I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
He snarls, ashen lips peeling back to reveal the yellowed, blunt teeth beneath. Ears pin back and find their For a moment, brief and hot between his teeth, Bruise is pleased to see that the boy reacts, that the Fear begins to drip down his throat and curdle in his belly. And he is pleased. Incredibly so. His mouth splits open, the naked skull grinning in this illusion of his creation. But it does not last. Because the boy is not just annoying, he is idiotic—he stands his ground and bites back. Bruise suppresses a growl in his throat.
His hand pauses on the Fear, eases his control of it, but the illusions remain, and he speaks through the gore as it gushes between his rotten teeth. “Because you are blind,” crimson spittle flying forward, his head cocking to the side and giving him a gruesome smile. “Because you bear father’s colors and his shape but not his true self.” He does not have the Fear rising up within him like smoke, like poison.
It is a victory for the young Krampus.
“You will have to pay for that,” Bruise counters and when the rage rises within him, it is sweet, and he savors the taste of it, playing it around his jaw. But he has had enough with this pleasantries. He’s had enough of conversation so he pulls the Fear again, manipulating the natural emotions and amplifying them. With alien grace he rushes forward and strikes out, teeth against flesh, before dancing away again.
Then on the other side, he rises up and over the colt, striking out with ragged, cloven hooves. His nostrils flare to drink in whatever of the Fear he can reach and he laughs low. Another blow, this time aiming to hit the young boy’s shoulder, before he comes down and lunges, blunt teeth snapping at any area he can find purchase: his neck, his ear, his eye. He breathes steadily but says nothing—only continues to sculpt.
