Page 79 of Blood and Bells

A low hum vibrates from the snow globe, a sound that pulses through the air and settles in your chest. It’s pulling in all the energy, the corrupted glow deepening with every second.

Vampires don’t really need sleep—not properly—but something in me is dragging anyway. Not physical. Not quite. Just the slow, grinding exhaustion of someone who’s been at this too long and would like five uninterrupted minutes of peace.

I suspect this is what it’s like to be a woman with an opinion on the internet.

I shove the thought aside before it can become a personality.

We’re far enough away that he still hasn’t noticed us, the corrupted snow globe holding his full attention. The red glow pulses, thick and insistent, while rogue elves scurry at his command, and the hum of dark magic rises steadily beneath it all. The air tastes like frost and old pennies; the spruce garlands hang limp under the red throb of the globe.

Before I can say anything, Holly produces a clipboard like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat and brandishes it with alarming authority.

I have no idea where she got it.

At this point, I’m forced to assume she simply generates them as needed.

She squares her shoulders and takes command of the night—brisk, bright, entirely unflappable—the sort of person who can turn chaos into a checklist and make you grateful for the opportunity to comply. The clipboard even catches the light as she gestures with it, like a general who prefers stationery to swords.

Even now, Holly Frost is completely in her element.

And I⁠—

No.

We’ll come back to that.

“Ronan,” she says, “take half the coven and circle round behind Santa. Quietly. No yelling about battle or glory. Tiptoe. Can you do that?”

“Aye!” Ronan roars.

Holly smacks him on the arm.

The warrior who has inspired poetry about violence looks faintly chastened.

“Quiet,” she says.

“Aye,” Ronan whispers, then leans in with great solemnity. “It will be my honor to show these elves that Ronan doesn’t just fight. He creates legends. Blood, tinsel, and sheer unhinged grit will etch our tale into the annals of battle, and they shall sing our names⁠—”

Holly ticks a box on her checklist labeled ‘Ronan: pointlessly dramatic monologue’ and moves on.

“Wes, take the rest. Shadow us. Peel two off to the choir—get them humming something steady, just not “Carol of the Bells,” we don’t need panic. Keep some vampires by the bakery: cocoa, blankets, first-aid, spare mittens. Nick and I go first and figure out how to wake the townspeople. If it goes wrong, plan B is loud carols and louder thermoses.”

“You okay with this, boss?” Wes arches an eyebrow at me, lounging against the car like we’re about to run errands and not confront a deranged Santa with apocalyptic tendencies.

Holly flushes. It suits her.

“Oh my god. Nick. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“All good,” I say. “Do what she says, Wes. She’s the event planner.”

Wes flicks me a salute. “Aye, boss.” Then to Holly, with sudden gravity, “Ma’am.”

Holly flashes me a tight grin, and it’s like the sun breaking over a gray morning. Bright, quick, gone again before I can decide what to do with it.

I should have kissed her in the factory.

It occurs to me now, with the clarity of someone who has made an excellent decision approximately ten minutes too late, that there was a moment—right there, between the homicidal elves and the questionable caramel—when it might have worked.

Now we’re here, and she’s looking at me like that—like I’m worth trusting—and I have absolutely no idea if I’ve earned it or how quickly I might lose it again.