Page 102 of Blood and Bells

“Gracious about what?”

“Watching them admire you,” he says. “Because they will. Extensively. And I’ll be standing there, centuries old, allegedly composed, trying not to develop a reputation for glaring at humans.”

My breath catches before I can stop it.

“Do you know how insufferable you are?” I manage, though it comes out far softer than I intended.

Nick’s mouth curves. “Deeply. It’s one of my more consistent traits.”

His fingers brush mine before he offers his arm again, like this is all perfectly normal and not doing alarming things to my internal organs.

“Come along, Frost,” he adds lightly. “Let’s go see your kingdom.”

Despite myself, I grin and slip my arm through his.

“Careful,” I say. “I run a tight ship.”

“I’ve noticed. I’m both impressed and mildly afraid.”

We make our way toward the square, and the closer we get, the more the light builds. Warm. Layered. Undisputedly festive.

And then we step into it.

The transformation takes my breath away.

Where there was chaos, there’s now structure. Where there was wreckage, there’s now intention. Strings of lights crisscross overhead, steady and bright, casting everything in gold instead of glare. The tree stands at the center—tall, whole, unapologetically itself—its ornaments catching the light without that wrong, corrupted flicker.

People move through the space with purpose now instead of panic—adjusting, laughing, calling to each other across the square like this was always the plan.

It’s not perfect.

It’s better than that.

It’s ours.

Christmas in Willow Creek has become a strange and entirely successful blend of traditional holiday cheer and vampiric charm. The twinkling lights glitter like stars, but there’s a faint red hue to them. Garlands loop between posts—some of them threaded with garlic bulbs in what feels like a pointed compromise. The baubles gleam, and tucked among the snowmen and angels are bats in tiny Santa hats and small, tasteful coffins filled with chocolate.

Even the icicles have been…adjusted. Their tips are dipped in red, as though they’ve taken up a dramatic new hobby.

The square isn’t perfect: a few broken decorations have been nudged into corners with optimistic intent, and someone has absolutely repurposed a candy cane fence into a barrier that now poses a mild legal liability.

But it’s alive.

It feels like Christmas. Not pristine—just perfectly Willow Creek, which is better.

Nick glances at me, his expression soft. “It’s amazing, Holly.”

“It’s not bad,” I say, aiming for modesty, but ending up in the vicinity of proud.

At the edge of the square, Ronan is laughing loudly as he demonstrates his axe skills by splitting chunks of firewood for an already aggressive bonfire.

“For roasting chestnuts!” he bellows, demonstrating how little he appreciates the size of a chestnut.

Nearby, Wes is attempting to string lights around a precarious stack of crates that have somehow become a cocoa station. His progress is being actively managed by Marcy, who is standing on one and issuing instructions with the authority of someone who has appointed herself Queen of Christmas Decorations and intends to keep her title.

“Higher, Wes! It needs to look like the North Pole threw up on it!” she demands, pointing dramatically at an empty spot.

I giggle, and my eyes find Crinkshaw, who, bless his eternally gloomy soul, is stationed at a table laden with baked goods. His skeletal hands move deftly as he arranges trays of gingerbread zombies that are less cheerful holiday treats and more terrifyingly detailed nightmare snacks. Each one is somehow desiccated yet fresh, with green icing which I assume is meant to represent ghoul blood.