Page 12 of Blood and Bells

“They’re distantly related to genies. They’re a bit like a cross between a stopwatch and a photocopier. Terrible at parties, by the way.”

“You’re going to need to circle back on all of that.”

Humans know so little of the supernatural world. It’s complicated, and the lineages and classes of creatures can be difficult to understand and recall, even for someone as old as me. The problem of human lore and their silly books and movies has only made this worse, and I hope I won’t have to explain all of it.

There are better things to do.

Like figure out why Holly is so cross with me, when all I’ve done is try to help.

Before I can explain further, Holly interrupts. “This is a waste of time. You were never going to be serious about this.”

She rummages through her purse, muttering under her breath at me, until she emerges with a crumpled bill, which she throws on the table. As she stands up to leave, I grab her wrist. Her frustration radiates off her in waves, palpable even to the humans around us.

I rise and step into her path, close enough to catch the faintest trace of her scent—citrusy, warm, alive. It shouldn’t affect me the way it does. Nothing about her should. And yet, here I am, grasping at any excuse to keep her from walking out of the Knit and Kettle and out of my life.

“Holly. Please. I want to help. I’m sorry I tried to be funny.”

She snatches her hand away and puts a wool beanie on her head, preparing to exit.

“I have to go. I have things to do. Including finding a new tree and cleaning up the town. Then I see if Amazon has any elf repellent. You never know. They have Nicholas Cage pillowcases.”

There’s something about that last bit that causes her voice to break, and I feel a stab of sympathy. When was the last time I felt anything even close to that for a human? Several centuries, at least.

“Stop.” I edge a little nearer to her. She is really very close to me, and her scent deepens. Oranges. Blood oranges too. Lovely. “Holly, let me help. I can help you get your tree back. Let’s at least try that first before you resort to panic buying merchandise.”

“You still haven’t told me any ideas you have to help.” She looks up at me, and I find the smallest glimmer of hope in her eyes. I very much want to turn that glimmer into something bigger.

“I don’t know where the elves have taken your tree.” She scoffs and forces me to pivot to stop her from walking out the door. I try again. “Wait. I said I don’t know where the elves took it, but I know someone who does.”

“Who?”

“Mímir.”

“What?” She stomps her foot in frustration. “That’s your answer? That’s your great vampire solution? An ancient, severed head?”

“I wouldn’t go near that thing, Holly,” Marcy says.

“Well, duh, Marce,” Holly replies. “There’s no chance that thing’s coming near me.”

Holly perfects the art of unimpressed, and I have to confess that I’m unsurprised. Mímir has a reputation, and it isn’t good. He’s not nearly as bad as everyone thinks he is, but he likes people to believe that he’s unpleasant because it keeps them from bothering him. I can understand and empathize with that, especially when most humans are utterly infuriating. Admittedly, he’s got a bit of a temper, and he doesn’t have an exactly cheery disposition, but I don’t imagine many would when they’ve spent an eternity living the way he has.

“He’s fine,” I say, smoothly, using every ounce of my vampire charm. “I’ve known him for ages. He knows…well, everything. He knows literally everything. We’ll ask him who took the tree.”

“I don’t feel like losing parts of my memories, thanks,” Holly says.

“Oh, that.” She’s referring to the price Mímir demands for his information, and she seems rather hung up on it. “We’ll work something out.”

I flash her a two-point-five grin.

Nothing.

“I said no theatrics.” Her voice is low and threatening. “And the first thing you suggest is a desiccated old head who spits out riddles in exchange for memories. This is your idea of a sane, sensible approach to the elf problem?”

“Holly,” I keep my voice gentle. “Your town is seemingly plagued by mythical creatures from the beyond. Its inhabitants are invariably supernatural or connected to them in some way. Given the context, this is a remarkably measured approach.”

“He’s got a point,” Marcy says. I give her a four-point-five smile, and she gasps a little, gripping her cup as if it’s the only thing tethering her to reality.

“Whose side are you on?” Holly asks.