By the time I pushed open the door to Mama Perez’s café, I had already given up on the chance for cheesecake. It was well past sunset—several holiday hours after she typically sold out. Once again, the weather was cold and wet, with fine rain making everything just a little more unbearable in what was supposed to be a serene, snowy season.

  Those few flakes earlier were just promises undelivered!

  The bell above the entrance jingled mockingly as I stepped through, as if to say Order Ahead Next Time!

  Inside, the air was warm with the smell of baking goods and cinnamon sugar. People were jammed around tables, buried under shopping bags and presents. Meanwhile, Nora sat in our usual booth, dirty boots stretched under the table to prevent anyone from even thinking about engaging her in battle for the precious space.

  “Hey, Rae!” she called, straightening up so I could take a seat. “How was the latest one?”

  I grumbled as I poured myself into the booth, wiping the wet seat with my coat. “No one should be forced to do an oral presentation for a final.”

  “Strategic Communication for Business Leaders with Mr. Crowley?”

  “All I did was defend nonsense!” I groaned, letting my head thunk against the tabletop. “That villain had me propose development of the SmartSpoon. An internet-ready utensil with sensor-integrated technology that continuously judges you based on the nutritional value of whatever you scoop and how quickly you eat. Something everyone needs for every meal!”

  Nora made a wry face. “I suppose if you can sell that, you can sell anything. But onward to your reward, brave hero!”

  She pushed a plate toward me with a smug little flourish.

  Cheesecake.

  A perfect, glossy, delicately sliced piece, adorned with little dollops of whipped cream and fresh blueberries and strawberries.

  “Got here early and fought off all the mobs,” she remarked, sipping from a cup of coffee. “The rest of the cake is ready for take-out.”

  “You got Mama to give you a whole one?”

  Nora nodded and picked up her phone. After unlocking her screen and scrolling a bit, she frowned. “Even today’s crossword is holiday-themed. Too easy.” She started typing confidently. “Hah!”

  “So, the answers are like… stockings and star and such?”

  “Yeah… hmm. Ten down... Seven letters... Starts with a K…? Oh—Krampus!”

  “What’s that?” I immediately imagined a new holiday pastry.

  Maybe it’s made of dark chocolate.

  “You know, the Christmas demon.”

  I lowered my fork slowly. “… I’m sorry. The what?”

  “Krampus. Big horns… sticks… chains… kidnaps children who misbehave? Sometimes takes the really naughty ones to hell for a year? Very festive guy.”

  “Festive?!”

  Nora shrugged, still more focused on the phone than me. “He’s Santa’s counterpart for Good cop/Bad cop. It’s a tradition.”

  “No, it’s a crime!”

  Nora glanced up. “Most holiday celebrations lead to something like that,” she agreed. “Want to see what he looks like?”

  Before I could answer, she angled her phone so I could see the screen. The illustration showed a hulking goat-man with curled horns, a lolling tongue that almost reached the ground, and a bundle of birch sticks slung over one shoulder. Chains hung from his waist for easy access.

  “That doesn’t look like any demon I’ve ever seen!”

  Nora blinked once, then gave me a slow, pitiful look. “That’s because,” she said, drawing out the words, “you only read romantasy manhwas.”

  I sputtered. “I do not!”

  I’m cultured! I read all sorts of things!

  “You absolutely do,” she stated, jabbing a finger at me. “All your demons are tragic, brooding, bare-chested men with impossible jaw lines and sultry eyelashes.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but I was all out of lies I could use to refute her.

  Those are the best types!

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  She shook her head in mock disappointment. “Pick up a shonen manga every once in a while. Demons actually look like demons in those.”

  I glanced dubiously at her screen again. “That thing is going to haunt my dreams,” I muttered.

  “It should,” Nora chirped. “As I said, it’s tradition!”

  ***

  Home was quiet and withdrawn, with only a single streetlight showing the way. It was still drizzling, the temperature hovering just above freezing, so everything was slick with darkness. The locked front door signified Mother was out working late again. She had left a few lights on for Chester and me, ostensibly.

  “Chester?” I called.

  No answer, of course.

  “You want some treats?”

  That got a response.

  A streak of black and grey fur launched itself at me from the sofa. Chester landed halfway up my coat and scrambled up the front, going straight for the cheesecake box.

  “No! You can’t have this!”

  He batted the box so hard that the paper handle ripped, tipping it and splattering my cheesecake onto the floor.

  “Chester! You’re lactose intolerant!” I yelped as if he would understand the phrase. I grabbed him seconds before he could shove his face into it. He hissed, clearly convinced I was appropriating his kill.

  Holding him back with one arm, I salvaged what I could with the other. Some had stuck to the inside of the container, but the bulk was still on the floor.

  What a waste!

  But in this world, there is the Five-Second Rule.

  I’m still not exactly sure of its origins, but its application is universal in situations like this.

  It might not be approved by science, but definitive proof can be advanced by applying theory, which can only be achieved through sacrifices like mine.

  I scooped a large dollop directly into my mouth.

  Still just as delicious.

  Chester meowed indignantly from my armpit.

  “Don’t even. You know what happened last time you tried something like this. You wanna go to the vet again?”

  He flicked his tail, unimpressed.

  I ate a few more bites, quickly cycling through the stages of grief until I was moderately satisfied that I had consumed all that was appropriate.

  Damn SmartSpoon would have sassed me for this one for sure. That’s why it’s trash as a tool—it lacks any plausible use case.

  ***

  The cheesecake coma hit me like a tranquilizer dart. One minute I was sinking into my mattress, curling up to stave off the feeling of being overfull, and the next I was ankle-deep in snow.

  A cold breeze swept across a glowing, moon-lit field. Strangely, the edges of it were marked by several curved bookshelves. Oliver, the demonic manifestation of my subconscious, sat at a desk in the middle of it. He was a little more than annoyed as he pushed his arms outward across the desktop, plowing the snow off his prized parchments.

  “Decorating my desk is prohibited, Miss Rachel. Especially with something wet.”

  “Like I control the weather,” I scoffed, trudging through the drifts to him. “Wintertide’s here in my dreams, at least. Why don’t you take time away from your office, anyway? It’s like you’re a prisoner to it.”

  He glared with half-cracked eyes before shutting them again. “I assume you’re here for a reason beyond Happy Holidays?”

  I nodded. “I want to talk about Krampus, the Christmas Demon.”

  “I know no Krampus, nor Christmas. You’ll have to consult a subject matter expert.” He began stacking and shuffling rough pieces of parchment, shaking a few of the wetter ones for good measure.

  With folded arms, I took a good look at him. He was overworked and a bit ragged, which probably signified that I was feeling the same way. “Let me tell you about him, okay?”

  “If I say no, you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

  “You know me so well!”

  And so I did, going so far as to conjure up my phone to show him the picture.

  “No relation,” was all he said upon gazing at the illustration.

  “Cute. Very cute…” I sighed.

  He put a hand to his forehead. “What is it with your fixation on demons? Surely there must be other distractions more suited to your scrutiny.”

  “It just… bothers me,” I admitted finally. “The idea that something is considered evil from the start. That there’s no chance to change. No chance to do better. Just punishment forever.”

  Oliver’s expression softened, and guilt twisted in my stomach.

  “I mean… I do terrible things,” I went on, words tumbling out. “Half the time, I bet I don’t even know I’m doing them. Sure, intention probably matters and all that, but… I don’t know. I guess I feel like Krampus is evil, and he’s used by good to be evil to evil, and somehow that’s supposed to make everything right? And Santa over there—what guy decides it’s okay to beat up certain kids? It’s awful.”

  He tilted his head slightly, taking a rare moment to stare. “Tell me, what makes you think demons are real—” his eyes narrowed slightly, “—and not simply a construction invented to enforce expected behavioral norms?”

  “Well… we label things with tags like monster and demon, so the whole concept, whether they’re real or not, suggests that there’s some sort of being out there that can’t change and deserves to be punished for its intrinsic nature.”

  Oliver’s head lifted, eyes sharpening with genuine interest. “And what if this Krampus enjoys what he does? He’s doing what he is supposed to do. He didn’t look even half as bothered in that illustration as you do now.”

  “Then… shame on the one who gave him that role?”

  Oliver grinned, his tail snapping gleefully. “Shame indeed.”

  Feeling vaguely like I was the butt of an unspoken joke, I puffed my cheeks. “I like my perspective on demons.”

  “Then perhaps the only thing demons need to change is someone to believe that they can?”

  “I like that!” I agreed. “So, I’ll keep on believing change is possible, even if everyone else thinks otherwise.”

  Let he who has never had an unpopular thought cast the first stone.

  He nodded his head from side to side. “Well then, if you ever run into Krampus, encourage him, too. He'll probably refuse, of course, but who knows for sure? Just make sure you stay out of range of his switch.”

  A few flakes of snow began to fall on his desk again.

  “Sorry. I wish I could take it with me…” I mumbled, looking up at the hazy purple sky.

  “That would be for the best,” he agreed, standing up. “Let me pack it up for you.”

  “Very funny,” I muttered. “As if such a thing—”

  The falling flakes of snow swirled, collecting in his hand. He closed his palm, then opened it, revealing a small crystal with a large snowflake that began to float. “Don’t open it until you get back. I believe you told me that is the First Rule of bringing home take-out.

  I reached for it, accidentally brushing his hand in the process.

  Warm..?

  “Joyous Wintertide, Miss Rachel.”

  The snowfield brightened as I clasped it, and before I could answer, everything dissolved into soft white.

  Startled, I found myself in bed, the early morning illuminating a crisp, thick blanket of untouched snow.

  “It certainly is,” I murmured, watching the flakes drift past my window.