Page 25 of Blood and Bells

“Ha!” she cries and flashes a triumphant smirk as she punches another elf and more tinsel blooms around her. “Season’s beatings!”

A stray elf slams a candy cane against her upper thigh. She hollers in pain and falls into a nearby snowbank. I cry out and lunge to help, but suddenly there are elves everywhere. Another group leaps on top of her and this time they act as if they’re going to carry her away. Her cries have gone from frustration to genuine terror. She’s in trouble.

Enough of this.

There are lines, and these creatures have skipped merrily past all of them.

They’ve hurt someone under my protection, and that alone is sufficient for them to know my wrath. Yet something colder settles into place. Something older. Far less inclined to tolerate this nonsense.

No more snowballs. No more games.

Reputation matters. Precision matters. And I am very, very good at resolving problems. Especially the sort that come gift-wrapped in trouble and poor decisions.

These rogue elves are about to discover how unfortunate their choices have been.

All of them.

I attack.

Time slows as I move from one elf to another. One takes a punch to the head and explodes into tinsel. Another barely manages a befuddled groan before I hammer it in the chest.

I am fully in the midst of them, and it is a Christmas extravaganza. My hands become tidy little snowplows, my speed a festive blur. They fall before me as easily as a child might blow over a dandelion, and I’m soon covered in tinsel. And streamers. And something that looks suspiciously like glitter.

Crinkshaw will have to work to get my outfit suitably pristine again.

The fight takes mere moments, and as the last elf scampers off, cackling and screaming something about Rudolph and stampedes, I rush to Holly’s side to check she’s okay. She’s completely immersed in a snowbank, with only her arms and legs visible, and they flail comically. I pull her out, chuckling at the sight but also nearly limp with relief that she’s okay. Her eyes are wide with shock and something else. Is that glimmer back? I help her to her feet and brush snow from her sweater.

“That was…” she gasps. “You were…”

“Did you yell Season’s beatings?”

It’s impossible to tell if the blush is a lingering effect of the fight or embarrassment from her terrible line. All I’m aware of is the heat of her, the closeness of her body, the way she trembles under my touch.

She goes to put weight on her legs. They’re unable to support her and she stumbles.

“You’re hurt.” I rush to put my arm around her.

“It’s nothing,” she says.

“It’s something.”

Our eyes lock and, for a moment, it looks like she’s going to argue.

“I don’t understand you, Draven.”

“What’s to understand?” I give her my megawatt smile. “I am, broadly speaking, delightful.”

She snorts and once again tries to put weight on her leg, but it’s not going to hold. I bend over to inspect the damage.

“It doesn’t look broken, but you can’t walk on that. You need hot water, a compress, and an unreasonable amount of cocoa.”

“It’s fine. I don’t need your help.”

She’s too stubborn for her own good, and she needs a firm hand.

“You’re not limping through the snow, Frost. Martyrdom’s for Easter, not Christmas. You’re coming with me.”

Before she can object, I scoop her into my arms. On instinct, she reaches to clasp around my neck, and it’s striking how perfectly she fits. This could become a habit. I may never let her go.