Chapter 1 #2
This is exactly why I don’t want his help.
He collects chaos like other people collect snow globes, and I’m fairly sure the label on the bottom says “For Niklaus Draven’s amusement only.
” Willow Creek doesn’t need his drama. I definitely don’t need his scheming and backstabbing.
What I need are solutions, and I’m coming up short.
He steps closer, invading my personal space with his aggravating calm and cologne.
Infuriatingly, he smells like cinnamon and night air.
My treacherous lungs inhale again before my brain can file a complaint.
God, the vampire is attractive and he knows it, weaponizing it against every girl who comes his way.
I refuse to let myself become another entry in his mental guest list of admirers.
“Frost, I’m aware my methods and your methods tend to meet somewhere around mutual disapproval. But the town tree is gone, your Winter Wonderland is teetering on the edge of becoming a festive disaster, and—” he gestures lightly to the chaos “—this is precisely the sort of thing that spirals.”
There’s less performance in him now. More memory, perhaps.
“I’ve seen what happens when it does. One mishap becomes two, becomes panic, and then something people remember for all the wrong reasons.” He glances back at me. “My coven and I like it here, Holly. We were rather hoping to stay. Possibly even attempt this ‘community spirit’ I keep hearing about.”
“You? Community spirit?”
“Try not to faint. I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Let me fix this for you, Holly. Rogue elves are nothing to scoff at and you need someone who understands their nature. Their quirks. Their weaknesses and how to exploit them.”
“Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re an expert on rogue elves, too?”
“I’ve encountered them before.”
“When? At some secret vampire-elf mixer I didn’t hear about?”
“Vampires and elves don’t mix,” he says with a smirk. “Too many territorial disputes. But I’ve dealt with rogue creatures enough to know how to track them, and how to stop them before they cause more damage.”
Before I can argue further, there’s another crash, followed by a shrill laugh that makes my skin crawl. One of the elves has climbed onto the inflatable snowman and is using a broken candy cane to puncture it. Repeatedly. It wheezes again, deflating in slow, agonizing defeat.
“Fine! You want to help? Be my guest. But if you so much as think about turning this into one of your dramatic stunts—”
Nick holds up a hand, mock solemn. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Scout.”
“True. But I am an excellent vampire.”
With a wholly unnecessary flourish of his long coat, he walks toward the elves like he’s auditioning for a gothic superhero role.
Walking isn’t even the right word. He’s strutting.
I follow reluctantly, muttering under my breath about terrible decisions and the inevitability of this blowing up in my face.
But I do need those elves to leave, and if I’m honest, they creep me out.
As we approach the center of the square, an elf notices us. Its tiny, pointy face scrunches up in a snarl, and it hisses like the aforementioned feral cat.
Nick stops, tilting his head like he’s studying a particularly interesting bug. “You see that, Frost? Classic rogue elf behavior. Aggression, lack of self-control, and an unhealthy attachment to destruction.”
“Aggression, lack of control, and destruction,” I deadpan. “Should I get you a mirror? Are we going to do something about it, or are you here to give a TED Talk on elf psychology?”
Ignoring me, Nick scoops up a handful of snow.
He packs it into a tight ball, his movements deliberate and precise.
He presses his feet into the snow, almost as if he’s taking up a position, and then he waits, watching the rogue elves as they cause more havoc on Willow Creek.
They haven’t come for us yet, seemingly quite happy to destroy whatever decorations remain in the town’s square.
Against my better judgment, I scoop my own handful of snow. It’s cold, obvious, and exactly the kind of plan you make when your Plan A was “giant municipal tree.”
“What are you doing?”
“Engaging,” he says simply, then hurls the snowball with unerring accuracy.
It smacks a rogue elf square in the face. The elf lets out an indignant screech, stumbling backward and landing on its tiny butt. For a moment, the other elves freeze, their beady little eyes darting between Nick and their fallen comrade.
Their lips curl back and the glee in their faces disappears, replaced with a look of sheer violence and unadulterated anger. They’ve morphed from impish creatures into true terrors, but Nick simply bends down, picks up another handful of snow, and forms it into a densely packed ball.
He throws, scoring a direct hit. Another rogue elf flies backward and lands in a snow drift, leaving only its curled, red shoes and bright green tights visible. It shrieks as its legs start to kick, and I laugh, unable to contain myself.
The elves glance at each other, their expressions shifting to something akin to uncertainty.
One lets out a low, guttural hiss, its head swiveling toward the others as if waiting for a signal.
Another elf, its crooked hat askew, growls in response but takes a hesitant step back.
Nick holds up another snowball and waggles it at them.
Slowly, their aggression begins to waver, their confidence faltering like a deflating balloon.
As though reaching some unspoken consensus, they spin on their tiny heels and bolt, their retreat a flurry of jingling bells and mismatched shoes skidding on the icy ground.
They scatter into the snow-laden streets, their bright green and red forms growing smaller and smaller until they vanish entirely into the swirling flakes. One elf pauses briefly at the edge of the square, shooting a final, venomous glare over its shoulder before disappearing into the shadows.
For a long moment, the square is still, the eerie calm almost as unsettling as the chaos that came before it.
The faint jingle of a half-smashed ornament rolls across the cobblestones, its sound muffled by the snow.
A crooked candy cane dangles precariously from a toppled wreath stand, leaving its red stripes smeared as though the fight had bruised even the decorations.
Wreckage litters the square—the deflated snowman, shattered ornaments, the trail of glittery destruction leading off into the distance like festive breadcrumbs left by tiny vandals.
Somewhere in the rubble, a strand of Christmas lights flickers weakly, its cheerful glow now a pitiful reminder of what this square used to be.
A single bulb blinks in the wreckage—brave, if not especially helpful.
“Well,” Nick says with a dry chuckle, “that was fun.”
“Fun?” He gets a look. It does absolutely nothing. “The square is trashed, the tree is still missing, and I have maybe a week to fix this. All you did was whip a few snowballs.”
Nick shrugs. “Details. The important thing is, we know who took your tree, and we can follow their trail before it gets snowed over.”
“Oh, good. That’s reassuring.”
“Even better, I’m going to help you fix this.”
“You are?”
He holds his hands out as if framing a picture. “Think of it. Frost and Draven. Christmas partners.”
I groan, burying my face in my hands. “This is a nightmare.”
“Don’t worry, Frost,” Nick says, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “We’ll get your tree back. After all, Christmas is about miracles, isn’t it?”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He smirks, his silver eyes gleaming. “Immensely.”
Of course he is.