Page 36 of Blood and Bells

Nick’s gaze flicks between the tree and the note, the tension in his jaw revealing the thoughts brewing beneath his usually smug composure. He reaches for the snow globe and studies it, as if daring it to do anything other than mock him. The glitter slows, then stills, the tiny Christmas tree inside listing further as its blinking lights sputter and fade, as if even the ornament has given up. With a frustrated shrug, he stuffs it in his pocket.

“Siphon the cheer. Whoever’s behind this...I think their plan is bigger than some minor festive disruption. Someone wants to drain the holiday magic, and they’re not stopping with the tree.”

“It’s bad enough that we don’t get Christmas,” Ronan says quietly. “We’re not letting someone take it from everyone else.”

Nick’s hands clench, and his fangs seem a little longer than they were moments ago.

“Come on, Frost. We’ll find out who’s behind this and toast their plans like chestnuts roasting on an open fire. They’ve got my full attention now—and they’re going to regret it.”

The fury sparking in his silver eyes makes it clear he isn’t speaking metaphorically.

Chapter Twelve

Holly insists on driving back to town, and I’m happy enough to let her, so I can stew in my thoughts. They’re a bitter flavor, and nothing seems to sweeten them. Even sitting next to her doesn’t make this better.

Outside, snow taps against the windshield; inside, the heater sighs while the dash throws a soft amber glow over Holly’s scarf and my currently thawing boots.

Almost everything about this little adventure has turned sour. We didn’t find the missing tree, except for the tacky snow globe, with its garish plastic and awkwardly swirling glitter. This cheap holiday curio is very clearly hiding something unpleasant.

Then there was the gingerbread dragon.

There’s no way rogue elves could organize enough to secure the support of a dragon. That takes serious, heavy-hitting power, and for the tenth time, I wonder what is truly going on in Willow Creek. This has the markings of a more sinister scheme, presumably from ‘he of the crooked crown,’ whatever that meant.

A familiar pattern nags at the back of my mind. I’ve seen this kind of thing before—the careful layering, the misdirection, the way every thread pulls toward something larger. A particular kind of mind works like this. Old. Patient. Delighted by spectacle.

I sink deeper into the passenger seat, watching fairy lights blur into soft constellations along Main Street, the way they do when a town is trying its best. Time is slipping through my hands. The festival is only days away.

“Easy there, speedster,” I snap at Holly as she careens around a gentle bend at a terrifying twenty miles an hour.

“Stop sulking,” she barks back.

I sit up straighter. “I am the Lord of Tomorrow, the Arrow of Vengeance, the Feast That Rises Before Dawn.”

“Here we go,” mutters Crinkshaw from the back seat.

“I am the Last Breath of the Night. Mortals cower in my presence. I do not sulk.”

Holly keeps her eyes on the road. Her knuckles are white on the wheel, sugared with a dusting of portal grit. The smell of burnt caramel lingers in her hair. I am performing for the cheap seats when she needs a plan.

“I didn’t know you were a theater major,” she says, her voice light in the way glass is light before it shatters. “When do tickets go on sale?”

“Ha,” Ronan laughs and even dour old Crinkshaw rearranges his mouth into a curve that might be a smile, if seen from a distance and given generous lighting.

Silence settles in like heavy snow. The car smells of damp wool and burnt ginger. A gingerbread button is welded to the dashboard by caramel and stubbornness. The wipers squeak. Holly’s jaw works once, as if she’s chewing on a thought she cannot swallow.

“It is not over,” she says to the windshield more than to us. “We’ve still got time, right?”

It takes all my considerable vampiric powers to provide her with a nod that resembles reassurance. She is one splinter away from bleeding. Sugar glass glints in her hair. There is icing on her sleeve that used to be a dragon’s eye. None of us wants to say Christmas might be broken. None of us wants to say there’s too little to salvage.

A singular image enters my brain, of Holly and me laughing together in bed. It’s late at night, and her hair is up, and she’s wearing a mud mask. I’m wearing reading glasses and doing my sudoku puzzles, an affectation I don’t require to perform an activity I don’t enjoy. Will and Grace is playing on the giant TV at the foot of the bed. There is a cat. And fluffy slippers.

I shake my head to clear the idea.

What’s wrong with me? I shouldn’t be daydreaming of soft domestic idiocy. And I shouldn’t be fantasizing about kissing her neck, her wrists, her ears, putting my hands on her⁠—

“We’re here,” Holly says as she brings the car to a stop, and I blink. We’re in front of the coven, and I have no memory of passing through the iron gates. The heater hums. The gingerbread button lets go and drops into the cup holder with a soft, defeated click.

“What’s next?” Her eyes stay on the door.