Page 50 of Blood and Bells

The tight pull in my stomach is definitely the brandy. The heat in the car explains the sweat on my palms.

Nothing else.

His outrageously oversized house comes into view, its warm glow spilling from it like a beacon against the cold. I park in the wash of light from the living room window and decide not to go straight to the front door. Instead, I walk across the drive to the window, drawn by the idea of catching Nick doing something I can tease him about later. Like brooding in a way that suggested he’d done extensive research into proper brooding techniques.

I peer through glass that’s quilted with frost ferns. My breath blooms in the night air, then fades.

I freeze.

Nick stands in the middle of the room, his dark figure hunched over something—or someone. The low, eerie light catches the edge of his fangs as he shifts, and something dark glistens at his mouth.

My stomach drops as the shape in his grip resolves into a rogue elf, limp but still twitching.

The elf jerks weakly, limbs dragging against the floor. There’s nothing willing about it. Nothing controlled or careful. It’s messy. Violent. Nothing like the careful lines he outlined for me in Hemoglow.

He promised Frank. Promised that the vampires wouldn’t feed on anyone in Willow Creek without consent.

For a heartbeat, the polished gentleman blurs—and the predator steps into focus.

My heart judders. I don’t notice I’ve moved until my mitten brushes against the glass with a soft squeak, the sound far too high pitched for my liking. My hand flies to my mouth as my feet step back too quickly.

My boot skids on the ice.

The world tilts—and Nick’s head snaps toward the window.

I don’t wait to find out if he’s seen me.

I barely catch my balance before I turn and run, the cold air burning my lungs as I fumble for the car door. The handle slips once in my grip before I wrench it open and shove the key home.

The engine roars too loudly in the quiet street.

I pull away too fast, my tires skid on the snow, but the car doesn’t slow down. All I can see is the dark smear at his mouth—and the sickening thought that whatever Frank nudged me toward, it wasn’t safety. It was the edge of something I don’t understand.

Chapter Sixteen

I spit into a porcelain bowl Crinkshaw holds at my side. The rogue elf slumps onto the couch, and Crinkshaw lurches forward with a glass of red wine as if this is the sort of thing that belongs on a checklist. Alcohol doesn’t make me drunk, but nothing washes the taste of tainted blood from my mouth like an Australian red. He follows it with a peppermint-clove rinse, all with the solemn air of a maître d’ at a tiny funeral.

“Someone’s really messed with that elf.” I wipe my mouth with a towel as Crinkshaw tilts the elf’s head with a quiet precision.

“He’ll be out for some time, Sire.” Crinkshaw drapes a tartan throw over the elf and sets a snowflake compress on its forehead. “How much did you take?”

“Only a mouthful, but it went everywhere, and it tasted foul. He’s been drugged. Santa’s been giving them something to make them more malleable.”

“Boozy eggnog?”

“Almost certainly.”

Elves are lunatics for boozy eggnog. They’ll do just about anything for it, which explains how Santa’s been getting them to play along. Honestly, this whole thing feels like a holiday-themed pyramid scheme, but with more sugar and less plausible deniability.

“Were you able to get anything else, Sire?”

I nod. Crinkshaw knows blood carries more than nutrients. Older vampires can sometimes pull something back if they’re good. Fragments. Impressions. Not much, and not often, but I’ve been at this longer than most.

I’m good at a lot of things, actually.

Things that might appeal to Holly. I’m handy with flatpack furniture and navigating tight spaces without making a sound. I make a mean hot chocolate. Marshmallows included. Then there’s my decorum. Charm. Finesse. The sort that might make Holly’s eyes soften—for entirely professional reasons, of course.

Crinkshaw taps his bony fingers against the side table. A small shake of my head snaps whatever that was back into place. I force a cough, assuming he’ll think my state is due to the rogue elf blood. At least vampires can’t blush.