Page 6 of Blood and Bells

I’d assured the mayor that we’d be the kind of vampires that didn’t cause trouble. That meant no feeding off people without consent, no public spectacles of fangs and violence, no exploding into clouds of bats, or anything that might scare people. Just quiet, neighborly coexistence. I swore up and down, left and right, and in every way possible that we were civilized and had given up such unbecoming tendencies centuries ago. It wasn’t a particularly burdensome promise, given the fact that we aren’t savages, and the residents of Willow Creek have been mostly receptive to our presence. It perhaps doesn’t hurt that vampires tend to be jaw-droppingly attractive.

“I have heard tales of battle!”

A roar from the entrance of the kitchen pulls my attention. Ronan bursts through the archway, filling the space with his enormous presence. A Celtic warrior turned vampire, he’s never quite let go of the old ways. He retreats to a wood cabin he built on the grounds whenever modern life becomes too offensive, which is often. I convinced him to stop carrying an axe at all times sometime around nineteen-twenty, though I’d wager he still has at least ten knives hidden on him.

Today, he’s in a leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots, looking less like a relic of the past and more like he’s about to start a bar fight. The V-neck tee is too casual for my taste. His fire-red hair falls around his face, and even I need to tilt my head to meet his gaze.

At least he’s moved on from tartan.

Crinkshaw hands him one of the several glasses of blood he’s already prepared, and Ronan guzzles it in a single swallow. He slams the ornate glass onto the marble counter hard enough to shatter it.

“There was a battle,” he continues, “and yet, where was Ronan? Brave Ronan? Was he in the midst of combat, guarding the back of his leader? Or was he instead tucked in the library, a quiet shadow of the warrior he used to be, toothlessly reduced to eating soup and watching reruns of Mad About You?”

“I thought you adored that show?”

“Helen Hunt is a treasure.” He nods. “My point stands.”

“You don’t have to worry, Ronan. The battle was a non-event. Over before it started. Crinkshaw, here, was right when he read the signs. Rogue elves have descended on Willow Creek.”

“Rogue elves? Pah. Disgusting creatures. Barely worth the time it takes to fight them. Not nearly as elegant as their full-grown cousins, who stand a proper eight feet and make for worthy adversaries. They’re a challenge worthy of the mighty Ronan. Still, I suppose their diminutive cousins are a passing diversion. They are well and truly bested?”

“Obviously.” I sip at my glass. Bitter, with a hint of sweetness. Lovely. For a being that only exists on necromantic flesh, Crinkshaw has a surprisingly subtle palate. “Well, at least temporarily. You’ll be delighted to hear that the game is only just starting. We have another nasty problem to contend with.”

“Finally.” Ronan slams his giant, meaty fist on the table. His blue eyes glimmer at the promise of battle and brawling, and his reddish hair falls over his face as if it’s seizing the opportunity to attack. He leans forward, flexing his muscles, and I have to admit that they are impressive. “This place has made me weak. A new enemy is what we need. Tell me what horror descends that we might face it, as brothers.”

I lean forward to deliver my news. “The giant Christmas tree is missing.”

Ronan frowns and stares at me for several uncomfortable seconds. I wonder if he misheard my quite exciting announcement. I’m about to repeat myself when he finally speaks.

“Apologies, Nick. My hearing has likely atrophied along with my battle prowess,” he says. “I think I heard you say a Christmas tree is missing.”

“Correct.”

“Mm-hm. How is this incredibly mundane event exciting?”

“Holly Frost is involved.”

“The event planner? The one who nearly set the town on fire last year?”

“That’s her. And she’s single, in case you were wondering.”

“No one is wondering, Sire,” Crinkshaw interjects.

Ronan shakes his head, and his hair mounts a small rebellion. “I came for battle, and you talk to me of spruce?”

“They’re historically pine,” Crinkshaw adds, ignoring the arching of my eyebrow.

“Quiet, ghoul.” Ronan points at me. “You cannot be serious, Nick. I came here ready for violence, not festive forestry. Does the tree at least contain multitudes of demons? Tell me what you’ve drawn us into now.”

In brief, I tell him of the missing tree, the snowball fight with the rogue elves, and how cute Holly’s nose looked when she was agitated. It crinkled like a curious fox sniffing out trouble, equal parts endearing and mischievous. It was impossible not to smile when she got that look, even in the midst of chaos.

Ronan glances at Crinkshaw. “Has he been like this all night?”

“Utterly disastrous and besotted? Yes.”

“You’re both missing the point,” I say. “Holly Frost has a problem, and by helping her, we can help ourselves. This is the biggest event of the year. The most important of the seemingly infinite festivals Willow Creek holds. If we fix it, we stop being tolerated by the town and start being useful. Acceptance is far more valuable than polite nods.”

I straighten slightly.