Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Holly didn’t technically agree to team up, but she didn’t actually refuse either. So when she announced she was going home to “shotgun melted chocolate,” I told her I’d be in touch.
My house is nestled among the rolling hills that make up the northern border of Willow Creek.
I refuse to call it a castle—too on the nose—or a manse, which sounds like something a dentist names his cottage.
So a house it is, and a house it shall stay, until something grander comes along.
A ‘mere’ three-wing affair on forty acres of prime real estate, complete with an underground mausoleum and, charmingly, a built-in movie theater that seats forty. Last night we watched The Lost Boys.
I’m thinking of nonsense to stop myself from thinking about Holly.
Grinning like a teenage nitwit who scrawls bad poetry.
About her eyes. It’s undignified for a mysterious Lord of the Dark.
I’ve lived for eight centuries. Dined with Eleanor of Aquitaine.
Destroyed entire covens because they remarked poorly on my scarf.
I will not grin over a woman.
Still.
Holly Frost.
A vexing problem. One I’m strangely eager to solve.
Her chestnut hair never quite behaves, catching the light in warm, unruly strands.
And those green eyes of hers are startling bright, like freshly cut leaves, always a step ahead, as if she’s already decided how the conversation ends and is waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
She’s been a riddle since we both arrived in Willow Creek, almost at the same time.
We disagreed immediately. We’ve been consistent about that.
I make a small, disgusted sound. Holly Frost is the definition of adorable, and I need to get my head straight. If any other vampire hears me talking like this about a human, I’ll have to end them out of sheer embarrassment.
It’s nearing dark as I make my way through the ornate, cast-iron gates that surround the grounds. Beyond them, the house rears up in true gothic silhouette—steep gables, brooding stone, ivy that refuses to mind its manners, and gargoyles who judge on principle.
The humans of Willow Creek have, thankfully, learned that most of what Hollywood says about us is nonsense. We don’t explode in daylight. That would be wildly impractical. Six months in, and they’ve mostly stopped waiting for us to combust.
Crinkshaw, my body man, waits by the front door.
I found him in a British graveyard sometime in the early sixteenth century, and, against all reason, kept him.
He’s a grim, emaciated ghoul—gray skin stretched too tight, bones making unwelcome appearances, and he provides the general impression of something that ought to remain politely buried.
He’s also remarkably gifted at saying the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time.
A ghoul entirely without humor.
“You were right, Crinkshaw.” I throw my jacket at him, and dust poofs from his shoulders as he catches it. “Rogue elves. As you predicted.”
“Marvelous, Sire,” he says in his grave-scraping voice. “Glad that they weren’t those bothersome, haughty, highborn elves. Their height alone is a burden, and their moral superiority is enough to make the strongest choke. Were you able to fend them off?”
“With ease. Lucky that you sensed them coming. It’s a rather neat trick of yours, and I’ll have you teach me some day. But here’s something you couldn’t have predicted. They stole the giant Christmas tree.”
Crinkshaw hangs my jacket, and we make our way through the cavernous lobby that keeps the drama outside.
Inside, it’s all beeswax polish, lamplight, and heat from overworked fireplaces—past the Monet I acquired from the man himself and the rocking chair I’ve never liked.
Both wear tinsel and garland with disreputable cheer.
Someone’s draped tartan throws over the leather settees and strung warm fairy lights along the picture rails, as if daring the gloom to take a night off.
My coven has been hard at work ensuring virtually every square inch of available space is covered with Christmas decorations.
Strictly speaking, vampires are forbidden from participating in Christmas.
Oh, not the trappings of it. We can decorate and exchange gifts and the like, but the magic—the feeling of warmth and fellowship and seasonal joy—that is beyond our reach.
There’s a tale behind that and one I don’t care to dwell on, but this season is always bittersweet.
None of this, however, stops the coven from decorating as immortals are strangely festive.
We’ve learned that life never stops. If we don’t stop to appreciate the moments of joy when they appear, they often stop coming altogether.
“The Christmas tree?” Crinkshaw says, as we make our way to the kitchen. “Sire gives me too much credit, including the assumption that I know, or care about, a giant Christmas tree.”
“It’s the centerpiece of their winter festival. The Willow Creek Winter Wonderland. And, before you ask, Holly Frost was there too.”
Crinkshaw’s sunken eyes adopt an agonizingly slow crawl of surprise, like a glacier reconsidering its route. “I don’t believe I would have ever asked about Holly Frost.”
“Now you don’t have to. She was there.”
“Stupendous, Sire. And the elves?”
“I can’t say with certainty if they would have asked about Holly. It never really came up.”
Crinkshaw inhales deeply, despite not needing to breathe. “I meant that I would enjoy hearing about how you drove off the rogue elves.”
“I threw some snowballs at them,” I shrug. “I put a small drop of my power in each one, just enough to give them a scare.”
We reach one of the many kitchens in my home, and like everything, it’s impressive.
It’s also indecently cozy: copper pans glow, cloves and orange peel scent the air, and a mismatched congress of oversized mugs waits by a humming kettle like loyal footmen.
Walnut worktops sit on top of bespoke cabinets, and even though we don’t technically need to eat, the stove is large enough to serve a restaurant.
Crinkshaw enjoys baking, and it’s a curious habit of his I’ve never understood, although I’ve enjoyed its benefits.
It’s a little larger than the coven needed, but I wanted to be sure that we had enough space for several wine fridges, and the kitchen fitters were insistent that this was the only way to fit them in.
I sit at the oversized kitchen island, watching Crinkshaw as he limps around it. My thoughts sprint.
“We have a bigger problem to deal with, Crinkshaw, and I fear that we must solve it. Why did they steal Holly’s Christmas tree?”
“Sire seems…notably preoccupied with Holly Frost.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man. I’m simply concerned about the tree and the saving of Christmas.
The Willow Creek Winter Wonderland is the most important festival for this town, and vampires always get the blame anytime something supernatural goes wrong.
This hardly feels like the moment to let everything collapse.
And I don’t care for the insinuations buried in your dusty tone. ”
“I have but the one voice, Sire. Would you care for dinner?”
“Get on with it, then. And call for Ronan. I’d appreciate his advice.”
Crinkshaw limps to the blood fridge to prepare me a fresh bag. I narrow my eyes, making sure he selects a good one. Vintage varies, and standards must be maintained.
The arrangement is simple: we don’t hunt, and in return, we don’t cause problems.
It’s worked well enough.
It would work significantly better if Holly Frost would stop intruding on my thoughts.
Twenty-three other vampires make their home here.
Most have been with me for centuries, although I’m reasonably relaxed about their comings and goings.
They often disappear for decades at a time as vampires tend to be somewhat transitory.
Some were wary of my idea to move, but life had become stale in Canada, and most were looking for something different.
Willow Creek represented an exciting, new challenge, and the bar we opened is keeping some of my more restless brethren occupied.
I’d assured the mayor that we’d be the kind of vampires that didn’t cause trouble.
That meant no feeding off people without consent, no public spectacles of fangs and violence, no exploding into clouds of bats, or anything that might scare people.
Just quiet, neighborly coexistence. I swore up and down, left and right, and in every way possible that we were civilized and had given up such unbecoming tendencies centuries ago.
It wasn’t a particularly burdensome promise, given the fact that we aren’t savages, and the residents of Willow Creek have been mostly receptive to our presence.
It perhaps doesn’t hurt that vampires tend to be jaw-droppingly attractive.
“I have heard tales of battle!”
A roar from the entrance of the kitchen pulls my attention.
Ronan bursts through the archway, filling the space with his enormous presence.
A Celtic warrior turned vampire, he’s never quite let go of the old ways.
He retreats to a wood cabin he built on the grounds whenever modern life becomes too offensive, which is often.
I convinced him to stop carrying an axe at all times sometime around nineteen-twenty, though I’d wager he still has at least ten knives hidden on him.
Today, he’s in a leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots, looking less like a relic of the past and more like he’s about to start a bar fight. The V-neck tee is too casual for my taste. His fire-red hair falls around his face, and even I need to tilt my head to meet his gaze.
At least he’s moved on from tartan.
Crinkshaw hands him one of the several glasses of blood he’s already prepared, and Ronan guzzles it in a single swallow. He slams the ornate glass onto the marble counter hard enough to shatter it.
“There was a battle,” he continues, “and yet, where was Ronan? Brave Ronan? Was he in the midst of combat, guarding the back of his leader? Or was he instead tucked in the library, a quiet shadow of the warrior he used to be, toothlessly reduced to eating soup and watching reruns of Mad About You?”
“I thought you adored that show?”
“Helen Hunt is a treasure.” He nods. “My point stands.”
“You don’t have to worry, Ronan. The battle was a non-event. Over before it started. Crinkshaw, here, was right when he read the signs. Rogue elves have descended on Willow Creek.”
“Rogue elves? Pah. Disgusting creatures. Barely worth the time it takes to fight them. Not nearly as elegant as their full-grown cousins, who stand a proper eight feet and make for worthy adversaries. They’re a challenge worthy of the mighty Ronan.
Still, I suppose their diminutive cousins are a passing diversion. They are well and truly bested?”
“Obviously.” I sip at my glass. Bitter, with a hint of sweetness.
Lovely. For a being that only exists on necromantic flesh, Crinkshaw has a surprisingly subtle palate.
“Well, at least temporarily. You’ll be delighted to hear that the game is only just starting.
We have another nasty problem to contend with. ”
“Finally.” Ronan slams his giant, meaty fist on the table.
His blue eyes glimmer at the promise of battle and brawling, and his reddish hair falls over his face as if it’s seizing the opportunity to attack.
He leans forward, flexing his muscles, and I have to admit that they are impressive.
“This place has made me weak. A new enemy is what we need. Tell me what horror descends that we might face it, as brothers.”
I lean forward to deliver my news. “The giant Christmas tree is missing.”
Ronan frowns and stares at me for several uncomfortable seconds. I wonder if he misheard my quite exciting announcement. I’m about to repeat myself when he finally speaks.
“Apologies, Nick. My hearing has likely atrophied along with my battle prowess,” he says. “I think I heard you say a Christmas tree is missing.”
“Correct.”
“Mm-hm. How is this incredibly mundane event exciting?”
“Holly Frost is involved.”
“The event planner? The one who nearly set the town on fire last year?”
“That’s her. And she’s single, in case you were wondering.”
“No one is wondering, Sire,” Crinkshaw interjects.
Ronan shakes his head, and his hair mounts a small rebellion. “I came for battle, and you talk to me of spruce?”
“They’re historically pine,” Crinkshaw adds, ignoring the arching of my eyebrow.
“Quiet, ghoul.” Ronan points at me. “You cannot be serious, Nick. I came here ready for violence, not festive forestry. Does the tree at least contain multitudes of demons? Tell me what you’ve drawn us into now.”
In brief, I tell him of the missing tree, the snowball fight with the rogue elves, and how cute Holly’s nose looked when she was agitated.
It crinkled like a curious fox sniffing out trouble, equal parts endearing and mischievous.
It was impossible not to smile when she got that look, even in the midst of chaos.
Ronan glances at Crinkshaw. “Has he been like this all night?”
“Utterly disastrous and besotted? Yes.”
“You’re both missing the point,” I say. “Holly Frost has a problem, and by helping her, we can help ourselves. This is the biggest event of the year. The most important of the seemingly infinite festivals Willow Creek holds. If we fix it, we stop being tolerated by the town and start being useful. Acceptance is far more valuable than polite nods.”
I straighten slightly.
“Although,” I add, “if acceptance happens to increase patronage at the bar, I won’t object.”
Ronan rubs his nose. “Rogue elves though? It’s like fighting children. Nasty, stupid, sharp-toothed children. They smell.”
“Worst case scenario, you get to punch an elf as hard as you can.” I clap him on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, we’ll make a sport of it. We can have a competition to see which one of us can punch an elf further?”
Ronan’s eyes light up at the promise of elf-punching, and Crinkshaw shuffles toward the door. The ghastly creature makes a noise that, coming from anyone else, would be a note of dissent, but from the desiccated ghoul who haunts my house, it could simply be his bones creaking.
“I’ll have you beat by two meters, or not at all.” Ronan cracks his knuckles. “Alright, then. It stands. Preferable to reruns of Desperately Seeking Susan.”
“Brooke Shields is a treasure,” Crinkshaw deadpans.
“Perfect.” I drum my fingertips together, a visual calibrated to radiate the leadership qualities I’m well known for. Ronan looks impressed, and I’m impressed with myself for having convinced him that I’m still exceptionally awesome after all these centuries.
“We’ll start our investigation tomorrow,” I decide, taking a large mouthful of the drink Crinkshaw poured me and letting its taste tickle my taste buds.
I’ll get to see Holly again.
Not that I care.