Page 89 of Blood and Bells

He hits his knees with a strangled groan, and the storm dies instantly. The wind vanishes. The pressure lifts. Even the fighting falters, as if the entire square has collectively decided to pause and see how this goes.

Crinkshaw, for his part, straightens his coat.

Completely unaffected.

Holly and I tense.

Willow Creek freezes mid-throw—snowballs suspended, cocoa halfway raised—as the town leans in.

Santa sways.

His face tightens in confusion.

Then—horror.

Pure, unadulterated horror.

“What…what is this?” he gasps, clutching at his chest like something inside him has gone profoundly wrong.

I offer him a smile. “You’ve been Crinkshawed.”

A strange, rattling groan escapes him. Not pain, exactly. This is far worse. Meaninglessness. Weariness. The slow creeping certainty that everything is an administrative burden with no clear resolution.

“It’s awful,” Santa wails. “What agony, this life? Are we little more than cosmic motes? What’s the point? What is any of this for?”

Santa’s manic grin twists, falters, and finally collapses under the full weight of Crinkshaw’s Crinkshawness. It’s not just the emptiness, or even the apathy—it’s the bone-deep weariness of existence without punctuation, the dull ache of eternity stretching on with nothing particularly worth hurrying for. His face contorts like he’s bitten into a fruitcake laced with despair, and for a moment, it’s clear even he can’t stomach the crushing weight of Crinkshaw’s ennui.

A third wave hits.

Santa’s expression slackens, horror giving way to a void of enthusiasm that only Crinkshaw’s existential dread could create.

For a brief, glorious moment, Crinkshaw’s entire outlook makes perfect, terrible sense. He carries an eternity of dread around with him like it’s a light inconvenience, and now Santa is drowning in it.

Crinkshaw watches him with mild interest, as though this is a perfectly reasonable reaction to being himself.

“Now!” I shout.

While Santa wrestles with the full emotional burden of Crinkshaw, Willow Creek closes ranks around him. Ronan digs in and sweeps a cluster of elves aside like he’s clearing snow off a stubborn driveway. The teenagers loose a marshmallow volley. Mr. Patel nudges the gritter enough to blunt a slicing gust. Mrs. Lee sends a plume of peppermint steam straight into the chaos.

For a handful of seconds, the town holds.

That’s all we get.

I move.

Without hesitation or flourish—just forward. Throwing fists, shoulders, whatever lands with everything I have. Every strike is driven by the increasingly personal desire to end this ridiculous wind sprite and his festive-themed holiday tantrum.

Holly is right beside me, wielding her snow shovel like a seasoned warrior with a legendary blade. She swings it like she’s been waiting her entire life for this exact moment.

Santa buckles.

The manic energy drains out him, replaced by something smaller. More frantic. He tries to rally, to gather himself, but Crinkshaw’s influence clings like damp wool.

“Wait,” he grunts, holding up a hand. “Wait⁠—”

“You’re finished,” Holly snaps, stepping in before he can find a second wind. She plants her shovel like a line in the snow. “Your elves are done. The town’s back. The tree’s ours. Whatever this is—it’s over. Leave Willow Creek and don’t come back.”

“EVER!” Mrs. Christie yells from somewhere behind us.