Page 82 of Blood and Bells

Despite everything, a smirk tugs at my mouth.

The tacky snow globe is holding its ground. It splutters and hisses like a kettle refusing to boil for someone it dislikes, giving off a stubborn, sulky swirl of glitter instead of doing what it’s told.

Honestly, I feel the same.

Around him, the townsfolk stand frozen, eyes glassy, under the grip of Santa’s enchantment. They sway slightly, like something’s pulled the strings too tight and forgotten how to let go. It should terrify me.

It does.

Just…later.

We’ve made it close enough that we’re within twenty feet of Santa, huddled behind a flipped-over market stall that smells faintly of cinnamon sticks and overambitious fudge samples. From here, we can see everything. We’re close enough to act.

Close enough to get caught.

Which would be a problem.

It also means Nick and I are pressed in beside each other, and the awareness of him—warm, solid, entirely too distracting—is doing its level best to derail my focus.

Now is not the time.

“We need to stop him,” I say, fists clenching. “We can’t let this happen to Willow Creek. This is not part of my festive party plan.”

Nick nods, his gaze unwavering. “We stick to the plan. Wake the townsfolk up, and then we deal with Santa.”

The streets are littered with snowmen that have been trampled into mush, candy canes snapped in half, and Christmas lights dangling like broken spiderwebs. The air smells like burnt cocoa and reindeer sweat—an oddly fitting metaphor for the holiday disaster we’ve gotten ourselves into.

The vampires slip along the periphery, somehow escaping notice. I consult with my clipboard and tick off the last few items, trying to ignore the way my pulse is climbing.

Everything’s in place. Or close enough that it’s going to have to be.

Which means all we have left is the part where we actually do it.

The plan that relies, somewhat alarmingly, on Crinkshaw saving the day.

“Hey.” Nick’s breath brushes my ear and his expression catches me off guard when I turn. The silver in his eyes looks dimmer than usual, like the shine’s been dulled at the edges. I don’t like it. Not one bit.

“You be careful, okay?”

“Promise.” I draw an X over my heart, aiming for light, but he doesn’t quite buy it.

That’s new.

Nick is usually the one who moves first and figures it out later, all sharp instincts and impossible luck, the kind of man who lands on his feet even when there isn’t anywhere obvious to land. Seeing even the hint of hesitation in him—just a flicker—is enough to make something twist low in my chest, something I’d very much prefer to ignore.

So I do.

Or at least, I try to.

The square is a mess of shadows and broken light, and Santa’s magic is pressing down over Willow Creek like a storm that doesn’t intend to pass, and whatever this is between us, it’s going to have to wait its turn.

“Time to get to work, Draven,” I say, flashing him a grin that feels steadier than I do. “You ready?”

“Ready, Frost.”

The look he gives me lands somewhere behind my ribs and lingers there, long enough to make breathing feel like a conscious decision instead of an automatic one.

I manage it anyway.