Chapter 6
Chapter Six
We make our way back to town, not quite arm in arm, but closer than before. Holly’s been quiet, but at least she hasn’t complained about the cold or the fact that all we got from Mímir was a cryptic riddle. Given her usual fire, her silence seems like progress.
She’s discouraged. It shows in the way her shoulders hunch and the drag of her steps. We made real progress today, but she doesn’t see it. Now doesn’t seem like the time to say I told you so.
Eggnog will help.
Telling her about the Hollow of Mischief can wait.
With luck, things will feel more settled by then.
There’s something about Holly Frost that gets under my skin in a way that unsettles me deeply.
Not bad, exactly. Not as such. Just confusing.
Strangely warm. The heaviness in her steps and the way she grumbles about the cold are increasingly difficult to ignore.
More concerning is the fact that I bent the truth about the Hollow of Mischief.
Its nature is perfectly clear. I know exactly how to get there, but the walk back didn’t seem like the right time to gloat.
Not when her nose was all crinkled up like discarded wrapping paper.
Describing it as anything other than a pocket dimension surrounded by evil, buried beneath a mountain of misery wouldn’t have been comforting, and anything more accurate requires an advanced degree in Eldritch Geography with a minor in Quantum Physics.
The truth is, it’s difficult to navigate and harder to survive.
Not somewhere rogue elves end up by accident or for amusement.
It means that the pesky two-foot-high menaces are working for someone. It means that Holly has gotten herself into more than she realizes. And it means that someone is targeting Willow Creek—and that this is a bigger problem than I thought it was.
The coven’s only just started to settle here. Things are working. My brethren have found their footing and Willow Creek has found a way to live with us. It’s a fragile arrangement, whether anyone admits it or not.
And I’ve seen how quickly that sort of balance can unravel. One wrong incident, one convenient scapegoat, and suddenly everything we’ve built becomes the problem.
I have no intention of letting that happen here.
Which means I need to find out exactly who is behind this—and stop them before anyone leaps to the conclusion it was a vampire.
It looks like Ronan will get his battle after all.
I surreptitiously glance at Holly as the town’s warm glow welcomes us back.
Windows fog softly. Garlands bead the lampposts.
Someone in a doorway is shaking powdered sugar over a tray of rugelach.
She doesn’t seem comforted by any of it.
Her nose is red from the cold, and her brows are furrowed as she wrestles with the problem at hand.
Now also doesn’t feel like the time to tell her things just got worse.
Her lips press into a thin line as we push open the diner door.
A bell tings. The smell of pancakes rolls over us.
A pie case glows like stained glass, all apple and pecan and mince.
Warmth and chatter spill out as a ripple smooths itself against one of the coffee pots.
People turn to look. I’m used to it. Holly isn’t.
She stiffens at the attention, holding herself tight, like she’s bracing for impact.
I guide her to a quiet booth at the back, only to find it already occupied.
By Frank.
The town mayor. And, more importantly, a Cupid.
They’re not twelve-inch cherubs. Hollywood directors and Renaissance artists did their best with the legends, but most Cupids resemble ordinary humans.
This one favors the shape of a solid middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache and a perpetual cigar stub.
He’s currently finishing off what looks like several plates of French fries and when he sees Holly approach, his face breaks into a delighted smile.
“My favorite event planner!” His voice is warm, gruff, and booming as he heaves himself from the booth and wraps her in a crushing embrace.
Holly pats his back, a futile attempt at returning the hug before he releases her and turns to me with a grunt. “Draven.”
“Cupe.”
His mustache twitches. “It’s Frank, round these parts. You know that.”
I let it go, sensing Holly’s disapproval. “Apologies, Frank. Mind if we sit?”
“Sit, sit.” He shoves some plates aside, and Holly and I slide in across from him. Our thighs press together. I pretend not to notice. It’s really very distracting.
Frank eyes us with amusement, and it makes me wonder what he’s up to. Cupids are powerful, and Frank is stronger than most. They are also, by nature, meddlesome in the benevolent way that moves seating charts and lives.
“Didn’t expect this when your mom recommended you to me. Certainly not you and the town’s most eligible vampire.”
“We’re not together,” Holly says. “He’s…helping me. With the tree problem.”
“Nasty business.” Frank leans back, stretching his arms over the seatback. “Rogue elves, I hear?”
Holly hesitates, looking at the floor.
I don’t like her nervousness, and a strange ripple of protectiveness surges through me.
It appears I’ve returned from our trip to Mímir with more than a riddle to solve, if the sudden urge to throw my coat over Holly and growl at anyone who looks at her sideways is any indication of what I’ve brought back.
“Yes, Frank. Draven chased them off.”
“Easy work?” Frank winks at me.
“Nothing to it.”
The leather of the seats creaks as Holly shuffles uncomfortably. I don’t like it. It’s a small thing, but it irritates me. Like an itch under my skin. Frank shouldn’t be making her feel worse.
Before I can say anything noble and reckless, we’re interrupted by a young man. He’s barely twenty, and he shuffles up to the booth, hands deep in his pockets as he hunches all the way over. He looks like he has a bad case of acne and love sickness, and neither bodes well.
“Mayor Frank?” He glances around nervously.
Frank nods. “Casey. Good to see you, son. What can I do for you?”
Casey runs a hand through his greasy hair. “I was hoping you could…help. With a problem.”
Frank sighs, apparently already knowing where this is going. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’d rather say in private.” Casey looks around and drops his voice. “It’s about Sarah Waterson.”
Frank’s expression softens, but he shakes his head. “I don’t do that sort of thing here. You know that.”
“I know, but I thought—”
“She’s not for you, lad.”
His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t have to be.
I can feel the waves of power emanating from him, and the diner hushes by a degree.
Frank has the kind of magic that reroutes crushes, eases old knots, and prevents very bad poems from being written—and Casey doesn’t stand a chance.
Not against a display of divine intervention dressed as heartbreak, like the world’s most passive-aggressive Valentine’s Day card.
The diner’s background noise softens. The air seems to steady. Frank’s power ripples through the room, subtle but undeniable. It is not empire-toppling power, at least not tonight. It is the sort that gently turns a heart toward a better path and saves a barista from a sonnet.
Casey flinches but tries again. “I just thought—”
Frank repeats himself, voice like iron wrapped in velvet. “She’s not for you. Listen to me. Move on. Let her move on.”
There’s another faint pulse of energy, barely perceptible. Casey’s shoulder slumps further. He mumbles a thanks and slinks away.
I exhale slowly, grateful for the reminder of who Frank really is.
He may play the role of the affable mayor, but it’s a game.
Just as I play the humble bar owner. Both are ruses, designed to mask what lies underneath.
The power beneath Frank’s aw-shucks exterior is raw and absolute.
If it came to a fight, the outcome would not be clear-cut.
I’d probably win if Ronan turned up, provided he brought his axe and left Crinkshaw at home.
Thankfully, the moment passes. Frank smiles, the weight of his power gone as if it was never there. Holly studies her menu, oblivious to the cosmic-scale romantic smackdown that was almost unleashed around her.
“Mayor Frank, about the tree?”
“I know you’ll handle this, Holly,” he says, beaming at her. “Your mom swears you’re the best.”
Frank’s voice is warm and buttery, the kind of voice that soothes children to sleep and convinces adults to do the sensible thing.
But right now, it’s also a voice that makes Holly sit up straighter, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping her from bolting.
There’s something about the way he says it that makes my teeth clench. It’s not quite a suggestion. Not even a command. Worse than that. It’s an expectation. He doesn’t say if she fixes the problem. He says when.
Holly swallows hard. “I’m trying. I really am. I don’t know how to yet. I’m working on it.”
Frank waves a hand. “Oh, I have every faith in you. The whole town does.” He leans back, all casual magnanimity, as if he hasn’t dumped a snowstorm’s worth of pressure on her shoulders. “Celeste doesn’t recommend people lightly.”
Holly nods stiffly. I can practically hear the internal screaming.
“Celeste?” I ask.
“My mom,” Holly shrugs, trying for casual and not quite getting there. “She’s based in Los Angeles. Event planning. Big event.”
“My last event planner moved on after I helped bring Willow Creek together and launched the Winter Wonderland Gala. Celeste called. Put in a very strong word. And when Celeste Frost calls, you pay attention. She said Holly was ready. That she understood how to take something important and make it unforgettable. I knew I had to give her daughter a chance. But without the Winter Wonderland and its Christmas tree, Willow Creek is just another supernatural town with too many gift shops.”