Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
My grip tightens on the edge of the abandoned market stall until the wood creaks in protest.
After everything we’ve been through, Santa has the sheer nerve to stroll into Willow Creek and try to take it over.
The square is a mess of pulsing red light and churned snow, and there he is in the middle of it. A very not-jolly fat man with his hands up like he is conducting a carol no one agreed to sing.
“Nick,” I whisper. “What’s he doing?”
“I think he’s trying to transform the tree back,” Nick says, his mouth set in a straight line. “Maybe he can’t get at the energy while it’s in that form. I’m not well-versed in the intricacies of tree-based magic batteries.”
Despite everything, a smirk tugs at my mouth.
The tacky snow globe is holding its ground. It splutters and hisses like a kettle refusing to boil for someone it dislikes, giving off a stubborn, sulky swirl of glitter instead of doing what it’s told.
Honestly, I feel the same.
Around him, the townsfolk stand frozen, eyes glassy, under the grip of Santa’s enchantment. They sway slightly, like something’s pulled the strings too tight and forgotten how to let go. It should terrify me.
It does.
Just…later.
We’ve made it close enough that we’re within twenty feet of Santa, huddled behind a flipped-over market stall that smells faintly of cinnamon sticks and overambitious fudge samples. From here, we can see everything. We’re close enough to act.
Close enough to get caught.
Which would be a problem.
It also means Nick and I are pressed in beside each other, and the awareness of him—warm, solid, entirely too distracting—is doing its level best to derail my focus.
Now is not the time.
“We need to stop him,” I say, fists clenching. “We can’t let this happen to Willow Creek. This is not part of my festive party plan.”
Nick nods, his gaze unwavering. “We stick to the plan. Wake the townsfolk up, and then we deal with Santa.”
The streets are littered with snowmen that have been trampled into mush, candy canes snapped in half, and Christmas lights dangling like broken spiderwebs. The air smells like burnt cocoa and reindeer sweat—an oddly fitting metaphor for the holiday disaster we’ve gotten ourselves into.
The vampires slip along the periphery, somehow escaping notice. I consult with my clipboard and tick off the last few items, trying to ignore the way my pulse is climbing.
Everything’s in place. Or close enough that it’s going to have to be.
Which means all we have left is the part where we actually do it.
The plan that relies, somewhat alarmingly, on Crinkshaw saving the day.
“Hey.” Nick’s breath brushes my ear and his expression catches me off guard when I turn. The silver in his eyes looks dimmer than usual, like the shine’s been dulled at the edges. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
“You be careful, okay?”
“Promise.” I draw an X over my heart, aiming for light, but he doesn’t quite buy it.
That’s new.
Nick is usually the one who moves first and figures it out later, all sharp instincts and impossible luck, the kind of man who lands on his feet even when there isn’t anywhere obvious to land.
Seeing even the hint of hesitation in him—just a flicker—is enough to make something twist low in my chest, something I’d very much prefer to ignore.
So I do.
Or at least, I try to.
The square is a mess of shadows and broken light, and Santa’s magic is pressing down over Willow Creek like a storm that doesn’t intend to pass, and whatever this is between us, it’s going to have to wait its turn.
“Time to get to work, Draven,” I say, flashing him a grin that feels steadier than I do. “You ready?”
“Ready, Frost.”
The look he gives me lands somewhere behind my ribs and lingers there, long enough to make breathing feel like a conscious decision instead of an automatic one.
I manage it anyway.
Barely.
I sprint toward the townsfolk, snow crunching beneath my boots, adrenaline kicking my pulse into something unhelpful. The plan—such as it is—is distraction. Noise. Enough chaos to give everyone else a fighting chance.
I wave my clipboard over my head like it’s a weapon of last resort and start shouting.
“Hey! Hey, listen to me! This isn’t over! We don’t let Santa take Christmas. Not here. Not ever!”
A few heads twitch. Eyes flicker.
It’s not much, but it’s something.
Mrs. Christie, who runs the bakery on Main Street, stands near the front. Her bakery apron is dusted white and her expression is flattened into something distant. I push closer, like I can force my way through whatever’s wrapped around her.
“Mrs. Christie!” I call. “Remember the bake-off? You beat three mayors and a sous-chef with that gingerbread cathedral. Flour, icing, glory. That was you. You don’t lose to anyone!”
Her gaze shifts. A fraction.
But it’s there.
Behind me, something changes.
I feel it before I see it—the pressure, the attention snapping into place.
Santa turns.
His face twists, all the jolly scraped off it. “You think you can stop me? With snowballs and holiday spirit?” His voice drips with contempt as it cuts through the square. “I’ll show you what real power looks like. I’m the one making the party rules now.”
“Great,” I fire back, breathless, “then you won’t mind if we bring our own playlist.”
He lifts a hand.
The magic hits like a rolling wall, sweeping through the square and sending people staggering. It catches me full-on, knocks my feet out from under me, and I hit the ground hard—but momentum is a beautiful thing. I roll, shove myself back up, lungs burning, vision sparking at the edges.
Still here.
Still standing.
Nick doesn’t bother with subtlety.
He roars—louder than Ronan—and charges, his immaculate shirt finally losing its composure along with the rest of him. A discarded candy cane snaps in his hand, and suddenly it’s not festive anymore—it’s a staff.
Crinkshaw plods behind him like he’s preparing to be a backup dancer in “Thriller.” I can make out his faint muttering about wardrobe standards and battlefield etiquette.
He stops in front of an elf reeking of boozy eggnog and fixes it with a look of such profound disappointment it almost feels educational.
“It pains me to say it—one might even call it a shot to the heart—but you give elves a bad name.”
Trust Crinkshaw to butcher a perfectly good lyric.
Ronan’s attempt at subtle reconnaissance concludes exactly as expected, and he emerges from the other side of the square with a look of joy spreading across his face, axe already raised. His eyes gleam with chaotic delight, a warrior’s joy filtered through something distinctly seasonal.
“Time to get festive!” he bellows.
Several dozen elven heads snap toward him.
I glance down at my clipboard, where I have underlined quiet several times.
There is patience, and then there is Ronan.
“Attack them, my elves!” Santa yells. “Keep them away from the globe.”
Chaos answers.
Boozy rogue elves scatter into the crowd like cats dropped onto a hot griddle, all claws and noise and terrible decision making. It’s madness. One launches itself at me, but it never gets close—Nick knocks it clean out of the air with his cane in a move that is, regrettably, extremely impressive.
I feel a brief and deeply inconvenient flicker of swoon.
“Keep waking up the town,” he calls, “I’ll handle these pests.”
I nod and pivot, scanning the square until I spot a young man caught in the spell, his expression stuck somewhere between confusion and mild regret.
Casey, I think.
Mostly, I remember his unfortunate relationship with Sarah Waterson. His Christmas karaoke and how his attempts to win her over have spectacularly failed to work out.
I push through the crowd and grab his hand.
“Hey!” I shout. “Christmas karaoke—last year! You sang ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ like it was legally binding. You got half the town dancing. You wore those awful elf ears and said they were lucky!”
For a moment, a flicker of recognition crosses his face too. His eyes sharpen, his posture straightening as the fog of Santa’s magic is lifting ever so slightly.
“Let’s show Santa that the heart of Christmas isn’t something he can steal,” I say, pressing on before the moment slips away. “It’s in us—right here, right now!”
For good measure, I dump a handful of cold snow down his back.
He yelps, jerking upright, and whatever hold Santa had on him snaps clean through. He blinks at me, dazed.
“Miss Frost?”
“Welcome back.” I squeeze his shoulder. “Now go help your neighbors.”
He nods—still shaky, but there—and turns to the nearest cluster of people.
“Come on!” he shouts, his voice gathering strength. “We don’t let anyone mess with Christmas in Willow Creek!”
The ripple starts small, then builds.
At the edges, my musical swat team gets to work.
Meribel lifts a hand, and the choir finds a note.
Silent Night, soft as breath at first. The sound threads through the square, and the fog on people’s faces loosens like old tape being peeled back.
Carolers shake out their scarves and step forward.
The Scouts form two neat snowball lines without being told.
Mr. Patel’s gritter noses up to the curb like a faithful old reindeer, engine rumbling in support.
All around us, people blink and stir, waking like they’ve been pulled from a restless sleep. They look dazed, faintly irritated—the particular expression of someone who has been woken far too early on Christmas morning and intends to complain about it later.
But they’re waking.
That’s what matters.
Song, touch, noise—whatever it takes—the spell is cracking, and Willow Creek is coming back to itself one stubborn, slightly grumpy resident at a time.
And now it’s about to show him what happens when you mess with it.