Page 14 of Blood and Bells

Mímir regards us from his frost-silvered stump. His features look carved from old stone, the kind that remembers stories, and his sunken eye sockets glow red. A knitted Santa hat perches at a hopeful angle. Someone has looped soft tinsel around the stump and a single strand of multicolored Christmas lights winks with patient persistence.

I blink, certain I’ve lost my mind. “This cannot be…”

“Mímir.” Nick bows. “I see you’re in a festive mood.”

The head’s mouth opens with a dry click, a sound like wind through a keyhole. It groans, and every single hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Even the trees around us whisper in fright as the head wakes up, as if we’re all waiting nervously to find out what kind of mood he’s in.

“Niklaus Draven,” he rasps, his voice like gravel scraping across metal. “And with him, Holly Frost.”

I take an instinctive step back. “Why does he know my name?”

Nick chuckles, completely unfazed. “He knows everything. It’s his defining trait. Holly, meet Mímir. Mímir, meet Holly Frost.”

Mímir hums, the sound unsettling and calm at once. “Frost. Apt. The air about her is oranges and worry.”

I glare at Nick and adjust my hat, hoping that its acute angle conveys how thoroughly unsettled I am.

“I don’t like this.”

Nick only shrugs. “It’s fine.”

I don’t know why I expected anything from the vampire in the way of support. He stands beside the stump, completely at ease, as if the pair of them are about to start a carol concert. It’s as though chatting with a severed, glowing, tinsel-covered head is the most natural, normal thing in the world, and Nick doesn’t flinch or falter under Mímir’s scrutiny, his calm so absolute it borders on arrogance.

Watching him, I can’t help but wonder if this vampire is immune to fear or if he simply doesn’t care enough to feel it.

“We seek your counsel, Mims. We need your wisdom.”

The head gurgles, and I look forward to a few months of nightmares from this experience.

“You’re aware of the arrangement,” he intones. “Thus our pact is spoken; thus our bargain stands. Time is a fleeting arrow, memory’s tethered strands. What was sought is granted; the cost lay in our hands.”

“Not happening. I’m out. So long, Draven. Enjoy your tete-a-tete with Severed Seagal over here. I’m not giving it one of my memories. I still have a recurring nightmare about third year when I called my professor ‘mom,’ and even that one’s staying.”

The air grows heavier, as though the forest itself is holding its breath. The faint jingling of the lights around Mímir’s neck is almost mocking, a grotesque parody of holiday cheer. Even the snow beneath my feet seems unnaturally still, muffling the sound of my shifting boots. The chill is more supernatural than seasonal.

Nick holds up a hand, silencing me with a frustratingly calm look. “Relax. I told you. I’ll pay.”

“Generous,” Mímir says, his tone dripping with mockery. “What knowledge do you seek, bloodsucker?”

Nick ignores the jab. “A Christmas tree. Stolen from Willow Creek by rogue elves. Where is it?”

Mímir’s gums mash together as he chuckles, an unsettling rattle that seems to reverberate through the frozen forest, making the trees groan in response.

“Ah, the tree of light,” he rasps, the words oozing from his tongue like old honey. “It stands where glitter gathers, snow flurries, and mischief keeps watch. Seek the unlit star and the path will show itself.”

His eyes glow brighter, their red almost hungry, as if he relishes the confusion that haunts the air between us.

I throw up my hands. “Great. Cryptic riddles. So helpful.”

Nick smiles. “It’s part of the fun.”

“You have incredibly bizarre ideas of what constitutes fun.”

Mímir’s glowing eyes hold steady, unblinking. “Mind the Hollow of Mischief. The elves guard it closely, even though their hearts are twisted by betrayal and their minds consumed with chaos. Outwit their leader, the one with the crooked crown, fur-lined and heavy with red.”

The clearing darkens at his words, the once-cheerful flicker of his lights now a sinister pulse, and it feels more like a forgotten ornament lurking in the attic. The snow beneath me shifts as it stirs in response to the riddle, and the wind howls across me, bringing anything but seasonal cheer.

Perhaps Christmas has decided to hold its breath.