Page 96 of Blood and Bells

Faded blue, baggy in the wrong places, and almost certainly purchased by Crinkshaw sometime near the end of the last war, when ration books were essential and sophistication was not. They do not so much fit my frame as drape upon it like a tarp over a sculpture that used to have dignity.

I’ve been relegated to rebuilding the carolers’ stage with Wes, who is conspicuously not wearing overalls. That feels deliberate. Possibly strategic. Certainly noted. And while I am working, Wes is engaging in an ongoing social event with an endless rotating cast of twentysomething females who just happened to be in the area and who appear to be composed primarily of perfume and giggles.

I knew I’d pay for telling Holly I was good at everything. As it happens, I do know how to build a stage—and, annoyingly, I’m quite good at carpentry. That said, this feels beneath my ancient mystique, which is not the same thing as being beneath me, and therefore technically acceptable.

I hammer in another crossbeam.

I’ve barely seen Holly since yesterday. She’s turned Willow Creek into a cheerful machine. Choir scales drift from the bandstand, a clipboard command center has sprung up beside a nest of extension reels, and there’s an assembly line where cocoa, biscuits, and encouragement are dispensed. In that order. Every ladder has three extra hands already assigned to steady it.

It’s…effective.

And it’s hard not to notice the tree, either. Restored. Blazing at the center of the town square. Holly’s pulled all of Willow Creek into orbit and set it spinning in the right direction, and the Winter Wonderland Festival is going to happen.

Everyone has a job, and I mean everyone. She’s even made Frank string popcorn.

She’s a wonder.

With some irritation, I keep building, because whatever my ego says about mystique, I am not the man who lets Holly down. I set the cleat, fix the batten, admire a frankly excellent stage, and attempt to share my brilliance with Wes, who is busy conducting a field study on blushing.

Miffed, I hop down and look for my next task.

It’s remarkable, watching the town come together. I’ve noticed over the centuries that there are weeks that last entire years, and there are years that happen in a week. This feels like the latter. Everyone’s smiling and engaged. The coven looks more alive than I’ve seen them in a very long time.

It feels like home.

That’s…wonderful.

Holly has threaded herself through my days in a way I did not see coming. Detached cynicism used to be a cloak, and now it is a napkin. She’s reminded me that enduring the years isn’t the same thing as experiencing them.

I have feelings again. The inconvenient real kind.

And, against all expectations, I find them rather splendid.

God help me, I wrote a line of poetry last night. It didn’t scan, but the sentiment was devastating.

As I admire my handiwork, Marcy and Ronan approach, each armed with a clipboard, and I find myself smiling at how thoroughly Holly has taken over my coven. I don’t mind. Not even slightly.

I’ve also noticed Ronan seems to be finding reasons to be in Marcy’s company.

Interesting.

“More chores, Nick,” Ronan says by way of greeting. “That lass of yours has an endless list. She’ll keep you busy for an eternity.”

I do hope so.

“What’s on your list?” I ask, keen to steer the conversation away from anything that might lead to further revelations about my feelings for Holly.

“You don’t seem very full of Christmas spirit,” Marcy teases. “I’d have thought you’d have been delighted you defeated Santa, and instead you’re sulking.”

“I’m the lord vampire of an entire coven. My name is used to terrify children in some parts of the world. I once dined with⁠—”

“Eleanor of Aquitaine.” Marcy cuts in, rolling her eyes in an extraordinarily clichéd move. “We’ve all heard it. Was that your only dinner, or do you pace them out over the centuries?”

“Excuse me for not including Johan de Witt.”

“Who?”

“My point exactly.”