Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the words catch in my throat.
There’s too much to say and no time to say it.
Apologies, anger, and relief churn inside me, tangled and chaotic.
Unhelpfully, he is very shirtless, and tinsel confetti dusts his shoulders like glitter someone forgot to sweep.
He looks unfairly good for a man who just survived chaos.
None of it matters right now.
All I want is to feel Nick, solid and real, and remind myself that we both made it through this in one piece.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw my arms around him, burying my face against his chest. His skin is warm, and the smell of wood smoke and something distinctly Nick settles the panic thrumming in my chest. He stiffens for a fraction of a second, then his arms close around me, strong and sure.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice rough, like he’s convincing himself as much as me.
I nod against him, my throat too tight to speak. I don’t care if he’s shirtless, battered, and probably freezing. I don’t care if I’m still mad at him, or at least I was. Annoyance can wait until later, preferably when he is wearing a sweater.
We stand like that for a moment, the chaos of the factory fading into the background.
The muffled sound of Ronan’s grumbling and Crinkshaw’s bony footsteps feels miles away.
The vat of caramel bubbles happily, and I try not to picture that snowman mascot melting into it in some horrifyingly sticky cautionary tale.
I’ve acquired a new seasonal slogan: avoid a rolling boil—buy local, ethically stirred candy canes.
Finally, I pull back just enough to look up at him.
“We need to go,” I say softly, my voice steadier than I expect. “The snow globe—it’s the actual festival tree. The real one.”
His brows knit together, confusion flashing across his face. “The tacky bauble in my living room?”
“This whole thing was a diversion. Santa didn’t expect us to take it from the Hollow of Mischief. He needed you and the coven distracted so he could break in and steal it back. Once he has it, he can continue siphoning its built-up gloom and piping it straight into Sulphur Ridge.”
Nick’s arms tighten around me. He exhales sharply. “A small army of rogue elves powered by enough negative energy to start a war and turn his Crapmas idea into a reality.”
My stomach twists. “Tell me your house is protected?”
“From thieves and routine burglary? Sure. From an immortal wind sprite with a grudge? Probably not. He’ll have gone down the chimney already,” he says, his tone bitter.
“That’s what he does, right? He plays by his own rules.
Who needs locks or alarms when you’ve got the ultimate Santa trick.
I bet he’s ruined my carpets with his sooty footprints too. ”
Ronan roars something unintelligible, slinging his oversized axe across his back like it’s a bag of holiday shopping.
Crinkshaw picks his way through the remnants of rogue elf weaponry and melted candy canes with an efficiency that’s both horrifying and impressive.
The rest of Nick’s coven trails behind, looking various degrees of unimpressed with the entire situation, as though battling rogue elves was a mild inconvenience compared to running out of mulled wine at the Winter Ball.
Nick turns to Ronan, his voice sharp. “Get the car. Now.”
Ronan stomps toward the exit with heavy, deliberate steps. “Why is it always me? I yearn for glory. Crave blood spilling forth in rivers of my own creation. What I get is being the vampire who drives a reasonably priced car. It does zero to sixty in eventually.”
Crinkshaw follows, muttering about the structural integrity of chimneys and how Santa’s methods lack elegance and leave a mess to clear up. And all the while, Nick refuses to let go of my hand as we head to the door.
I yank out my phone and fire a message to the Willow Creek Volunteers group chat: ‘Emergency meet at the square—thermoses, salt, spare lights, first-aid, and the choir. Dress warm.’
Three dots appear at once. On my way, from Marcy. Salt-spreading truck warming up, from Mr. Patel. Carolers assembling, from Meribel, who adds six bell emojis and a triangle. What does a triangle emoji even mean?
“This isn’t over,” Nick says quietly.
“Not even close,” I reply, my steps quickening to match his.
As we step out into the cold night air, the weight of what’s ahead hangs over me. Santa has the snow globe, and if we don’t stop him, Christmas in Willow Creek, and probably everywhere, will be lost.
I should never have come here alone.
Now it might be too late to fix this, even with Nick’s help.
Santa might be about to ruin Christmas and turn it into Crapmas—and it’s all because of me.
“This isn’t your fault,” Nick says, almost like he can read my thoughts. “I should have dealt with Santa the last time we had a run-in. I didn’t, and he’s had centuries to plan his revenge. Bet he’s been waiting for the opportunity.”
“But I made it easy for him,” I mumble.
“No,” he replies. “We wouldn’t be here without you. You’re determined to save Christmas for Willow Creek. We’d have solved this already if I hadn’t been so arrogant.”
The icy night air bites at my cheeks as we walk through the parking lot, where Ronan stands, axe in hand.
He glares at the stack of crates sitting next to the old present-wrapping factory.
The boozy eggnog sits in crates with labels promising guaranteed holiday cheer, and Ronan eyes them as if they’re technically legal but morally indefensible.
“Ronan,” Nick warns, his tone laced with exasperation.
“We don’t have time for this,” I add.
“Oh, we have time.” Ronan hefts the axe with a flourish, his grin a terrifying mix of glee and menace. “This stuff isn’t innocent holiday cheer. It’s how Santa controls the rogue elves.”
Nick and I exchange glances. “And?”
“And…I figured it out.”
Ronan beams like he’s discovered plutonium, and it’s sweet, even if the reveal—boozy eggnog—has been on our radar for days. Thankfully, Nick steps in.
“That you did. What would we do without Ronan?”
He claps him on the shoulder, and Ronan practically glows.
There’s no tease in Nick’s voice, none of the sly edge I’ve come to expect—just warmth.
He’s giving Ronan the win because Ronan wants the win.
He cares for his coven in a way that’s plain and protective, and yet again, I find myself reevaluating my opinion of the deeply complicated vampire who is Nick Draven.
And to my surprise, a small, prickly pang of jealousy blooms. I want to feel that.
Nick points at the crates. “You’d better destroy them, old friend. Then we’ll go.”
“With pleasure.”
Ronan swings the axe down with the force of a holiday berserker, splintering the first crate into a rain of wood shards and sloshing eggnog. The sickly-sweet smell of alcohol fills the air, so potent it makes my eyes water.
“Say goodbye to Santa’s secret sauce!” he bellows, decimating the stack of crates. Eggnog spills across the icy pavement in a sticky, boozy flood.
Crinkshaw steps back with a grimace, his skeletal frame leaning away from the mess. “Well, that’s going to freeze solid. Congratulations, you’ve made the parking lot undrivable.”
“And uninhabitable,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose.
Ronan pauses, surveying the carnage. “There. Problem solved. Now they’re just regular rogue elves, not liquored-up, supercharged rogue elves.”
Nick surveys the wreckage. “Well done. And now it’s time to get going.”
Nick’s coven begins filing into the truck.
The vampires, each looking various degrees of irritated, jostle for space among the scattered crates and some broken Christmas decorations.
A few of them exchange muttered complaints about the sticky smell clinging to the air from Ronan’s blitz on the rogue elves’ supply.
Crinkshaw bustles up to Nick, carrying what looks like a perfectly pressed shirt that is, somehow, untouched by the chaos of the night.
“Sire,” he says with an air of theatrical disapproval, “if you’re going to confront a rogue Santa Claus, might I suggest you do so with a modicum of dignity?”
Nick raises an eyebrow as the zombie hands him the shirt. “You think Santa cares about my wardrobe?”
“Perhaps not. I, however, do. Deeply.” Crinkshaw gestures to the rapidly healing cuts on Nick’s still naked chest. “You look like you’ve been mauled by a reindeer. I have standards to uphold.”
Nick snorts but shrugs into the shirt, buttoning it efficiently. “Happy now?”
“Delighted,” Crinkshaw sighs. I’m unsure he’s aware he’s the definition of deadpan. “Sire is now suitably dressed to save Christmas.”
With everyone loaded up, the convoy rumbles onto the snow-covered road. Up front, Ronan is already muttering about babysitting immortals and dealing with eggnog-related disasters.
“I am not trained for this,” he snaps at no one in particular. “There are no manuals. There should be manuals.”
“You’d ignore them,” I say automatically.
“I would improve them,” he shoots back.
Nick doesn’t join in. He’s got his phone pressed to his ear, voice low, trying to get a read on what’s happening at the mansion. I watch his expression instead—jaw tight, shoulders locked, the kind of stillness that means whatever he’s hearing isn’t good.
The call ends.
“Well?” I ask.
“Not good,” he says, which is not helpful and also exactly what I expected.
The car settles into a tense quiet, broken only by the hum of the engine and the steady sweep of the wipers. My hands knot together in my lap before I force them still.
“The snow globe,” I say, aware I can’t not say it. “He’s got the tree.”
Nick glances at me.
“The glitter, the star, the whole…aggressively terrible aesthetic,” I go on. “It’s all in there. Mímir told us—just…badly.”
Nick exhales through his nose. “He does enjoy a riddle.”
“‘Where glitter gathers, snow flurries,’” I mutter. “Which apparently translates to ‘it’s in the snow globe, you absolute idiots.’ I swear, if this whole god thing falls through, he could have a thriving career writing flat-pack furniture instructions.”
Ronan snorts from the front. “That explains a great many things.”
The lights of Willow Creek begin to bleed into view—soft, familiar, stubbornly cheerful.
Porch lights blink along Maple and Third.
Mr. Patel’s truck idles at the curb, salt spreader already whining to life.
Outside the library, carolers huddle under an awning, voices carrying faintly through the glass.
The chocolatier’s window fogs like a kettle while fairy lights blink Morse code along Main Street.
For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Then the red light hits.
It pulses out from the direction of the square, slow and wrong, washing over the town in a crimson glow that drains the warmth from everything it touches. The lights don’t look festive anymore. They look…consumed.
Nick leans forward. “Faster.”
“Did you just say—”
“FASTER.”
“I am already driving on ice,” Ronan says. “We will arrive in one piece or several festive ones.”
My chest tightens.
“We’re not too late,” I say, mostly to convince myself.
No one answers.
“Santa’s already here,” Ronan says, breaking the silence before it can settle.
“Yes,” Nick says, his voice edged with something akin to violence. “I’ve confirmed it. He had the snow globe before we even left the factory. The mansion’s already been hit.”
The thought makes my stomach churn.
The snow globe—the tree, the heart of our gala, the thing holding Willow Creek together—is already in his hands.
Great.
No pressure.
“How are we going to do this?” Ronan asks.
“We’re Willow Creek,” I say, almost like I’m trying to convince myself, “and Willow Creek doesn’t fold.
I’ve seen that much. Whether we’re recovering from a disastrous Halloween with an authentic haunted house, or that time an errant fog machine disrupted weather patterns on the entire eastern seaboard, magic destruction is as common here as chocolate cake experiments.
We show up. Put our boots on, roll up our sleeves, and get our opinions ready. We fix things. Loudly if necessary.”
I finish my quite fantastic speech by holding up my finger.
“And we’re not done yet.”
Nick’s silver eyes hold me. “You never give up, do you?”
“Nope.”
The town sharpens through the snowfall as we approach, lights blinking stubbornly against the dark—but the red glow underneath it all is wrong. It pulses, slow and heavy, stretching shadows too far across the streets.
By the time we reach the square, the air itself feels off.
Ronan brakes. Hard.
We pile out.
Santa stands at the center, the snow globe raised beside him on a platform.
Inside, the glitter churns violently, the crooked tree glowing like it’s under strain.
Around him, rogue elves scramble, stringing lights that pulse instead of shine, their glow casting everything in something that isn’t festive anymore.
My stomach turns.
And the crowd—
They stand in a loose ring, swaying gently, eyes unfocused, like they’re nutcrackers that have been set down and forgotten. Not cheering. Not singing.
Just…waiting.
“Oh no,” I breathe. “Why do they look like carolers who’ve forgotten the words and are hoping someone else remembers the next verse?”
Nick leans forward, gazed fixed. “He’s twisted it. The tree isn’t skimming off the gloom anymore—it’s taking everything. The good, the bad…even the bit that knows the difference between spruce and pine. He’s hollowing them out.”
“Why do this?” I ask. “Why go through all of this?”
“It’s obvious,” Crinkshaw says. “The elves got a bit too fired up on boozy eggnog. After they stole the tree, Santa took it to the Hollow of Mischief until he could figure out a way to get at the magic. Frank must have placed some wards on it and the transition would have altered the tree, reducing it to a snow globe. It’s Elementary Metaphysics, not Eldritch Geography. ”
I join the others in staring at Crinkshaw, mouth open.
“We stole it before he could change it back,” he continues, “and now that he’s got it, he’s using the town’s energy to give him enough power to alter it. Simple, really.”
“That’s obvious to you?” Nick asks.
“That’s more complicated than calculus,” Ronan says.
A pang of guilt hits me. Hard.
“This is my fault. If I’d realized sooner—”
“No,” Nick cuts in, sharply. “Santa’s had this in motion for a long time. We’ve been at it for—what—twenty minutes? And we’ve done it with a group chat, two thermoses, and Ronan’s flair for dramatics.”
From behind, Ronan yells, “It is not flair. It is commitment.”
“How do we stop him?” I ask.
Nick doesn’t hesitate. “We take back the tree. Then we make sure he never tries this again. Are you ready, Frost?”
I meet his gaze.
The doubt is still there, loud and persistent.
But so is everything else.
“Born ready, Draven,” I say. “Let’s go ruin Santa’s Christmas uncheer.”