Page 91 of Blood and Bells

“Keep your Christmas, Santa,” I say lightly, flicking a glance at Holly before looking back at Santa. “It sounds absolutely exhausting.”

Holly threads her fingers through mine.

“We’ve got something better,” she says. “People who show up. People who stay. People who bring spare mittens, and too many cookies, and refuse to leave when things get strange.” She glances at the crowd, then back at Santa. “You can’t bottle that. And you don’t get to take it.”

Santa’s expression curdles, the air around him cools as what little magic he has left twitches in response.

“You haven’t seen the last of me,” he snarls. “I’ll ruin it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I will.”

“Not here,” I say.

“NOT IN WILLOW CREEK!” the town roars—bells ringing, cocoa sloshing, and snowballs cocked back with deeply personal intent.

With a sharp, sucking gasp, Santa folds inward like a blizzard pulled down a drain. The air ripples, shimmering as he shrinks into a tight whirl of red and green. One last pulse snaps—glitter and soot skitter across the square—and he’s gone. What lingers is a single, off-key jingle, a bell note that wobbles, fades, and leaves a hush like fresh-fallen snow.

The square holds still for a beat, as if expecting him to snap back into existence out of sheer spite.

He doesn’t.

The cheer hits all at once—loud, messy, immediate. People laugh, grab each other, talk over one another as if the volume will convince the night to stay won. Someone starts singing half a carol and forgets the words halfway through. It doesn’t seem to matter. Somewhere in the square, a kettle clicks to warm, and for the first time all night, the lights blink in time.

I glance at Holly.

Her grin is as bright as the tree lights we’ve fought so hard to save, and something settles in my chest.

I could have taken the deal.

I didn’t.

The coven is still behind me. The town is still standing. No one’s been traded away for a cleaner ending—and that is the right kind of win. The kind you plan for, fight for, and refuse to let anyone take from you.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Relief floods through me in a hot, overwhelming wave. For a single, glorious moment, everything feels possible. The townsfolk’s cheers echo through the square, a triumphant noise that mingles with the lingering hiss of Santa’s vanishing magic. The remaining rogue elves stumble over each other in their rush to retreat.

Around the square, Willow Creek exhales as one. The Scouts stack sleds into impromptu benches. Mr. Patel pivots his gritter so the hazard lights throw a warm amber blink across the snow, and Mrs. Lee wheels her rolling urn forward and starts pouring cocoa with vigor.

Mrs. Christie wipes glitter off her cheek with the brisk efficiency of someone who has seen twelve bake-offs and a blizzard.

“You did it, Holly. You and Nick.” She takes in the scene. “Christmas belongs to us now. Let’s make sure we keep it that way.”

Ronan laughs, and the loud, boisterous sound bubbles up through the chaos. He lifts his massive axe in mock toast. Wes, bruised but standing tall, gives me a nod of solidarity. Even Crinkshaw, with his perpetually gloomy expression, manages a small, reluctant smile—and I immediately wish he hadn’t. Behind him, vampires and neighbors trade nods that look suspiciously like ease; someone hands Wes a cookie, someone else takes a selfie with Ronan’s axe. No one—not one single soul—approaches, or even looks at, Crinkshaw.

I drop my shoulder and exhale for a single beat.

The collective spirit of the town and the vampires feels like a real, tangible force now, a bond that glitters brighter than any holiday decoration.

Nick steps towards me, his head dipping before that wide, confident grin that warms my chest. I crane my neck, half-wondering, half-hoping he’ll wrap his arms around me—but he shoves his hands in his pockets instead.

I glance around, and amid the celebration, a nagging thought creeps in. The snow globe. Santa might be gone, but that glittering monstrosity still sits in the middle of the square, the tree inside twisted and glowing with that unsettling, corrupted light.

It’s not right.

And it still needs fixing.

It’s perched ominously on the raised platform where Santa had stood, the distorted tree flickering despite my very best event planner glare. Its crooked star teeters, a perfect little symbol of everything we’ve fought through.

“Good work, all of you. But we’re not quite done yet.”