Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
I’m wearing overalls.
Faded blue, baggy in the wrong places, and almost certainly purchased by Crinkshaw sometime near the end of the last war, when ration books were essential and sophistication was not. They do not so much fit my frame as drape upon it like a tarp over a sculpture that used to have dignity.
I’ve been relegated to rebuilding the carolers’ stage with Wes, who is conspicuously not wearing overalls.
That feels deliberate. Possibly strategic.
Certainly noted. And while I am working, Wes is engaging in an ongoing social event with an endless rotating cast of twentysomething females who just happened to be in the area and who appear to be composed primarily of perfume and giggles.
I knew I’d pay for telling Holly I was good at everything. As it happens, I do know how to build a stage—and, annoyingly, I’m quite good at carpentry. That said, this feels beneath my ancient mystique, which is not the same thing as being beneath me, and therefore technically acceptable.
I hammer in another crossbeam.
I’ve barely seen Holly since yesterday. She’s turned Willow Creek into a cheerful machine.
Choir scales drift from the bandstand, a clipboard command center has sprung up beside a nest of extension reels, and there’s an assembly line where cocoa, biscuits, and encouragement are dispensed.
In that order. Every ladder has three extra hands already assigned to steady it.
It’s…effective.
And it’s hard not to notice the tree, either. Restored. Blazing at the center of the town square. Holly’s pulled all of Willow Creek into orbit and set it spinning in the right direction, and the Winter Wonderland Festival is going to happen.
Everyone has a job, and I mean everyone. She’s even made Frank string popcorn.
She’s a wonder.
With some irritation, I keep building, because whatever my ego says about mystique, I am not the man who lets Holly down. I set the cleat, fix the batten, admire a frankly excellent stage, and attempt to share my brilliance with Wes, who is busy conducting a field study on blushing.
Miffed, I hop down and look for my next task.
It’s remarkable, watching the town come together. I’ve noticed over the centuries that there are weeks that last entire years, and there are years that happen in a week. This feels like the latter. Everyone’s smiling and engaged. The coven looks more alive than I’ve seen them in a very long time.
It feels like home.
That’s…wonderful.
Holly has threaded herself through my days in a way I did not see coming. Detached cynicism used to be a cloak, and now it is a napkin. She’s reminded me that enduring the years isn’t the same thing as experiencing them.
I have feelings again. The inconvenient real kind.
And, against all expectations, I find them rather splendid.
God help me, I wrote a line of poetry last night. It didn’t scan, but the sentiment was devastating.
As I admire my handiwork, Marcy and Ronan approach, each armed with a clipboard, and I find myself smiling at how thoroughly Holly has taken over my coven. I don’t mind. Not even slightly.
I’ve also noticed Ronan seems to be finding reasons to be in Marcy’s company.
Interesting.
“More chores, Nick,” Ronan says by way of greeting. “That lass of yours has an endless list. She’ll keep you busy for an eternity.”
I do hope so.
“What’s on your list?” I ask, keen to steer the conversation away from anything that might lead to further revelations about my feelings for Holly.
“You don’t seem very full of Christmas spirit,” Marcy teases. “I’d have thought you’d have been delighted you defeated Santa, and instead you’re sulking.”
“I’m the lord vampire of an entire coven. My name is used to terrify children in some parts of the world. I once dined with—”
“Eleanor of Aquitaine.” Marcy cuts in, rolling her eyes in an extraordinarily clichéd move. “We’ve all heard it. Was that your only dinner, or do you pace them out over the centuries?”
“Excuse me for not including Johan de Witt.”
“Who?”
“My point exactly.”
“Mm.” She taps her clipboard. “Anyway, I’m in charge.”
“Of course you are.”
She bounces on her heels, aiming for innocent and landing somewhere near smug. It’s alarming how much authority a clipboard confers. Her satisfaction shouldn’t be this effective on me, not when I am a Lord of the Night, and yet here I am, waiting on instructions like a well-behaved menace.
“Holly had to run home to change. Someone spilled cold cocoa all over her,” Marcy adds. “Wes, Ronan, and I can cover you for a while. And if not—” she gestures to the square “—the rest of Willow Creek’s got this.”
Ronan nods, entirely too quickly.
Interesting again.
Let’s hope this doesn’t develop into something where his actions could be misconstrued. Such as following her home late at night. Or offering any other man who comes too close an eager, friendly, tavern-bouncer smile that’s wrapped in cashmere.
I hand him my hammer. “Try not to build a catapult.”
“No promises.”
I take one last look at the square. Someone’s testing the fairy lights; a hundred bulbs blink in hopeful sequence, like the town itself giving me a nudge.
Right.
I turn and head out at speed, chasing after the woman I’ve somehow failed to see for several hours—a frankly unacceptable state of affairs.
Two weeks ago, we could barely stand each other.
Now…
Well.
Let’s not examine that too closely. I’m in a hurry.
Her house is a vampire’s sprint from the square.
Warm light leaks from the window, spilling gold across the snow.
Fairy lights blink with the stubborn rhythm of a heart that refuses to quit, and the wreath smells pleasantly of spruce—which is not pine, and everyone should really know the difference by now.
Last time I was here, we argued.
I’d prefer not to repeat the experience.
I stop at the foot of the steps.
Through the centuries, I’ve managed my life with reasonable competence.
This—standing on a doorstep, unsure what to say—feels disproportionately difficult.
There’s no strategy for it. No elegant solution.
Just the uncomfortable truth that I was an idiot, and she has every right to shut the door in my face.
I don’t knock. Not immediately, because once I do, this becomes real.
And I would quite like not to ruin it.
…again.
I exhale, take the steps two at a time, and knock before I can reconsider. The sound lands too loud in the quiet.
The door opens, and there she is.
Holly Frost.
She’s wearing a soft sweater that clings to her shoulders in a way I am absolutely not equipped to deal with, her hair loose and curling around her face like it’s made a series of excellent decisions without consulting me. Glitter sticks to her skin. The faintest flush of pink brightens her cheeks.
She looks like she lost a fight with a festive beverage and won anyway.
Her green eyes widen when she sees me, and for a second, I forget how words are meant to function.
She’s covered in cocoa.
She’s never looked better.
“Nick?” she asks, cautious but curious.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, immediately, like a man with no sense of pacing or dignity.
“I’m sorry for being an idiot. For breaking your trust. For making you think—” I stop, drag a hand through my hair, and try again.
“For making you think I’d ever hurt you.
Or this town. I was trying to help, and I made a mess. ”
She just looks at me.
Which, historically speaking, is worse than yelling. People who yell tend to declare terms. This is…silence. Open-ended. Dangerous.
“I mean it,” I add, committed to digging myself into a deeper hole. “All of it. I’ll fix it. However you want. I don’t—” I huff out a breath. “I don’t care how long it takes.”
A beat.
Still nothing.
Right. Excellent. I’ve faced down warlords with clearer feedback.
I step closer. Retreating now would be cowardly and I’ve already committed to a course of action that can only be described as emotionally reckless.
“Holly,” I say, quieter now. “I’ve done a lot of existing. I’m very good at it. Centuries of practice. Empires rise, empires fall, one acquires a decent coat and a tolerance for disappointment.” I shake my head slightly. “But you—”
Her expression shifts. A sliver.
“You make it feel like that’s not enough,” I finish.
The words settle between us.
“I don’t want to just pass time anymore.
I’ve done that. Very successfully. Centuries of it.
You learn how to let years slide past without catching on anything.
It’s a skill,” I say, deploying far more honesty than I intended.
“I want…this. You. The ridiculous town. The chaos. The cocoa incidents. All of it.”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s older than I am.
“I’ve watched cities burn and be rebuilt badly. I’ve seen men swear eternal devotion and forget it by spring. I’ve had entire decades I can’t distinguish from one another except by the cut of the coat—and it all blurs, eventually. But you don’t.”
Her gaze doesn’t move.
“I’m not good at this,” I admit. “Which is not unfortunate, as I’m good at almost everything else. This, however, appears to have no interest in being managed, categorized, or sensibly ignored. And it refuses to behave like anything I understand.”
That earns the smallest flicker in her eyes.
Encouraging.
“I choose you,” I say, more steady now. “Not as a grand declaration. I’ve seen those. They tend to end in wars or despots.” A small pause. “I choose you because you don’t blur. I don’t want anyone else.”
Another beat.
“If you’ll have me.”
She takes a shaky breath, her eyes glistening unnervingly.
“Nick,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “You’re the most infuriating, ridiculous, impossible man I’ve ever met.”
I brace, because that feels like the beginning of a very thorough rejection.
“And I like you for it,” she finishes, like she’s decided it mid-sentence.
That…was not the direction I prepared for.
“You do?”
Admittedly, it’s not my strongest line, but it’s the one that makes it out.