Page 83 of Blood and Bells

Barely.

I sprint toward the townsfolk, snow crunching beneath my boots, adrenaline kicking my pulse into something unhelpful. The plan—such as it is—is distraction. Noise. Enough chaos to give everyone else a fighting chance.

I wave my clipboard over my head like it’s a weapon of last resort and start shouting.

“Hey! Hey, listen to me! This isn’t over! We don’t let Santa take Christmas. Not here. Not ever!”

A few heads twitch. Eyes flicker.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

Mrs. Christie, who runs the bakery on Main Street, stands near the front. Her bakery apron is dusted white and her expression is flattened into something distant. I push closer, like I can force my way through whatever’s wrapped around her.

“Mrs. Christie!” I call. “Remember the bake-off? You beat three mayors and a sous-chef with that gingerbread cathedral. Flour, icing, glory. That was you. You don’t lose to anyone!”

Her gaze shifts. A fraction.

But it’s there.

Behind me, something changes.

I feel it before I see it—the pressure, the attention snapping into place.

Santa turns.

His face twists, all the jolly scraped off it. “You think you can stop me? With snowballs and holiday spirit?” His voice drips with contempt as it cuts through the square. “I’ll show you what real power looks like. I’m the one making the party rules now.”

“Great,” I fire back, breathless, “then you won’t mind if we bring our own playlist.”

He lifts a hand.

The magic hits like a rolling wall, sweeping through the square and sending people staggering. It catches me full-on, knocks my feet out from under me, and I hit the ground hard—but momentum is a beautiful thing. I roll, shove myself back up, lungs burning, vision sparking at the edges.

Still here.

Still standing.

Nick doesn’t bother with subtlety.

He roars—louder than Ronan—and charges, his immaculate shirt finally losing its composure along with the rest of him. A discarded candy cane snaps in his hand, and suddenly it’s not festive anymore—it’s a staff.

Crinkshaw plods behind him like he’s preparing to be a backup dancer in “Thriller.” I can make out his faint muttering about wardrobe standards and battlefield etiquette. He stops in front of an elf reeking of boozy eggnog and fixes it with a look of such profound disappointment it almost feels educational.

“It pains me to say it—one might even call it a shot to the heart—but you give elves a bad name.”

Trust Crinkshaw to butcher a perfectly good lyric.

Ronan’s attempt at subtle reconnaissance concludes exactly as expected, and he emerges from the other side of the square with a look of joy spreading across his face, axe already raised. His eyes gleam with chaotic delight, a warrior’s joy filtered through something distinctly seasonal.

“Time to get festive!” he bellows.

Several dozen elven heads snap toward him.

I glance down at my clipboard, where I have underlined quiet several times.

There is patience, and then there is Ronan.

“Attack them, my elves!” Santa yells. “Keep them away from the globe.”