Chapter 5
Chapter Five
I’ve made some questionable decisions in my life, but this one is in the top five for all-time worst, and it’s climbing the ranks at record speed. I’ve never really wanted to meet Willow Creek’s relic that time forgot.
Everyone knows the story. Mímir was once human.
A keeper of infinite knowledge, consulted by gods and mortals alike.
Then someone decided to sever his head, likely over a disagreement about his prices.
Rather than dying like a sensible person, Mímir persisted.
Now his disembodied head sits on a frosted stump in the middle of a forest, trading riddles for memories, each one adding to the patchwork of experience stitched into his consciousness.
It’s eerily silent as Nick and I make our way deeper into the woods.
Each step we take sinks into the snow; the sound louder than it should be.
My scarf keeps puffing steam into the collar of my coat, and a pocket hand warmer clicks softly against a thermos of cocoa I absolutely didn’t bring for Nick.
Above us, bare branches lace the sky. When the wind stirs them, they whisper like paper lanterns.
It’s the kind of place you’d expect to find a body in a murder mystery—or maybe something worse.
Our trip to Mímir is taking longer than I expected, and I’m not dressed for this kind of excursion.
The conditions aren’t helping, and this isn’t the festive trip through a snow-covered winter wonderland that Nick promised me.
I knew this was going to be worse than he made it out to be, and my gut is screaming that this is only the beginning.
“This feels...ominous,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.
Nick, of course, looks entirely at ease. His perfectly cut coat billows slightly as he strides ahead, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets. He doesn’t even bother to glance back at me when he speaks.
“The forest won’t bite.” He pauses, throwing a smirk over his shoulder. “Those rogue elves might if they ambush us. They could descend on us from trees like drop bears.”
“Not funny,” I snap, tightening my scarf against the chill. “What’s a drop bear?”
“Well, they’re Australian, if I recall right. A distant cousin of the koala. They lurk in trees, waiting for unsuspecting maidens to pass underneath them before they fall from their branches and knock them unconscious. They don’t enjoy wintry weather.”
He’s teasing, and I refuse to give him the pleasure of getting a rise out of me. I ignore him and continue to plow through the snow.
The faint sound of jingling bells grows louder as Nick and I trudge deeper into the depths of pine trees. It is not the cheerful jingle from carols. It’s slow and weighty, as if sleigh bells forgot their song.
“I feel like I’m walking into a horror movie,” I mutter, my boots crunching on the frozen ground. “What is that?”
“Festive ambiance.” Nick shrugs. He is so disarmingly calm that the forest practically blushes and cues gentle snowfall. “You don’t need to worry, Holly. Mímir doesn’t bite. He doesn’t have the teeth for it. Literally. They got pulled out years ago after they started showing signs of decay.”
“An immortal, all-knowing severed head that lives in a forest has a dentist? How does flossing even work?”
“He’s got a phone.”
That raises about forty new questions, and I briefly consult with my clipboard on where ‘learning about the telephony habits of a decapitated life coach’ should be listed.
“Forget I asked.”
The forest clears, and we step into a small, circular glade.
It’s quiet, but it’s the silence of absence, not the silence of peace, and I shiver.
The sun shining through the small opening bounces off a carpet of perfect, untouched snow.
In the center is an ancient oak stump, gnarled and covered in frost. Atop it sits what can only be described as one of the single most bizarre sights I never imagined I’d ever witness.
It’s a nightmare dressed in holiday cheer; the sight of it turns my blood cold.
“Is it wearing a Santa hat?”
Nick chuckles, brushing snow off the stump like he’s welcoming an old friend. He brushes his hands together and steps back, delighted with his efforts.
“Festive ambiance.”
Mímir regards us from his frost-silvered stump.
His features look carved from old stone, the kind that remembers stories, and his sunken eye sockets glow red.
A knitted Santa hat perches at a hopeful angle.
Someone has looped soft tinsel around the stump and a single strand of multicolored Christmas lights winks with patient persistence.
I blink, certain I’ve lost my mind. “This cannot be…”
“Mímir.” Nick bows. “I see you’re in a festive mood.”
The head’s mouth opens with a dry click, a sound like wind through a keyhole. It groans, and every single hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Even the trees around us whisper in fright as the head wakes up, as if we’re all waiting nervously to find out what kind of mood he’s in.
“Niklaus Draven,” he rasps, his voice like gravel scraping across metal. “And with him, Holly Frost.”
I take an instinctive step back. “Why does he know my name?”
Nick chuckles, completely unfazed. “He knows everything. It’s his defining trait. Holly, meet Mímir. Mímir, meet Holly Frost.”
Mímir hums, the sound unsettling and calm at once. “Frost. Apt. The air about her is oranges and worry.”
I glare at Nick and adjust my hat, hoping that its acute angle conveys how thoroughly unsettled I am.
“I don’t like this.”
Nick only shrugs. “It’s fine.”
I don’t know why I expected anything from the vampire in the way of support.
He stands beside the stump, completely at ease, as if the pair of them are about to start a carol concert.
It’s as though chatting with a severed, glowing, tinsel-covered head is the most natural, normal thing in the world, and Nick doesn’t flinch or falter under Mímir’s scrutiny, his calm so absolute it borders on arrogance.
Watching him, I can’t help but wonder if this vampire is immune to fear or if he simply doesn’t care enough to feel it.
“We seek your counsel, Mims. We need your wisdom.”
The head gurgles, and I look forward to a few months of nightmares from this experience.
“You’re aware of the arrangement,” he intones. “Thus our pact is spoken; thus our bargain stands. Time is a fleeting arrow, memory’s tethered strands. What was sought is granted; the cost lay in our hands.”
“Not happening. I’m out. So long, Draven. Enjoy your tete-a-tete with Severed Seagal over here. I’m not giving it one of my memories. I still have a recurring nightmare about third year when I called my professor ‘mom,’ and even that one’s staying.”
The air grows heavier, as though the forest itself is holding its breath.
The faint jingling of the lights around Mímir’s neck is almost mocking, a grotesque parody of holiday cheer.
Even the snow beneath my feet seems unnaturally still, muffling the sound of my shifting boots.
The chill is more supernatural than seasonal.
Nick holds up a hand, silencing me with a frustratingly calm look. “Relax. I told you. I’ll pay.”
“Generous,” Mímir says, his tone dripping with mockery. “What knowledge do you seek, bloodsucker?”
Nick ignores the jab. “A Christmas tree. Stolen from Willow Creek by rogue elves. Where is it?”
Mímir’s gums mash together as he chuckles, an unsettling rattle that seems to reverberate through the frozen forest, making the trees groan in response.
“Ah, the tree of light,” he rasps, the words oozing from his tongue like old honey. “It stands where glitter gathers, snow flurries, and mischief keeps watch. Seek the unlit star and the path will show itself.”
His eyes glow brighter, their red almost hungry, as if he relishes the confusion that haunts the air between us.
I throw up my hands. “Great. Cryptic riddles. So helpful.”
Nick smiles. “It’s part of the fun.”
“You have incredibly bizarre ideas of what constitutes fun.”
Mímir’s glowing eyes hold steady, unblinking. “Mind the Hollow of Mischief. The elves guard it closely, even though their hearts are twisted by betrayal and their minds consumed with chaos. Outwit their leader, the one with the crooked crown, fur-lined and heavy with red.”
The clearing darkens at his words, the once-cheerful flicker of his lights now a sinister pulse, and it feels more like a forgotten ornament lurking in the attic. The snow beneath me shifts as it stirs in response to the riddle, and the wind howls across me, bringing anything but seasonal cheer.
Perhaps Christmas has decided to hold its breath.
“The Hollow of Mischief?” I ask. “That sounds completely safe and not at all horrifying.”
“It’s only a name,” Nick says, gently, as if that helps.
“Mm-hmm. And ‘crooked crown’?”
“A metaphor,” Nick says, clearly guessing.
“Minds consumed by chaos?”
“A tautology.”
“Do you even know what that word means?”
“Something to do with tacos?”
This is definitely not the experience I expected.
So much for assuming a treaty with an immortal head would be straightforward.
Nothing about this is reassuring. Nick isn’t taking this seriously.
That much is obvious now. His involvement is only making things worse.
More complicated. More ridiculous. Harder to control.
A mistake.
Mímir’s jaw creaks open one last time. “Beware, mortals. One wrong step, and you may lose more than just your way. Mind the bells that do not ring and the red that walks in winter.” His red-rimmed eyes zero in on Nick. “Now, as to payment.”
“Right.” Nick places his palm to Mímir’s brow where faint runes glimmer.
The air shivers the way heat does over a road, and a thin silver thread lifts from Nick’s temple and settles into the stone. He inhales, eyes closed, then releases the breath and lowers his hand.
“All done,” he says. “Thanks, Mims.”
“That’s it? You lost a memory?”