Page 33 of Blood and Bells

“I’m having a perfectly normal, completely justified reaction to seeing this nightmare version of Christmas,” I mutter, brushing off the awkwardness like snowflakes on a coat. “And I’m not a screamer.”

Nick laughs, a deep rumble that cuts through the Hollow of Mischief’s eeriness. “Sure, Frost. Keep telling yourself that.”

We make our way further into the grove of trees. There’s not a path exactly, but rather a slight thinning of the trees that we follow. Nick leads the way like he’s been here before, and I’m learning that with Nick Draven, it’s impossible to separate unearned confidence from actual knowledge.

We march in silence, an awkward parade through this snowy madness, trying not to draw any attention. Crinkshaw produces a thermos and presses it into my hands.

“Cocoa. Calming,” he rasps.

I take a sip, and it’s flawless. Nick winks at me, and I wonder about the relationship between vampires and their not-incorrect belief that hot chocolate solves nearly everything.

And then Ronan speaks, in his default voice, which is a bellow.

“I’m not sure why we’re even bothering to sneak around,” he rumbles, entirely unconcerned with alerting anyone. “Battle is the way to solve this. Whoever’s behind this will have to face Sally.”

Nick’s expression shifts from amused to serious in an instant. “Easy, Ronan. The goal is to get the tree while escaping notice. And Holly,” he adds, glancing at me, “if you’ve got any more screams left in you, I suggest you keep them to yourself. We’re about to need all our wits about us. Stay sharp.”

“Thanks for the advice, Draven.” I swallow against the terror rising in my chest.

The air thickens around me, and an ominous buzz rings in my ears. Nick’s right. This place is more than a puzzle—its magic bites at nerves and fusses with courage. The trees groan and their twisted branches reach toward us like claws. There’s something darker here than rogue elves, and it’s been brewing in this perverted place for centuries.

There’s more to this than a few mischievous elves, and whatever’s happening with Willow Creek’s gala is more than a prank. It’s been planned. Someone’s pulling some strings. And that means they’ve made my naughty list.

“Nick,” I murmur, my voice low. “This place is worse than I expected. What if this is a setup? Maybe we should tape fifteen smaller trees together and hope that does the trick. Quantity over quality.”

It sounded better in my head.

Nick doesn’t respond right away, but there’s slight tension in his shoulders now. He knows this is bad, and he knew it before we walked in here.

And just as the gravity of that realization hits, the ground beneath our feet trembles slightly. There’s a soft creak and the sound of sugar-crunching underfoot, and it makes the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. I stumble forward and prepare myself as best I can for the unexpected.

We emerge from the nave of trees—to find an enormous gingerbread house looming in a clearing. The icing roof sparkles in the sinister Hollow light. At first, the giant hut seems like a harmless, whimsical decoration. Something out of a Christmas fairy tale. Almost pretty. Covered in candies, it even has soot-stained footprints leading to the front door. It reminds me of the ones I used to make as a child, and it seems innocent. Innocuous even.

Then the door opens.

A gingerbread man steps out.

I blink twice, sure I’m seeing things. But no. There it is. He is. A gingerbread man. Larger than life, with candy eyes glowing red. He raises his arm, and I swear I hear the faintest rustle of crumbling cookie. He notices us and growls. Menacingly.

“Uh, Nick?” I duck behind the vampires.

The door of the gingerbread house slams open, and more creatures pour out—a generous handful of gingerbread sentries with licorice ties and oversized candy-cane batons. They approach us like rejects from West Side Story, fanning out to surround us.

This is insane. And yet, it’s actually happening.

We’ve solved the riddle of the world’s worst advent calendar, gone through a lollipop portal and found a life-sized gingerbread house, and now we’re fighting a small army of gingerbread men armed with candy.

I’m pretty sure my health insurance doesn’t cover this.

“Guess we’re fighting cookies now,” Nick mutters, his smirk not quite reaching his eyes. “Ronan, you take point. Crinkshaw and Holly, stay at the back. Let us handle this.”

Before I can blink, we’re swarmed.

Nick and Ronan jump into the fray, creating a distraction. Nick punches one, and it explodes into a mound of crumbled confectionery while Ronan barrels into a group. Some still manage to get past and rush toward Crinkshaw and me.

I stumble, steadying myself with a jagged tree branch sticking out of the snow. It comes up loose. On impulse, I douse it with hot cocoa from the thermos as a three-foot-tall gingerbread monster wobbles towards me, wearing an unhinged, icing-slick grin.

I swing my cocoa stick.