Page 8 of Blood and Bells

Marcy rests her chin on her hand. “Sounds like your mind is already made up about him. What did he do to earn you eternal wrath?”

The fire crackles in the background, and for a moment, I watch the flames as they twist and leap. I wish I had that kind of energy, that ability to keep burning, no matter what’s thrown my way. Right now, all I feel is the creeping dread of what else could go wrong, especially now that Marcy’s got me talking about Nick Draven.

“He just… turns up,” I say, dragging my gaze back to Marcy. “Exactly where I don’t want him. Offering opinions. Judging everything. It’s like I can’t do anything without him appearing out of nowhere to comment on it.”

Marcy’s smile widens.

“I swear he’s doing it on purpose. Like I’ve personally offended him by existing,” I add. “He waltzes into town and thinks he can do whatever he wants because he’s—what’s the phrase he used? ‘Older than Christmas.’” I roll my eyes. “And don’t even get me started on that ridiculous blood bar of his.”

Marcy snorts again. “You mean Hemoglow?”

“Yes, Hemoglow,” I say, mimicking air quotes. “Who names a bar that? It sounds like a vampire nightclub designed by a marketing committee and a fog machine. He turned a perfectly nice, old tavern into some vampire haven where people actually volunteer to let him and his friends drink their blood. And somehow, I’m the one who gets side-eyes in this town for saying I don’t think it’s right.”

“The place is popular,” Marcy says in a tone that suggests she’s about to say something scandalous. “You’ve seen the line outside on Friday nights. Honestly, if Nick wanted to have a nibble, I’d probably roll up my sleeve and ask if he wanted it shaken or stirred.”

She giggles and rolls her eyes suggestively, and then her hair decides to join in, adding more insult to injury. Marcy isn’t remotely interested in Nick, or anyone else for that matter, but she likes a good flirt from time to time. She also enjoys winding me up, and that, apparently, isn’t a challenge when it comes to a certain vampire.

My fingers pull at the sleeve of my Christmas sweater, adjusting it unnecessarily as I scoff. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound?”

Marcy laughs, leaning back in her chair with a smug little smirk. “I’m just saying, if Nick Draven asked me to volunteer, I’d consider it. Those cheekbones? That jawline? He could ask me to alphabetize his blood fridge and I’d probably swoon.”

“You’re gross,” I say, shaking my head. “Also, never say ‘blood fridge’ in a café where pastries are trying their best.”

She shrugs. “Fine, but you’re deflecting. What’s the real issue with him? You’ve had it in for him since the day he arrived, and while I get it—vampires, blood bars, smugness—this feels more personal than that.”

The conversation’s sudden change of direction catches me off guard. My gaze flickers back to the fire, the flames licking at the logs with lazy persistence.

“It’s not personal,” I lie, and even my latte foam judges me.

“It’s totally personal,” Marcy counters, her grin widening. “Spill.”

I press my lips together, reluctant to dive into the mess that is my history with Nick. But Marcy’s enthusiasm is unrelenting, and I know she won’t let it go.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “The first time we met, he told me humans were ‘predictably small-minded.’”

“That feels like he was joking. You’re really that bothered by something he said that long ago?”

“Okay. Two things.” I sip my coffee, thinking about what I’m about to say and how childish it sounds. “When I told him I was the event planner for the Christmas Gala, he laughed at me. He actually laughed. Like I’d said I was hosting a gala for squirrels.”

Marcy winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah, oof,” I echo bitterly. “He’s been condescending since day one. I know Willow Creek has other events. You handle Valentine’s. Amy does Easter. But Christmas is mine, and it’s important to me. My mom pulled strings to get me this job. If I can just make it work, really work, it’s the kind of thing people notice. If I pull this off, I stop being ‘her daughter’ and start being me.”

I huff out a breath.

“And now, I’m supposed to believe he’s suddenly interested in helping? I don’t buy it. He probably thinks it’ll be entertaining to watch me fail.”

“You’re not going to fail,” Marcy says, suddenly all steel wrapped in a cable-knit.

I let out a humorless laugh. “You’re confident.”

“That’s because I know you,” she says simply. “You care too much to let this year’s gala flop. Besides, it’s not just about the tree or the decorations. You’ve been working on this for months. The whole town can see how much effort you’ve put into it.”

I toy with corrugated sleeves. Warmth leaks into my fingers. It’s ridiculous how much I need that. I’ve been under more pressure than I want to admit, and although it’s been difficult, I know that the town is counting on me. I’ve got to deliver the Willow Creek Winter Wonderland and make the gala the best we’ve ever had—for the town, as well as for myself.

“It’s more than that,” I admit softly. “More than the gala. It’s about proving that I’m not...a complete disaster.”

Marcy frowns. “Who said you’re a disaster?”