Page 103 of Blood and Bells

He remains utterly unchanged by his interaction with Santa, as if he truly is a renewable resource of despair.

As we pass, he inclines his head. “I’ve been up all night. This batch was supposed to scream when you bite them. They’ve settled on a disappointed wheeze.”

Nick pauses. “Of course they have.”

I pick one up, eyeing it cautiously. “That’s…is that worse?”

“It lacks conviction,” Crinkshaw says.

Nick gestures to the tray. “Have you considered giving them tiny existential crises instead?”

“They already have those, Sire,” Crinkshaw says. “It’s the aftertaste that’s wrong.”

I snort, quickly setting the gingerbread zombie down.

“Impressive work,” Nick adds, gently. “Truly festive.”

Crinkshaw sighs, the sound of centuries of disappointment distilled into one breath. “I aim to unsettle.”

We move on before I’m tempted to test the wheeze.

The square hums around us—people milling, laughing, voices overlapping in that easy way that means no one’s bracing for disaster anymore. Vampires and townsfolk mingle with surprising ease, dark mugs in hand, the whole thing a little chaotic, a little uneven, and entirely ours.

We make our way toward the towering tree, and I can’t help but stop. The ornaments catch the light just right, scattering a kaleidoscope of color across the square, and the once-crooked star now glows warmly—a beacon of what we’ve overcome.

Nick glances at me, his silver eyes soft. “You did this, Holly.”

I shake my head. “We did this.”

I glance up at the star crowning the tree, its light steady now. There’s no flicker. No strain. No sense that it might all decide to turn on us at any moment. It feels like nothing is waiting to go wrong.

Which, frankly, is suspicious.

But also…nice.

Around us, the square hums on. Without caution. People are enjoying the evening. They’re unworried. Laughing too loudly, arguing about marshmallow versus hot chocolate ratios, and building a snowman that has, through some combination of enthusiasm and questionable judgment, acquired fangs, a cape, and a level of personal dignity that is not, in any meaningful sense, earned.

“Do you think this would have happened if the Christmas tree hadn’t been stolen?” I ask.

Nick considers the square, the lights, the entirely unnecessary number of snow-based initiatives currently underway.

“No,” he says. “I think you’d have had a perfectly respectable evening. Minimal peril. Modest decorations. More caramel and less property damage.”

I nod. “We were so close to that.”

“A near miss,” he agrees. “Shame about the rogue elves. And the reindeer stampede. And the wind sprite attempting to redecorate the town on a conceptual level.”

“It wouldn’t have been the same. And yet,” I say, glancing around.

Nick follows my gaze again.

At the cocoa station, Mrs. Christie hands a mug to one of the vampires with the air of a woman who has decided this is fine and will remain fine if everyone behaves. He accepts it like it might bite him back.

“It’s all just…working,” I say.

Nick hums softly. “It is.”

Which, after everything, feels faintly improbable and earned.