Page 67 of Blood and Bells

For me.

This was a trap, and like an idiot, I walked right into it.

I’m outnumbered by at least five, maybe six, rogue elves.

My hands clench into fists. I’ve dealt with obstacles before: spilled eggnog disasters, Christmas-themed escape rooms, and one particularly aggressive nativity play crew. But this is a special brand of holiday peril I’m not ready for.

“Fantastic. I’m the headline act at the Holiday Horror Revue,” I mutter.

The rogue elves close the circle around me, and one lunges forward with a grim smile. I lunge back, adrenaline and sheer stubbornness giving me a burst of speed. I manage to shove him off-balance—only for another to grab my arm, his grip like iron.

“Hi,” I say, breathless. “I’m Holly. Loving the ambush, very ten out of ten on the menace scale. I’ll be sure to leave you a good review. Anyhow…I should probably get going. Kisses to Santa, okay?”

My wit fails to have the desired effect. Which is irritating, because it usually works—and I am at least as funny as Nick, if not funnier.

I wrench my arm free, twisting to break out of the tightening circle. They’re playing with me and having a wonderful time doing it. The elves come at me again. I knock a few of them back, but the next hit sends me stumbling across the factory floor until I end up underneath the corkboard.

Close enough to see exactly what’s on it.

Strings of red and green thread crisscross the board, connecting photos of the Hollow of Mischief to schematics of the oversized snow globe. Under “Timeline,” someone wrote TONIGHT and drew a skull wearing a Santa hat. A larger map of Willow Creek is pinned to the center, and the town square is circled in bold red. Other sketches show the snow globe releasing trails of sparkling magic that spread festive cheer. In the midst of it all is the same unmistakable tree, its lopsided branches glowing faintly like it’s alive. Lastly, there’s a photo of me labeled ‘naughty list, pending review,’ and one of Nick with a peppermint ‘X’ like someone got enthusiastic with craft supplies.

I stare at the notes, then back at the snow globe, and the pieces click together with nauseating simplicity. The ridiculous, tacky Christmas ornament isn’t just a gaudy decoration. It’s the heart of everything.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, the confusion evaporating into cold, bitter clarity.

I cannot believe I’ve—we’ve—been this stupid.

The realization hits hard. I know exactly why I’m here. This isn’t about me. It’s about Nick. And the snow globe that’s in his house.

“We’ve had the tree the whole time. Well, Merry freaking Christmas.”

The rogue elves cackle, a sound that’s sharp, grating, and about as festive as nails on a chalkboard. Their eyes glint in the dim light, and the stink of eggnog sweat practically radiates off them. They step closer, forming a tight, glitter-coated circle around me. Vile creatures. I’ve had enough of them for a lifetime, let alone one holiday.

I glance between the rogue elves and the board, and the scribbled details become clearer with every pass. My brain finally catches up, piecing the rest together faster than it has any right to.

“Great,” I huff, a sarcastic grin slipping onto my face. “We’ve been running around in holiday-themed circles, on a Christmas scavenger hunt designed by the world’s worst logistics planner, so you could get into Nick’s mansion.”

The tallest elf, standing a staggering waist-high level, lifts a tattered clipboard with a checklist that’s partially ripped and covered in eggnog stains.

“Gold star for figuring it out,” an elf says, voice sweet as spearmint. “We thought the reindeer stampede would lure the vampires out, but they were watching reruns of WKRP in Cincinnati.”

“Ronan tells me that Loni Anderson is enchanting,” I murmur.

“Anyway,” he says, consulting a snowflake pocket watch that pings politely. “We needed something a touch more persuasive. And you walked very neatly into our trap.”

“What about⁠—”

“Yup,” he continues. “Walked right into it. Like a magpie in the tinsel aisle.”

“I got it.”

“Like the exceptionally persuadable, seasonally distractible human you are⁠—”

“Got it,” I bark. “We can skip the play-by-play. Further description of my role is not required.”

He gestures at his clipboard. “There’s a whole script here. Itemized. If you don’t mind?”

On the one hand, I’m extremely irritated that I’m being dunked on by a group of reject munchkins from the Wizard of Oz. On the other, I appreciate the importance of following the to-do list.