Page 68 of Blood and Bells

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a holly-jolly intruder,” he sneers, and ticks an item off. “Time to wrap up this little holiday hiccup.”

The elves close in, their twisted holiday cheer hardening into something meaner. Like a grandma reaching for the last scone at a buffet. My breath quickens, but I dig my nails into my palms and hold my ground.

I’ve faced worse.

The Hollow of Mischief. Gingerbread dragons. Reindeer stampedes and candy-cane calamities. Sarcastically hot vampires. This is just another mess to fix. Another holiday crinkle I need to smooth out.

And I am an event planner, not an event ender.

The rogue elves grab at me. I pivot at the last second, narrowly avoiding one elf’s glitter-covered claw as the sound of ragged breaths and creaky boots closes in behind me. Another elf leaps at me, and I drop low, rolling out of the way and scrambling back to my feet. I grab one last look at the map—and then I bolt for the far side of the room.

“Get her!” the tall elf screeches, his voice warping into something carol-adjacent and deeply unpleasant.

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do, Greg,” another snaps, smacking the first elf on the head.

Greg.

Not Bloodthorn. Not Nightbane. Greg.

I am being hunted through an abandoned Christmas factory by a rogue elf who sounds like he files expense reports.

This is my life now.

I run, dodging rusted machinery and leaping over tangled cords like a deranged caribou on a caffeine rush. The elves’ footsteps clatter behind me, their taunts rise into a cacophony of jingling bells and something far less festive.

“Run all you want, sugarplum!” Greg hollers. “We’ve got the naughty list, and you’re at the top! Should’ve left that Christmas snow globe where you found it.”

Right.

Santa didn’t want us to take the snow globe.

Maybe he expected us to smash it in the gingerbread house and either ruin Christmas or release all its magic in the Hollow of Mischief. But we didn’t. It’s still in Nick’s house. Which means this isn’t over. Not even close.

There’s still a way to stop Santa from stealing the festive spirit.

Still a way to save Christmas in Willow Creek.

All I have to do is get past these nasty little rogue elves—who now smell like old gym socks soaked in stale eggnog—and get to Nick. Easier said than done, considering they’ve managed to corner me in the least jolly corner of this grimy factory.

These elves don’t just want to ruin Christmas cheer.

I take a deep breath, preparing to tackle the nightmare before Christmas I’ve found myself caught in. I should have gotten Nick to help me, but now I’m going to have to do this on my own, and the faint chorus of Christmas music skipping tracks that’s started playing in the background isn’t improving the mood.

“Where are you trying to run to, sugarplum?” Greg sneers. “We stick around longer than leftover fruitcake. You can’t shake us.”

I pick up an iron bar and give it a few experimental swings, silently praying that a potent mix of stubbornness, holiday sarcasm, and sheer, reckless optimism will be enough to get me through this twisted rerun of Christmas chaos. So I strike a pose, holding the bar at the ready. If I’m going down, then it’s going to be with a fight. I’ll never give⁠—

Something slams me in the back of the head, and I collapse to the ground. My cheek hits cold concrete that smells faintly of peppermint and dust. My eyesight dims as I lose consciousness, and the last thing I hear is the footsteps of an elf as it approaches.

“String her up.”

Bells jingle somewhere, off-key.

Chapter Twenty

“Drive faster,” I tell Ronan, the first time in close to a century I’ve uttered those words. Outside, the snow skates sideways, and somewhere a string of Christmas lights blinks SOS in red and green.

Holly isn’t picking up her phone.