Page 75 of Blood and Bells

“This whole thing was a diversion. Santa didn’t expect us to take it from the Hollow of Mischief. He needed you and the coven distracted so he could break in and steal it back. Once he has it, he can continue siphoning its built-up gloom and piping it straight into Sulphur Ridge.”

Nick’s arms tighten around me. He exhales sharply. “A small army of rogue elves powered by enough negative energy to start a war and turn his Crapmas idea into a reality.”

My stomach twists. “Tell me your house is protected?”

“From thieves and routine burglary? Sure. From an immortal wind sprite with a grudge? Probably not. He’ll have gone down the chimney already,” he says, his tone bitter. “That’s what he does, right? He plays by his own rules. Who needs locks or alarms when you’ve got the ultimate Santa trick. I bet he’s ruined my carpets with his sooty footprints too.”

Ronan roars something unintelligible, slinging his oversized axe across his back like it’s a bag of holiday shopping. Crinkshaw picks his way through the remnants of rogue elf weaponry and melted candy canes with an efficiency that’s both horrifying and impressive. The rest of Nick’s coven trails behind, looking various degrees of unimpressed with the entire situation, as though battling rogue elves was a mild inconvenience compared to running out of mulled wine at the Winter Ball.

Nick turns to Ronan, his voice sharp. “Get the car. Now.”

Ronan stomps toward the exit with heavy, deliberate steps. “Why is it always me? I yearn for glory. Crave blood spilling forth in rivers of my own creation. What I get is being the vampire who drives a reasonably priced car. It does zero to sixty in eventually.”

Crinkshaw follows, muttering about the structural integrity of chimneys and how Santa’s methods lack elegance and leave a mess to clear up. And all the while, Nick refuses to let go of my hand as we head to the door.

I yank out my phone and fire a message to the Willow Creek Volunteers group chat: ‘Emergency meet at the square—thermoses, salt, spare lights, first-aid, and the choir. Dress warm.’

Three dots appear at once. On my way, from Marcy. Salt-spreading truck warming up, from Mr. Patel. Carolers assembling, from Meribel, who adds six bell emojis and a triangle. What does a triangle emoji even mean?

“This isn’t over,” Nick says quietly.

“Not even close,” I reply, my steps quickening to match his.

As we step out into the cold night air, the weight of what’s ahead hangs over me. Santa has the snow globe, and if we don’t stop him, Christmas in Willow Creek, and probably everywhere, will be lost.

I should never have come here alone.

Now it might be too late to fix this, even with Nick’s help.

Santa might be about to ruin Christmas and turn it into Crapmas—and it’s all because of me.

“This isn’t your fault,” Nick says, almost like he can read my thoughts. “I should have dealt with Santa the last time we had a run-in. I didn’t, and he’s had centuries to plan his revenge. Bet he’s been waiting for the opportunity.”

“But I made it easy for him,” I mumble.

“No,” he replies. “We wouldn’t be here without you. You’re determined to save Christmas for Willow Creek. We’d have solved this already if I hadn’t been so arrogant.”

The icy night air bites at my cheeks as we walk through the parking lot, where Ronan stands, axe in hand. He glares at the stack of crates sitting next to the old present-wrapping factory. The boozy eggnog sits in crates with labels promising guaranteed holiday cheer, and Ronan eyes them as if they’re technically legal but morally indefensible.

“Ronan,” Nick warns, his tone laced with exasperation.

“We don’t have time for this,” I add.

“Oh, we have time.” Ronan hefts the axe with a flourish, his grin a terrifying mix of glee and menace. “This stuff isn’t innocent holiday cheer. It’s how Santa controls the rogue elves.”

Nick and I exchange glances. “And?”

“And…I figured it out.”

Ronan beams like he’s discovered plutonium, and it’s sweet, even if the reveal—boozy eggnog—has been on our radar for days. Thankfully, Nick steps in.

“That you did. What would we do without Ronan?”

He claps him on the shoulder, and Ronan practically glows. There’s no tease in Nick’s voice, none of the sly edge I’ve come to expect—just warmth. He’s giving Ronan the win because Ronan wants the win. He cares for his coven in a way that’s plain and protective, and yet again, I find myself reevaluating my opinion of the deeply complicated vampire who is Nick Draven. And to my surprise, a small, prickly pang of jealousy blooms. I want to feel that.

Nick points at the crates. “You’d better destroy them, old friend. Then we’ll go.”

“With pleasure.”