Page 81 of Blood and Bells

There’s a brief, terrible pause while the answer assembles itself.

Holly inhales.

I wince.

“Crinkshaw,” we say together.

The zombie is the definition of functional despair. Every bony, shuffling step suggests he’s already filled out the paperwork for the worst possible outcome and filed it somewhere inconvenient. His suit predates at least three of my coven members, and the pockets contain string, receipts, and exactly one boiled sweet of uncertain vintage. He never smiles, never hurries, and approaches catastrophe like a forms-in-triplicate problem.

If apathy ever required a patron saint, it would nominate Crinkshaw.

Holly grins and nods, and I smile back. Ten out of ten from each of us. My knees tremble.

“I think this will work,” I say. “If we can get him close enough, Santa will absorb his energy. It will be like pouring concrete down a water slide. The entire thing rests on Crinkshaw.”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“It’s…not ideal,” I agree. “But if anyone can save Christmas, it’s Crinkshaw, the depressed ghoul.”

“You do hear yourself, right?”

“I’m trying not to.”

I squint across the square, the cold needling my eyes, and pick out Ronan and his team taking position. Subtle as ever, Ronan moves like a raccoon approaching a dumpster—committed, enthusiastic, and not especially concerned with stealth—while the others fan out behind him, weapons ready. On the other side, Wes slips into place. His jaw sets as his eyes scan the area with practiced focus.

Past him, more headlights blink as if they’re waiting for our signal. Scouts hold salt and shovels. Mrs. Lee steadies a rolling urn of cocoa like it’s a sacred object. Meribel’s carolers stand poised to shake out harmonies like blankets.

For now, they’re still. Held under Santa’s control.

But Willow Creek has a way of starting itself. A familiar name called across the square. A cookie pressed into a mitten. The choir catching the next verse.

That’s all it will take to shake it free.

And when that happens, Santa is going to learn that you can’t out-magic a town with grit, glitter, and a group chat.

We crouch behind snowbanks and improvised cover—Crinkshaw tucked in behind us like a disapproving coat rack—outside Santa’s line of sight. His focus is locked on the tree, the thing pulsing and twisting at the center of the square, and for once, his obsession is working in our favor.

This is the moment.

The hinge.

If it swings our way, we get Christmas back.

If it doesn’t, we get…January.

“Okay,” I murmur, giving Holly’s hand a brief and very deliberate squeeze. “Let’s go get Christmas back.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

My grip tightens on the edge of the abandoned market stall until the wood creaks in protest.

After everything we’ve been through, Santa has the sheer nerve to stroll into Willow Creek and try to take it over.

The square is a mess of pulsing red light and churned snow, and there he is in the middle of it. A very not-jolly fat man with his hands up like he is conducting a carol no one agreed to sing.

“Nick,” I whisper. “What’s he doing?”

“I think he’s trying to transform the tree back,” Nick says, his mouth set in a straight line. “Maybe he can’t get at the energy while it’s in that form. I’m not well-versed in the intricacies of tree-based magic batteries.”