Page 87 of Blood and Bells

She shushes me.

“No time, Draven,” she says. “We’ve got the rogue elves on the run. It’s time for us to stop Santa.”

“Have you seen Crinkshaw?”

“Right here, Sire.”

The zombie materializes at my shoulder, and I react with all the dignity of a startled cat flung into a bath.

“Gah! Don’t do that. Where did you come from?”

“I’ve been standing beside you the entire time,” he says.

“I didn’t notice you.”

“That was what they carved on my tombstone.”

I stare at him for a beat, deeply unconvinced by both the statement and the universe that allowed it, but his timing is inconveniently perfect. He’s exactly where I need him to be. All we have to do now is feed his existential disappointment to Santa.

Right then.

“Time to end this,” I say.

Holly gives me a single nod. Crinkshaw shrugs, which for him counts as enthusiasm. We press forward into the maelstrom.

Willow Creek rises to meet us—shoulder-checking the elves, battling back the gale with snowballs, cookie sheets, garland lariats, and candy-cane staves—holding a narrow, glittering lane open straight to Santa. Holly and I push through it, winds tearing at us hard enough to sting, forcing us to shield our eyes as wrapping paper, splintered candy cane, and tinsel whip past in a festive attempt on our lives.

Santa stands with his hands raised, dragging what power he can from the snow globe. He still can’t force it back into the tree—thank every minor miracle available—and that failure is the only reason we’re still in this fight.

We press on, shoulder to shoulder. Crinkshaw follows with the air of someone attending a particularly inconvenient meeting.

Then, with one final surge, we break through the wind and step into the eye of it all.

Santa’s eyes burn with manic delight, his form flickering at the edges like he can’t quite hold himself together. He shifts from foot to foot, jittering with stolen power, frost-crystal beard rattling softly as red and green energy spits and snaps from his fingers.

He notices us instantly.

“Holly Frost!” he says, voice threading through the wind like it’s being dragged across broken glass. “And Niklaus Draven. Of course. You always did have a talent for arriving just in time to fail.” The air tightens around him. “You won’t stop me now. Not with this much power. Not when I’m this close.”

“Holly—” I begin.

She’s already stepped forward.

“You’re done, Santa,” she says, in a way that feels almost offensive in this storm. “Your elves are losing. The town’s awake. You’re not taking Christmas away from people who actually like it.”

His grin widens—too wide, stretching oddly through the blur of him.

“Oh, really? Think you’re going to win now you’ve brought the vampires into this?” he asks, delighted. “How wonderfully ironic. Shall we let the wolves guard the pantry as well? I do admire a bold strategic error.”

“Enough.” I step in front of Holly before he can build momentum again. “It’s over. Walk away from Willow Creek and don’t come back.”

“Eat Christmas, Draven.”

The magic hits before the words finish landing.

A blast of red and green energy tears toward us, sharp and violent, the air screaming as it goes. Instinct takes over—I shove Holly aside, hard enough that she stumbles clear, and twist away as the strike scorches past me. Heat and frost rake across my skin in the same breath.

It slams into the snowbank behind us, detonating in a spray of hissing steam and charred ice.