Page 64 of Blood and Bells

Sitting here isn’t helping.

Holly is not the sort of person who waits around for things to fix themselves.

Which leaves me with exactly one option.

I drain my glass and stand.

I’m still assembling something resembling an apology when Ronan bursts through the door hard enough to suggest it has personally offended him. It slams against the wall. A few people gasp. I count backwards from five and briefly wonder what our annual expenditure on door replacements looks like. I make a note to ask Crinkshaw—who, as ever, is following a step behind the chaos.

“Betrayal!” Ronan roars, face flushed and eyes blazing. “Betrayal most foul, Lord!”

He barrels toward me, clutching a piece of paper like it might escape if not properly supervised. It rustles, ominously. I remind myself that my second-in-command is a warrior who once won the Battle of Bognor Hill single-handedly, and not, in fact, an unusually dramatic courier.

“What now, Ronan?” I sigh, my patience for theatrics at an all-time low. “Have they removed My So-Called Life from cable?”

“Claire Danes is a triumph,” he says, deeply offended. “But no. That’s not it. Look at this.”

He thrusts the paper into my hand.

It’s written in ornate, archaic script, and reads:

Holly,

The heart of the season lies where roots run deep,

Where branches bear secrets and shadows creep.

Find the place where the tree holds truth and lies,

Wrapped in dusty ribbons, beneath cold, watchful layers.

This isn’t good. It’s the same paper as the note beneath the snow globe—ancient, expensive, and reeking of caramelized mildew and bad decisions.

“What am I looking at?” I ask. “And where did you find it?”

“When Sire slunk out of the house in a mood,” Crinkshaw says, carefully, “we thought it prudent to check in on Miss Frost. Ronan was worried. I was not.”

“I did not slink.”

“No, Sire. My Lord was profoundly dignified in your exit.”

I look at Ronan. “The note.”

“Pinned to her door,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze. “An envelope—wax seal, proper presentation. And a stake left nearby. Not for her, I think. Subtle was not the goal.”

A knot tightens in my gut. “Why?”

“To lure her,” he says. “The old Christmas decoration factory.”

“You’re certain?”

Ronan points to the page. “First line. ‘Heart of the season.’ The place is called Season’s Heart Factory. As I said, not subtle.”

I close my eyes briefly. “Let me guess, it’s on the outskirts of town?”

“On the border between Willow Creek and Sulphur Ridge,” Crinkshaw says. “Practically apologizing for existing.”

Naturally. A half-forgotten factory straddling Willow Creek and Sulphur Ridge is exactly where you’d go if you wanted to siphon one and poison the other.