Page 44 of Blood and Bells

“This makes no sense,” Holly says.

“Of course it does,” I say. “The songs tried to warn you. Humans never listen. He watches you while you sleep, Holly. It’s practically the tagline for a horror movie. He’s got a naughty-or-nice list, an omniscient info network, and unrestricted chimney access to every house on Earth, and you people leave him snacks.”

Everything in me tightens, coiling in a way I don’t enjoy. It takes a deliberate breath to ease it loose. A sip of cocoa buys me a second. The chocolate’s rich, sweet, and entirely unhelpful because it immediately conjures the idea that Holly would taste the same.

Not now. Focus.

She’s looking up at me with wide green eyes, glistening with tears and far too much hope—like I’m meant to fix this. Like I can.

I am so screwed.

“Tell them everything,” I say to Jingle. “The truth. All of it.”

Jingle sighs and runs a hand over his bald head. “It’s like this. Santa hates Christmas. Always has. Always will. He didn’t take on the holiday by choice. He was forced into it.”

“Forced?” Marcy asks.

“Santa was the spirit of winter. Originally. A wind sprite. Made of pure elemental impulse. He’d blow through towns, bring ice and sleet and cold, like summer spirits bring heat and sun and life. People didn’t pay much attention to wind sprites, because they’re just there. They come, they go, the end. They also smell horrible, so no one misses them when they’ve gone.”

“Santa was different. He wasn’t content with blowing ice around,” I add, keeping my tone even. “He decided winter shouldn’t end. Not for anyone. If everything froze, time would hold still. A world locked in winter where he was in charge.”

I pause for a beat.

“That’s how the first ice age started.”

“You’re kidding,” Holly breathes, pressing a hand to her temple. “Santa caused the first ice age?”

“Yup,” Jingle says, far too pleased with himself. “Took ages to unwind it. The powers that be didn’t appreciate the mess.” He shrugs. “So they rewrote his job description. No more storms. No more endless winters. Just joy. Gifts. Cheer. Eternal servitude at the North Pole.”

Holly and Marcy go very still. Too still.

Jingle slurps his cocoa, milking the moment.

I’ve heard this story before. He really needs to get to the point.

“Anyway,” he continues, tone turning flippant in a way that doesn’t quite hide the edge beneath it. “Santa hates Christmas. He does the job because he’s bound to it. But he’s been looking for a way out for centuries.”

His gaze flicks between us.

“He heard about Willow Creek. The biggest celebration of Christmas the world has ever seen. All that joy. All that belief.” His mouth curls. “You don’t build something like that without attracting attention. Especially not his.”

“I can think of dozens of reasons why not,” Holly says.

Jingle ignores her.

“He bought Sulphur Ridge. Started building his own version of things. Less of a celebration. More of an inversion. Strip the joy out, leave everything else behind. He calls it Crapmas. Which is either a joke or a warning.” He tilts his head. “When he realized what your tree does…well, that was the turning point. All that negativity, carefully gathered, neatly contained—all ready to be redirected. Not dispersed. Just used.”

“Wait,” I cut in. “What do you mean the tree takes all the negative energy?”

“It’s not a decoration,” Jingle says. “It’s a conduit. Frank built it to draw the worst out of people. Quietly. Gently. So no one would notice. By Christmas, it’s saturated.” He taps the table lightly. “All that anger. Grief. Resentment. Stored up in one place.”

“Why would Frank do this?” Holly asks, aghast.

Jingle gives a thin smile. “Because he meddles. That’s what he does. People, relationships, entire towns if he thinks it’ll improve things. Like most cupids, Frank doesn’t see the harm in smoothing the edges off problems.”

“And the rest,” I ask. “The stampede? The rogue elf attacks?”

Jingle shrugs. “That’s a bit of mischief. Santa likes a bit of havoc.”