Page 3 of Blood and Bells

“Nick, the last time you got involved in town business, the entire Harvest Festival had to be moved because you turned the corn maze into a bat habitat.”

“I added ambiance,” he says smoothly. “I can’t help it if mortals lack an appreciation for theatrics.”

“Theatrics? You had cotton candy bats dive-bombing children.”

“They were harmless. Besides, the children seemed to enjoy the thrill. Bam. Bat in the mouth. They loved it. Their parents simply overreacted.”

This is exactly why I don’t want his help. He collects chaos like other people collect snow globes, and I’m fairly sure the label on the bottom says “For Niklaus Draven’s amusement only.” Willow Creek doesn’t need his drama. I definitely don’t need his scheming and backstabbing. What I need are solutions, and I’m coming up short.

He steps closer, invading my personal space with his aggravating calm and cologne. Infuriatingly, he smells like cinnamon and night air. My treacherous lungs inhale again before my brain can file a complaint. God, the vampire is attractive and he knows it, weaponizing it against every girl who comes his way. I refuse to let myself become another entry in his mental guest list of admirers.

“Frost, I’m aware my methods and your methods tend to meet somewhere around mutual disapproval. But the town tree is gone, your Winter Wonderland is teetering on the edge of becoming a festive disaster, and—” he gestures lightly to the chaos “—this is precisely the sort of thing that spirals.”

There’s less performance in him now. More memory, perhaps.

“I’ve seen what happens when it does. One mishap becomes two, becomes panic, and then something people remember for all the wrong reasons.” He glances back at me. “My coven and I like it here, Holly. We were rather hoping to stay. Possibly even attempt this ‘community spirit’ I keep hearing about.”

“You? Community spirit?”

“Try not to faint. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Let me fix this for you, Holly. Rogue elves are nothing to scoff at and you need someone who understands their nature. Their quirks. Their weaknesses and how to exploit them.”

“Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re an expert on rogue elves, too?”

“I’ve encountered them before.”

“When? At some secret vampire-elf mixer I didn’t hear about?”

“Vampires and elves don’t mix,” he says with a smirk. “Too many territorial disputes. But I’ve dealt with rogue creatures enough to know how to track them, and how to stop them before they cause more damage.”

Before I can argue further, there’s another crash, followed by a shrill laugh that makes my skin crawl. One of the elves has climbed onto the inflatable snowman and is using a broken candy cane to puncture it. Repeatedly. It wheezes again, deflating in slow, agonizing defeat.

“Fine! You want to help? Be my guest. But if you so much as think about turning this into one of your dramatic stunts⁠—”

Nick holds up a hand, mock solemn. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a Scout.”

“True. But I am an excellent vampire.”

With a wholly unnecessary flourish of his long coat, he walks toward the elves like he’s auditioning for a gothic superhero role. Walking isn’t even the right word. He’s strutting. I follow reluctantly, muttering under my breath about terrible decisions and the inevitability of this blowing up in my face. But I do need those elves to leave, and if I’m honest, they creep me out.

As we approach the center of the square, an elf notices us. Its tiny, pointy face scrunches up in a snarl, and it hisses like the aforementioned feral cat.

Nick stops, tilting his head like he’s studying a particularly interesting bug. “You see that, Frost? Classic rogue elf behavior. Aggression, lack of self-control, and an unhealthy attachment to destruction.”

“Aggression, lack of control, and destruction,” I deadpan. “Should I get you a mirror? Are we going to do something about it, or are you here to give a TED Talk on elf psychology?”

Ignoring me, Nick scoops up a handful of snow. He packs it into a tight ball, his movements deliberate and precise. He presses his feet into the snow, almost as if he’s taking up a position, and then he waits, watching the rogue elves as they cause more havoc on Willow Creek. They haven’t come for us yet, seemingly quite happy to destroy whatever decorations remain in the town’s square.

Against my better judgment, I scoop my own handful of snow. It’s cold, obvious, and exactly the kind of plan you make when your Plan A was “giant municipal tree.”

“What are you doing?”

“Engaging,” he says simply, then hurls the snowball with unerring accuracy.

It smacks a rogue elf square in the face. The elf lets out an indignant screech, stumbling backward and landing on its tiny butt. For a moment, the other elves freeze, their beady little eyes darting between Nick and their fallen comrade.