Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
I fiddle with the key in the lock of my front door, grateful for the little porch roof shielding me from the wind.
Snowflakes swirl under the warm glow of the porch light, catching on the wreath ribbon and the brass bell like confetti that forgot the party was over.
It would feel like stepping into a Christmas card if only my brain weren’t full of rogue elves and glitter with an attitude.
With a final twist, the door unlocks. I push inside and let the familiar scent of pine and cinnamon wrap around me like a comforting hug before kicking off my boots by the door.
The living room is small, with a tartan couch that’s seen too many movie nights and a fireplace I rarely use because it smokes more than it warms. Fairy lights frame the windows, and my slightly crooked Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, decked out in mismatched ornaments collected over the years.
This house isn’t much, but it’s home.
Its normally welcoming quiet feels too still after the day I’ve had.
I let out a long sigh and collapse onto the couch.
My legs ache from running around all day.
My thigh still stings where that elf hit me, but my mind is far worse.
It’s a chaotic swirl of reindeer stampedes, naff Christmas decorations, rogue elves, and—most frustratingly—vampires with dark hair and silver eyes.
Nick Draven is a problem. More than usual. He’d said nice things on the way home—sweet, even—but apparently my traitorous brain wanted more. Like hand-holding. Or that steady, reassuring weight of his hand on my thigh as I drove.
A knock at the door makes my stomach flip.
The last time someone knocked on my door unexpectedly, Nick had shown up with some sarcastic quip and a load of trouble.
It couldn’t possibly be more rogue elves.
Surely not? They don’t seem the type to knock before attacking, but I suppose you never know.
So to be safe, I grab a magazine from the coffee table and roll it up.
“Who is it?” I ask, pressing my ear to the door.
“It’s me, Holly.”
My shoulders slump as I recognize Frank’s voice.
I hesitate for a moment before pulling the door open.
He’s standing on the porch, his cheeks ruddy from the cold and a thermos clutched in his hands.
Snow clings to the brim of his knitted hat, and he gives me a sheepish smile.
The thermos hisses gently, promising cocoa; his snowman gloves glimmer with tiny sewn-in fairy sequins as if they’re pleased to see me.
I don’t usually get visitors this late, but this week hasn’t exactly been normal. I brace for bad news, but Frank just smiles. Easy. Unworried. Like he’s not here on official business.
“Frank?” I step aside, holding the door open. “What are you doing here?”
“I figured you might need someone to talk to,” he says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “And I need to check in about the Winter Wonderland.”
“Those feel like two very different conversations.”
Frank walks into the living room, taking in the cozy chaos of my decorations as he shrugs off his thick winter coat.
The penguins on his novelty sweater earn him a small smile before he sets the thermos on the coffee table and twists the lid open, filling the air with spiced brandy and its nutmeg and orange.
“I came prepared,” he adds, producing two enamel mugs from his coat pocket like a magician who knows his audience.
“At least someone is.”
I drop onto the armchair as he pours us both a generous measure.
“We cleaned up after the reindeer stampede,” he says. “And I heard about the Hollow of Mischief. And...well, Nick.”
I groan. “Please don’t start.”
Frank chuckles, but there’s a knowing glint in his eye. “I’m just saying, it’s not every day a Draven vampire takes an interest in a human. It’s unusual, but not unheard of.”
I curl my fingers around the mug, staring into the steam.
“There was a Draven in the 1600s who fell for a baker’s daughter,” he says. “The poor girl used to sneak loaves of garlic bread to him. Neither of them knew he was allergic. Broke out in hives every time they kissed. The town diagnosed ‘mystery bakery hives’ and thought her beignets were fatal.”
I huff out a laugh. “That’s tragic.”
“They figured it out eventually,” he says. “Lived happily ever after. Less garlic.”
My smile doesn’t quite stick, and Frank notices.
“Holly,” he says, his voice softer now, “you don’t have to handle all of this on your own.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in gently. “You came to Willow Creek to prove something. To yourself, to your mom…to everyone really.”
I look away, finding the photo of my mom on the mantle. It’s not just the ache. It’s the standards. The kind that turns ‘good’ into failure if it isn’t perfect.
“This job matters,” I say quietly. “If I pull this off—if the Winter Wonderland is spectacular—then it’s not luck, or connections, or…” I shrug. “It means I’ve actually earned it.”
Frank nods. “I know it does.”
He pauses, long enough that I know he’s choosing his next words carefully.
“And I do need you to pull this off,” he adds. “The tree, the gala, the whole festival. Willow Creek’s counting on you.”
My stomach knots.
“But,” he continues, steady, “I asked you to give this town something special. I didn’t ask you to be your mom. There’s a difference.”
“It doesn’t feel like there is.”
“That’s because you’ve set the bar somewhere in the stratosphere,” he says. “And now you’re trying to reach it on your own.”
I don’t answer.
“You don’t get extra credit for making this harder than it needs to be, Holly. And you don’t have to prove you belong here by burning yourself out.”
A short, sharp breath escapes me. “I only got this job because my mom put a word in for me. And you’ve been very clear you want the best Winter Wonderland Willow Creek’s ever seen.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“That’s true,” he says. “I do.”
I look at him.
“But I didn’t say it had to look like one of Celeste’s events,” he continues. “And I didn’t say you had to do it all yourself to prove you deserved the job. There’s a difference between high standards and impossible ones. You’ve blurred the line.”
“I just want people to feel like it matters,” I say, my voice quieter now.
“Like it’s… more than decorations and mulled wine and hoping for the best. Everyone thinks event planning is just logistics.
But it’s more than that. It’s a feeling.
It’s looking at what you’ve created and seeing the joy people find in it.
In knowing the work you did made the world a little better, even if it’s only for a night. ”
Frank watches me while I pick at the couch upholstery.
“That’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“You’re talking to someone who shoots people with arrows to make them fall in love,” he says. “Which is not even remotely how arrows work. My bar for stupid is a lot higher than yours.”
I laugh, blowing on my mug before taking a sip. It burns all the way down, and I gasp. “How much of this is pure liquor?”
“Probably eighty percent. Figured you might need something stronger.”
He knocks back his own drink with practiced ease. “You’re good at this,” he adds. “You make people care. That’s half the job.”
“And the other half?”
“Not running yourself into the ground trying to prove it.”
I let out a breath, not quite a laugh.
He sets his mug down and reaches for his coat, like the conversation has already moved on in his head.
“Frank,” I say, before he can fully shrug it on. “Were you ever going to tell me what the tree actually does?”
He stills, one hand caught in his sleeve.
For a second, I think he might dodge it.
Instead, he exhales and finishes pulling the coat into place.
“No,” he says simply. “It wouldn’t have changed anything you needed to do. And I didn’t want you worrying about things you can’t control.”
“It would have been nice to know what I’m trying to fix.”
“You already knew the important part. That it matters.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
He hesitates, then relents a fraction.
“Around here, when we talk about the magic of Christmas, we’re not always being metaphorical,” he says. “The tree…keeps things running the way they’re supposed to. The festival, the town—people show up expecting something, and the tree helps make sure they find it.”
The room feels a little too still.
“And now it’s gone.”
“Yes.”
The rim of the mug is no longer warm as my thumb drags along it. “You should have told me.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it wouldn’t have changed the plan.”
“And the plan is?”
“You and Draven get the tree back,” he says. “You get the gala back on track and deal with the rogue elves.”
“So everything.”
“Yup. That’s the gig, kiddo. If events were all sunshine and order, we wouldn’t need event planners, would we?”
“I can’t tell if that’s profound or idiocy.”
“That’s how you know it’s right.”
The grin he flashes me would make Nick jealous.
I look up at him. “No more surprises?”
“No more unnecessary ones.”
I let that sit, then nod once. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.
“Why can’t you fix it?” I ask. “You know—” I make a vague circling motion with my hand.
“Because magic has a habit of attracting more of itself,” he says. “And not always the kind you want. If I step in directly, there’s a good chance I make things worse, not better.”
“That feels like a fundamental flaw.”
“It’s a feature,” he says mildly.
“Great.”
He picks up his scarf from the back of the couch and wraps it loosely around his neck.
“You’re doing exactly what you need to be doing,” he says. “Even if you don’t like how it feels.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
Frank opens the door and cold air slips into the room. Then he pauses, glancing back at me.
“And Holly?”
I look up.
“Try doing this your way,” he says. “If I wanted Celeste, I’d have hired Celeste.”
He steps out into the night, and the door closes softly behind him.
I lean against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle.
The living room is cast in the soft glow of the fairy lights strung from the bookcases, their light catching in the frost on the windowpanes.
The air feels heavier than it should, like the house is waiting for something to shift.
My crooked little Christmas tree stands in the corner, its mismatched ornaments glinting in the faint light, but even it seems weary, as if it knows the weight of the season has fallen squarely on my shoulders.
The throw blanket catches under my fingers as I drag my hand along the arm of my couch and let the frayed edge ground me. My sitting room now feels crowded with half-finished things—the presents waiting on the coffee table, the empty stocking, the photographs on the mantle.
Mom’s smile is bright and certain. Dad’s softer, steadier. Together, they look like they already know how everything turns out.
I look away first.
The room gets smaller as I stand here, like it’s closing in on all sides.
My keys are in my hands before I’ve quite decided to move. Before I can stop myself, I’ve headed out, searching for clarity or distraction, or maybe a little more space. The drive to Nick’s is quick, the streets empty save for the occasional shimmer of Christmas lights reflecting off the snow.
My brain lists all the perfectly reasonable excuses it can think of for this trip. I can ask about Ronan. About Crinkshaw. About whatever’s happening next. We’re working together—this is practical. Necessary.
The tight pull in my stomach is definitely the brandy. The heat in the car explains the sweat on my palms.
Nothing else.
His outrageously oversized house comes into view, its warm glow spilling from it like a beacon against the cold.
I park in the wash of light from the living room window and decide not to go straight to the front door.
Instead, I walk across the drive to the window, drawn by the idea of catching Nick doing something I can tease him about later.
Like brooding in a way that suggested he’d done extensive research into proper brooding techniques.
I peer through glass that’s quilted with frost ferns. My breath blooms in the night air, then fades.
I freeze.
Nick stands in the middle of the room, his dark figure hunched over something—or someone. The low, eerie light catches the edge of his fangs as he shifts, and something dark glistens at his mouth.
My stomach drops as the shape in his grip resolves into a rogue elf, limp but still twitching.
The elf jerks weakly, limbs dragging against the floor. There’s nothing willing about it. Nothing controlled or careful. It’s messy. Violent. Nothing like the careful lines he outlined for me in Hemoglow.
He promised Frank. Promised that the vampires wouldn’t feed on anyone in Willow Creek without consent.
For a heartbeat, the polished gentleman blurs—and the predator steps into focus.
My heart judders. I don’t notice I’ve moved until my mitten brushes against the glass with a soft squeak, the sound far too high pitched for my liking. My hand flies to my mouth as my feet step back too quickly.
My boot skids on the ice.
The world tilts—and Nick’s head snaps toward the window.
I don’t wait to find out if he’s seen me.
I barely catch my balance before I turn and run, the cold air burning my lungs as I fumble for the car door. The handle slips once in my grip before I wrench it open and shove the key home.
The engine roars too loudly in the quiet street.
I pull away too fast, my tires skid on the snow, but the car doesn’t slow down. All I can see is the dark smear at his mouth—and the sickening thought that whatever Frank nudged me toward, it wasn’t safety. It was the edge of something I don’t understand.