Chapter 5 #2
Nick nods. “I’ve been alive a long time. Got a lot stored up there. For a vampire, this is more like housecleaning. I don’t even remember the memory he took.”
“Now, that’s a tautology.”
“We’ll get dinner later.” He knocks on top of Mímir’s head. “Mims, what did you take?”
“Your quarrel with Shakespeare about the names of Romeo and Juliet. He wanted to call them Cecil and Mildred.”
“Brilliant pen, questionable naming instincts,” Nick says, amused. “‘Mildred, Mildred, wherefore art thou, Mildred?’ It never quite sang.”
Nick laughs at his own joke as these two quasi-immortal beings casually discuss things that happened five hundred years ago, and my brain quietly gives up. This is insane.
The glow in Mímir’s eye sockets dims, the red hue fading until it’s little more than a faint ember.
The eerie light flickers like a malfunctioning Christmas light left out in the cold too long.
It stutters once, twice, before sputtering out completely, leaving only the soft, cold glare of sunlight to cast long shadows over the clearing.
The strand of lights along the stump returns to a steady twinkle, like a nightlight someone refuses to unplug in December.
Nick claps his hands together, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “See? That wasn’t so bad. It was helpful.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “You call that helpful?”
“Extremely.”
I mutter under my breath as we leave the glade. The forest seems darker now, the trees pressing in closer, their branches casting long, spindly shadows over the snow.
Nick is completely unfazed, even though we’ve just been given a warning from an ancient, severed head about rogue elves, a cursed tree, and an ominous place called the Hollow of Mischief.
Not exactly the kind of thing you brush off lightly if you’re mortal.
It’s annoying, the way he saunters through life jingling like pocket sleigh bells, while I try not to hyperventilate into a gift bag.
He moves like someone who’s made his peace with long years.
I have not, and I’m in a hurry, and Nick Draven hasn’t been human in a very long time.
The silence in the forest grows heavier as we continue our trek back to town.
The chill sinks right down to my bones and refuses to let go.
A shiver runs through me, and I try to ignore the sense of being watched, as if something in the trees is waiting for us to make the wrong move.
The wind stirs, carrying the faintest scent of pine and something metallic.
Somewhere far off, a bell rings in town, thin and bright.
I picture windows steaming in one of the beignet bakeries and a row of sweaters drying by the radiator.
“So, the Hollow of Mischief,” I say, breaking the silence. “Do you know where that is?”
Nick glances over his shoulder, his silver eyes glinting even brighter now. “I’ve been in several.” He grins at his terrible joke, and my cheeks turn scarlet. “But this one could be a bit trickier to make our way into.”
The urge to strangle him rises, and it’s briefly satisfying to consider—until I remember it wouldn’t end him or put me out of my misery.
“You don’t know where it is, do you?”
“Not exactly,” he says simply. “But we’ll find it.”
I give him a long look. “And you’re sure about that?”
“Of course,” he says as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s Christmas. Everything’s a little more magical this time of year, right? We just have to follow the signs.”
“Right,” I mutter under my breath, reassured about nothing. “I suppose we’ll be following a star and hoping it leads us to a baby and a manger next.”
It’s hard to tell whether my frustration comes from his carefree attitude or the unsettling feeling gnawing at me as the wind picks up, howling through the trees like some kind of warning.
The snow is falling heavier now, and the path ahead looks just as creepy as when we started, the forest pressing around us like it’s trying to keep us here.
I glance toward the distant lights of Willow Creek, a small beacon of normalcy, and a sinking feeling settles in my stomach.
“We’re not getting anywhere like this,” I say, my voice tense. “We’ve got to head back into town. If we’re going to get that tree and stop whatever this is, we need a plan. And we’re not going to find it out here, in the middle of nowhere.”
Nick falters slightly, his gaze flicking toward the darkened woods behind us. He nods, as if weighing the idea. For a moment, one glorious moment, he looks like he’s actually thinking about things properly, like he’s finally taking something seriously.
“You’re right. We’ll regroup. Over eggnog. Perhaps a mince pie might help?”
Maybe not.
“An eggnog?” I repeat, incredulous. “After what we just heard, your solution is a Christmas treat?”
Nick shrugs. “What’s the point of fighting the supernatural if you can’t enjoy the finer things in life?
Eggnog is holiday spirit in a cup. It’s a survival tool at this time of year.
” He stops and gives me a look I can’t quite figure out.
“Just because serious things are happening doesn’t mean we have to be serious about them. Life is supposed to be fun.”
“Oh? That’s your ancient wisdom, Saint Nick of the Undying? Life is supposed to be fun, is that all?”
He stops so fast I slam into his back. He turns, suddenly serious.
“The best purpose I’ve found in life is to savor it. Like warm cocoa with the people you love. If you find better, send me a postcard.”
With that, he spins and starts walking back, hands tucked in his pockets, clearly enjoying the absurdity of it all. Watching him for a second, confusion and frustration tangle together—a vampire telling me to lighten up feels like a failure so astounding that it doesn’t have a name yet.
But part of me knows he might not be wrong. Maybe all of this would be easier to deal with if I just went with it.
With a sigh, I follow him.
“If we’re getting eggnog, mine’s getting an extra shot,” I say. “And I call dibs on the biggest mince pie.”