Page 61 of Blood and Bells

The thought arrives fully formed, sensible, strategic, and unwanted. This is exactly the sort of thing he’s good at. Suspicious letters. Questionable decisions. Situations that feel like the beginning of a bad idea.

Then I think last night. About promises and loopholes and the look on his face when he decided those were the same thing.

“Right,” I say.

And instead of calling Nick, I break the seal.

Chapter Eighteen

“Another,” I say to Wes, gesturing at the bottle behind him.

Wes, ever unflappable, raises his eyebrow at me. “You sure? That’s a lot, even for you.”

“I can’t get drunk, Wes.”

“I know. But since we’re both going through the hackneyed routine of ‘sad man at bar,’ I felt I should play my part of a reluctant bartender. Drink the bottle if you like—just leave enough to dye the fountain green.”

It’s late afternoon, and I’ve retreated to Hemoglow to lick my wounds. Twinkle lights loop the back bar like fairy-laced ivy, while garlands of spruce—not pine—and dried orange slices scent the air. Candy-cane swizzle sticks lean in a cut-glass tumbler, and someone’s got a jazzy Carol of the Bells low on the speakers. The bar is lightly populated at this time of day, and it’s as good a place as any to feel sorry for myself. If gloom must be endured, it may as well be festive. It’s not like I can go home.

My coven, bless their undead hearts, can be staggeringly efficient when it comes to things that are none of their business. By the time I’d left the house, it was already common knowledge that Holly and I had argued. Not discussed. Not disagreed. Argued. With feeling. Possibly with subtext.

Crinkshaw chose the moment I was putting on my coat to murmur, “I did mention, Sire, that you are not especially adept in such circumstances.”

I chose not to respond, largely because I did not have one that wasn’t either inaccurate or undignified. Ronan, meanwhile, looked delighted. As if he’d been handed emotional drama and intended to treat it as a spectator sport.

I left before either of them attempted to improve the situation further.

Which is how I ended up here, drinking something that cannot numb the pain, surrounded by people I don’t know, in a bar decorated like Christmas has developed a personality and that personality is based entirely on thrifting.

The look I send Wes is enough to send him retreating to the opposite side of the bar, where a group of twentysomething women are already competing for his attention. He goes easily, of course. Wes is a fresh vampire—barely seventy—and still firmly in the phase where physical dalliances are the highlight of existence.

Not that they’re without their merits. It’s just that after a few centuries, the novelty fades. There are more interesting pursuits than a taste and a tickle.

Was Holly right? Did I go too far?

Frank had been perfectly clear about the terms of our stay in Willow Creek. No feeding on residents unless it was with their consent. That was the line—bright, immovable, and it ran right through Hemoglow. Not open to interpretation.

A rogue elf, however, is not a resident.

After a solid ten minutes of semi-productive rumination, Wes reappears at my elbow, having abandoned his admirers with the casual cruelty of someone who expects them to remain exactly where he left them.

“You’re looking grim, boss. Ready to talk yet?”

I take a measured sip of Cabernet Sauvignon. “Holly is under the impression I’ve done something unforgivable.”

“And have you?”

“No,” I say, with dignity. “I have been misinterpreted.”

Wes leans one hip against the bar. “Ah. Technically correct. The least adored of all the corrects.”

“I wasn’t aware there were scales.”

“There are five.” He counts on his fingers. “Actually correct, technically correct, correct but wrong, incorrect, and not even close to correct.”

“How can you be correct but wrong?”

“Enjoying the music of the Eagles, for example. You’re correct inasmuch as you are the owner of your own taste, but you’re incorrect because they’re a terrible band and you should feel bad for liking them.”