Kraved by Krampus (Yule Be Mine Monster)

10. Clara

Chapter ten

Clara

C innamon and clove drift through my dreams, tugging me from the depths of sleep. My eyes flutter open to find sunlight streaming through frost-covered windows. The aroma grows stronger, richer.

I stretch, joints popping as memories of yesterday filter back. Did I really almost kiss him twice? Did he really save that child? My fingers drift to my forehead where his lips had pressed so gently before leaving me at my door.

A steaming mug sits on my bedside table, tendrils of fragrant steam curling upward. Next to it lies a folded note in elegant script:

Drink while warm. Hope you rested well.

The care in such a simple gesture makes my chest tight. I cradle the warm ceramic between my palms, inhaling deeply. The spiced chocolate smells divine, but different from last night - deeper somehow, with hints of something ancient and wild.

“Magnus, are you lurking about?”

The door creaks open an inch in response.

“Did you see him make this?”

The door swings back and forth in what I take to be as a nod.

I take a careful sip and close my eyes as warmth spreads through me, chasing away the lingering sleepiness. It tastes like winter nights and secret stories, like magic made liquid.

My author brain kicks in, and I grab my notebook from beside the bed. The words flow faster than I can write them, describing the taste of magic and the way frost patterns dance across window panes. My pen scratches across the page, leaving trails of ink that seem to shimmer in the morning light.

Stop romanticizing him , I scold myself. He’s still keeping you here against your will. But the words feel hollow now, especially after seeing him with that child, after watching him put himself between us and danger without hesitation.

I close the notebook quickly, focusing instead on finishing the perfectly heated drink, before I get ready to leave. Every sip seems to clear my mind while simultaneously making the world feel more... magical?

You’re just tired , I tell myself. And possibly developing Stockholm Syndrome.

But deep down, I know something is changing—in me, in him, in the very air around us.

The world shifts and blurs around us as Krampus pulls me close. My stomach lurches, like missing a step on the stairs, then everything snaps back into focus. We’re standing at the entrance of what looks like a village plucked straight from a snow globe.

“Welcome to Winterhaven.” Krampus’s voice rumbles against my ear. “Where magic still thrives.”

I blink, trying to process what I’m seeing. Cobblestone streets wind between Tudor-style buildings with snow-laden roofs. Warm light spills from frosted windows, and wreaths made of evergreen branches and magical floating orbs adorn every door. The air sparkles with what looks like diamond dust, but when I reach out to touch it, it tingles against my skin.

“This isn’t possible.” I spin in a slow circle, taking in the sights. “We were just at the cabin. How...?”

“Magic, little mate.” His hand rests at the small of my back, steadying me. “The village is protected by ancient wards. You couldn’t have found it on your own.”

A group of children races past us, their laughter echoing off the buildings. My writer’s mind struggles to catalog every detail—the bookshop with actual floating books in the display window, the candy store where sweets dance and change colors, the café where teapots pour themselves.

We pass a marketplace where vendors sell everything from enchanted trinkets to potions in bottles that glow like the northern lights. An elderly woman with silver hair is bargaining with a merchant whose shadow moves independently from his body. She catches my eye and winks, her iris shifting color like an opal.

“They’re all magical?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

“Most.” Krampus guides me past a fountain where the water flows upward instead of down. “Some are creatures of myth, others are humans born with gifts. Like you.”

I start to protest, but then I notice my reflection in the fountain’s impossible water. For a moment, just a moment, I swear I see something shimmer around me, like heat waves rising from hot pavement.

A bell chimes somewhere in the distance, and suddenly the street fills with more children, their school day apparently ended. They wave at Krampus as they pass, completely unafraid of his imposing presence. One little girl even runs up to hug his leg before scampering off.

“But I thought... I mean, the stories say...” I struggle to reconcile the gentle way he interacts with the children against everything I’ve heard about Krampus.

“Perhaps it’s time you learned the truth about those stories.” He turns me to face him, his red eyes soft with an emotion I’m not ready to name.

Krampus leads me into a converted firehouse with steamed windows and a weathervane that seems to spin without wind. The sign above reads “Frost & Flame Café” in elegant, frost-like script.

Warmth envelops me as we step inside. The scent of coffee, spices, and something otherworldly fills my nose. Behind a counter that gleams like ice stands a giant of a man with a frost-tipped beard and a hand-knit sweater.

“Welcome.” His voice carries the weight of mountains and the gentleness of falling snow. “I’m Henrik, but everyone calls me Hank.”

My eyes dart to the fireplace where flames dance in impossible colors—blue, purple, and even silver. The tables seem to shift and adjust as patrons move around them.

“Noelle Goodheart.” I extend my hand, noticing how his fingers radiate a comforting warmth despite their weathered appearance. I see Krampus glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I know exactly what you need.” Hank turns to his equipment without taking my order.

I watch, mesmerized, as he crafts something in a cup that changes color with each stir. Steam rises in patterns that look suspiciously like words before dissipating.

The drink he sets before me glows softly, the color of sunset through icicles. I glance at Krampus questioningly, but he just nods once.

One sip and warmth floods through me, carrying memories of writing late at night, of stories flowing freely without fear of judgment.

This tastes like pure inspiration, like every creative spark I’ve ever chased at 3 AM, like the rush when words flow faster than I can write them down. Each sip unleashes another burst of possibility, reminding me of nights spent crafting stories at my desk, ink-stained fingers flying across the page.

“The library next?” Krampus’s question pulls me from my reverie.

“This is...” I cradle the now-empty cup, searching for words that could capture what I just experienced. “Thank you, Hank. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.”

The giant of a man’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes my cup. “The café has a way of giving people what they need most.”

I lean forward, unable to resist my curiosity. “How long has this place been here? I write about small towns, but I’ve never heard of Winterhaven before.”

“Time moves differently here.” Hank’s fingers drum against the glacier-ice counter. “The Frost & Flame has stood since the first winter winds blew through these mountains. Though the building itself...” He gestures to the converted firehouse. “That’s a more recent addition.”

Recent could mean last week or last century, the way he says it.

“I’d love to hear more stories about this place.” My fingers itch for my notebook, for a chance to capture the strange magic of this café. “Would it be alright if I came back?”

“You’ll always find a warm welcome here, Miss Goodheart.” Hank’s gaze flicks briefly to Krampus, and something unspoken passes between them.

The weight of Krampus’s presence reminds me we have somewhere else to be. I turn to him, noting how the firelight plays across his features, softening the sharp angles. “I’m ready for the library now, if you are.”

My heart stutters at the way his eyes warm at my words. For a moment, I forget he’s not human, forget everything except how natural it feels to be here with him.

The library occupies what must have been an old Victorian mansion. As we enter, books flutter their pages like birds greeting old friends. An elegant woman with silver hair swept up into a perfect French twist looks up from her desk, her glasses catching the light oddly.

“Mrs. Redmond,” Krampus inclines his head.

She nods to him before studying me over her glasses, from which hangs a chain that moves like liquid silver. “Oh dear, you’ve dropped something.” She bends down and produces a leather-bound volume I definitely hadn’t been carrying.

“But I didn’t—”

“Best take a look, dear. Books have a way of finding those who need them most.”

The tome feels warm in my hands. Its title reads “Winter’s Children: A True Account of Seasonal Magic.” As I flip it open, illustrations of familiar holiday figures dance across the pages – but not as I’ve known them. These are raw, real, powerful beings of magic and mystery.

My fingers trace a passage about winter-touched humans who can weave reality through their words. About how their magic often manifests through creativity first. About how their stories sometimes come true.

Like mine have been doing.

“Perhaps you’d like to browse our holiday collection?” Mrs. Redmond gestures to a section of shelves that I swear wasn’t there a moment ago. “You might find some familiar tales there.”

The spines reveal titles I’ve never heard of, yet the stories within feel like memories I’ve always known. Tales of winter spirits finding their human mates. Of magic awakening through love. Of power discovered in the heart of winter’s darkness.

My hands shake as I close the book about winter’s children. “These stories... they’re real, aren’t they?”

Krampus guides me to a secluded reading nook where a fire crackles in an ornate fireplace. The flames cast dancing shadows across his features as he settles into an oversized leather armchair.

The book about winter’s children rests heavy in my lap while he begins speaking, his deep voice softening with memory.

“The first winter festivals weren’t about punishment.” His fingers trace patterns in the air, and tiny ice crystals form, dancing in the shape of ancient celebrations. “They were about survival, community, hope in the darkest times.”

The ice-crystal people twirl in a dance that feels achingly familiar. I wrote a scene just like this last month, down to the exact movements.

“Children would gather to share stories and songs.” His expression gentles, transforming his fearsome features. “The magic flowed freely then, before the modern world buried it under electric lights and plastic decorations.”

“What about the switches? The chains?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

A shadow crosses his face. “Tools for protection, not punishment. The switches were rowan wood, meant to ward off dark spirits that prey on children. The chains...” His hands fall still, the ice dancers dissolving. “They bind my power so I don’t frighten those I’m meant to protect.”

Just like the silver chains in chapter twelve of my work-in-progress. My heart pounds as I flip through my mental catalogue of recent stories. The mysterious protector in my holiday romance series. The ancient being learning to trust again.

“The stories we tell shape reality,” Mrs. Redmond’s voice drifts over from somewhere among the stacks. “And sometimes reality shapes our stories.”

I pull my notebook out of my bag with trembling fingers. “The stories I write...” My fingers trace the embossed cover of the book in my lap. “Sometimes they come true. Three nights ago, I wrote about a winter spirit who could craft ice into living art. The next morning, frost patterns on my window formed exact replicas of my characters.”

I hesitate before continuing, “A scene about a hidden town protected by magic, where a café serves impossible drinks.” My voice catches. “A story about a library where books find their readers instead of the other way around.” I pause. “Not just small things anymore. Last month, I wrote about a lost child found by a winter spirit. And then in the woods...”

“You found exactly that scenario.” Krampus leans forward, his eyes intent on my face. “What else have you written?”

“It’s been happening more often. Characters I create appear in the news weeks later. Places I imagine spring up in towns I’ve never visited.” My heart pounds. “I thought I was just good at predicting trends, or subconsciously picking up on patterns. But this...” I gesture to the library around us, to him. “This is real magic, isn’t it?”

The pages of my notebook flutter without any breeze. Words I wrote weeks ago glow softly: His touch brought winter’s bite and summer’s warmth, a contradiction that made perfect sense in the moment their magic merged.

Just like when we kissed in the cabin.

“How long have your stories been coming true?” Krampus asks softly.

“I thought I was just being observant. Finding inspiration in everyday things.” I close the notebook, but I can still see those glowing words behind my eyelids. “But I wrote these scenes before they happened. Before I ever met you.”

He leans forward, shadows shifting across his face. “What else have you written recently?”

“A story about a woman who discovers she’s not who she thought she was. About hidden magic awakening through...” I stop, heat flooding my cheeks as I realize what I’m describing.

Through love. Through a connection with a being of winter.

“Through what?” His voice deepens, and my body trembles with a sensation entirely separate from winter’s chill.

“I can’t remember exactly.” The lie feels clumsy on my tongue. “But if what I write really does affect reality, isn’t that dangerous?”

“Only if you fear your own power.” His eyes hold mine. “Tell me, little mate, what ending did you write for that story?”

“I haven’t finished it yet.” I clutch the notebook tighter. “I was stuck on how to make it believable.”

A deep chuckle resonates through the room. “Perhaps reality will help with that.”