Page 88 of Blood and Bells

Santa laughs.

The sound is wrong—like sleigh bells dragged over broken teeth. The wind coils tighter around him as he lifts his hands again, power gathering fast, unstable, eager.

I roll to my feet and sprint back toward Crinkshaw and Holly. He’s still standing like a man waiting for a delayed train and expecting worse news. She’s already pushing herself up, her green eyes bright and blazing with determination, and the sight of her cuts through the noise in my head.

“Nick, he’s insanely powerful,” she says.

“I know.”

“We’ve got to get some Crinkshaw in him.”

“Please don’t ever use that combination of words again.”

Her gaze sharpens. “How though?”

“Follow my lead.”

Without waiting, I grab a bewildered Crinkshaw and manhandle him a few steps closer to the malevolent wind sprite, who’s still cackling like a mall Santa three eggnogs past good judgment.

“Holly!” I bellow, pitching my voice toward full theatrical catastrophe. “We can still win this with him,” I jab a finger at Crinkshaw, “as long as Santa doesn’t get to the magic Christmas goblin!”

“I’m a what now?” Crinkshaw asks, deeply unimpressed.

Holly doesn’t miss a beat. Her face shifts instantly—alarm, horror, urgency—all dialed up to a level that suggests she’s missed her true calling on the stage.

“Oh no!” she gasps, clutching her chest. “None of this matters—the tree, the town, not even one strand of its tinsel—if we don’t keep the grotesque Christmas goblin away from Santa. Please,” she adds, with an escalating desperation that would make a seasoned actor blush, “anything but that. He’s horrible.”

“I am standing right here,” Crinkshaw says.

Santa stills.

His head tilts, the wind around him stuttering as suspicion gives way to curiosity.

“…I beg your pardon?”

“Oh no,” I say, committing fully now, dragging a hand down my face. “We’re too late.”

And then I shove Crinkshaw forward.

He stumbles straight into the pull of Santa’s magic, coat flapping as his expression settles into a kind of resigned offense.

“I feel I should object to this,” he begins.

Santa’s attention locks.

The pull sharpens.

“Oho,” Santa murmurs, delighted. “And what, exactly, do we have here?”

His hands curl like claws as he reaches out, seizing Crinkshaw by the head with a grip that seems more ceremonial than required. The air thickens, dark magic coiling as Santa pulls deep, inhaling Crinkshaw’s energy like a vampire at an all-you-can-drink buffet.

I don’t actually need to breathe, but I hold my breath anyway.

Holly’s fingers tighten around mine.

For a moment, there’s nothing.

Then Santa drops him.