Page 13 of Blood and Bells

“His. Oh my god. His.”

Holly makes a sound that suggests deep regret before turning her attention back to me. Her gaze is steady, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—hesitation, maybe, or the barest trace of trust she doesn’t want to admit. Holly has a way of looking at me like she’s sizing up an enemy on the battlefield, one eyebrow quirking slightly as though she’s daring me to prove her wrong. It’s as frustrating as it is fascinating.

And I have to admit, I like it.

“Fine.” The word comes out attached to a frustrated breath. “We’ll try it your way. We’ll visit Mímir, but if this doesn’t work, I’m trying something else. But no more theatrics and weird, supernatural mumbo jumbo.”

“Scout’s honor.” I quip, happy to return to the running joke again.

Holly doesn’t look reassured.

“Let’s get going.”

Chapter Five

I’ve made some questionable decisions in my life, but this one is in the top five for all-time worst, and it’s climbing the ranks at record speed. I’ve never really wanted to meet Willow Creek’s relic that time forgot.

Everyone knows the story. Mímir was once human. A keeper of infinite knowledge, consulted by gods and mortals alike. Then someone decided to sever his head, likely over a disagreement about his prices. Rather than dying like a sensible person, Mímir persisted. Now his disembodied head sits on a frosted stump in the middle of a forest, trading riddles for memories, each one adding to the patchwork of experience stitched into his consciousness.

It’s eerily silent as Nick and I make our way deeper into the woods. Each step we take sinks into the snow; the sound louder than it should be. My scarf keeps puffing steam into the collar of my coat, and a pocket hand warmer clicks softly against a thermos of cocoa I absolutely didn’t bring for Nick. Above us, bare branches lace the sky. When the wind stirs them, they whisper like paper lanterns. It’s the kind of place you’d expect to find a body in a murder mystery—or maybe something worse.

Our trip to Mímir is taking longer than I expected, and I’m not dressed for this kind of excursion. The conditions aren’t helping, and this isn’t the festive trip through a snow-covered winter wonderland that Nick promised me. I knew this was going to be worse than he made it out to be, and my gut is screaming that this is only the beginning.

“This feels...ominous,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.

Nick, of course, looks entirely at ease. His perfectly cut coat billows slightly as he strides ahead, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets. He doesn’t even bother to glance back at me when he speaks.

“The forest won’t bite.” He pauses, throwing a smirk over his shoulder. “Those rogue elves might if they ambush us. They could descend on us from trees like drop bears.”

“Not funny,” I snap, tightening my scarf against the chill. “What’s a drop bear?”

“Well, they’re Australian, if I recall right. A distant cousin of the koala. They lurk in trees, waiting for unsuspecting maidens to pass underneath them before they fall from their branches and knock them unconscious. They don’t enjoy wintry weather.”

He’s teasing, and I refuse to give him the pleasure of getting a rise out of me. I ignore him and continue to plow through the snow.

The faint sound of jingling bells grows louder as Nick and I trudge deeper into the depths of pine trees. It is not the cheerful jingle from carols. It’s slow and weighty, as if sleigh bells forgot their song.

“I feel like I’m walking into a horror movie,” I mutter, my boots crunching on the frozen ground. “What is that?”

“Festive ambiance.” Nick shrugs. He is so disarmingly calm that the forest practically blushes and cues gentle snowfall. “You don’t need to worry, Holly. Mímir doesn’t bite. He doesn’t have the teeth for it. Literally. They got pulled out years ago after they started showing signs of decay.”

“An immortal, all-knowing severed head that lives in a forest has a dentist? How does flossing even work?”

“He’s got a phone.”

That raises about forty new questions, and I briefly consult with my clipboard on where ‘learning about the telephony habits of a decapitated life coach’ should be listed.

“Forget I asked.”

The forest clears, and we step into a small, circular glade. It’s quiet, but it’s the silence of absence, not the silence of peace, and I shiver. The sun shining through the small opening bounces off a carpet of perfect, untouched snow. In the center is an ancient oak stump, gnarled and covered in frost. Atop it sits what can only be described as one of the single most bizarre sights I never imagined I’d ever witness.

It’s a nightmare dressed in holiday cheer; the sight of it turns my blood cold.

“Is it wearing a Santa hat?”

Nick chuckles, brushing snow off the stump like he’s welcoming an old friend. He brushes his hands together and steps back, delighted with his efforts.

“Festive ambiance.”