went off the next afternoon, I hit the snooze button with a painful groan.
The police had kept us for another two hours after Joey and I decided to take our fieldtrip. Children had fallen asleep on the grass and in their parents’ laps. The food trucks shut down after they ran out of food. The music was turned off so as not to disturb the neighborhoods. The witches in the crowd worked together to cast warming charms to keep the chill away. If they had kept us five minutes longer, there might have been a riot. It would have been a slow, shuffling riot, like a zombie march, but it would have been a riot nonetheless.
My alarm went off again, those precious seven minutes gone in the blink of an eye. It was so early that not even Artemis was awake. Normally when I woke, he was standing on my bladder demanding I get up and pour him some cream. Instead, he was curled up on a pillow, breathing heavy and slow. How I envied him.
There was a knock at my door, quick and light. I groaned again and threw off my covers, turned off my alarm, and stumbled out of my bedroom. The floor was cold against my bare feet and I almost tripped on my flannel pajama bottoms, but I got my balance and opened the door to a bright-eyed Joey. She was a spot of pink in my vision. Being a pixie meant that she was awake at all hours, stealing catnaps through the night and day.
I waved her in as I turned away, making a line for my coffee pot. The early afternoon sun streamed through the windows, and I grumbled again as I poured my first cup. After a generous addition of cream and sugar, I took a sip.
“I thought you were already up,” Joey said, helping herself to the fridge.
“I’m up,” I mumbled.
“Sorta.” She took a carton of noodles out of the fridge and found a pair of chopsticks.
“I’m up,” I said again, and left her there while I went to the bathroom to put myself together. I might need a rejuvenation elixir to get myself going if the coffee didn’t kick in soon. By the time I was ready to get out the door, Artie had woken and demanded feeding before he would let me go.
When we pulled up to the museum, it took me ten minutes to find a parking space. People flowed in and out of the museum as we scaled the wide steps to the entrance. People were squealing and laughing, and when we got to the top of the stairs, I saw why.
Standing in front of the entrance was a man dressed like Santa Claus, his booming laugh and real snowy beard showing why he got the job, and next to him was Krampus. The costume was impressive, making the man inside look twice as big as he probably was. His horns glistened in the sunlight and reached two and a half feet over his shaggy head. His face was contorted into a permanent scowl, showing sharp fangs that glistened with lacquer, black lips, and a long red tongue that was permanently lolled out.
He held a long, thin birch branch and was swatting passersby with it, which accounted for the squeals and laughter. Joey and I hesitated, watching that branch swing back and forth, the man inside the Krampus suit wielding it with uncanny precision.
“Okay,” Joey said, “that is actually really creepy.”
“I told you.”
Dozens of camera phones were pointed at the spectacle, and when one guy tried to take a selfie with the raging Krampus in the background, he was rewarded with an epic swat on the ass, almost making him trip down the stairs. His friends hooted and hollered their approval. Santa shook his gloved finger at Krampus, chortling good-naturedly. That, to me, was way creepier.
A lone woman tried to walk by as quickly as her kitten heels would let her, but Krampus spotted her. I gasped, thinking he would try to swat her—I didn’t want to see the thin twigs hit her bare legs under her power skirt—but that wasn’t what I should have worried about. Krampus threw his branch down and ran after the woman.
Feeling his presence, she looked over her shoulder, screamed, and broke into a run, but she
The police had kept us for another two hours after Joey and I decided to take our fieldtrip. Children had fallen asleep on the grass and in their parents’ laps. The food trucks shut down after they ran out of food. The music was turned off so as not to disturb the neighborhoods. The witches in the crowd worked together to cast warming charms to keep the chill away. If they had kept us five minutes longer, there might have been a riot. It would have been a slow, shuffling riot, like a zombie march, but it would have been a riot nonetheless.
My alarm went off again, those precious seven minutes gone in the blink of an eye. It was so early that not even Artemis was awake. Normally when I woke, he was standing on my bladder demanding I get up and pour him some cream. Instead, he was curled up on a pillow, breathing heavy and slow. How I envied him.
There was a knock at my door, quick and light. I groaned again and threw off my covers, turned off my alarm, and stumbled out of my bedroom. The floor was cold against my bare feet and I almost tripped on my flannel pajama bottoms, but I got my balance and opened the door to a bright-eyed Joey. She was a spot of pink in my vision. Being a pixie meant that she was awake at all hours, stealing catnaps through the night and day.
I waved her in as I turned away, making a line for my coffee pot. The early afternoon sun streamed through the windows, and I grumbled again as I poured my first cup. After a generous addition of cream and sugar, I took a sip.
“I thought you were already up,” Joey said, helping herself to the fridge.
“I’m up,” I mumbled.
“Sorta.” She took a carton of noodles out of the fridge and found a pair of chopsticks.
“I’m up,” I said again, and left her there while I went to the bathroom to put myself together. I might need a rejuvenation elixir to get myself going if the coffee didn’t kick in soon. By the time I was ready to get out the door, Artie had woken and demanded feeding before he would let me go.
When we pulled up to the museum, it took me ten minutes to find a parking space. People flowed in and out of the museum as we scaled the wide steps to the entrance. People were squealing and laughing, and when we got to the top of the stairs, I saw why.
Standing in front of the entrance was a man dressed like Santa Claus, his booming laugh and real snowy beard showing why he got the job, and next to him was Krampus. The costume was impressive, making the man inside look twice as big as he probably was. His horns glistened in the sunlight and reached two and a half feet over his shaggy head. His face was contorted into a permanent scowl, showing sharp fangs that glistened with lacquer, black lips, and a long red tongue that was permanently lolled out.
He held a long, thin birch branch and was swatting passersby with it, which accounted for the squeals and laughter. Joey and I hesitated, watching that branch swing back and forth, the man inside the Krampus suit wielding it with uncanny precision.
“Okay,” Joey said, “that is actually really creepy.”
“I told you.”
Dozens of camera phones were pointed at the spectacle, and when one guy tried to take a selfie with the raging Krampus in the background, he was rewarded with an epic swat on the ass, almost making him trip down the stairs. His friends hooted and hollered their approval. Santa shook his gloved finger at Krampus, chortling good-naturedly. That, to me, was way creepier.
A lone woman tried to walk by as quickly as her kitten heels would let her, but Krampus spotted her. I gasped, thinking he would try to swat her—I didn’t want to see the thin twigs hit her bare legs under her power skirt—but that wasn’t what I should have worried about. Krampus threw his branch down and ran after the woman.
Feeling his presence, she looked over her shoulder, screamed, and broke into a run, but she
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