Page 65 of Blood and Bells

I drop the note. “It’s a trap.”

“Obviously,” Ronan says.

“You don’t think she went anyway?”

Ronan snorts. “She absolutely went anyway.”

I drag a hand through my hair. “She has no idea what she’s walking into.”

“She has some idea,” Crinkshaw says mildly. “She simply won’t let it stop her.”

Holly Frost is many things.

Currently, sensible is not one of them.

“Crinkshaw, Wes. Head back to the house. Wake everyone. Make sure they’re ready. Full battle gear.”

Crinkshaw straightens, all trace of dry commentary gone. “Yes, My Lord.”

He moves quickly—actually quickly—which is how I know this is bad.

I turn to Ronan. “You’re with me.”

His hand settles on the knife at his belt. “Understood.”

Outside, the wind hits hard—sleet, woodsmoke, and the sort of cold that suggests something unpleasant is about to happen.

Holly had better be safe.

Not one hair on her head should have been moved out of place. Not one wrinkle should have creased her brow, nor one tremble should have escaped those lips of hers. If any of those things have happened, then Santa is going to regret trying to steal Christmas from her.

She needed me, and I was too busy nursing my own pride to give her what she needed. I should have apologized—properly, plainly—but old habits run deep, and I am not a man accustomed to explaining myself, least of all to mortals.

Holly, unfortunately, has made that position untenable.

I am done pretending otherwise. This morning, I was a brooding, love-sick fool. Now, I am something else entirely. I am a force of nature, the darkness unbound, the patience behind the smile, and the eternal sleep that ushers you somewhere you would very much prefer not to go. If she is hurt, I will ensure they arrive there personally.

I reach for my coat, already moving.

And I am bringing a thermos.

Chapter Nineteen

The old Season’s Heart Factory looms ahead, all peeling paint and rusted doors, like the remains of a bad Christmas memory. My breath ghosts in the cold as I stand in the snow, the air biting hard enough to sting—but it’s the message pinned to my door that settles deeper, colder still. Behind me, Willow Creek is a smear of warm windows and festive lights; here, the only glow is a failing security bulb that blinks like a nervous star.

I rub my gloved hands together, chasing feeling back into my fingers as I try to piece the note together from memory. The words had been twisted into something that sounded like a carol sung in the wrong key, each line gnawing at me in a way that set my teeth on edge.

I curse under my breath. I left too fast and didn’t think to take it with me. Now, the words are slipping away, fragments scattering like shattered glass around me.

Find the place where the tree holds truth and lies,

Wrapped in dusty ribbons, beneath cold, watchful layers.

The rusted handles of the factory doors sag, barely clinging to their broken mounts. I don’t see any signs of movement inside, but the shadows play tricks on my eyes, stretching as if something shifts beyond the grime-smeared glass windows. The silence is oppressive, a weight pressing against my chest.

Snow soaks through my jeans as I crouch, studying the building’s perimeter. The walls are scuffed and battered, streaks of ice running down the metal like frozen tears. There’s a small, shattered window that looks inviting enough to be a terrible idea.

This is probably the moment to tell someone where I am. Marcy, at the very least. But she’d probably tell me to call Nick. And then she’d call him herself. So instead of doing the sensible thing, I edge closer and peer inside.