Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Watching Holly emerge from her shell is delightful.
There’s still a tightly wound core that never fully relaxes, but her guarded tension has dropped, and she seems to be enjoying herself.
I make her laugh with a story about Henry II of England, and if that’s not a Christmas miracle, then I don’t know what is.
“I can safely say that the invention of the shower was the greatest contribution to humanity’s future of anything else,” I finish. “I had to breathe through my mouth during most of the early centuries.”
Her laugh is wonderful, and it sounds like joy. Paper snowflakes spin lazily in the draft from the door. Somewhere near the hearth, someone attempts harmony and nearly finds it. I can’t help but smile when I look at Holly.
“What’s it like?” She finishes the last of her mulled wine. “Immortality, that is.”
“It’s…fine, I suppose. You get perspective. After the first century, you learn about how temporary everything is. Everything comes and everything goes. You learn not to get too connected to anything.”
“It sounds lonely.”
Wes sets down a plate of sugared shortbread between us, as if loneliness is best handled with biscuits. He isn’t wrong.
I shrug, trying to brush off my emotions as she hits the nail on the head. “That’s why a coven is so important. It’s a thing of permanence in an ocean of impermanence.”
“And that’s why you started the bar here?”
“It lets us be a part of Willow Creek.” My eyes go distant.
“The hardest thing for humans to understand is how unbelievably long a century is. It’s the longest possible thing you can imagine, and I mean that literally.
Human brains aren’t very good at large scales.
By the third century, it becomes hard to keep going.
You’ve done everything you’ve ever dreamed of.
You’ve had just about every experience there is to have. ”
“You give them purpose.” She places her hand on my arm, and my skin tingles with the contact. We share a look, a real one, and some of that glimmer I’ve been working so hard on expands. She leans forward. “Who gives you purpose, Niklaus Draven?”
My entire body reacts, a flush of electricity jolting through me.
Holly’s asked a real question, and more than that, she’s looking at me like it matters.
Like she’s worried I’m sad. Or lonely. If I had blood, there’d probably be blushing involved, possibly combustion.
Instead, the entirely unhelpful urge to kiss her until the room forgets its carols surges through me.
It’s exhilarating.
It’s too soon, so with a profound force of willpower, I force a nonchalant smile onto my face.
“Oh. This and that.”
My answer, my reaction, all of it is too casual for the moment, and the glimmer in her eyes vanishes. The wall snaps back into place. She moves away. The moment breaks.
I blew it.
There were only so many ways that could have gone. I was unprepared for my feelings, and she caught me by surprise. Startling, really, and yet another thing that hasn’t happened in a very long time.
“Why don’t you tell me about the Hollow of Mischief?” she asks.
This isn’t a conversation I want to have. Not now. I want to recapture our moment, that shared whisper of intimacy we experienced just now. Wanting that moment back more than I’ve wanted anything in centuries is…inconvenient.
God, wanting her more than anything in centuries is worse.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Now,” she counters, and business Holly reappears.
A sigh arrives with that realization, and I lean forward.
Winning Holly’s affection is clearly a long game.
Fine. Time isn’t exactly a constraint. First, I’m a vampire.
Second, I’m a vampire, and we’re on a mission to save Christmas together.
That means she’s stuck with me. And third, I’m a vampire.
I’m awesome. My experience gives me a few advantages.
“There’s not much to say,” I shrug, attempting understatement. “It’s a pocket dimension of unspeakable evil. It’s a terrible place of endless sadness and misery. There’s always jazz playing, for reasons no one has successfully explained.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I never joke about jazz. That’s how Isaac Newton almost destroyed Cambridge.”
“Why would they have taken my tree to an evil pocket dimension?”
“Who knows why rogue elves do anything? They’re elves.”
She’s right to ask, and I wonder if I should tell her the truth.
The real answer is that they wouldn’t, not without direction.
They’re definitely working for someone else, but with no clear suspect, speculation feels premature.
Suspicions are one thing, but without proof, they’re the kind of thing that will worry her, and so my thoughts remain mine. For now.
“How are we supposed to get it back?”
“I’ll bring my coven. They’ll help. It should be fine.”
“What should I expect? Goblins? Goblins with swords? Fire Goblins with swords who go around saying, “How about this heat?” What can I do to prepare?”
“You’re staying home,” I say, aiming for heroic and landing somewhere near concerned. “I’m not bringing you into the Hollow of Mischief.”
“Says you,” she snaps, veering off script. “I’m going. This is my Winter Wonderland, Draven, and in this little movie miracle you’re imagining, you’re the sidekick.”
I laugh and raise my hands in mock surrender, delighted with how easily she’s able to run through all my defenses. Holly Frost is blade-sharp, and there’s no getting anything past her. The sooner I realize that, the better.
“You’re stunningly insufferable; do you know that?”
She gives me a flat look. “It’s been said. So tomorrow, then? You organize your coven tonight, and tomorrow we’ll get the tree back?”
“That’s the plan. Some more of my more magically inclined brethren can prepare some guarding spells, at least enough so you don’t die the instant that you set foot inside.”
“Yay,” she says weakly.
Her skin goes a bit pale as the reality of what we’re about to do sinks in. She’s either brave or crazy, and probably a combination of both, but spending time with her is the most fun I’ve had in ages. I want more of it, and I’m going to make sure I get it.
We finish our drinks and bundle up, readying ourselves to go back into the chill night.
It’s been a long day, and she’s tired. More snow is falling, and the flakes twinkle in the lamplight, making everything look like a snow globe.
Window boxes wear neat hats of snow. A wreath on the bakery door breathes cinnamon into the street.
Outside, I pause and tilt my head towards the sky, closing my eyes and letting each snowflake hit me like a kiss.
“Are we going?” Holly nudges me in the arm.
“Ah,” I shake myself from my reverie. “Of course. Shall we?” I offer her my arm, which she snorts at before trudging down Main Street, leaving me behind. Hurrying to catch up, I fall into step beside her. Hopefully, she finds it charming.
Despite the lightly falling snow, the sky is clear, and the wind is crisp enough to give the skin a wonderful nip, but not enough to burn. The streets are completely empty, and most everyone is still inside the shops or has gone home for the night.
Main Street is well-decorated for the festival, with holly and garlands dripping from everything. It’s all quite delightful, really, and I wonder if there’s a much longer future for us here.
“Did you do all this?” I gesture at the decorations.
“Yes. I start planning for the festival in the spring. The work takes most of the year. Logistics, orders, catering, waste disposal, events, hotels, all of it. Each year there’s something new.”
“It’s incredible. I wouldn’t have thought organizing an annual event involving several thousand people would be quite so much work, and now that I say that sentence out loud, it seems absurd.”
This line gets a genuine laugh from her, and I try to be as present in the moment as I can. Her head tilts forward and she covers her mouth as she laughs into her glove. Snow falls around her, leaving traces behind on her eyelashes. Unable to help myself, I step forward and take her by the arm.
“Holly—”
Before I can get further, a screeching animal launches itself at her and they both tumble to the pavement. I’m forced to stumble back, surprised, as another creature thumps into me from the side, knocking me to the ground hard.
At first, it looks like a stray dog or something, but then several more shapes dart in and out of the shadows, and a better look reveals what’s happening. It’s not dogs.
It’s elves.
Rogue elves.
Scrambling to my feet, I look for Holly. I’m firmly past the point of irritation and have moved all the way to annoyance. Rogue elves? Really? Here I am, trying to be a nice guy—a gentleman even—and this is my reward? Being accosted by these creatures?
Holly is being pinned down—quite possibly tickled—while muffled sounds of battle and frustrated giggling emerge from the pile of bodies.
I move to help, but another elf blocks my path, snarling and brandishing a candy-cane shaped staff.
It swings at me, and I fold my arms. The staff shatters against my frame, exploding into shards of candy.
The elf is left holding a jagged stump of cane, and he frowns at it.
“That was never going to work,” I say, before punting him neatly into a snowdrift, where he lands with an offended squeak.
I make a note of his position so that I can tell Ronan.
Or perhaps not. This is easily the stupidest battle I’ve ever been involved in, and a possessed goose once fought me for half a ham sandwich.
But I need to impress Holly, so this must be taken seriously.
To my surprise, she’s managed to push the elves off and has already armed herself with a wreath and a stick of garland.
She uses the wreath as a shield and begins poking at the elves with her garland stick.
One gets too close and she slams it against the side of the head. It vanishes in a puff of tinsel.