Chapter 20 #3
Absolutely not.
The marshmallow monster will not win.
I am a Lord of Darkness, and I have a reputation to uphold.
Holly is watching.
That matters. Perhaps exactly as much as I’d like.
I break away, landing lightly and glancing over my shoulder. The elves have formed a loose ring, perfectly content to spectate. One of them has found popcorn. He’s eating it with enthusiasm.
“Holly,” I call, circling outside the range of the claymore. “Are you all right?”
“What do you think?” she shouts back. “They’re going to candy-apple me!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be there in a minute.”
The snowman presses forward, relentless, the claymore carving wide, brutal arcs through the air. I duck, pivot, slip inside his reach when I can, striking where I find openings—but it makes no difference.
Every hit lands like I’m arguing with stone.
And stone, as it turns out, is not easily persuaded.
Holly screams as the elves lower her closer to the boiling vat of caramel, and that—more than anything—focuses my mind. The caramel’s at a proper rolling boil. Ideal for confectionery. Less so for the woman I’m profoundly attached to.
The claymore whistles past my shoulder close enough to take a suggestion of skin with it, and I pivot away, angling toward the vat. The elves scatter readily, unwilling to interfere with whatever this has become. Sensible of them.
I run up the metal stairs, two at a time. The platform rattles underfoot. Behind me, the snowman follows, his sword still carving great, lethal arcs through the air.
Just a few more steps.
A few more seconds and this giant marshmallow puff will be where I need him to be.
He raises the sword with both hands, committing to the strike.
“Alright, Snowzilla,” I say, buying half a heartbeat and coming up empty on anything wittier. “Time for you to be tragically hurt.”
I’m a blur of motion—past him, behind him—and then both my feet drive hard into his back.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then he pitches forward, straight into the vat.
Caramel erupts around him, bubbling furiously as it swallows him whole. There’s no sound worth noting. Just a brief, undignified struggle before the sugar does what sugar does best and takes him apart, marshmallow first, like a snowball melting in a hot chocolate.
“Couldn’t handle the heat,” I say, deciding some things deserve to be said.
A small scream cuts the moment short.
“Holly—”
“Get me down!” she yells.
She kicks her legs, sending the chair swinging hard enough that it twists to face me. For a second she’s all motion—rope creaking, breath catching—and then she stills, eyes locking onto mine.
Relief hits first. It breaks across her face so fast it almost looks like laughter.
Then it fractures.
Her hands are bound, her shoulders straining against the ropes, and her breath comes too shallow.
There’s fear there—real, immediate, and not going anywhere—but it’s tangled up with something fierce and almost disbelieving, like she wasn’t entirely certain I would come and is now forced to revise her opinion on the spot.
It is, I realize bewilderingly, a devastating combination.
And entirely my undoing.
The woman dangling over a vat of molten sugar looks at me like I might actually pull this off, and that—more than anything—is a responsibility I am suddenly, acutely aware I cannot afford to fail.
Behind me, the elves break. Their confidence presumably evaporates as they scatter in all directions. Garlands drop in their wake—spruce, not pine, accuracy persists even in retreat—and the rest of my coven pours into the room, efficient and decisive.
It doesn’t take long.
It never does, when they’re like this.
It’s over. We won.
I bend slightly at the waist, more from the sudden drop in momentum than anything resembling exhaustion, while someone—Ronan, I think—takes charge of the ropes and starts lowering Holly down.
What remains of my shirt is hanging on by optimism alone, so I finish the job and discard it.
Tinsel clings everywhere. Shallow cuts mark the rest, already closing, already fading.
A quick glance confirms everyone’s accounted for. Glitter drifts lazily through the air like slow snow, and somewhere a bell jingles itself out of tune.
Holly hits the ground, and Ronan makes short work of the ropes. She doesn’t hesitate—racing until she’s in front of me. Close enough that I can see the flush still high in her cheeks. Close enough to catch the way her gaze flicks—briefly, and not entirely unintentionally—over the state of me.
I don’t lean in.
I want to. God, I want to.
But I have no idea if I’m allowed.
“Are you okay?” I ask, because it seems like the safest possible ground.
She nods, once. Her eyes are still wide, still bright, still carrying too much of everything at once.
Holly opens her mouth—whatever she’s about say, no longer matters.
She’s here. Alive, breathing, and standing in front of me. For now, that’s enough to make my doubts feel distant. Somewhere nearby, a carol stumbles through a verse and finds the chorus. With her, I do too.