Page 51 of Blood and Bells

“A little. Mostly scattered images with a few flashes of chaotic rage. This elf doesn’t know what he’s doing, or why. There was a factory, too. Could be anywhere. Conveyor belts, red-and-white smokestacks like candy canes, and a sign in bad cursive: Naughty Intake. Nothing definitive, but it smells like Santa’s logistics.”

Ronan bursts into the room—his preferred method of using doors—looking more worried than usual. His hair is unreasonably disheveled, and there’s a bright, battle-ready glint in his eyes. He’s even donned his tartan kilt, which suggests I’ll soon be revisiting the topic of appropriate attire for the modern age.

“You’ve got to see this.” He thrusts a laptop at me, a video paused on screen. It’s grainy, indistinct—until it isn’t.

“Why are you showing me security footage of our house?”

“Watch.” He leans in to press play, and I find myself leaning forward with him.

The footage shows the exterior, zooming in on the giant bay window of this very sitting room. A flicker of movement in the corner draws my eye—someone creeping toward the glass with the subtlety of a penguin on roller skates.

Holly Frost.

With her cute little crinkled-up nose and a glare that’s like she’s personally offended by the weather, she looks like she marched straight out of a Christmas card—one that’s had its edges frayed from being thrown across the room too many times.

A slow unease settles in as she stumbles back from the window, her hand flying to her mouth. Even grainy and soundless, the hurt reaches right through the screen.

The video ends with her running.

I close the laptop.

She saw.

“Well,” I say, and hand the laptop back to Ronan. “That’s unfortunate.”

Neither Ronan nor Crinkshaw says anything as I walk to the window, my hands clasped loosely behind my back, watching snow drift past the glass.

“You should talk to her, Sire,” Crinkshaw says. There’s a hesitation in it, like he’d rather be doing anything else—including wrestling a yeti.

I don’t look at him. “I’m aware.”

“Sooner rather than later,” he adds.

“Yes, Crinkshaw. I gathered that.”

The pause is uncomfortable.

“You’re not very good at apologies,” Ronan offers, entirely unhelpfully.

“I’m not apologizing.”

Crinkshaw makes a small, diplomatic sound that suggests he absolutely disagrees.

I exhale. “I don’t even know what I’d be apologizing for.”

Before I can reconsider, my coat is being settled onto my shoulders and a scarf looped firmly into place.

“Sire—”

“I’m going,” I mutter.

“So I see.”

The door opens before I can argue further, and a moment later I’m outside, the night wrapped in that peculiar, muffled quiet that only comes with fresh snow and too many Christmas lights.

The scarf smells faintly of clove and starch. Somewhere down the street, a string of lights flickers in uneven rhythm, casting soft red and gold across the frost. By the time I reach Holly’s, I haven’t managed a single useful thought.

Her porch light glows like a star, which feels aggressively on-brand for Holly Frost. Of course she’d have a porch light that looks like it belongs on a Christmas card. Of course it would make this worse.