Page 84 of Blood and Bells

Chaos answers.

Boozy rogue elves scatter into the crowd like cats dropped onto a hot griddle, all claws and noise and terrible decision making. It’s madness. One launches itself at me, but it never gets close—Nick knocks it clean out of the air with his cane in a move that is, regrettably, extremely impressive.

I feel a brief and deeply inconvenient flicker of swoon.

“Keep waking up the town,” he calls, “I’ll handle these pests.”

I nod and pivot, scanning the square until I spot a young man caught in the spell, his expression stuck somewhere between confusion and mild regret.

Casey, I think.

Mostly, I remember his unfortunate relationship with Sarah Waterson. His Christmas karaoke and how his attempts to win her over have spectacularly failed to work out.

I push through the crowd and grab his hand.

“Hey!” I shout. “Christmas karaoke—last year! You sang ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ like it was legally binding. You got half the town dancing. You wore those awful elf ears and said they were lucky!”

For a moment, a flicker of recognition crosses his face too. His eyes sharpen, his posture straightening as the fog of Santa’s magic is lifting ever so slightly.

“Let’s show Santa that the heart of Christmas isn’t something he can steal,” I say, pressing on before the moment slips away. “It’s in us—right here, right now!”

For good measure, I dump a handful of cold snow down his back.

He yelps, jerking upright, and whatever hold Santa had on him snaps clean through. He blinks at me, dazed.

“Miss Frost?”

“Welcome back.” I squeeze his shoulder. “Now go help your neighbors.”

He nods—still shaky, but there—and turns to the nearest cluster of people.

“Come on!” he shouts, his voice gathering strength. “We don’t let anyone mess with Christmas in Willow Creek!”

The ripple starts small, then builds.

At the edges, my musical swat team gets to work. Meribel lifts a hand, and the choir finds a note. Silent Night, soft as breath at first. The sound threads through the square, and the fog on people’s faces loosens like old tape being peeled back. Carolers shake out their scarves and step forward. The Scouts form two neat snowball lines without being told. Mr. Patel’s gritter noses up to the curb like a faithful old reindeer, engine rumbling in support.

All around us, people blink and stir, waking like they’ve been pulled from a restless sleep. They look dazed, faintly irritated—the particular expression of someone who has been woken far too early on Christmas morning and intends to complain about it later.

But they’re waking.

That’s what matters.

Song, touch, noise—whatever it takes—the spell is cracking, and Willow Creek is coming back to itself one stubborn, slightly grumpy resident at a time.

And now it’s about to show him what happens when you mess with it.

Mrs. Christie has shaken off the last of the daze and produces a rolling pin from her apron pocket with terrifying efficiency. Apparently, she’s been armed this entire time. I make a mental note to never annoy her. She taps it against her palm twice and strides into the fray with the calm of a head baker calling order, directing teenagers to form a cookie-sheet shield wall, assigning cocoa-mug artillery to the choir, and claiming the front line for herself.

“No one steals Christmas from Willow Creek!” she roars. “Holly throws this party, thank you very much.”

I appreciate the sentiment. The phrasing needs some work.

I sprint back toward the center of the square, shouting over the chaos. “Grab whatever you can! Snowballs, candy canes—anything festive. If it can be thrown, it’s a weapon. Come on! It’s time to fight!”

The townsfolk surge into motion, confusion hardening into something determined and only slightly unhinged. Someone starts frisbeeing shortbread at the rogue elves. The elves screech and hiccup nutmeg. Another group overturns the cocoa cart and hands out mugs as shields. Strictly lukewarm, because safety comes first. A gaggle of teenagers packs slush into weaponized snowballs, stacking ammunition like they’ve been training for this their entire lives. The Scouts call out ranges like artillery officers and start a tidy stack of ammunition beside the bandstand.

Someone claps me on the back as they charge past, swinging a garland like an axe pole.