Page 97 of Blood and Bells

“Mm.” She taps her clipboard. “Anyway, I’m in charge.”

“Of course you are.”

She bounces on her heels, aiming for innocent and landing somewhere near smug. It’s alarming how much authority a clipboard confers. Her satisfaction shouldn’t be this effective on me, not when I am a Lord of the Night, and yet here I am, waiting on instructions like a well-behaved menace.

“Holly had to run home to change. Someone spilled cold cocoa all over her,” Marcy adds. “Wes, Ronan, and I can cover you for a while. And if not—” she gestures to the square “—the rest of Willow Creek’s got this.”

Ronan nods, entirely too quickly.

Interesting again.

Let’s hope this doesn’t develop into something where his actions could be misconstrued. Such as following her home late at night. Or offering any other man who comes too close an eager, friendly, tavern-bouncer smile that’s wrapped in cashmere.

I hand him my hammer. “Try not to build a catapult.”

“No promises.”

I take one last look at the square. Someone’s testing the fairy lights; a hundred bulbs blink in hopeful sequence, like the town itself giving me a nudge.

Right.

I turn and head out at speed, chasing after the woman I’ve somehow failed to see for several hours—a frankly unacceptable state of affairs.

Two weeks ago, we could barely stand each other.

Now…

Well.

Let’s not examine that too closely. I’m in a hurry.

Her house is a vampire’s sprint from the square. Warm light leaks from the window, spilling gold across the snow. Fairy lights blink with the stubborn rhythm of a heart that refuses to quit, and the wreath smells pleasantly of spruce—which is not pine, and everyone should really know the difference by now.

Last time I was here, we argued.

I’d prefer not to repeat the experience.

I stop at the foot of the steps.

Through the centuries, I’ve managed my life with reasonable competence. This—standing on a doorstep, unsure what to say—feels disproportionately difficult. There’s no strategy for it. No elegant solution. Just the uncomfortable truth that I was an idiot, and she has every right to shut the door in my face.

I don’t knock. Not immediately, because once I do, this becomes real.

And I would quite like not to ruin it.

…again.

I exhale, take the steps two at a time, and knock before I can reconsider. The sound lands too loud in the quiet.

The door opens, and there she is.

Holly Frost.

She’s wearing a soft sweater that clings to her shoulders in a way I am absolutely not equipped to deal with, her hair loose and curling around her face like it’s made a series of excellent decisions without consulting me. Glitter sticks to her skin. The faintest flush of pink brightens her cheeks.

She looks like she lost a fight with a festive beverage and won anyway.

Her green eyes widen when she sees me, and for a second, I forget how words are meant to function.