Page 77 of Blood and Bells

Then the red light hits.

It pulses out from the direction of the square, slow and wrong, washing over the town in a crimson glow that drains the warmth from everything it touches. The lights don’t look festive anymore. They look…consumed.

Nick leans forward. “Faster.”

“Did you just say⁠—”

“FASTER.”

“I am already driving on ice,” Ronan says. “We will arrive in one piece or several festive ones.”

My chest tightens.

“We’re not too late,” I say, mostly to convince myself.

No one answers.

“Santa’s already here,” Ronan says, breaking the silence before it can settle.

“Yes,” Nick says, his voice edged with something akin to violence. “I’ve confirmed it. He had the snow globe before we even left the factory. The mansion’s already been hit.”

The thought makes my stomach churn.

The snow globe—the tree, the heart of our gala, the thing holding Willow Creek together—is already in his hands.

Great.

No pressure.

“How are we going to do this?” Ronan asks.

“We’re Willow Creek,” I say, almost like I’m trying to convince myself, “and Willow Creek doesn’t fold. I’ve seen that much. Whether we’re recovering from a disastrous Halloween with an authentic haunted house, or that time an errant fog machine disrupted weather patterns on the entire eastern seaboard, magic destruction is as common here as chocolate cake experiments. We show up. Put our boots on, roll up our sleeves, and get our opinions ready. We fix things. Loudly if necessary.”

I finish my quite fantastic speech by holding up my finger.

“And we’re not done yet.”

Nick’s silver eyes hold me. “You never give up, do you?”

“Nope.”

The town sharpens through the snowfall as we approach, lights blinking stubbornly against the dark—but the red glow underneath it all is wrong. It pulses, slow and heavy, stretching shadows too far across the streets.

By the time we reach the square, the air itself feels off.

Ronan brakes. Hard.

We pile out.

Santa stands at the center, the snow globe raised beside him on a platform. Inside, the glitter churns violently, the crooked tree glowing like it’s under strain. Around him, rogue elves scramble, stringing lights that pulse instead of shine, their glow casting everything in something that isn’t festive anymore.

My stomach turns.

And the crowd⁠—

They stand in a loose ring, swaying gently, eyes unfocused, like they’re nutcrackers that have been set down and forgotten. Not cheering. Not singing.

Just…waiting.