Page 7 of Blood and Bells

“Although,” I add, “if acceptance happens to increase patronage at the bar, I won’t object.”

Ronan rubs his nose. “Rogue elves though? It’s like fighting children. Nasty, stupid, sharp-toothed children. They smell.”

“Worst case scenario, you get to punch an elf as hard as you can.” I clap him on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, we’ll make a sport of it. We can have a competition to see which one of us can punch an elf further?”

Ronan’s eyes light up at the promise of elf-punching, and Crinkshaw shuffles toward the door. The ghastly creature makes a noise that, coming from anyone else, would be a note of dissent, but from the desiccated ghoul who haunts my house, it could simply be his bones creaking.

“I’ll have you beat by two meters, or not at all.” Ronan cracks his knuckles. “Alright, then. It stands. Preferable to reruns of Desperately Seeking Susan.”

“Brooke Shields is a treasure,” Crinkshaw deadpans.

“Perfect.” I drum my fingertips together, a visual calibrated to radiate the leadership qualities I’m well known for. Ronan looks impressed, and I’m impressed with myself for having convinced him that I’m still exceptionally awesome after all these centuries.

“We’ll start our investigation tomorrow,” I decide, taking a large mouthful of the drink Crinkshaw poured me and letting its taste tickle my taste buds.

I’ll get to see Holly again.

Not that I care.

Chapter Three

The Knit and Kettle coffee shop fogs its own windows like it’s proud of being warm. Carols crackle from a retro radio, and the café smells like honey, espresso, and the snug comfort of freshly baked things. A fire nestles in the recessed hearth; along the mantel, knit stockings and twinkle lights do their level best to out-cheer winter. Every table has a poinsettia and a tiny tealight. I slump into a corner chair and try very hard not to be charmed.

My Christmas sweater has acquired permanent glitter thanks to yesterday’s chaos, and my mittens steam on the radiator like exhausted hedgehogs. The barista slides two chunky mugs across to us—peppermint mocha for Marcy, gingerbread latte for me—both crowned with whipped cream and a dusting of nutmeg.

My best friend sips her drink, her gaze heavy with barely concealed amusement. Her long, dark curls behave like they’ve signed a contract with a shampoo company. Mine attempt ‘curl’ and achieve ‘festive static’—as if I lost a fight with a helium balloon.

“Soooo,” she says, drawing the word out like she’s savoring it. “How’s the Christmas festival prep going?”

The glacial stare I send Marcy is cooler than the icicles hanging from the frozen gutters outside. “Fantastic. Nothing says festive spirit like rogue elves destroying half the town square and stealing the centerpiece of your event.”

“Rogue elves?” she snorts, nearly choking. She dabs at her mouth with a red-and-white striped napkin that bears an uncanny resemblance to elf hosiery—and to the stockings that flashed across my vision as they made off with the Christmas lights. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” I ask, gesturing at my frazzled hair and the faint glitter embedded in my Fair Isle knit. Even my beloved clipboard slumps in defeat beside the sugar caddy. “They wrecked the entire square. The tree is gone. And to top it off, Nick bloody Draven decided to show up and…” I wave my hands vaguely, searching for the right words. “...do his whole brooding, smug vampire thing.”

I stir my latte with a gingerbread man until his head falls off. Accidental. Mostly.

“As in the Nick Draven? Mr. Tall, Dark, and Infuriating?” Marcy slurps her peppermint mocha and leans in closer, eager to hear the gossip.

I groan, letting my head fall to the table with a dull thud. “Yes, that Nick. He’s impossible, Marcy. He showed up in the middle of everything, all silver eyes and fangy smiles, like he owns the place. And then he had the audacity to act like he was helping.”

Marcy snickers, and I want to throttle her. She moved to Willow Creek after a spectacularly bad breakup and we quickly became good friends. She hasn’t quite let go of the fallout, which means everyone else’s love life is now apparently community entertainment.

“Well, at least he isn’t Josh,” she says.

“Low bar,” I mutter.

“Did he help?”

“No,” I snap, lifting my head only to be faced with Marcy’s knowing look and deep brown eyes that refuse to let me get out of this. “Alright, technically, he helped, inasmuch as he chased the elves off. But he was insufferable about it and, apparently, he wants to help me track the tree down.”

She grins. Widely. “Sounds nice of him.”

The barista sets down a plate with two cranberry-orange scones and a ramekin of clotted cream because the Knit and Kettle understands emotional triage.

I scoff and chug back my gingerbread latte, slamming the festive cup down on the table in protest.

“He’ll want something in return. He always does.”