Page 43 of Blood and Bells

I wait for impressed gasps or other demonstrations of awe from Marcy and Holly. Marcy sips her drink politely. Holly chews her lip.

“Jingle? Santa’s second-in-command, logistics elf, bell enthusiast? If Christmas ran on clipboards, he’d be the clipboard.”

Humans always get the lore wrong. It’s all ‘vampires are dark and brooding and vicious’, and ‘elves are cute and cuddly and would gift you presents every day of the year if they could.’ It’s a long way from the truth, and I’m going to have to set a few records straight before this Christmas carol is finished.

“You expect us to know the ins and outs of Santa’s operation?” Holly asks. She turns to Jingle. “Wait, you’re an elf? How do you know Nick?”

“Small world,” Jingle shrugs. “Draven knows everyone.”

I step close and let my fangs drop an inch. Just one.

My hands curl into fists and the urge to slam Jingle into the nearest wall slams through me. It hums, old and violent. But Holly’s somewhere behind my shoulder. Watching.

“Santa,” I say, as the last pieces fall into place. “Santa is behind this, isn’t he?”

Jingle goes very still. His gaze flicks to my fists, then my fangs, then back to my fists. He lifts his hands slowly, palm out, like I’m something that might bite. Which, to be fair⁠—

“Easy, Draven. I’m not in the middle of this. The big guy sent me here to watch, that’s all. That’s all I’ve done.”

“Tell us everything. Now. And maybe I won’t send you back to the North Pole wrapped in return-to-sender tinsel with a strongly worded card. I’m sure the snowman look would be good on you. I’ve heard it’s coming back into fashion.”

Jingle pales because he knows I’m capable of that and more.

I glance back at Holly. Her mouth is set too tight. Her fingers are curled into the sleeves of her coat like she’s bracing herself. She looks between Jingle and me, her gaze lingering a fraction too long on my teeth before snapping away.

A cold edge settles in my chest.

She hasn’t seen this side of me before.

And for the first time, I’m not sure what she sees.

“You’re saying Santa is behind all of this?” Holly shifts, like she’s trying to square the idea with reality. “The Santa? The jolly fat man with the beard?”

“He’s not jolly,” I say. “Why don’t you tell them, Jingle?”

My fingers drum on the table, each tap sharper than the last. Heat crawls up the back of my neck. This should have been obvious. It would have been—if my attention hadn’t been elsewhere. On Holly. On the swing of her chestnut curls, catching the light as she bounces through the snow.

A distraction.

One that stopped me from helping her.

“It’s not like that, Draven. It’s not what you think.”

“I think Santa is intentionally trying to sabotage Holly’s festival for his usual, devious purposes.”

Jingle blinks. “Fine. It’s exactly what you think.”

Holly puts her mug down. “Santa wants to ruin the Willow Creek Christmas festival? Why?”

“He’s taken over Sulphur Ridge,” Jingle says.

Both Marcy and Holly gasp. They look surprised. Shocked. I’d already guessed, and the only reaction I give is the look of unbridled threat that I shoot Jingle for upsetting the woman I’m becoming very, very attached to.

Sulphur Ridge sits a short drive away from Willow Creek, and the difference is immediate. Where Willow Creek leans into warmth and goodwill, Sulphur Ridge runs on something darker. Demons, mostly. It’s like a supernatural Las Vegas—flashy, excessive, and built on very questionable morals, which I suppose makes it not all that different from the real thing.

It’s not a place you go looking for anything good.

It’s exactly the sort of place you’d base an operation like this. Loud enough to hide in plain sight. Corrupt enough not to care what’s being drained or who it hurts.