways.”

“You told me not to trust her,” Nick said.

“Before my mistress Saule put us in your service, I had ridden with her for a millennia. I knew she distrusted Frau Perchta, whom we called Berchta. She belonged to those Elders who believe that humani are little better than a snack, to be enjoyed raw or lightly toasted.”

Nick sighed. “I like to see the best in people.”

“How many of you can still fight?” I asked.

The Torc Fianna leader looked around. Four of them had returned to their deer forms and slept off their injuries. “Four,” she said.

The farmyard stench grew stronger, and I felt my already delicate stomach lurch. A thick black fog swirled around the edge of the wall and billowed toward us. Shaking my fingers loose, I allowed a little of my ice-white aura to gather in the palm of my hand. Rolling it into a ball, I tossed it at the black fog.

The smoking white ball touched the black cloud, turning it solid. It fell to the ground, shattering into what looked like black soot.

“They’re coming,” Nicholas said.

“They’re here,” the sharp-faced woman said.

The four Torc Fianna in their human form took up positions before us, spears and bows ready. They would not be taken so easily this time.

I stood to the right of my husband, and we pushed Nick behind us so that his back was against the metal door.

Frau Perchta appeared first, ragged clothing billowing around her like flapping bat’s wings.

She rounded the corner to my left, followed by eight of the ugliest goatlike creatures I have ever seen: the Perchten. These were no were-creatures, I realized. There is a certain natural beauty to the were, both in their human and animal forms; they have a grace and dignity. But not these creatures: shaggy, matted fur clung in patches to diseased-looking flesh. They were all horned, though some of the horns were chipped and broken, and their jaws hung slack. Armed with axes and hook-topped spears, they spread out in a line on either side of Frau Perchta.

“Are they dead?” Nicholas muttered. “Dead and reanimated?”

“Constructed creatures, I think. Abominations. Made, not born.”

Foul air swirled and the earth trembled, and then the monster appeared around the side of the wall.

The Krampus was huge. Covered in filthy black fur, it towered ten or twelve feet tall, with two enormous horns adding to its height. The long goat’s face was traced with the white lines of old scars; its eyes pulsed red and black in a slow rhythm, and a long black tongue lolled out of its mouth. While its right front leg ended in a cloven hoof, its left was a misshapen human foot. As it moved, it clattered and clanged, and I realized that human bones were woven into its unkempt fur. Wrapped around its waist was a long, thick chain, which dragged on the ground behind it.

“Ugly,” Nicholas murmured. “I can see the resemblance to the Perchten.”

Behind the Krampus, eight more creatures appeared. Tall, bulky, with massive shoulders and sharply curled horns, they had bulls’ heads set on human torsos. “Torc Tarbh,” Nicholas said. “The Turon are were-bulls.”

“They were, once,” I agreed. “But no longer. Look at their eyes.”

Nicholas squinted and then gasped in horror. “They haven’t got any.” He took a step forward, and I grabbed his sleeve. “I think they’re dead.”

“Dead, but kept alive and moving by some foul sorcery. How is your math now?”

“Eight Turon, eight Perchten, plus Frau Perchta and the Krampus. That’s eighteen, by my count.”

“And we have four Torc Fianna, one immortal human, one Alchemyst, and a Sorceress.”

Nicholas grimaced. “The odds are not in our favor.”

I reached into my coat and pulled out my whip. The long thong hissed like a serpent as it curled onto the cold ground.

Frau Perchta stepped forward, and the Krampus lumbered up behind her. He pulled at the chain around his waist, gathering it up, starting to spin the loose end. The old woman pointed a black-nailed finger at Nick. “Two hundred years ago, I told you that Christmas belonged to me. But you would not listen. You said Christmas should be a time of happiness and joy….” She almost spat the words. “I reminded you that December belonged to the darkness and that we, the creatures of the shadow, were its rightful rulers.”

Nick pushed between Nicholas and me. “This is a time of celebration. Midwinter has come, and now the world turns toward longer days and toward the light!” he yelled back to her.

Frau Perchta limped forward, and the Krampus followed her. Behind them, the sixteen monsters shuffled into place, enclosing us in a half circle.

“You insisted on creating your own legend, promoting yourself, imprinting yourself on people’s memories and consciousness. Once we ruled Midwinter; now no one remembers us. Well, tonight, that changes. This time next year, the entire world will know our names and worship us. Tonight we kill Santa Claus and return December to its rightful owners.”

13

A spear bit into the grass not two feet in front of us. Two of the Torc Fianna fired their bows, and the nearest Perchten and Turon were hit with long feathered arrows. It had no effect on them.

“Killing the dead has always been tricky,” Nicholas muttered.

“We can take out the monsters, I think. One of the elemental magics: fire, perhaps?” I suggested.

“They are dead. They will be upon us before the fire can consume them,” Nicholas said. “And we’re up against at least one Elder. I have no idea what the Krampus is.”

Nick leaned forward and put his hands on our shoulders. “I am desperately sorry I involved you in this.” He sounded genuinely upset. “I didn’t even know you were in New York until the hook-handed man told me.”

I looked at Nicholas at precisely the same moment he looked at me. “Why did Marethyu embroil us in this misadventure?” Nicholas wondered. “There must have been others in the city he could have called upon.”

“He specifically told me to find you,” Nick said. “Even gave me your address. Find the Alchemyst, Nicholas Flamel, and the Sorceress, Perenelle.”

Frau Perchta and the Krampus edged ever closer. “It is unfortunate that you two are here!” she called, her little-girl voice cracking with excitement. “Well, unfortunate for you. A tasty snack for us.”

“Marethyu never does anything without a reason,” I reminded Nick.

“Tonight you too will die beneath this silly metal statue. You’ll not die in vain; we will have an early Christmas feast.”

We both looked up. “Liberty Enlightening the World,” Nicholas muttered. “A copper statue.”

And I heard it then. That sound I had come to know and love. The excitement in my husband’s voice when he’d discovered something exciting. He turned to me, colorless eyes tinted vaguely green in the reflection from the statue. “Madame Perenelle, I am in need of your aura.”

Without hesitation I put my hand in his and allowed my ice-white aura to blossom around my body.

“Do you think your parlor tricks will have any effect on us?” Frau Perchta shouted. “We have killed Elders and Next Generation, Earthlords, Ancients, and Archons have fallen before us. And humani: we have devoured them through the generations.”

My entire hand turned into a dove-white glove, and then the smoke wrapped around Nicholas’s flesh, curling along his wrist to disappear up his sleeve. It steamed out of his collar and drifted across his face, turning his eyes white.

Another spear bit into the ground before us, closer this time.

The Krampus stepped forward, spinning its chain, and snapped it out. It ripped away a chunk of earth not three feet in front of us.

Nicholas raised his left hand and pointed toward Frau Perchta and the Krampus. His index finger drew a perfect circle in the air. At the bottom of the circle he traced a cross. The symbol hung shivering in the air, outlined in traces of my white aura, now tinged with the green of his.

“Copper,” Nicholas Flamel said. “Soft, malleable, ductile copper. One of the Seven Metals of Antiquity. And the first metal used by alchemists.” He turned to look at me, eyes, nostrils, and mouth smoking with my aura. “I will need everything you have.”

“Always.”

I was vaguely aware that Frau Perchta and the Krampus were advancing, aware that the Torc Fianna were returning fire, but with no effect. The Krampus’s chain cracked out, catching one of the warrior women, slamming her back into the wall.

“Do you remember the night we bought the Codex?” Nicholas asked me.

“I will never forget it.” I could feel my strength seeping away as Nicholas absorbed my aura. I was struggling to stand.

Suddenly Nick stepped between us, wrapping an arm around each of us, holding us tightly together.

“Remember Francis Bacon,” Nicholas said dreamily, “and his mechanical man…?”

“Talon,” I whispered. Bacon had come for us in Paris and set his stinking, talking metal creation on us. Talon, unfortunately, had encountered Scathach and ended up in the Seine, minus his head.

“You know I spent a long time studying how he brought that metal man alive.”

Nicholas jerked his left arm up, fingers wide. Green light, the same color as the copper sheets that covered the statue, flowed from his hand. Five thin strands shot up, thickening as they rose, then whipping around the base of the statue, glowing brighter, spinning faster as they rose higher and higher.

Suddenly Liberty’s torch blazed to life, and light strobed across the bay.

“Are you calling for help?” Frau Perchta cackled. “No one is going to see your light. No one is coming to your aid tonight.”

The Krampus pushed past Frau Perchta and advanced on Nicholas, chain buzzing in a lethal whine. The beast’s mouth opened, strands of sticky saliva dripping onto its fur as it licked its lips. When the chain was a spinning blur, he would snap it forward—

Like a huge hammer, Lady Liberty’s torch drove the Krampus straight into the ground.

Perhaps there was noise—metal grinding, copper screeching—but I heard nothing. I saw the statue crouch on her stone plinth and use her torch as a baton, sweeping aside the Turon and Perchten, sending them cascading out to sea.

I watched the Krampus clamber out of the torn earth and stagger to its feet. It lashed out at the statue with its chain, which scored a long gouge in the soft copper. Liberty opened her left arm and dropped the tabula ansata, burying him beneath it. Even though I heard nothing, I felt the entire island shake with the detonation.

Frau Perchta looked on in horror. She was flickering between her two aspects, almost too quickly to see.

I saw Nick’s lips shape her name as he spoke. “Holle…”

She stopped, the right side of her body young and unblemished, the left side withered and ancient.

“Holle,” Nick said. “This is for you.” He tossed something small and round toward her. Almost unconsciously, she reached out and caught it. It was a snow globe. The snow within started to swirl and then exploded from the globe, spiraling madly around the creature before flowing back into the globe. I didn’t need to look: I knew Frau Perchta was now trapped in the glass sphere.

I fell away from Nicholas, and one of the Torc Fianna caught me before I hit the ground. Slipping in and out of consciousness, I watched as Liberty almost delicately picked up the tabula ansata and settled it back in the crook of her arm. With the last of Nicholas’s aura buzzing green about her, she climbed back onto the plinth and settled into position. Her light blazed green and white before fading to darkness.

Nick caught my husband as he fell to his knees and helped him over to lie beside me.

“Happy Christmas,” Nicholas whispered.

“I haven’t gotten you a present yet,” I told him.

“That coffeepot sounded nice. Six cups, you say?”

“You don’t drink coffee.”

“I could start again.”

14

Two days later, we awoke in a hotel in Vero Beach, Florida, with no idea how we’d gotten there.

The room was filled to overflowing with brightly wrapped Christmas presents, including one of every item in the Pyrex kitchen range. Luckily, they all came with receipts, so we could return them.

In a wooden box, we found a snow globe. It showed a wood-paneled room, with a tree growing out of the corner and a fire flickering in the grate. There was a note written in a looping childish curl: If you ever need help, just shake. It was signed Santa Claus.

What is lost will be found.

Discover another Lost Story from the world of the New York Times bestselling Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series

Coming February 2021

Perry Hagopian

An authority on mythology and folklore, MICHAEL SCOTT is one of Ireland’s most successful authors. A master of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and folklore, Michael has been hailed by the Irish Times as “the King of Fantasy in these isles.” He is the author of the New York Times bestselling Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series: The Alchemyst, The Magician, The Sorceress, The Necromancer, The Warlock, and The Enchantress.

DillonScott.com

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