Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The aftermath of battling an evil Santa should probably leave me ready to crawl into bed and hibernate until New Year’s Eve, but instead, I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to decide if the sequined dress is too much.
My hair is a mess. My arms ache from hurling snowballs.
I’m fairly certain there’s still rogue elf glitter embedded somewhere in my scalp, plotting a long-term residency.
But none of that matters right now.
Tonight is the Christmas gala, and after everything this town has been through, it’s going to be perfect.
Or at least aggressively competent with moments of sparkle.
I yank the sequined dress off the hanger and hold it up to the mirror.
“Too much?” I ask no one in particular, tilting my head.
It would be helpful if Marcy were here. She’d have an opinion. Several, probably. All laminated.
The sequins glare back like they’re trying to flag down passing reindeer. I’m not dressing for aerial navigation.
Back on the hanger it goes.
I reach for something more practical. A cozy patterned sweater with just the right amount of sparkle—the kind that says I can run a gala and a snow-shovel brigade—paired with thick black leggings and my favorite knee-high boots. Functional. Festive. Unlikely to cause any more incidents.
I’m halfway through pulling my hair into a loose braid, still brushing rogue elf glitter off my arms, when there’s a knock.
My heart stutters and I somehow make it to the front of the house. I take a breath and open the door.
And—
Right.
That’s unfair.
He’s standing there in dark jeans that fit like they were tailored by someone with a vendetta against breathable fabrics, a black coat that manages to be both elegant and dangerous, and a gray scarf looped loosely enough to suggest this was accidental and not, in fact, extremely deliberate.
His hair is slightly wind-tossed, his silver eyes catching the porch light—
—and apparently I’ve forgotten how to form sentences.
In his hands, he’s holding a bouquet of holly and roses, the red blooms bright enough to look almost theatrical against the snow.
“For you,” he says, softer than I’ve ever heard him.
I blink, caught off guard. “Holly and roses? That’s aggressively on-brand botanical punning, Draven.”
His smile widens. “Perk of dating someone several centuries old. Our commitment to wordplay is absolute.”
I take the bouquet, my fingers brushing his, and the contact sends a warm jolt through me. “Thanks,” I say, failing to be casual by a noticeable margin. “They’re beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs—and then, as if realizing he’s said that out loud, he clears his throat and offers me his arm like some kind of dangerously well-dressed holiday problem. “Shall we?”
I hesitate for half a second, caught between swooning and pointing out how absurd this all is. But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m not just part of the evening but the reason for it—makes the decision for me.
“Let’s,” I say, slipping my arm through his.
The cold bites at my cheeks as we step out into the night, but with Nick beside me, it barely registers.
The air carries a mix of cocoa, woodsmoke, and whatever questionable decision someone’s made with peppermint schnapps, and somewhere a voice calls for more string lights like it’s a matter of national security.
Ahead, the glow of the town square spills into the street like a promise that’s already been kept.
Windows shine up and down the street; silhouettes move behind glass, adjusting lanterns and straightening wreaths. A hand-painted sign in candy-cane script offers directions: Cocoa right, Choir left, and perhaps a bit optimistically, General Merriment lies ahead.
The town isn’t just decorated. It’s decided.
“Are you ready for this?” Nick asks, his tone light on the surface, but not quite casual underneath.
“I have no choice,” I reply, smiling. “The gala’s happening, chaos or not. Willow Creek deserves it.”
Nick stops mid-step, drawing me to a halt. His hand settles at the small of my back as he turns me toward him, his eyes glittering like frost-kissed silver under the streetlights.
“I wasn’t talking about the gala,” he says softly, his voice threaded with something protective and also teasing. “I meant you. Everyone’s going to be looking at you tonight. And for the record, I don’t think I’m going to be particularly gracious about it.”
“Gracious about what?”
“Watching them admire you,” he says. “Because they will. Extensively. And I’ll be standing there, centuries old, allegedly composed, trying not to develop a reputation for glaring at humans.”
My breath catches before I can stop it.
“Do you know how insufferable you are?” I manage, though it comes out far softer than I intended.
Nick’s mouth curves. “Deeply. It’s one of my more consistent traits.”
His fingers brush mine before he offers his arm again, like this is all perfectly normal and not doing alarming things to my internal organs.
“Come along, Frost,” he adds lightly. “Let’s go see your kingdom.”
Despite myself, I grin and slip my arm through his.
“Careful,” I say. “I run a tight ship.”
“I’ve noticed. I’m both impressed and mildly afraid.”
We make our way toward the square, and the closer we get, the more the light builds. Warm. Layered. Undisputedly festive.
And then we step into it.
The transformation takes my breath away.
Where there was chaos, there’s now structure.
Where there was wreckage, there’s now intention.
Strings of lights crisscross overhead, steady and bright, casting everything in gold instead of glare.
The tree stands at the center—tall, whole, unapologetically itself—its ornaments catching the light without that wrong, corrupted flicker.
People move through the space with purpose now instead of panic—adjusting, laughing, calling to each other across the square like this was always the plan.
It’s not perfect.
It’s better than that.
It’s ours.
Christmas in Willow Creek has become a strange and entirely successful blend of traditional holiday cheer and vampiric charm.
The twinkling lights glitter like stars, but there’s a faint red hue to them.
Garlands loop between posts—some of them threaded with garlic bulbs in what feels like a pointed compromise.
The baubles gleam, and tucked among the snowmen and angels are bats in tiny Santa hats and small, tasteful coffins filled with chocolate.
Even the icicles have been…adjusted. Their tips are dipped in red, as though they’ve taken up a dramatic new hobby.
The square isn’t perfect: a few broken decorations have been nudged into corners with optimistic intent, and someone has absolutely repurposed a candy cane fence into a barrier that now poses a mild legal liability.
But it’s alive.
It feels like Christmas. Not pristine—just perfectly Willow Creek, which is better.
Nick glances at me, his expression soft. “It’s amazing, Holly.”
“It’s not bad,” I say, aiming for modesty, but ending up in the vicinity of proud.
At the edge of the square, Ronan is laughing loudly as he demonstrates his axe skills by splitting chunks of firewood for an already aggressive bonfire.
“For roasting chestnuts!” he bellows, demonstrating how little he appreciates the size of a chestnut.
Nearby, Wes is attempting to string lights around a precarious stack of crates that have somehow become a cocoa station.
His progress is being actively managed by Marcy, who is standing on one and issuing instructions with the authority of someone who has appointed herself Queen of Christmas Decorations and intends to keep her title.
“Higher, Wes! It needs to look like the North Pole threw up on it!” she demands, pointing dramatically at an empty spot.
I giggle, and my eyes find Crinkshaw, who, bless his eternally gloomy soul, is stationed at a table laden with baked goods.
His skeletal hands move deftly as he arranges trays of gingerbread zombies that are less cheerful holiday treats and more terrifyingly detailed nightmare snacks.
Each one is somehow desiccated yet fresh, with green icing which I assume is meant to represent ghoul blood.
He remains utterly unchanged by his interaction with Santa, as if he truly is a renewable resource of despair.
As we pass, he inclines his head. “I’ve been up all night. This batch was supposed to scream when you bite them. They’ve settled on a disappointed wheeze.”
Nick pauses. “Of course they have.”
I pick one up, eyeing it cautiously. “That’s…is that worse?”
“It lacks conviction,” Crinkshaw says.
Nick gestures to the tray. “Have you considered giving them tiny existential crises instead?”
“They already have those, Sire,” Crinkshaw says. “It’s the aftertaste that’s wrong.”
I snort, quickly setting the gingerbread zombie down.
“Impressive work,” Nick adds, gently. “Truly festive.”
Crinkshaw sighs, the sound of centuries of disappointment distilled into one breath. “I aim to unsettle.”
We move on before I’m tempted to test the wheeze.
The square hums around us—people milling, laughing, voices overlapping in that easy way that means no one’s bracing for disaster anymore. Vampires and townsfolk mingle with surprising ease, dark mugs in hand, the whole thing a little chaotic, a little uneven, and entirely ours.
We make our way toward the towering tree, and I can’t help but stop. The ornaments catch the light just right, scattering a kaleidoscope of color across the square, and the once-crooked star now glows warmly—a beacon of what we’ve overcome.
Nick glances at me, his silver eyes soft. “You did this, Holly.”
I shake my head. “We did this.”
I glance up at the star crowning the tree, its light steady now. There’s no flicker. No strain. No sense that it might all decide to turn on us at any moment. It feels like nothing is waiting to go wrong.
Which, frankly, is suspicious.
But also…nice.