Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“Another,” I say to Wes, gesturing at the bottle behind him.
Wes, ever unflappable, raises his eyebrow at me. “You sure? That’s a lot, even for you.”
“I can’t get drunk, Wes.”
“I know. But since we’re both going through the hackneyed routine of ‘sad man at bar,’ I felt I should play my part of a reluctant bartender. Drink the bottle if you like—just leave enough to dye the fountain green.”
It’s late afternoon, and I’ve retreated to Hemoglow to lick my wounds.
Twinkle lights loop the back bar like fairy-laced ivy, while garlands of spruce—not pine—and dried orange slices scent the air.
Candy-cane swizzle sticks lean in a cut-glass tumbler, and someone’s got a jazzy Carol of the Bells low on the speakers.
The bar is lightly populated at this time of day, and it’s as good a place as any to feel sorry for myself.
If gloom must be endured, it may as well be festive. It’s not like I can go home.
My coven, bless their undead hearts, can be staggeringly efficient when it comes to things that are none of their business. By the time I’d left the house, it was already common knowledge that Holly and I had argued. Not discussed. Not disagreed. Argued. With feeling. Possibly with subtext.
Crinkshaw chose the moment I was putting on my coat to murmur, “I did mention, Sire, that you are not especially adept in such circumstances.”
I chose not to respond, largely because I did not have one that wasn’t either inaccurate or undignified. Ronan, meanwhile, looked delighted. As if he’d been handed emotional drama and intended to treat it as a spectator sport.
I left before either of them attempted to improve the situation further.
Which is how I ended up here, drinking something that cannot numb the pain, surrounded by people I don’t know, in a bar decorated like Christmas has developed a personality and that personality is based entirely on thrifting.
The look I send Wes is enough to send him retreating to the opposite side of the bar, where a group of twentysomething women are already competing for his attention.
He goes easily, of course. Wes is a fresh vampire—barely seventy—and still firmly in the phase where physical dalliances are the highlight of existence.
Not that they’re without their merits. It’s just that after a few centuries, the novelty fades. There are more interesting pursuits than a taste and a tickle.
Was Holly right? Did I go too far?
Frank had been perfectly clear about the terms of our stay in Willow Creek. No feeding on residents unless it was with their consent. That was the line—bright, immovable, and it ran right through Hemoglow. Not open to interpretation.
A rogue elf, however, is not a resident.
After a solid ten minutes of semi-productive rumination, Wes reappears at my elbow, having abandoned his admirers with the casual cruelty of someone who expects them to remain exactly where he left them.
“You’re looking grim, boss. Ready to talk yet?”
I take a measured sip of Cabernet Sauvignon. “Holly is under the impression I’ve done something unforgivable.”
“And have you?”
“No,” I say, with dignity. “I have been misinterpreted.”
Wes leans one hip against the bar. “Ah. Technically correct. The least adored of all the corrects.”
“I wasn’t aware there were scales.”
“There are five.” He counts on his fingers. “Actually correct, technically correct, correct but wrong, incorrect, and not even close to correct.”
“How can you be correct but wrong?”
“Enjoying the music of the Eagles, for example. You’re correct inasmuch as you are the owner of your own taste, but you’re incorrect because they’re a terrible band and you should feel bad for liking them.”
“I’m actually correct, then. The agreement was very clear. No feeding on residents of Willow Creek and elves do not live in Willow Creek.”
“Mm.”
“Rogue elves, in particular, live at the North Pole. With Santa. This is not controversial information.”
Wes watches me for a moment. “So your defense is geography.”
“My defense,” I say, “is accuracy.”
“Right,” he says. “And Holly called that what?”
“A technicality,” I say, annoyed. “Which is an entirely unfair characterization. It’s a distinction. A meaningful one.”
“I doubt Holly saw it that way,” Wes says. “Remind me of the last time you managed to win a person over with semantic arguments? Has that ever happened?”
“That’s not fair,” I say finally. It sounded more convincing in my head.
Wes brightens. “I see we’ve reached the sulking stage.”
“I am not sulking.” I straighten and adjust my collar.
“You’re at a bar, drinking enough alcohol to keep a small Christmas market operational, complaining about a woman who’s angry with you. That is the textbook definition of sulking.”
I don’t dignify it with a response.
“There are plenty more Hollys out there, you know,” he adds.
That earns him a look.
“That’s the problem. There aren’t, Wes. It’s been…” I pause, as if I’m counting the years, when in fact there’s no need. “It’s been a long time since I met a Holly. Or anyone who comes close.”
“Even easier, then.”
“How is that easier? She’s impossible. She’s stubborn, obnoxious, aggressively convinced she’s right—and infuriatingly often is.”
“You say that like it’s a complaint.”
I look at him. He doesn’t even flinch.
Apparently, we’ve stopped respecting our elders.
In this coven, rules matter. So do the distinctions that keep them from being unbearable—the kind that mean we have Bloodmas instead of Christmas.
Holly may have dismissed them as a technicality, but it was the only thing standing between me and breaking my word…
and the only way I had to save her gala from what Santa is doing.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” I ask.
“Nope.” He winks at me again and I realize how annoying it is. “The way I see it, this is all pretty simple, and you’re being a bit ridiculous. One might even say juvenile, if one had a poor sense of self-preservation.”
“Oh, do tell. Please unburden your decades of wisdom on me.” I put my head in my hands and flutter my eyelashes at him. “Do enlighten me. I’m sure it will be brief.”
“Do you like her?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple.” Wes flashes me that grin again. I’m downgrading his to seven for its annoyance. “And you still haven’t answered.”
I mumble something into my glass.
“Sorry, that sounded like cowardice.”
“I said she’s not without her charms,” I snap.
“Infuriating, yes. Narrow-minded, occasionally. She smells of blood oranges and cinnamon, which is an absurd combination. And she scrunches her nose up when she’s thinking.
Bites her thumb when she’s worried. I haven’t decided if that’s adorable or irritating. ”
“Nick.” He leans in. “Yes or no?”
I make a face like I’ve been presented with a moral dilemma involving fire. It has been a long time since I’ve let this happen. Relationships are unwise at the best of times. Worse when one of you can die.
Holly makes none of this matter.
She gets under my skin. Quietly. Persistently. Like a problem I can’t charm or outmaneuver. She’s sharp. Unimpressed. The sort of person who expects you to be better and then stands there until you are.
And I was not.
The memory of last night sits badly.
I chose expedience. She saw something else.
I don’t like the version of me that makes her look at me like that.
“Yes,” I admit.
Wes spreads his hands like he’s a magician revealing a card trick. “There it is.”
“There is what?”
“The problem. And the solution.”
“How is that the solution?”
“Nick,” he says, leaning in again, “you like her. That’s the whole thing.”
“She’s mad at me, Wes. She says I broke her trust.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, picking up a glass and holding it to the light like it might confess under pressure.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’ll do it.”
“But I didn’t—”
“No,” he cuts in. “She’s not angry with you because you’re a vampire. She’s upset with you because she started believing you weren’t going to let her down when it mattered.”
A pause.
“And then you did,” he adds, not unkindly.
I look back at my drink. It offers no defense.
Wes takes his time polishing a glass, dragging the moment out until the crystal all but hums. I note his insolence while filing this technique away for later use.
“You older guys make everything so complicated. There are two options. You sit here and feel sorry for yourself… or you get up and do something about it.”
“It might not work.” I dislike how that sounds.
“No,” Wes agrees easily. “It might not. But if you stay here, it definitely won’t.”
I blink.
“Go say sorry. Properly. No loopholes or speeches. Just…mean it.” He jerks his chin toward the other end of the bar. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an audience that still thinks I’m interesting.”
I watch him go, reflecting briefly on how irritating it is when other people are right.
Sitting here isn’t helping.
Holly is not the sort of person who waits around for things to fix themselves.
Which leaves me with exactly one option.
I drain my glass and stand.
I’m still assembling something resembling an apology when Ronan bursts through the door hard enough to suggest it has personally offended him.
It slams against the wall. A few people gasp.
I count backwards from five and briefly wonder what our annual expenditure on door replacements looks like.
I make a note to ask Crinkshaw—who, as ever, is following a step behind the chaos.
“Betrayal!” Ronan roars, face flushed and eyes blazing. “Betrayal most foul, Lord!”
He barrels toward me, clutching a piece of paper like it might escape if not properly supervised. It rustles, ominously. I remind myself that my second-in-command is a warrior who once won the Battle of Bognor Hill single-handedly, and not, in fact, an unusually dramatic courier.
“What now, Ronan?” I sigh, my patience for theatrics at an all-time low. “Have they removed My So-Called Life from cable?”
“Claire Danes is a triumph,” he says, deeply offended. “But no. That’s not it. Look at this.”
He thrusts the paper into my hand.
It’s written in ornate, archaic script, and reads:
Holly,
The heart of the season lies where roots run deep,
Where branches bear secrets and shadows creep.
Find the place where the tree holds truth and lies,
Wrapped in dusty ribbons, beneath cold, watchful layers.
This isn’t good. It’s the same paper as the note beneath the snow globe—ancient, expensive, and reeking of caramelized mildew and bad decisions.
“What am I looking at?” I ask. “And where did you find it?”
“When Sire slunk out of the house in a mood,” Crinkshaw says, carefully, “we thought it prudent to check in on Miss Frost. Ronan was worried. I was not.”
“I did not slink.”
“No, Sire. My Lord was profoundly dignified in your exit.”
I look at Ronan. “The note.”
“Pinned to her door,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze. “An envelope—wax seal, proper presentation. And a stake left nearby. Not for her, I think. Subtle was not the goal.”
A knot tightens in my gut. “Why?”
“To lure her,” he says. “The old Christmas decoration factory.”
“You’re certain?”
Ronan points to the page. “First line. ‘Heart of the season.’ The place is called Season’s Heart Factory. As I said, not subtle.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Let me guess, it’s on the outskirts of town?”
“On the border between Willow Creek and Sulphur Ridge,” Crinkshaw says. “Practically apologizing for existing.”
Naturally. A half-forgotten factory straddling Willow Creek and Sulphur Ridge is exactly where you’d go if you wanted to siphon one and poison the other.
I drop the note. “It’s a trap.”
“Obviously,” Ronan says.
“You don’t think she went anyway?”
Ronan snorts. “She absolutely went anyway.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “She has no idea what she’s walking into.”
“She has some idea,” Crinkshaw says mildly. “She simply won’t let it stop her.”
Holly Frost is many things.
Currently, sensible is not one of them.
“Crinkshaw, Wes. Head back to the house. Wake everyone. Make sure they’re ready. Full battle gear.”
Crinkshaw straightens, all trace of dry commentary gone. “Yes, My Lord.”
He moves quickly—actually quickly—which is how I know this is bad.
I turn to Ronan. “You’re with me.”
His hand settles on the knife at his belt. “Understood.”
Outside, the wind hits hard—sleet, woodsmoke, and the sort of cold that suggests something unpleasant is about to happen.
Holly had better be safe.
Not one hair on her head should have been moved out of place. Not one wrinkle should have creased her brow, nor one tremble should have escaped those lips of hers. If any of those things have happened, then Santa is going to regret trying to steal Christmas from her.
She needed me, and I was too busy nursing my own pride to give her what she needed. I should have apologized—properly, plainly—but old habits run deep, and I am not a man accustomed to explaining myself, least of all to mortals.
Holly, unfortunately, has made that position untenable.
I am done pretending otherwise. This morning, I was a brooding, love-sick fool.
Now, I am something else entirely. I am a force of nature, the darkness unbound, the patience behind the smile, and the eternal sleep that ushers you somewhere you would very much prefer not to go.
If she is hurt, I will ensure they arrive there personally.
I reach for my coat, already moving.
And I am bringing a thermos.