Page 73 of Blood and Bells

The claymore comes again. I duck inside the swing this time, close enough to feel the rush of it over my shoulder and drive my fist into his ribs. Then I hit it harder again.

It’s like punching a cathedral.

Absolutely not.

The marshmallow monster will not win.

I am a Lord of Darkness, and I have a reputation to uphold.

Holly is watching.

That matters. Perhaps exactly as much as I’d like.

I break away, landing lightly and glancing over my shoulder. The elves have formed a loose ring, perfectly content to spectate. One of them has found popcorn. He’s eating it with enthusiasm.

“Holly,” I call, circling outside the range of the claymore. “Are you all right?”

“What do you think?” she shouts back. “They’re going to candy-apple me!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The snowman presses forward, relentless, the claymore carving wide, brutal arcs through the air. I duck, pivot, slip inside his reach when I can, striking where I find openings—but it makes no difference.

Every hit lands like I’m arguing with stone.

And stone, as it turns out, is not easily persuaded.

Holly screams as the elves lower her closer to the boiling vat of caramel, and that—more than anything—focuses my mind. The caramel’s at a proper rolling boil. Ideal for confectionery. Less so for the woman I’m profoundly attached to.

The claymore whistles past my shoulder close enough to take a suggestion of skin with it, and I pivot away, angling toward the vat. The elves scatter readily, unwilling to interfere with whatever this has become. Sensible of them.

I run up the metal stairs, two at a time. The platform rattles underfoot. Behind me, the snowman follows, his sword still carving great, lethal arcs through the air.

Just a few more steps.

A few more seconds and this giant marshmallow puff will be where I need him to be.

He raises the sword with both hands, committing to the strike.

“Alright, Snowzilla,” I say, buying half a heartbeat and coming up empty on anything wittier. “Time for you to be tragically hurt.”

I’m a blur of motion—past him, behind him—and then both my feet drive hard into his back.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then he pitches forward, straight into the vat.

Caramel erupts around him, bubbling furiously as it swallows him whole. There’s no sound worth noting. Just a brief, undignified struggle before the sugar does what sugar does best and takes him apart, marshmallow first, like a snowball melting in a hot chocolate.

“Couldn’t handle the heat,” I say, deciding some things deserve to be said.

A small scream cuts the moment short.

“Holly—”

“Get me down!” she yells.

She kicks her legs, sending the chair swinging hard enough that it twists to face me. For a second she’s all motion—rope creaking, breath catching—and then she stills, eyes locking onto mine.