Kraved by Krampus (Yule Be Mine Monster)

20. Clara

Chapter twenty

Clara

T he silence crushes me as I sit on the cold kitchen floor. My fingers trace the now-ordinary tile where magical warmth once pulsed beneath the surface. Everything feels wrong—muted and dull, like a painting that’s lost all its color.

I push myself up on shaky legs and walk through the house. Each step echoes in spaces that used to be filled with Magnus’s gentle presence. The bookshelves that once rearranged themselves stand motionless. The kettle that knew everyone’s perfect tea temperature sits cold and ordinary on the stove.

It’s just a house now.

My chest aches as I climb the stairs, my hand sliding along the banister that no longer warms to my touch. The steps don’t adjust their height to make my climb easier. They’re just... steps.

The library door creaks open—a normal, mundane sound instead of Magnus’s usual greeting. The reading nooks that used to appear exactly when I needed them are gone, leaving bare walls in their wake.

“Magnus?” My hopeful whisper falls flat in the empty air. No response, of course. No subtle shift of furniture or friendly creak of floorboards.

I sink into my favorite armchair, the one that used to adjust to cradle me perfectly. Now it’s just leather and stuffing, nothing more. My fingers clutch the arms, searching for any hint of the magic that once thrummed beneath the surface.

Nothing.

The winter sunlight streaming through the windows feels harsh and cold without Magnus’s gentle filtering. Even the eternal view of snowy woods has vanished, replaced by the actual forest outside—beautiful but static, lacking the ethereal quality it once possessed.

A tear slides down my cheek as I realize how much I took for granted. The way Magnus would warm my tea when I was lost in writing. The subtle ways the house arranged itself to create perfect moments between Krampus and me. The feeling of being surrounded by caring magic, like living inside a heartbeat.

I chose this , I remind myself. I chose ordinary. I chose safe.

But as I sit in this hollow shell of what was once a magical sanctuary, “safe” feels a lot like “empty.”

The house settles with a normal creak. Not Magnus’s voice like I keep hoping for, just old wood adjusting to temperature changes. Each mundane sound drives home what I’ve lost. The magic. The wonder.

Him.

I curl deeper into the chair, wrapping my arms around myself where his should be. The memory of his touch haunts me—the way his shadows would caress my skin, how his hands could be both gentle and commanding.

My mate. That’s what he called me. The word echoes in my mind, mocking me now.

“Some mate you turned out to be.” My bitter words hang in the air. “Just disappeared the moment things got complicated.”

I stand abruptly, pacing the library floor. The more I think about it, the more my chest tightens with something darker than sadness.

He promised to protect me. To cherish me. To show me who I really am.

My fingers curl into fists. “But the moment I made a mistake, you ran. You took everything—the magic, the wonder, even Magnus.” I kick the chair, achieving nothing but a stubbed toe. “Real mature, oh mighty Winter King.”

The pain in my foot feeds my growing anger. Here I am, drowning in guilt over denying him, while he’s probably off sulking in whatever dark realm he calls home. After all his talk about destiny and belonging, he abandoned me at the first test of our bond.

“You’re supposed to be ancient and wise.” I snatch a book from the shelf and hurl it across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying thud. “But you’re acting like a spoiled child, taking his toys and going home.”

Did any of it mean anything? The intimacy, the vulnerability, the way he claimed me as his?

My reflection catches in the window—tear-stained and wild-eyed. I look exactly like the weak, confused human he probably thinks I am. The thought makes my blood boil.

“You don’t get to make me feel all these things and then just vanish.” I slam my palm against the windowpane. “You don’t get to awaken something in me and leave me alone to deal with it.”

A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Some dark deity you are. Can’t even handle a moment of rejection without throwing a supernatural tantrum.”

The anger feels good—better than the hollow ache of loss. It burns away the fog of confusion, leaving clarity in its wake. Yes, I hurt him. Yes, I made a mistake. But his response? Taking away not just himself but every trace of magic that made this place feel like home?

That’s not love. That’s punishment.

I straighten my spine, standing up and letting the fury wash through me. “Well, Krampus, two can play at this game. You’re not the only one who can disappear.”

A gentle knock at the door interrupts my angry pacing. Mrs. Redmond stands there, a thermos in one hand and an ancient-looking key in the other. Her silver hair gleams in its perfect French twist, not a strand out of place despite the wind outside.

“My dear, I thought you might need this.” She holds up the thermos, the scent of her special blend wafting through the air.

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “How did you even get here? The roads are...”

She tucks the mysterious key into her cardigan pocket and brushes past me into the kitchen. “Some doors are always open to those who know where to look.”

Her sensible shoes make no sound as she moves to the cupboard, retrieving two mugs as if she’s been here a thousand times. The familiar routine of her movements brings a fresh wave of tears.

“He took everything.” My voice cracks. “The magic, Magnus, all of it.”

Mrs. Redmond pours the tea, steam curling in impossible patterns. “Did he? Or did he simply stop maintaining the illusion?”

I slump into a kitchen chair. “What’s the difference?”

“Drink your tea, dear.” She slides a mug toward me. “It’s a special blend for clarity.”

The warmth seeps into my hands as I cradle the mug. One sip and my racing thoughts begin to settle.

“You know what he is.” It’s not a question.

Mrs. Redmond adjusts her glasses, the enchanted chain catching the light. “I know many things about many beings. Including you.”

“I’m nobody special.” I stare into my tea. “Just a fraud who writes happy endings she doesn’t deserve.”

“Interesting choice of words.” She takes a measured sip. “Tell me, have your manuscripts always moved when you talk to them?”

My head snaps up. “How did you—”

“Or perhaps we should discuss why your tea never grows cold? Or why children’s eyes light up when you tell them stories?”

“That’s just...” Just what? My certainties crumble like sugar in hot tea.

Mrs. Redmond reaches across the table, her ink-stained fingers closing over mine. “Magic doesn’t simply vanish, my dear. It transforms. Changes. Adapts.” She squeezes my hand. “Much like the stories you write.”

I stare at my half-empty mug, watching the liquid swirl with memories of shadow and magic. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Understanding comes with time.” Mrs. Redmond rises from her chair, her cardigan buttons catching the light. “What you need right now is perspective. And perhaps...” She pauses, adjusting her glasses. “A few answers.”

“Answers would be nice.” My fingers trace the rim of the mug. “I feel like I’m drowning in questions.”

“Then come with me back to town.” She begins gathering our empty mugs, moving with precise efficiency. “There’s something at the library that might help shed light on your... situation.”

My gaze drifts to the window where snow continues to fall. “The roads—”

“—are perfectly manageable with the right methods.“ She pulls that mysterious key from her pocket again, its surface gleaming with odd symbols. “The same way I arrived.”

The right methods. The phrase echoes in my mind, reminding me of how little I truly know about this world I’ve stumbled into. About myself.

I push back from the table, decision made. “Let me get my coat.”

“Bring your mother’s fountain pen as well.”

My hand freezes on the back of my chair. “How did you know about—”

“The same way I know many things, dear.” She straightens her cardigan, with buttons that seem to be twinkling. “Now hurry along. Time flows differently when magic is involved, but even it has its limits.”

A sharp tingle races up my arm that is holding on to Mrs. Redmond’s as she slides her key into an ordinary-looking door. The metal glows, symbols flickering across its surface like living things. My fingers tighten around Mom’s fountain pen in my pocket.

“Close your eyes, dear. The first time can be disorienting.”

I squeeze them shut. The world spins, a rush of cold air whips past my face, and my stomach lurches as if I’m on a roller coaster. When the sensation stops, the scent of old books and leather replaces the cabin’s pine.

We’re in the library. How are we in the library?

My eyes flutter open. We’re standing in the rare books section, surrounded by towering shelves that seem to lean in curiously. The familiar creak of old wood and whisper of pages fills the air.

“That was...” I steady myself against a shelf, trying to find words.

“Quite efficient, isn’t it?” Mrs. Redmond moves between the stacks with practiced grace. Books shift on their shelves as she passes, like dogs straining to get attention. “Much better than driving in this weather.”

I follow her, noting how the shadows between the shelves seem deeper than usual. More alive. “The library feels different.”

“You’re seeing it with new eyes.” She pauses at an ancient oak desk, running her fingers along its surface. “Places hold memory and magic, if you know how to look.”

A book slides off a nearby shelf, landing at my feet with a soft thump. When I bend to pick it up, the leather cover warms beneath my touch.

“Interesting.” Mrs. Redmond peers over her glasses. “The books seem quite eager to help today.”

“Help with what exactly?”

“Understanding who you are, of course.” She gestures to the book in my hands. “Your mother spent quite a bit of time in this section.”

My heart stutters. “My mother? But she was just a regular librarian.”

Mrs. Redmond’s laugh echoes through the stacks. “Oh, my dear. Elizabeth was many things, but ‘regular’ was never one of them.”

The book in my hands suddenly feels heavier, more significant. I trace the unfamiliar symbols on its spine, watching as they shimmer under my touch.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Some truths require the right moment.” Mrs. Redmond’s buttons catch the light as she moves closer. “And some powers need time to wake naturally.”

The symbols on the spine start to shift and swirl, forming words I can somehow read. A Winter’s Promise . My mother’s elegant handwriting fills the pages, detailing her own awakening to magic.

“She made a deal?” The words catch in my throat as I scan the entries. “With Saint Nicholas?”

Mrs. Redmond adjusts her glasses. “To protect you until you were ready. Nicholas helped suppress your magic until you could handle it safely.”

That explains the constant Christmas “inspiration.” I close the journal, my fingers trembling. “Did she know about Krampus?”

“Your paths crossing wasn’t part of the arrangement.” A book flies off the shelf, and Mrs. Redmond catches it without looking. “But magic has its own ways.”

My head spins with revelations. The strange accidents growing up, the way stories seemed to write themselves, how children always gravitated toward me—it all makes sense now.

“You should visit the town square.” Mrs. Redmond tucks the new book into my hands. “The Academy children are practicing their lessons today.”

“But I should study more—“

“Some things can’t be learned from books.” She guides me toward the door. “Watch them. You might recognize something familiar.” She pats my arm warmly. “And when you’re done, be sure to come back and find me. I have a place you can stay upstairs.”

The town square buzzes with activity when I arrive. Children chase each other through the snow, their laughter echoing off the old buildings. A small group huddles near the fountain, heads bent together in concentration.

Suddenly, snowflakes spiral up from the ground, dancing in impossible patterns. I’ve seen this before, on our walk with Krampus. But he isn’t here now.

A little girl with pigtails squeals as her snowball hovers mid-air. Another boy’s eyes glow silver as he shapes the snow into tiny animals.

They’re doing this themselves. They’re like me.

“Miss Noelle!” The small girl with a silver streak in her hair waves, her snowball dissolving. “Watch what I can do!”

She scrunches her face in concentration, and frost spreads across the fountain in delicate spirals—just like the patterns that I imagined appeared in my tea when I’m deep in writing.

Oh.

The little boy next to her laughs. “Stop showing off, Sarah!”

My heart pounds as I watch the children playing. Everything clicks into place—their skilled control, Krampus carefully observing them, his vague mentions of their lessons.

“Can you teach us tricks?” Another child tugs at my sleeve. His purple eyes shine with barely contained power, snowflakes swirling around his mittened hands.

“I...” The words stick in my throat. I’m just learning this myself.

A crash draws my attention. Two boys wrestle near the fountain, their emotions making the ice crack and reform around them. Before I can move, Sarah steps between them.

“Stop it! Remember what Mr. Krampus said about control?”

The boys separate, shame-faced. The ice settles, smooth once more.

They’re not just magical, they’re learning. And Krampus is teaching them.

A small hand slips into mine and Sarah looks up at me, her eyes wise beyond her years. “You feel different today, Miss Noelle. Like us.”

“I think I am.” The admission feels both terrifying and freeing.

“We knew you were special.” She beams. “That’s why Mr. Krampus brought you here. He says some magic needs time to grow, like flowers in winter.”

Oh, Krampus. My chest aches. He’d known all along, had been protecting not just these children, but me too. And I’d rejected him, denied him in front of Victoria.

A snowball whizzes past my head, followed by a chorus of giggles. The children have resumed their play, their magic flowing naturally now that they’re not trying to hide it. Ice sculptures form and melt, snowflakes dance in impossible patterns, and the winter air hums with possibility.

I understand now why he’s so protective of them. They’re not naughty children needing punishment—they’re young magic users learning to control their gifts. His reputation for punishing bad children is a cover, protecting these precious souls until they can protect themselves.

Sarah tugs my hand again. “Will you help us practice? Mr. Krampus says you write the best stories.”

My throat tightens. “I don’t know if—”

But my magic responds before I can finish, frost and golden light spiraling from my fingers to create delicate illustrations in the air. The children gather around, eyes wide with wonder.

I have to find him. I have to make this right.