Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Morning light blares through the curtains, and I groan.
I screw my eyes shut and dive under the thick, warm covers, trying to forget about being dunked in a snowdrift by rogue elves.
A twinge of pain catches in my thigh as I stretch out, while my cheeks burn from the humiliation of remembering my arms and legs flailing uselessly in the snow.
Right in front of Nick ‘Tall, Dark, and Infuriating’ Draven, and as if it wasn’t already embarrassing enough, the vampire carried me to his mansion like he was some knight in shining armor.
By the time we arrived, the agony in my leg was horrible, and delirium hovered at the edges of my consciousness from both exhaustion and pain.
I remember being whisked through the mansion to this room, where Nick bandaged my leg and handed me some generic pajamas.
Sleep arrived almost immediately after that.
How very, very mortifying.
I inhale, trying to calm myself, and catch the smell of cinnamon, cloves, and something else. Something like warm sugar cookies. It’s not at all what I expected from a vampire’s mansion. Shouldn’t there be dust and despair? Gloom? Instead, the room is downright cozy—if a little over-the-top.
The sleigh bed curls at head and foot and is dressed in winter-white linen with a soft cream quilt, an ice-blue knit throw that spills across the end, and pillows stitched with tiny snowflakes.
A crackling fire fills the room with flickering light, garlands wrapping around the carved wooden beams of the ceiling.
I blink, sitting up slowly, wincing as my leg twinges again.
The bandage there reminds me that while the surface events are absurd, the danger is real.
Elves. Rogue elves. Seriously?
I groan once more, pushing the covers back, only to find them embroidered with poinsettias. Of course they are. The whole room looks like Santa’s workshop collided with a gothic estate. It’s strange and surreal and completely right. It shouldn’t work, and yet it does.
There’s a gentle knock at the door, and after an appropriate pause, Nick walks in.
“Ah, Sleeping Beauty is awake,” he says, holding a steaming mug in one hand and an entirely too smug expression in the other.
“Where am I?” I ask, swinging my feet on the fur-like rug.
“One of the spare rooms in my home,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“And before you get any ideas, there’s no need to thank me for carrying you here last night.
Yes, it was heroic. No, I don’t expect anything in return, though if you’d like to bake me a fruitcake, I wouldn’t say no.
The coven is particularly fond of it at this time of year. ”
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, standing up carefully. “Why does your mansion look like the North Pole exploded in it?”
Nick glances around, as if seeing it for the first time. “You don’t like it? Our resident ghoul’s display usually pleases everyone, and he went all out this year. Personally, I thought the life-sized nutcrackers were a bit much, but he has a vision, and it wasn’t my place to deny him.”
I follow his gaze to the doorway, where, sure enough, two wooden nutcrackers stand guard, their painted faces somehow managing to look both festive and faintly menacing.
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“How about ‘thank you for not leaving me in a snowbank to be rogue elf bait?’”
“Fine,” I grumble. “Thank you for not leaving me in a snowbank to be rogue elf bait. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
He hands me the mug, and I sniff it cautiously. Hot coffee, bitter-smelling with hazelnut and frothy milk. The first sip hits, and it’s scandalously perfect.
“I have some bad news, I’m afraid.” He frowns. “I had a few people head back into town after the attack. It was a diversion. While we were busy fighting them off, they made off with some more of your Christmas bits and pieces.”
I take in the news with a sigh and stare at the cup, wondering how bad the damage is going to be. I’m already up against it with the mystery of the missing Christmas tree, and having to tackle another problem feels like it might just break me.
“They ransacked the cookies and Christmas goodies you’d had stored in one of the barns. They’re either gone or turned to crumbs now, Holly.”
This is a disaster.
The Christmas tree is important, but it’s the Christmas treats that make the gala really stand out.
Everyone in Willow Creek looks forward to it.
Mrs. Christie has spent hours rolling spice-dark dough, hand-piping cuffs on every gingerbread sleeve, tucking orange-scented mincemeat beneath neat lattices, and sugaring the stollen until it looks like fresh snowfall.
She even shaped a tray of marzipan fruit—pretty enough for the shop window and guaranteed to divide opinion.
My bottom lip quivers. “The catering?”
Nick nods slowly. “But don’t worry.”
That’s easy for him to say.
“We’ve put Crinkshaw on it.” Nick crosses his arms and leans against one of the posts of my bed. “He’s roped in a couple of the other vampires and they’re cooking in batches. He’s turned the kitchens into a culinary production line.”
“What is a Crinkshaw?”
“A who. Not an it. He’s the five-hundred-year-old ghoul who happens to be the coven’s steward. He’s also an exceptional cook.”
My mouth forms a small but perfect circle, and I’m lost for words.
Nick just grins and I swear his chest puffs out a little as he watches me shift in the bed. “Well, I’ll let you get up. There are some clean clothes in the bathroom. Just catch up with me when you’re ready. Head down the stairs and then towards the back. We’ll be in the central kitchen.”
“Central?” I ask. “How many kitchens do you have?”
“I dunno. Six?”
He leaves and I edge my way out of bed, easing my weight onto my injured leg. It’s just a sprain, but I doubt I’d have made it home without considerable difficulty and as much as it pains me to admit it, Nick did me more than one favor last night.
I wash and dress, surprised that the bathroom’s stocked with more than enough toiletries to keep even the fussiest girl happy.
What’s even worse is that the clothes fit perfectly, almost like the vampire knew my exact size and had them bought for me.
I cast away the awkward thought that he arranged this just for me and drift out of the room, keen to explore the mansion he calls home.
And it is quite a mansion.
The hallways are a riot of Christmas, so lavish it’s hard to tell whether the decorations or the paintings they’re covering are more impressive.
Nick wasn’t kidding about this ‘Crinkshaw’ going all out.
Every banister is wrapped in garlands and twinkling lights.
Wreaths hang from every door, their ribbons tied in perfect bows.
Even the chandeliers have been decked with ornaments dangling from the crystal.
It’s like Christmas exploded and then tidied up after itself.
Downstairs, the ostentation only escalates. An actual Degas hangs on the wall. I’m almost certain there’s a Rodin on a marble plinth by the doorway. Even the Dowager Countess would pause at the threshold, purse her lips, and say, very softly, that this is ‘a bit much.’
I find the kitchen around the back of the winding staircase, just as Nick said. Broad double doors open into a room large and well-equipped enough to host cooking shows. A chalkboard by the pantry reads Kitchen Rules: Be Kind. Ask before borrowing spices. Label your blood bags and your biscotti.
Nick is sitting at an island the size of my entire living room. He waves and smiles awkwardly, showing me a grin I haven’t seen before. His hands wring when he walks over, and he looks strangely unsure of himself as he hands me another hot drink.
“You know,” he says, “if you’re impressed now, wait until you see the blood fountain. We dyed it green for the season. Very festive.”
I choke on my hazelnut latte. “You’re joking?”
“Am I?”
His smile widens, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or just messing with me.
A side door swings open to reveal a gentle burble of chocolate tinted with matcha. Tiny gingerbread men skate the rim on toothpick skates. A placard reads: Not Blood. Please stop asking.
Before I can say anything, he takes me by the elbow and guides me to another doorway at the far end of the kitchen.
We enter a large dining room where two people are sitting at an elaborately set table.
One is a tall, attractive, broad-shouldered redhead who radiates a kind of quiet menace that makes me instantly uneasy.
The other is an actual zombie, and I scream.
“What is that!?”
“Holly,” Nick says, gesturing to them, “meet Crinkshaw and Ronan. Crinkshaw is the coven’s steward and my...assistant. Ronan handles security.”
It’s impolite to stare, but I can’t stop myself from looking at a very real zombie.
Crinkshaw’s face is a hollow, sunken skull with just enough skin stretched over it to be unsettling.
He grumbles something that sounds like a curse muttered under his breath, while Ronan gives me a polite nod that still feels intimidating.
“Uh, hi,” I say, clutching my mug a little tighter.
This is somehow worse than the severed head in the forest.
“Don’t mind Crinkshaw,” Nick says. “He’s upset because I vetoed his all-vampire caroling troupe. Undead harmonies are, generally speaking, an acquired taste.”
“I won’t be lectured on taste by someone who believes solid black represents the height of fashion.” Crinkshaw’s voice sounds like parchment turning at midnight, and I shudder involuntarily. Nick sends him a look that would make most mortals wish they were dead.
“Oh, be pleasant, Crinkshaw. Holly was just saying how much she likes the decorations,” he says in a tone as smooth as eggnog. “She might even need an assistant next year.”