Page 34 of Blood and Bells

The cookie monster’s head caves in with a soft crack, and it collapses into crumbs, coating me in a fine dusting of cookie. Four more rush in to take its place, and just like that, I’m in the middle of a battle.

Ronan’s axe cuts a devastating path through the chaos. I never thought I’d find myself saying this, but I’m very glad he brought it with him. He cleaves through gingerbread people like they’re nothing, roaring with glee as they crumble around him. And Crinkshaw’s hovering at the edges, contributing in his own way—lobbing the occasional stick with surprising accuracy.

“Is this what you meant by unspeakable horror?” I yell.

“Pretty much.” Nick strikes another blow, destroying another gingerbread attacker. The creature falls apart in a shower of sugar, but more keep coming. This is like a Christmas parade that will not end. Not how I imagined dying, but festive nonetheless.

I narrowly avoid a sugary fist aimed straight at my face.

“How do we stop this?” I ask.

“Keep breaking them apart,” Nick calls over his shoulder, moving with an effortless grace. “There aren’t many left.”

And to my surprise, he’s right. We’ve actually beaten most of them. The ground is covered in cookie crumbs.

“See?” He grins. “It’s just sugar and magic. It can’t get much worse⁠—”

I glare at him. He gives me a sheepish look.

He’s broken the cardinal rule. The one that everyone who’s ever watched a movie knows. You do not, ever, under any circumstances, tempt fate.

Now things are about to get very, very much worse.

The ground shudders again. The gingerbread house trembles, then groans as its walls bow outward, as if something inside is forcing its way out. Its sugar-sculpted windows crack and splinter.

Something far worse than sentient cookies is inside that house.

I do not know how I will explain this moment to my future therapist.

In a move that doesn’t just defy physics but openly mocks it, the structure swells to four times its size. The door slams open.

A creature bursts out and roars.

It’s a dragon.

Not a normal dragon—another phrase I never thought I’d use—but a gingerbread one. Complete with chocolate horns and a jaw full of caramel teeth. It’s impressive, and I wish that it wasn’t. It opens its wings in a clearly threatening gesture and flashes a grin laced with every ounce of candy-based badness that my mom tried to warn me away from. I shudder, and I wonder if the dragon should visit a dental hygienist.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter. “Now we’ve got dragons made of cookies.”

“I was wondering when things would get fun,” Nick says, dashing forward.

Ronan charges after him, roaring louder than the gingerbread dragon, which thrashes its massive candy cane tail in retaliation. It swings toward Ronan, narrowly missing him as he ducks and rolls. The dragon snarls, its caramel teeth glinting, but it doesn’t stop. The scent of burned sugar fills the air, thick and cloying, as it lunges again, its wings flapping with a sickening crunch.

I’m scrambling to keep up with the chaos and dodging flying candy shards when Nick lands a solid hit to the creature’s underbelly. The gingerbread dragon stumbles back, a jagged crack splitting its once-perfect sugary exterior.

“You’re just an overgrown cookie,” Nick yells, rolling his shoulders like this is a sparring match instead of a battle for survival. “Just crumble already.”

Crinkshaw flicks cocoa across the wing joints; the icing softens and begins to sag. Ronan follows with Sally—less berserker now, more baker—tapping at the seams until whole sheets of gingerbread shear loose, sliding off like badly laid tiles.

The dragon screeches, thrashing as more gingerbread pieces fall from it in a glittering avalanche of sugar and caramel. It is like watching an overbaked biscuit surrender to a polite dunking.

Nick steps in to finish—one swift, decisive stroke to the creature’s heart-shaped gingerbread chest.

The dragon collapses with a final, sugary hiss.

I stand there, wiping caramel off my cheek and taking in the scene.

“I’ve faced tougher biscotti.”