Page 70 of Blood and Bells

My hands drop to my sides and my fingers clench into fists. Something cold and impatient settles beneath my skin. My knuckles crack, deliberately.

“Let’s begin.”

I don’t wait for agreement.

The first elf goes down under a backhand that sends a shock clean through my shoulder, the second skids across the factory floor with a screech of boots and metal as my kick connects, and a third meets my forehead with a crack that feels deeply satisfying before disappearing into a crate that erupts in a storm of glittering sequins. They scatter everywhere—angels and reindeer and robins flashing in the dim light, sticking to my coat and catching in my hair as I move.

The air fills with it—tinny, sweet, and wrong, all stale eggnog and burnt sugar—and I lean into the fight, faster now, harder, the edges of restraint peeling away with each strike.

They swarm.

One lands on my back, claws dragging hot across my neck. I wrench him off and fling him aside, only for another to latch onto my calf with an enthusiasm I do not appreciate. I kick him loose, but there are too many of them, too many hands and teeth and sharp little laughs, and they pile in with cheerful violence until I’m driven down beneath the weight of them.

I hit the floor hard, and lash out at anything that comes within reach—catching fabric, bone, something that squeaks indignantly—but it’s not enough. Their numbers close over me, pressing in, and for a brief, unwelcome moment, I realize I may have made a catastrophic miscalculation.

“BATTLE!!!!!”

The cry reverberates through the hollow factory, and I keep one rogue elf in a headlock and another at arm’s length. Yet another elf nibbles on my ankle, and I give him a very firm and deliberate kick in the head.

Ronan stands framed in the doorway, axe slung across his back, his face painted in red Christmas stripes as though he’s declared war on the concept of subtlety. Somewhere between the car and here, he has found both time and conviction, and the result is a man who looks like a Viking has been aggressively sponsored by a candy cane.

The elves hesitate, and their twisted holiday glee gutters into something that looks suspiciously like unease. Their eyes dart between each other and Ronan, silently debating who’s going to be the sacrificial first strike. The bravest—or most foolish—takes a tentative step forward. Stops. Reconsiders. Then freezes.

“Go ahead,” Ronan growls, his voice like gravel and festive violence. “Make my Bloodmas.”

The elves exchange another glance.

Ronan grins. “Merry. Freaking. Bloodmas.”

He starts throwing knives.

They come from everywhere—jacket, boot, belt, kilt, and at least one location I refuse to think about—each one thwapping through the air with brutal precision. Every throw lands. Every impact bursts into tinsel and bells.

I may have underestimated when I guessed he carried a dozen knives. Now it seems likely he contains a small, well-organized arsenal. I’m briefly concerned about the physics of all of this, and left wondering how he manages to avoid clinking when he walks.

For a man his size, he moves with alarming grace, cutting through the elves in a deadly, spinning rhythm. One of them jerks in my grip as a blade punches clean through its chest and it bursts apart, showering me in glitter. The air fills with it—bright, violent, absurdly festive.

This is less The Fairytale of New York and more Deck the Halls with casualties.

I take the opening and press the attack, driving into the nearest cluster with renewed enthusiasm. We make a respectable dent, but it doesn’t hold. For every elf that bursts, more spill forward to take its place, giggling, slavering, slick with eggnog and bad intent.

I hate elves.

Especially rogue ones.

Ronan’s knives finally run dry. He reaches back and hauls the axe free, the blade catching what little light there is as his grin sharpens to match it. The shaft alone is the length of a small argument, and he swings with full commitment.

The axe whistles through the air in a wide, magnificent arc.

Every elf steps neatly aside.

It is, objectively, an excellent swing. Just not especially useful—like a ceremonial parade float with ambitions—and the follow-through takes him off balance, taking him down in a clatter as the axe skids away across the floor.

He looks up at me, sheepish. “I genuinely thought that would work.”

The elves surge again, this time with purpose, and the fight turns ugly. Small, sharp wounds accumulate—cuts, slices, the irritating persistence of things that refuse to die properly—and soon my shirt is in tatters. Ronan is faring little better.

We’re driven back until we’re standing back-to-back, breath coming harder now, weight shared whether we like it or not.