Page 28 of Blood and Bells

“Don’t mind Crinkshaw,” Nick says. “He’s upset because I vetoed his all-vampire caroling troupe. Undead harmonies are, generally speaking, an acquired taste.”

“I won’t be lectured on taste by someone who believes solid black represents the height of fashion.” Crinkshaw’s voice sounds like parchment turning at midnight, and I shudder involuntarily. Nick sends him a look that would make most mortals wish they were dead.

“Oh, be pleasant, Crinkshaw. Holly was just saying how much she likes the decorations,” he says in a tone as smooth as eggnog. “She might even need an assistant next year.”

At this, the half-dead gargoyle comes to life and starts rambling about the decorations and the hours he’s spent decorating the mansion. Apparently, he insists on a mix of festive cheer and vampiric flair, meticulously curating every detail. The tree in the kitchen, for example. The glass ornaments are shaped like bats and the icicles hanging around us gleam faintly red at the tips, as if dipped in blood.

My eyes lock onto the topper of the tree. Looking away might be possible, but it would take real effort. The plastic, googly-eyed bat wearing a lopsided Santa hat, clutching a candy cane like a tiny festive vampire is not something I ever expected to witness.

“Is that really what you put on the top of your tree?”

Crinkshaw scoffs. “What else would the lady expect at Bloodmas?”

“Bloodmas?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Nick says, leaning back in his chair. “Sure, the name is a little dramatic, but we try to do our part. Festivities, gift-giving, the whole thing. Just, you know, with a bit more blood and a lot less mistletoe.”

Ronan lets out a low chuckle. “It’s a little loophole. Vampires had a historical disagreement with a certain person in charge of Christmas, so we are politely excluded from partaking in the magic. But they can’t stop us from having our own festival, at exactly the same time of year, with vampire-themed decorations.”

Crinkshaw laughs and it’s unpleasant. His long and bony fingers tap against each other and I can’t decide if he’s trying to be merry or kill off the conversation. His features turn even more gruesome as he tries to smile and then recites story after story about the good old days, when mortals found the traditions vampires keep over Christmas unsettling. Eventually, he grinds to a halt and sniffs indignantly, oozing the opposite of festive cheer.

“One does not slap a wreath on a door and call it Bloodmas, Sire. There’s an art. Balance. Elegance. Decorum.”

“One that required skull-shaped baubles and nutcracker sentinels?” I ask, pointing to the decorations.

“And bats,” Crinkshaw says, missing the sarcasm entirely.

Nick retrieves a leather tube from the sideboard and eases out a vellum map dusted with cinnamon sugar. I glance around the room, at the gleaming decorations and twinkling lights, and now the winter wonderland made of old sheets of paper. It’s bizarre, but it fits in a weird, twisted way. Vampires embracing Christmas with an over-the-top flair feels oddly appropriate.

He spreads the map out on the table, pointing to a shaded area on the outskirts of town. “This is where we think the Hollow of Mischief is. Because it’s a pocket dimension of sorts, it’s accessible only at certain times and under certain conditions.”

“But it won’t be easy to get in,” Ronan says, his voice low and measured. “The Hollow of Mischief is temperamental.”

“Temperamental how?”

“Think of it like a Christmas snow globe,” Nick says. “Shake, and the inside decides to rearrange you instead.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It shouldn’t,” Ronan grumbles. “It would be better if the lass stayed here.”

Nick and I shake our heads in unison and although we’re agreeing, it’s clearly for different reasons. I’m determined to go, whereas Nick’s resigned to it. Neither Ronan nor Crinkshaw pushes the idea of me staying behind, though Ronan’s disapproving gaze flickers between us as Nick begins laying out a plan.

The Hollow of Mischief, as it turns out, isn’t just temperamental—it’s downright malicious. It shifts its entrance like a trick door in a haunted house. We’ll need to wait for the right time, and finding it will require navigating through an area that will likely be defended by legions of rogue elves.

The map sprawled across the table is littered with notes and markings, each one a reminder of how little control we’ll have once we step inside. There are traps, both physical and magical, and if the vampires are right, it’s a twisted, backward place. Nick traces a path with his finger, explaining potential entry points, while Crinkshaw jots down a list of supplies we’ll need and fetches hot cocoa whenever I need it. Trays appear with warm banana bread, sugared cranberries, and something labeled experimental stollen, which tastes like a hug.

There’s a practicality to the planning that I didn’t expect. For all Nick’s bravado, he doesn’t cut corners. He’s meticulous, considering every angle, and it’s clear that this isn’t just a job for him—it’s personal. As someone whose most enduring relationship in the past fourteen months has been with her clipboard, this aspect of him is strangely compelling.

I watch, trying to reconcile the vampire I thought he was with the one standing here now. Last night, he carried me through the snow without a word of complaint, and this morning, he’d made sure I was comfortable before diving into this mission. Even now, as he talks about rogue elves and magical traps, there’s a quiet determination about him that feels genuine.

I’m less worried about failing because he’s helping me, and I think I rather like it. It’s been a long time since anyone made me feel like this, but it’s impossible to deny that Nick makes me feel better and like I can do anything I want to. He’s not the smug opportunist I thought he was—not entirely, anyway. There’s more to him, something deeper beneath the layers of sarcasm and charm.

The plan comes together in pieces, each step carefully considered. When Nick finally rolls up the map, the room falls quiet, the weight of what’s ahead settling over us like the first snowfall of the season.

“You ready for this, Frost?”

“Born ready,” I say with a bravado I don’t feel. “The question is, are you? I heard rogue elves are particularly vicious toward vampires with inflated egos.”