Page 4 of Blood and Bells

Their lips curl back and the glee in their faces disappears, replaced with a look of sheer violence and unadulterated anger. They’ve morphed from impish creatures into true terrors, but Nick simply bends down, picks up another handful of snow, and forms it into a densely packed ball.

He throws, scoring a direct hit. Another rogue elf flies backward and lands in a snow drift, leaving only its curled, red shoes and bright green tights visible. It shrieks as its legs start to kick, and I laugh, unable to contain myself.

The elves glance at each other, their expressions shifting to something akin to uncertainty. One lets out a low, guttural hiss, its head swiveling toward the others as if waiting for a signal. Another elf, its crooked hat askew, growls in response but takes a hesitant step back. Nick holds up another snowball and waggles it at them. Slowly, their aggression begins to waver, their confidence faltering like a deflating balloon. As though reaching some unspoken consensus, they spin on their tiny heels and bolt, their retreat a flurry of jingling bells and mismatched shoes skidding on the icy ground.

They scatter into the snow-laden streets, their bright green and red forms growing smaller and smaller until they vanish entirely into the swirling flakes. One elf pauses briefly at the edge of the square, shooting a final, venomous glare over its shoulder before disappearing into the shadows.

For a long moment, the square is still, the eerie calm almost as unsettling as the chaos that came before it. The faint jingle of a half-smashed ornament rolls across the cobblestones, its sound muffled by the snow. A crooked candy cane dangles precariously from a toppled wreath stand, leaving its red stripes smeared as though the fight had bruised even the decorations.

Wreckage litters the square—the deflated snowman, shattered ornaments, the trail of glittery destruction leading off into the distance like festive breadcrumbs left by tiny vandals. Somewhere in the rubble, a strand of Christmas lights flickers weakly, its cheerful glow now a pitiful reminder of what this square used to be.

A single bulb blinks in the wreckage—brave, if not especially helpful.

“Well,” Nick says with a dry chuckle, “that was fun.”

“Fun?” He gets a look. It does absolutely nothing. “The square is trashed, the tree is still missing, and I have maybe a week to fix this. All you did was whip a few snowballs.”

Nick shrugs. “Details. The important thing is, we know who took your tree, and we can follow their trail before it gets snowed over.”

“Oh, good. That’s reassuring.”

“Even better, I’m going to help you fix this.”

“You are?”

He holds his hands out as if framing a picture. “Think of it. Frost and Draven. Christmas partners.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“Don’t worry, Frost,” Nick says, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “We’ll get your tree back. After all, Christmas is about miracles, isn’t it?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He smirks, his silver eyes gleaming. “Immensely.”

Of course he is.

Chapter Two

Holly didn’t technically agree to team up, but she didn’t actually refuse either. So when she announced she was going home to “shotgun melted chocolate,” I told her I’d be in touch.

My house is nestled among the rolling hills that make up the northern border of Willow Creek. I refuse to call it a castle—too on the nose—or a manse, which sounds like something a dentist names his cottage. So a house it is, and a house it shall stay, until something grander comes along. A ‘mere’ three-wing affair on forty acres of prime real estate, complete with an underground mausoleum and, charmingly, a built-in movie theater that seats forty. Last night we watched The Lost Boys.

I’m thinking of nonsense to stop myself from thinking about Holly. Grinning like a teenage nitwit who scrawls bad poetry. About her eyes. It’s undignified for a mysterious Lord of the Dark. I’ve lived for eight centuries. Dined with Eleanor of Aquitaine. Destroyed entire covens because they remarked poorly on my scarf.

I will not grin over a woman.

Still.

Holly Frost.

A vexing problem. One I’m strangely eager to solve.

Her chestnut hair never quite behaves, catching the light in warm, unruly strands. And those green eyes of hers are startling bright, like freshly cut leaves, always a step ahead, as if she’s already decided how the conversation ends and is waiting for the rest of us to catch up. She’s been a riddle since we both arrived in Willow Creek, almost at the same time.

We disagreed immediately. We’ve been consistent about that.

I make a small, disgusted sound. Holly Frost is the definition of adorable, and I need to get my head straight. If any other vampire hears me talking like this about a human, I’ll have to end them out of sheer embarrassment.