Chapter 14 #2
“Of course it does,” I say. “The songs tried to warn you. Humans never listen. He watches you while you sleep, Holly. It’s practically the tagline for a horror movie.
He’s got a naughty-or-nice list, an omniscient info network, and unrestricted chimney access to every house on Earth, and you people leave him snacks. ”
Everything in me tightens, coiling in a way I don’t enjoy. It takes a deliberate breath to ease it loose. A sip of cocoa buys me a second. The chocolate’s rich, sweet, and entirely unhelpful because it immediately conjures the idea that Holly would taste the same.
Not now. Focus.
She’s looking up at me with wide green eyes, glistening with tears and far too much hope—like I’m meant to fix this. Like I can.
I am so screwed.
“Tell them everything,” I say to Jingle. “The truth. All of it.”
Jingle sighs and runs a hand over his bald head. “It’s like this. Santa hates Christmas. Always has. Always will. He didn’t take on the holiday by choice. He was forced into it.”
“Forced?” Marcy asks.
“Santa was the spirit of winter. Originally. A wind sprite. Made of pure elemental impulse. He’d blow through towns, bring ice and sleet and cold, like summer spirits bring heat and sun and life.
People didn’t pay much attention to wind sprites, because they’re just there.
They come, they go, the end. They also smell horrible, so no one misses them when they’ve gone. ”
“Santa was different. He wasn’t content with blowing ice around,” I add, keeping my tone even. “He decided winter shouldn’t end. Not for anyone. If everything froze, time would hold still. A world locked in winter where he was in charge.”
I pause for a beat.
“That’s how the first ice age started.”
“You’re kidding,” Holly breathes, pressing a hand to her temple. “Santa caused the first ice age?”
“Yup,” Jingle says, far too pleased with himself. “Took ages to unwind it. The powers that be didn’t appreciate the mess.” He shrugs. “So they rewrote his job description. No more storms. No more endless winters. Just joy. Gifts. Cheer. Eternal servitude at the North Pole.”
Holly and Marcy go very still. Too still.
Jingle slurps his cocoa, milking the moment.
I’ve heard this story before. He really needs to get to the point.
“Anyway,” he continues, tone turning flippant in a way that doesn’t quite hide the edge beneath it. “Santa hates Christmas. He does the job because he’s bound to it. But he’s been looking for a way out for centuries.”
His gaze flicks between us.
“He heard about Willow Creek. The biggest celebration of Christmas the world has ever seen. All that joy. All that belief.” His mouth curls. “You don’t build something like that without attracting attention. Especially not his.”
“I can think of dozens of reasons why not,” Holly says.
Jingle ignores her.
“He bought Sulphur Ridge. Started building his own version of things. Less of a celebration. More of an inversion. Strip the joy out, leave everything else behind. He calls it Crapmas. Which is either a joke or a warning.” He tilts his head.
“When he realized what your tree does…well, that was the turning point. All that negativity, carefully gathered, neatly contained—all ready to be redirected. Not dispersed. Just used.”
“Wait,” I cut in. “What do you mean the tree takes all the negative energy?”
“It’s not a decoration,” Jingle says. “It’s a conduit. Frank built it to draw the worst out of people. Quietly. Gently. So no one would notice. By Christmas, it’s saturated.” He taps the table lightly. “All that anger. Grief. Resentment. Stored up in one place.”
“Why would Frank do this?” Holly asks, aghast.
Jingle gives a thin smile. “Because he meddles. That’s what he does. People, relationships, entire towns if he thinks it’ll improve things. Like most cupids, Frank doesn’t see the harm in smoothing the edges off problems.”
“And the rest,” I ask. “The stampede? The rogue elf attacks?”
Jingle shrugs. “That’s a bit of mischief. Santa likes a bit of havoc.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“He’s tried this before,” I add, my voice flat. “In the thirteenth century. It took the vampires to stop him then. That’s why we’re banned from Christmas. He doesn’t forget losses. Doesn’t forgive them either.”
My jaw tightens.
“I doubt he expected us to get around his ban with Bloodmas.”
Jingle flinches a little, and I know my instincts are bang on.
“What do we do with this?” I ask, pulling the tacky snow globe from my pocket. I set it on the table, and glitter whips into motion like it’s trying to escape.
“A snow globe?” Jingle scratches his chin. “I don’t know. Looks like something my aunt would keep next to a porcelain shepherdess.”
“We found it in the Hollow of Mischief.”
“Then I definitely don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “Santa dropped me off here to keep an eye on things. He’s not big on sharing.”
“Can you at least call off the elf attacks?”
“Outside my remit.” Another shrug. “They’re…enthusiastic.”
Of course they are.
The urge to vault the table and rearrange his smug little face rises fast and furious. It would be easy. Satisfying, even. A clear message that no one messes with Willow Creek’s Winter Wonderland.
But Holly is here.
And this—whatever this is becoming—doesn’t feel like something I want to curdle. Not after she looked at me the way she did earlier.
Is this what growth looks like?
“This is a waste of time.” I rise slowly, letting the chair scrape. My gaze settles on Jingle. Eleven out of ten on the glare scale. “Willow Creek is under my protection. If you see Santa, you can pass that along.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Jingle mutters, though his voice holds little conviction.
I send him a final look—sharp enough to linger—and then I turn away.
Outside, the cold has teeth. The wind cuts across the pasture, dragging the scent of pine and frost with it. The sky is strung with stars. The holiday is closing in. You can feel it in the air. In the way everything looks a lot like Christmas.
“We’re no further along than when we started,” Holly says once we’re back in the car, her voice worn thin. “And now it’s even worse. If we don’t fix this…” She trails off and swallows. “He gets all of it. Everything the tree’s holding. What does he even do with that?”
The answer comes uninvited.
Nothing good.
“Then we don’t let him have it,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “We’ve been pushing hard. Let’s regroup. Eat. Sleep. Then we outplay him.”
She nods, but it isn’t in agreement. It’s surrender dressed up as patience.
It lands somewhere unpleasant.
That look doesn’t belong on her. Not when she still believes in Willow Creek. Not when she’s built her gala out of nothing but stubbornness and good intentions. And not when she’s starting to believe she might not be enough.
That will not stand.
“Willow Creek is getting its Christmas back. You’re going to get your gala exactly the way you imagined it—lights, laughter, and those ridiculous mince pies no one likes.”
Even if I have to break a few Christmas baubles to deliver it to her.
Holly’s hands tighten on the wheel as we turn onto Main Street. “I don’t know if I can fix this. This is bigger than a missing tree. I don’t even understand what we’re dealing with anymore.”
“It’s not falling apart,” I reply. “Not while I’m here.”
She huffs out a breath. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise that you’re not doing this alone. You have me, the coven, and I’ll throw everything I have at this until your gala happens exactly as you want it to.”
“That’s a big promise, Draven.”
“I’m a big vampire.”
Marcy sighs softly in the back, clearly enjoying herself.
Holly shakes her head, but there’s a hint of something lighter there. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” I say, settling back, “I’m still your best option.”
She doesn’t argue.
I let the quiet sit while my plan settles into place.
All I need is a way in.
One rogue elf.
And a little bit of unpleasantness.