Page 11 of Blood and Bells

“How are you, Holly?”

“Peachy,” she says, though she obviously isn’t. “Where are we on the elf problem?”

I clear my throat and adjust the napkin over my lap while gesturing at the teen behind the counter. I catch the barista’s eye and mime a cup. She nods—table service appears to be a seasonal miracle—and I turn back to Holly. While the stimulant effects of caffeine do nothing for me since I turned, I still rather enjoy the taste. Technically, the Knit and Kettle doesn’t do table service, but I am a vampire, and so the girl will inevitably do as I ask.

“You seem particularly intense this morning.”

“I suppose for an immortal, human trivialities like days and weeks are barely worth noticing,” she snaps. “But to us, they matter. The festival is in a week. We have no tree. You said you’d help. So fine. Help.”

It’s impossible to miss how the light filtering through the frosted window plays on Holly’s face, and I once again note that the weariness she carries seems heavier than usual, as if it’s woven into the loose threads of her sweater or the way her hair rebelliously frizzes at the ends.

I’ve seen humans unravel before, but with Holly, it stirs something unfamiliar—a tug, faint and persistent.

Marcy’s eyes widen at Holly’s demeanor, and I struggle to keep the smile glued to my face. Thankfully, the server comes over with my coffee and places it in front of me. I thank her, and she scurries off, and I pick up the steaming hot coffee and take a sip.

“Ah,” Marcy exclaims. “Careful, you’ll burn your mouth.”

“I can’t be hurt. At least not by coffee.” I set my drink down and raise an eyebrow at her. “And you’d be surprised how much heat I can withstand.”

Marcy melts under my attention and innuendo, which is as it should be. Another useful reminder that Holly’s continuous wall of disdain is the anomaly, rather than the rule.

Of course it is. I’m delightful.

This is a Frost problem, not a reflection of me in the slightest.

Holly punctures that thought with a cough.

“That is the worst line I’ve ever heard in my life, and a man once asked me if I was a fruit because I look like a fineapple,” she says.

“To business, then,” I say. “It’s not quite that simple. Rogue elves are a tricky business. Anyone can chase one or two off, but making them stay gone—that’s the trick.”

“How long will it take? I can’t have them flitting around while I figure out what to do about the tree.”

“Ah.” I raise a finger. “Which brings us to an important distinction. What’s the priority: getting rid of the elves, or getting the tree back? We likely can’t do both at once.”

Her brow wrinkles quite wonderfully as she considers the question, and it becomes obvious how much this matters to her. I can’t recall the last time I cared about something enough to worry over it. How interesting. Perhaps I’ve spent too much time buried in paperwork. Mortals and their dilemmas are far more entertaining.

“Tree first,” she finally says. “I can’t risk its absence. The whole festival is anchored around it. It would look stupid when the dancers I’ve hired to perform ‘Dance around the Christmas Tree’ don’t have an actual Christmas Tree.”

“Smart choice. And finding it will likely solve the other problem. The elves appearing at the time that the tree disappeared is hardly a coincidence. I suspect they have it. We can do both.”

“So why,” she says through gritted teeth, “did you ask me to pick one or the other?”

“Oh,” I say, waving a hand. “It sounded more dramatic.”

“I knew it!” She bangs the table, earning a frown from the married couple at the table by the window. “You’re not serious about this at all. This is a diversion for you. Something to occupy your time.”

Holly’s voice is blade-sharp and cutting. Her words are not particularly scathing—I’ve heard worse over the centuries—but they carry a heat, a spark of passion that my kind rarely gets to experience.

I shouldn’t want to stoke that fire.

And yet, I do.

I find myself wanting its heat, drawn to it as if I were a moth. Perhaps this is part of what I find so thoroughly confusing about Holly Frost. She’s like oil to my water, the heat of summer when all I want is winter’s cool, and I cannot stay away from her.

“That’s all life is,” I say, wondering if philosophical musings might impress her. “Doing things to occupy your time. Opening a bar. Sitting here having a coffee. Would you prefer it if I helped by making more time appear or something? How would that even work? I’m not a wood sprite.”

“Wood sprites can make time appear?” Marcy asks. “Since when?”