Page 45 of Blood and Bells

I don’t like where this is going.

“He’s tried this before,” I add, my voice flat. “In the thirteenth century. It took the vampires to stop him then. That’s why we’re banned from Christmas. He doesn’t forget losses. Doesn’t forgive them either.”

My jaw tightens.

“I doubt he expected us to get around his ban with Bloodmas.”

Jingle flinches a little, and I know my instincts are bang on.

“What do we do with this?” I ask, pulling the tacky snow globe from my pocket. I set it on the table, and glitter whips into motion like it’s trying to escape.

“A snow globe?” Jingle scratches his chin. “I don’t know. Looks like something my aunt would keep next to a porcelain shepherdess.”

“We found it in the Hollow of Mischief.”

“Then I definitely don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “Santa dropped me off here to keep an eye on things. He’s not big on sharing.”

“Can you at least call off the elf attacks?”

“Outside my remit.” Another shrug. “They’re…enthusiastic.”

Of course they are.

The urge to vault the table and rearrange his smug little face rises fast and furious. It would be easy. Satisfying, even. A clear message that no one messes with Willow Creek’s Winter Wonderland.

But Holly is here.

And this—whatever this is becoming—doesn’t feel like something I want to curdle. Not after she looked at me the way she did earlier.

Is this what growth looks like?

“This is a waste of time.” I rise slowly, letting the chair scrape. My gaze settles on Jingle. Eleven out of ten on the glare scale. “Willow Creek is under my protection. If you see Santa, you can pass that along.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jingle mutters, though his voice holds little conviction.

I send him a final look—sharp enough to linger—and then I turn away.

Outside, the cold has teeth. The wind cuts across the pasture, dragging the scent of pine and frost with it. The sky is strung with stars. The holiday is closing in. You can feel it in the air. In the way everything looks a lot like Christmas.

“We’re no further along than when we started,” Holly says once we’re back in the car, her voice worn thin. “And now it’s even worse. If we don’t fix this…” She trails off and swallows. “He gets all of it. Everything the tree’s holding. What does he even do with that?”

The answer comes uninvited.

Nothing good.

“Then we don’t let him have it,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “We’ve been pushing hard. Let’s regroup. Eat. Sleep. Then we outplay him.”

She nods, but it isn’t in agreement. It’s surrender dressed up as patience.

It lands somewhere unpleasant.

That look doesn’t belong on her. Not when she still believes in Willow Creek. Not when she’s built her gala out of nothing but stubbornness and good intentions. And not when she’s starting to believe she might not be enough.

That will not stand.

“Willow Creek is getting its Christmas back. You’re going to get your gala exactly the way you imagined it—lights, laughter, and those ridiculous mince pies no one likes.”

Even if I have to break a few Christmas baubles to deliver it to her.