Page 5 of Blood and Bells

It’s nearing dark as I make my way through the ornate, cast-iron gates that surround the grounds. Beyond them, the house rears up in true gothic silhouette—steep gables, brooding stone, ivy that refuses to mind its manners, and gargoyles who judge on principle.

The humans of Willow Creek have, thankfully, learned that most of what Hollywood says about us is nonsense. We don’t explode in daylight. That would be wildly impractical. Six months in, and they’ve mostly stopped waiting for us to combust.

Crinkshaw, my body man, waits by the front door. I found him in a British graveyard sometime in the early sixteenth century, and, against all reason, kept him. He’s a grim, emaciated ghoul—gray skin stretched too tight, bones making unwelcome appearances, and he provides the general impression of something that ought to remain politely buried.

He’s also remarkably gifted at saying the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time.

A ghoul entirely without humor.

“You were right, Crinkshaw.” I throw my jacket at him, and dust poofs from his shoulders as he catches it. “Rogue elves. As you predicted.”

“Marvelous, Sire,” he says in his grave-scraping voice. “Glad that they weren’t those bothersome, haughty, highborn elves. Their height alone is a burden, and their moral superiority is enough to make the strongest choke. Were you able to fend them off?”

“With ease. Lucky that you sensed them coming. It’s a rather neat trick of yours, and I’ll have you teach me some day. But here’s something you couldn’t have predicted. They stole the giant Christmas tree.”

Crinkshaw hangs my jacket, and we make our way through the cavernous lobby that keeps the drama outside. Inside, it’s all beeswax polish, lamplight, and heat from overworked fireplaces—past the Monet I acquired from the man himself and the rocking chair I’ve never liked. Both wear tinsel and garland with disreputable cheer. Someone’s draped tartan throws over the leather settees and strung warm fairy lights along the picture rails, as if daring the gloom to take a night off. My coven has been hard at work ensuring virtually every square inch of available space is covered with Christmas decorations.

Strictly speaking, vampires are forbidden from participating in Christmas. Oh, not the trappings of it. We can decorate and exchange gifts and the like, but the magic—the feeling of warmth and fellowship and seasonal joy—that is beyond our reach. There’s a tale behind that and one I don’t care to dwell on, but this season is always bittersweet. None of this, however, stops the coven from decorating as immortals are strangely festive. We’ve learned that life never stops. If we don’t stop to appreciate the moments of joy when they appear, they often stop coming altogether.

“The Christmas tree?” Crinkshaw says, as we make our way to the kitchen. “Sire gives me too much credit, including the assumption that I know, or care about, a giant Christmas tree.”

“It’s the centerpiece of their winter festival. The Willow Creek Winter Wonderland. And, before you ask, Holly Frost was there too.”

Crinkshaw’s sunken eyes adopt an agonizingly slow crawl of surprise, like a glacier reconsidering its route. “I don’t believe I would have ever asked about Holly Frost.”

“Now you don’t have to. She was there.”

“Stupendous, Sire. And the elves?”

“I can’t say with certainty if they would have asked about Holly. It never really came up.”

Crinkshaw inhales deeply, despite not needing to breathe. “I meant that I would enjoy hearing about how you drove off the rogue elves.”

“I threw some snowballs at them,” I shrug. “I put a small drop of my power in each one, just enough to give them a scare.”

We reach one of the many kitchens in my home, and like everything, it’s impressive. It’s also indecently cozy: copper pans glow, cloves and orange peel scent the air, and a mismatched congress of oversized mugs waits by a humming kettle like loyal footmen. Walnut worktops sit on top of bespoke cabinets, and even though we don’t technically need to eat, the stove is large enough to serve a restaurant. Crinkshaw enjoys baking, and it’s a curious habit of his I’ve never understood, although I’ve enjoyed its benefits. It’s a little larger than the coven needed, but I wanted to be sure that we had enough space for several wine fridges, and the kitchen fitters were insistent that this was the only way to fit them in.

I sit at the oversized kitchen island, watching Crinkshaw as he limps around it. My thoughts sprint.

“We have a bigger problem to deal with, Crinkshaw, and I fear that we must solve it. Why did they steal Holly’s Christmas tree?”

“Sire seems…notably preoccupied with Holly Frost.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. I’m simply concerned about the tree and the saving of Christmas. The Willow Creek Winter Wonderland is the most important festival for this town, and vampires always get the blame anytime something supernatural goes wrong. This hardly feels like the moment to let everything collapse. And I don’t care for the insinuations buried in your dusty tone.”

“I have but the one voice, Sire. Would you care for dinner?”

“Get on with it, then. And call for Ronan. I’d appreciate his advice.”

Crinkshaw limps to the blood fridge to prepare me a fresh bag. I narrow my eyes, making sure he selects a good one. Vintage varies, and standards must be maintained.

The arrangement is simple: we don’t hunt, and in return, we don’t cause problems.

It’s worked well enough.

It would work significantly better if Holly Frost would stop intruding on my thoughts.

Twenty-three other vampires make their home here. Most have been with me for centuries, although I’m reasonably relaxed about their comings and goings. They often disappear for decades at a time as vampires tend to be somewhat transitory. Some were wary of my idea to move, but life had become stale in Canada, and most were looking for something different. Willow Creek represented an exciting, new challenge, and the bar we opened is keeping some of my more restless brethren occupied.