Page 72 of Blood and Bells

The coven fans out and tears through the first row of elves, and in seconds the factory turns into a blizzard of glitter, streamers, and chiming bells thick enough to choke on.

With renewed force, Ronan and I battle to the back. Toward Holly. It’s slow going, and if we were mortals, we’d already be dead. Still, we make the door.

“Go,” he gasps, punctuating it with savage chops that send an elf spinning. “I’ll hold them back.”

“The coven…” An elf’s fist connects mid-sentence.

“I’ll keep them safe, Sire.” He catches my forearm and hauls me in, grip iron tight. “Save her.”

I clap his shoulder once.

“I want it noted,” he adds, voice hoarse, “that I kicked an elf fourteen feet.”

A laugh tears out of me. “You win, friend.”

Then I’m through the door.

The corridor beyond is dim and close, all steam and dripping pipes, and the noise of battle falls away as I push forward. A thin strip of light outlines a doorway in front of me, and I race toward it.

A steel door waits at the end. Locked.

I hit it once. Twice.

The hinges scream on the third strike. On the fourth, the entire thing gives way and goes flying through the air.

I step through—and stop.

Holly is suspended from the ceiling, bound to a chair that swings over a vat of bubbling, brown liquid. Below her, elves caper and skitter in looping circles, their celebration turning the scene into something grotesque. The place stinks of burnt sugar.

“Is that caramel?”

God help me. It is caramel.

They are going to turn her into a Christmas candy apple.

“NICK! WATCH OUT!”

I don’t look to see why. I move.

A blade carves through the space I just vacated, close enough that air rushes past me as I hit the ground and roll.

When I come up, a giant, grinning snowman is beaming at me.

Not the friendly, lopsided kind—this snowman looks like he has strong opinions about upper body training. He smirks at me, red hat tipped at a menacing rather than cheerful angle, and there’s a red and green sash tied at his waist like he’s about to host something both Christmassy and violent.

I stare at it for a beat.

“Is that…an aggressively competitive snowman? You’re joking.”

Holly screams as the snowman charges, hauling a grotesquely oversized claymore that gleams in the low light. I throw myself sideways just in time as the blade slams into the concrete where I stood with a crack that sends shards skittering across the floor.

“Why does he have a six-pack?” I demand, scrambling up. “What’s next? The Yule Goat with a machete? Snowarzenegger?”

The snowman declines to engage in dialogue. Apparently, he’s not big on conversation, nor does he embody the gentle, polite charm one might expect from a monster made of marshmallow.

Pity.

He’s also the only thing between me and Holly.