Page 104 of Blood and Bells

I watch as Ronan claps one of the older vampires on the shoulder with enough enthusiasm to knock him half a pace sideways, then proceeds to explain firewood like it’s a subject no reasonable person could be expected to understand unaided.

“They’re not even standing out anymore,” I add.

“No,” Nick says, a quiet note of something easing in his voice. “They’re not.”

I look back at the square—the noise, the lights, the fact that no one’s waiting for it to go wrong.

Willow Creek doesn’t do seamless.

But it does, eventually, decide who belongs.

Nearby, a group of teenagers launches into an impromptu snowball fight, their aim questionable but their enthusiasm impeccable. Marcy has somehow established a competitive snowman-building league, complete with judging criteria that appear to reward poor decision-making and structural instability. Carrot noses are aggressively overused. Sunglasses have been introduced. No one is asking why.

Further along, someone has organized a snowshoe relay that seems to consist primarily of falling over with commitment and being applauded for it. No one wins. Everyone insists they did.

“So,” Nick says, glancing at me, “what do you want to do now?”

“Aside from lying down for a week and pretending none of this happened?” I say.

“A tempting plan. Deeply unrealistic.”

“I could supervise from a horizontal position.”

“I’d support that,” he says, his eyes glinting. “Heroically.”

As if summoned by the word heroically, a booming voice cuts through the square.

“Holly! Nick! Mistletoe—two paces left of the lamppost!”

I close my eyes briefly. Of course.

Frank emerges at the edge of the square, glasses halfway down his nose, sweater collecting soot like it’s a hobby. He points—firmly, theatrically—at a sprig of mistletoe hanging from a slightly crooked lamppost.

“By order of the mayor,” the voice continues, “and seasonal by-law twelve-b: unattended sprigs must be immediately attended. Shoo!”

“We could ignore him,” I whisper.

“We could,” Nick agrees, already steering me in that exact direction.

“That is not ignoring him.”

“It’s ignoring him in spirit.”

The crowd notices.

“Oh, here we go,” someone calls.

“About time,” Marcy adds, appearing from nowhere and absolutely not helping.

“Ten gold bullion says he trips,” Ronan offers, entirely uninvited.

“No one uses bullion anymore,” Wes says.

“More fool them,” Ronan replies.

“Focus,” I hiss, but I’m already smiling.

Nick leans closer as we reach the lamppost. “Willow Creek is very invested in this.”