Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The old Season’s Heart Factory looms ahead, all peeling paint and rusted doors, like the remains of a bad Christmas memory.
My breath ghosts in the cold as I stand in the snow, the air biting hard enough to sting—but it’s the message pinned to my door that settles deeper, colder still.
Behind me, Willow Creek is a smear of warm windows and festive lights; here, the only glow is a failing security bulb that blinks like a nervous star.
I rub my gloved hands together, chasing feeling back into my fingers as I try to piece the note together from memory. The words had been twisted into something that sounded like a carol sung in the wrong key, each line gnawing at me in a way that set my teeth on edge.
I curse under my breath. I left too fast and didn’t think to take it with me. Now, the words are slipping away, fragments scattering like shattered glass around me.
Find the place where the tree holds truth and lies,
Wrapped in dusty ribbons, beneath cold, watchful layers.
The rusted handles of the factory doors sag, barely clinging to their broken mounts.
I don’t see any signs of movement inside, but the shadows play tricks on my eyes, stretching as if something shifts beyond the grime-smeared glass windows.
The silence is oppressive, a weight pressing against my chest.
Snow soaks through my jeans as I crouch, studying the building’s perimeter. The walls are scuffed and battered, streaks of ice running down the metal like frozen tears. There’s a small, shattered window that looks inviting enough to be a terrible idea.
This is probably the moment to tell someone where I am. Marcy, at the very least. But she’d probably tell me to call Nick. And then she’d call him herself. So instead of doing the sensible thing, I edge closer and peer inside.
The flickering overhead lights cast a dim and erratic glow across old conveyor belts and dusty boxes. Nothing seems out of place. Nothing seems wrong. Tension pricks at the back of my neck anyway.
The tree isn’t in sight.
My breath fogs up as I creep toward the entrance.
The factory doors sit slightly ajar, a thin gap letting out gusts of icy air.
It hardly breathes as I slip past and I’m oddly proud of myself for that.
Surely my mom never had to deal with quietly sneaking into abandoned Christmas decoration warehouses when planning the Royal Wedding.
Or maybe she did. Royals are weird.
There’s a stack of warped crates—maybe that’s the ‘wood’ the riddle meant.
I pry one open and find a large stash of eggnog.
Potent eggnog, if the alcohol content on the label is accurate.
Something skitters between the boxes. Probably rats.
Possibly sugar rats—like regular rats, but louder and more unionized.
A tangled mess of red and green wires looping ominously around a corner catches my eye, its glint faint under the overhead lights.
Near the wires, a bundle of worn-out elf boots is carelessly tossed aside, their cracked soles pointing like grim sentinels.
And a sliver of something shiny reflects the dim light—a crooked, glitter-covered star peeking out like a sinister beacon.
Great.
Just great.
Rogue elves are the last thing I need and, annoyingly, the first thing I should have expected.
A nagging thought creeps in: Nick would’ve handled this better.
He’d have figured this out faster. Cut through the confusion. Seen the connections I didn’t. Trusted his gut while I’ve been second-guessing everything. He makes a plan, sticks to it, and—annoyingly—it somehow always works.
My skills haven’t exactly been stellar over the past few days.
Especially for someone whose job is literally organizing events.
There hasn’t been much of a plan this week, at least not where Nick Draven was concerned.
I’ve been charging in headfirst, powered by adrenaline, stubbornness, and a reckless need to prove I can handle everything on my own.
Usually, I can.
But things would’ve been a lot smoother if Nick were here.
I hate admitting it, but I’ve grown used to him being around.
His company.
His ridiculous grin.
His infuriatingly reliable presence.
I didn’t listen to him when it mattered.
Didn’t trust his judgment because I let my pride get in the way.
And now I regret every sharp word and every moment I pushed him away.
I’ve been so determined to do things my way that I didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, Mister ‘Tall, Dark, and Infuriating’ Draven knew something I didn’t.
I shake my head and force myself to focus.
Ducking behind one of the old machines, I scurry along the conveyor belt, heading deeper into the factory.
Rusted machinery looms. Overturned crates clutter the path.
The clink of metal from somewhere ahead stops me in my tracks.
There are muffled sounds. Footsteps. Voices.
Low muttering. I can’t make out the words, but the cadence is unmistakable. People.
Where branches bear secrets and shadows creep
Well, that was accurate.
This is not the type of holiday spirit I signed up for.
I peek around another crate of eggnog and see them.
Rogue elves. A small army of them, emerging from the shadows like carolers who swapped sheet music for cudgels.
Their ragged little elf hats sit askew, their eyes gleaming with a cold, calculating glint that feels all wrong.
They’re crouched low, moving with the kind of coordinated menace that speaks of long practice and very bad intentions.
I scan the room again and notice a corkboard pinned on the wall.
It’s cluttered with hand-drawn maps, notes written in manic handwriting, and photos of suspiciously festive things.
Someone’s used candy-cane pushpins and awarded gold star stickers.
Organized villainy is the worst kind. There are even festive-themed stick-on notes, like someone went to the trouble of ordering stationery for their Christmas heist planning.
The board is boldly titled ‘Operation Hollow,’ and among the chaos, one drawing catches my attention: a crude sketch of a snow globe with a very wonky, glitter-covered tree inside. The very same snow globe that’s been sitting in Nick’s living room.
I gasp.
The elves freeze, dozens of tiny heads swiveling towards the noise.
One elf stands tall—as tall as an elf minion can—and his smile is a twisted, sharp thing that chills me more than the freezing air. A laugh cuts through the air—high, delighted, wrong. They form a loose circle, slowly closing in, their eyes locked on me like they’ve been waiting.
For me.
This was a trap, and like an idiot, I walked right into it.
I’m outnumbered by at least five, maybe six, rogue elves.
My hands clench into fists. I’ve dealt with obstacles before: spilled eggnog disasters, Christmas-themed escape rooms, and one particularly aggressive nativity play crew. But this is a special brand of holiday peril I’m not ready for.
“Fantastic. I’m the headline act at the Holiday Horror Revue,” I mutter.
The rogue elves close the circle around me, and one lunges forward with a grim smile. I lunge back, adrenaline and sheer stubbornness giving me a burst of speed. I manage to shove him off-balance—only for another to grab my arm, his grip like iron.
“Hi,” I say, breathless. “I’m Holly. Loving the ambush, very ten out of ten on the menace scale. I’ll be sure to leave you a good review. Anyhow…I should probably get going. Kisses to Santa, okay?”
My wit fails to have the desired effect. Which is irritating, because it usually works—and I am at least as funny as Nick, if not funnier.
I wrench my arm free, twisting to break out of the tightening circle. They’re playing with me and having a wonderful time doing it. The elves come at me again. I knock a few of them back, but the next hit sends me stumbling across the factory floor until I end up underneath the corkboard.
Close enough to see exactly what’s on it.
Strings of red and green thread crisscross the board, connecting photos of the Hollow of Mischief to schematics of the oversized snow globe.
Under “Timeline,” someone wrote TONIGHT and drew a skull wearing a Santa hat.
A larger map of Willow Creek is pinned to the center, and the town square is circled in bold red.
Other sketches show the snow globe releasing trails of sparkling magic that spread festive cheer.
In the midst of it all is the same unmistakable tree, its lopsided branches glowing faintly like it’s alive.
Lastly, there’s a photo of me labeled ‘naughty list, pending review,’ and one of Nick with a peppermint ‘X’ like someone got enthusiastic with craft supplies.
I stare at the notes, then back at the snow globe, and the pieces click together with nauseating simplicity. The ridiculous, tacky Christmas ornament isn’t just a gaudy decoration. It’s the heart of everything.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, the confusion evaporating into cold, bitter clarity.
I cannot believe I’ve—we’ve—been this stupid.
The realization hits hard. I know exactly why I’m here. This isn’t about me. It’s about Nick. And the snow globe that’s in his house.
“We’ve had the tree the whole time. Well, Merry freaking Christmas.”
The rogue elves cackle, a sound that’s sharp, grating, and about as festive as nails on a chalkboard.
Their eyes glint in the dim light, and the stink of eggnog sweat practically radiates off them.
They step closer, forming a tight, glitter-coated circle around me.
Vile creatures. I’ve had enough of them for a lifetime, let alone one holiday.
I glance between the rogue elves and the board, and the scribbled details become clearer with every pass. My brain finally catches up, piecing the rest together faster than it has any right to.
“Great,” I huff, a sarcastic grin slipping onto my face. “We’ve been running around in holiday-themed circles, on a Christmas scavenger hunt designed by the world’s worst logistics planner, so you could get into Nick’s mansion.”
The tallest elf, standing a staggering waist-high level, lifts a tattered clipboard with a checklist that’s partially ripped and covered in eggnog stains.
“Gold star for figuring it out,” an elf says, voice sweet as spearmint. “We thought the reindeer stampede would lure the vampires out, but they were watching reruns of WKRP in Cincinnati.”
“Ronan tells me that Loni Anderson is enchanting,” I murmur.
“Anyway,” he says, consulting a snowflake pocket watch that pings politely. “We needed something a touch more persuasive. And you walked very neatly into our trap.”
“What about—”
“Yup,” he continues. “Walked right into it. Like a magpie in the tinsel aisle.”
“I got it.”
“Like the exceptionally persuadable, seasonally distractible human you are—”
“Got it,” I bark. “We can skip the play-by-play. Further description of my role is not required.”
He gestures at his clipboard. “There’s a whole script here. Itemized. If you don’t mind?”
On the one hand, I’m extremely irritated that I’m being dunked on by a group of reject munchkins from the Wizard of Oz. On the other, I appreciate the importance of following the to-do list.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a holly-jolly intruder,” he sneers, and ticks an item off. “Time to wrap up this little holiday hiccup.”
The elves close in, their twisted holiday cheer hardening into something meaner. Like a grandma reaching for the last scone at a buffet. My breath quickens, but I dig my nails into my palms and hold my ground.
I’ve faced worse.
The Hollow of Mischief. Gingerbread dragons. Reindeer stampedes and candy-cane calamities. Sarcastically hot vampires. This is just another mess to fix. Another holiday crinkle I need to smooth out.
And I am an event planner, not an event ender.
The rogue elves grab at me. I pivot at the last second, narrowly avoiding one elf’s glitter-covered claw as the sound of ragged breaths and creaky boots closes in behind me.
Another elf leaps at me, and I drop low, rolling out of the way and scrambling back to my feet.
I grab one last look at the map—and then I bolt for the far side of the room.
“Get her!” the tall elf screeches, his voice warping into something carol-adjacent and deeply unpleasant.
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do, Greg,” another snaps, smacking the first elf on the head.
Greg.
Not Bloodthorn. Not Nightbane. Greg.
I am being hunted through an abandoned Christmas factory by a rogue elf who sounds like he files expense reports.
This is my life now.
I run, dodging rusted machinery and leaping over tangled cords like a deranged caribou on a caffeine rush. The elves’ footsteps clatter behind me, their taunts rise into a cacophony of jingling bells and something far less festive.
“Run all you want, sugarplum!” Greg hollers. “We’ve got the naughty list, and you’re at the top! Should’ve left that Christmas snow globe where you found it.”
Right.
Santa didn’t want us to take the snow globe.
Maybe he expected us to smash it in the gingerbread house and either ruin Christmas or release all its magic in the Hollow of Mischief. But we didn’t. It’s still in Nick’s house. Which means this isn’t over. Not even close.
There’s still a way to stop Santa from stealing the festive spirit.
Still a way to save Christmas in Willow Creek.
All I have to do is get past these nasty little rogue elves—who now smell like old gym socks soaked in stale eggnog—and get to Nick. Easier said than done, considering they’ve managed to corner me in the least jolly corner of this grimy factory.
These elves don’t just want to ruin Christmas cheer.
I take a deep breath, preparing to tackle the nightmare before Christmas I’ve found myself caught in.
I should have gotten Nick to help me, but now I’m going to have to do this on my own, and the faint chorus of Christmas music skipping tracks that’s started playing in the background isn’t improving the mood.
“Where are you trying to run to, sugarplum?” Greg sneers. “We stick around longer than leftover fruitcake. You can’t shake us.”
I pick up an iron bar and give it a few experimental swings, silently praying that a potent mix of stubbornness, holiday sarcasm, and sheer, reckless optimism will be enough to get me through this twisted rerun of Christmas chaos.
So I strike a pose, holding the bar at the ready.
If I’m going down, then it’s going to be with a fight. I’ll never give—
Something slams me in the back of the head, and I collapse to the ground. My cheek hits cold concrete that smells faintly of peppermint and dust. My eyesight dims as I lose consciousness, and the last thing I hear is the footsteps of an elf as it approaches.
“String her up.”
Bells jingle somewhere, off-key.