These alps don’t mess around, I think to myself as I concentrate on cleaning out a deep wound on Remme’s chest. The amount of wounds he has is impressive. Does he even feel pain? I look up to his face to see if he is even wincing as I probe the wound with a gauze but instead his eyes are focused on me.

I have been kneeling close to him in his bed, aware his eyes have been on me the whole time. I feel a slight flush as I wonder what he is thinking. Especially if he knew I was not wearing underwear.

He shows me how to approximate wounds when bandaging to allow them to heal better, the first time, taking my hands in his and guiding them.

Most of the superficial ones he just covers with an antibacterial salve. It smells minty and I can only imagine it stings as it is applied. I follow his lead and smear it into wounds, feeling a burn at my fingertips as I touch his skin.

I have him flip to his back. Less wounds but there is a gaping one, visible deep into muscle.

“I think this one needs stitches.” As I swab it with iodine.

“Never had stitches before and I’ve survived.”

It's a wonder he's alive. Masochist.

“How about we practice your magic? Often, it can heal if you control it.” He turns his head to look at me as he speaks, I narrow my eyes at him in annoyance.

He is very aware I've hardly ever used my magic, none the less control it. But moreso, “Why didn't you do that on all your wounds, rather than have me spend an hour doing this patchwork job?” If he didn’t heal himself just so I would touch him for the past hour...

“It's hard to heal yourself. It's like…” he pauses to find the right words, “you short circuit yourself.”

“You are aware, I have no control over my magic.”

“I know you want to learn.”

“Actually, I think you want me to learn.” I’m not sure I even want to explore that side of me. My self-confidence was based on my ability to turn heads and ice heart, but with words not physical ice. As wonderfully wicked it would be to throw ice daggers instead of eye daggers, it is less practical in the human world.

“Of course. I love a challenge and you are proving to be just that. So let’s give it a go.” I raise an eyebrow at him. This version of him is different from his carefully crafted facade. Or he really has a thing for pain. “First, I usually put my palm on the open skin and think about closing it, visualizing the skin knitting back together. For me, through the warmth of a snowfall. For you…” He thinks for a moment. “Maybe melting ice? Like melting ice filling in the gap?”

“You are ok with me trying, even though I have no faith in myself?”

“You have to practice on someone, and I don’t want your hands on anyone else.”

I place my hand over the large gaping wound and close my eyes. I'm starting to shake, so nervous I'll slice him open further. I try to steady my breath and just think healing, warm thoughts. My mind drifts to the fireplace and hot cocoa.

“Fuck. Stop. That is not how you do it.”

My eyes fly open. Curses. What have I done? I remove my hands, afraid it will uncover an ice knife in him. My hand reveals the wound is no bigger. Relief that I might have done something right, I notice the blood has stopped oozing. But his skin feels really cold.

“I think you gave me frostbite.”

“I told you I don't know what I'm doing!”

“You thought of fiery ice, not warming ice.”

A flush of shame rushes across my cheeks but I look up, I see his face is not mad. In fact, he seems pleased. “At least you were able to do something. You tried. Ok, try again.”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He turns his head back towards his pillow which I see he has grabbed in his fists now.

I visualize a liquid ice filling the wound, first bringing together the deepest parts and slowly working my way up to the skin. I only get the bottom together in my mind, and I already feel exhausted. I stop as I worry the fatigue might result in me losing control.

I opened my eyes. It’s a little less deep.

I calm myself and try one more time but I hardly last a few seconds.

“This is really hard, but I think it’s less deep now.” I’m proud of my work.

“You can probably suture it now, I’m still numb from the frostbite.”

“Funny thing, I also don’t know how to suture.”

He tells me to go to a chest of drawers at one end of his room. I open it up and find all sorts of sewing and knitting supplies

“You knit?” I open up a pack of new needles and grab a spool of thread.

“I live alone on a mountain, hours away from civilization. What do you think?” He sounds defensive.

I soak the needle and thread in iodine. “What do you like to knit?” I hum. A vision of sitting by the fire, knitting together, with cocoa, flashes in my mind.

“Mainly socks and mittens. They are not pretty but they are warmer than anything you’d find in a store. Do you find it amusing that a demon spends his free time knitting?”

“I knit too.” I am looking at his back trying how to get into position to bring together his wound. “I think I'm going to have to sit on your back to sew the sutures.” Without his approval, I hitch up the nightgown and try to keep myself covered as I straddle his back.

“Talk to me. I need to be distracted as you do this.”

“Do you ever get lonely up here?”

“If you haven't figured it out, I don't typically have houseguests.” That really didn't answer the question. I start the first stitch and he winces with the needle in his skin. I guess the frostbite was not too deep.

“Do you have any family?”

He shifts uncomfortably under me.

“Families are not much of a thing in our society. There have been no known female Krampus in 300 years. To ensure the next generation, most krampus males are, ummm, very friendly with human females.” Interesting choice of words. “I have a father but he was not much of a parent. He’s a lineage I follow at the council of krampus. I have lots of brothers though, including Aloysius.” I chuckle at the fact Aloysius is his brother.

“So you are part human?” I finished the top half of the sutures. I wipe the wound with iodine again, and start on the lower part.

“My mother was human. She and her husband, the man I call my father, raised me. She was single and pregnant with me, another man’s child, when he fell in love with her. He loved me as his own. I owe him everything. Still see my half-siblings a few times a year, but our relationship has never been perfect. I was always different from them, even before I knew I was a Krampus.

“The father that raised me was American. We went to American schools as a kid, even lived in Washington DC when I was young. I’m also not like the other Krampus, often raised in more rural traditional families. A bit of an oddball on both sides.” I recognize this second part was important for him to share his connection to me.

“What else do you want to know about me, stormy?”

“When did you know you were not human?”

“Most krampus do not manifest until we are young adults. As you can imagine, with how we reproduce, most of us only have heard about Krampus as a childhood horror story. It never goes well.” His body tenses. “I was at a bar, drunk, and got into a fight when my claws appeared. I had no idea and I gutted two men. I can still see their guts fall out in front of me.

"I was on the run from the law for a while until a council elder found me and took me in. I had lost my life, my future. They want us that way, in complete despair so we don’t return to the human world.” His voice was distant. I wonder what he lost.

“We can do better, we can identify Krampus before they harm others. I know this now, but the elders are hesitant with change, so it persists. Hesitant with any suggestion that they do not propose first.” He snorts. “Hesitant with anything that might expose our hidden world.” He’s talking more to himself than me at this point. I can feel the raging emotions in his speech. I finish the last suture but let him continue, a bit afraid to interrupt.

“With each generation, we are more human and less Krampus. We are less blood thirsty and more rational, more interested in protecting humans from evil beings. Part of the reason we have become fallen demons. But there are some rules we irrationally hold on to, that make us no better than the demons of our ancestors.”

I let silence linger for a while, to ensure he is done but also as I have nothing I can add. I place my hands on his upper back, squeezing gently at his neck, trying to release his tension. As I do for Gabe when it’s been a long day. I can see his muscles relax with each deep breath.

“The stitches are done, but I'm worried it's going to get infected. You have to let me check them everyday.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'll take my shirt off for you once a day,” he says as he turns over underneath me. I am now sitting right on the lower part of the chest. I flush at our sudden intimate positioning. He shifts so I am sitting down further, and places his hands on my thighs. He feels so warm under me. My insides turn wet, as slowly he moves his hands up my thighs.

His eyes, fixated on me, are more than just ones of physical desire.

“You should rest. It’s late and you don’t want to tear the sutures,” implying I know what he wants and I have a non-negotiable reason to deny him

“Thank you, Isa.” He says my name so softly, the softness of a light snow. “I forgot what it was like to have someone take care of me.”