Page 66 of Blood and Bells

The flickering overhead lights cast a dim and erratic glow across old conveyor belts and dusty boxes. Nothing seems out of place. Nothing seems wrong. Tension pricks at the back of my neck anyway.

The tree isn’t in sight.

My breath fogs up as I creep toward the entrance. The factory doors sit slightly ajar, a thin gap letting out gusts of icy air. It hardly breathes as I slip past and I’m oddly proud of myself for that. Surely my mom never had to deal with quietly sneaking into abandoned Christmas decoration warehouses when planning the Royal Wedding.

Or maybe she did. Royals are weird.

There’s a stack of warped crates—maybe that’s the ‘wood’ the riddle meant. I pry one open and find a large stash of eggnog. Potent eggnog, if the alcohol content on the label is accurate. Something skitters between the boxes. Probably rats. Possibly sugar rats—like regular rats, but louder and more unionized.

A tangled mess of red and green wires looping ominously around a corner catches my eye, its glint faint under the overhead lights. Near the wires, a bundle of worn-out elf boots is carelessly tossed aside, their cracked soles pointing like grim sentinels. And a sliver of something shiny reflects the dim light—a crooked, glitter-covered star peeking out like a sinister beacon.

Great.

Just great.

Rogue elves are the last thing I need and, annoyingly, the first thing I should have expected.

A nagging thought creeps in: Nick would’ve handled this better.

He’d have figured this out faster. Cut through the confusion. Seen the connections I didn’t. Trusted his gut while I’ve been second-guessing everything. He makes a plan, sticks to it, and—annoyingly—it somehow always works.

My skills haven’t exactly been stellar over the past few days. Especially for someone whose job is literally organizing events. There hasn’t been much of a plan this week, at least not where Nick Draven was concerned. I’ve been charging in headfirst, powered by adrenaline, stubbornness, and a reckless need to prove I can handle everything on my own.

Usually, I can.

But things would’ve been a lot smoother if Nick were here.

I hate admitting it, but I’ve grown used to him being around.

His company.

His ridiculous grin.

His infuriatingly reliable presence.

I didn’t listen to him when it mattered. Didn’t trust his judgment because I let my pride get in the way. And now I regret every sharp word and every moment I pushed him away. I’ve been so determined to do things my way that I didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, Mister ‘Tall, Dark, and Infuriating’ Draven knew something I didn’t.

I shake my head and force myself to focus.

Ducking behind one of the old machines, I scurry along the conveyor belt, heading deeper into the factory. Rusted machinery looms. Overturned crates clutter the path. The clink of metal from somewhere ahead stops me in my tracks. There are muffled sounds. Footsteps. Voices. Low muttering. I can’t make out the words, but the cadence is unmistakable. People.

Where branches bear secrets and shadows creep

Well, that was accurate.

This is not the type of holiday spirit I signed up for.

I peek around another crate of eggnog and see them. Rogue elves. A small army of them, emerging from the shadows like carolers who swapped sheet music for cudgels. Their ragged little elf hats sit askew, their eyes gleaming with a cold, calculating glint that feels all wrong. They’re crouched low, moving with the kind of coordinated menace that speaks of long practice and very bad intentions.

I scan the room again and notice a corkboard pinned on the wall. It’s cluttered with hand-drawn maps, notes written in manic handwriting, and photos of suspiciously festive things. Someone’s used candy-cane pushpins and awarded gold star stickers. Organized villainy is the worst kind. There are even festive-themed stick-on notes, like someone went to the trouble of ordering stationery for their Christmas heist planning.

The board is boldly titled ‘Operation Hollow,’ and among the chaos, one drawing catches my attention: a crude sketch of a snow globe with a very wonky, glitter-covered tree inside. The very same snow globe that’s been sitting in Nick’s living room.

I gasp.

The elves freeze, dozens of tiny heads swiveling towards the noise.

One elf stands tall—as tall as an elf minion can—and his smile is a twisted, sharp thing that chills me more than the freezing air. A laugh cuts through the air—high, delighted, wrong. They form a loose circle, slowly closing in, their eyes locked on me like they’ve been waiting.