Chapter 19
The time until closing passed both too quickly and not quickly enough. The undercurrent of tension remained, but I was too busy to obsess about it. Mostly. When I finally turned the sign to closing and leaned against the door with a tired sigh, I looked up to find Bastian watching me.
“Shall we investigate the town records?” he asked, surprising me. With everything that was happening—or not quite happening—between us, I’d almost forgotten about Grinchly and evil magic.
“The town hall is already closed.”
“Hmm.” He stalked towards me, eyes glowing. “That would not prevent me from entering.”
“Wouldn’t that be… naughty?”
The glow intensified. “I am not bound by such things as locks.”
“But I am.”
“Indeed.” He hesitated, then inclined his head. “Perhaps you have a point. Besides, I am not sure that is where we will find the answer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have been considering the matter. You said that the situation deteriorated after Grinchly acquired an antique store?”
I thought about it, then nodded. “The timing seems about right. Everything seems to have escalated since then.”
“Did he just acquire the building or were the contents of the store included?”
I tried to remember. “I know Chester had sold off a lot of his inventory trying to save the store, but I don’t think it was entirely empty. Why?”
“Because I was thinking about how you summoned me—from a book you found in an old chest. Perhaps Grinchly also found something old. Something evil.”
The darkness in his voice made me shiver, but I wasn’t convinced. “I can’t for the life of me imagine Grinchly trying a spell, no matter how much he drank.”
“Not all magic requires a conscious act. As I said, evil attracts evil.”
“But how is he doing it?”
He turned and started pacing across the shop, his tail flicking behind him.
“The most likely explanation is an object of some kind. Something that is absorbing the Christmas spirit.”
“Absorbing it?”
“Think of it like a parasite,” he said, gesturing towards the Christmas tree.
“This town, this shop, the very essence of the season is an organism. An object like that would attach itself to it and feed. It would be easy to hide. A music box, a snow globe, a toy. He could have hidden it in plain sight.”
“He hid it on purpose?”
“Probably not. He wouldn’t have realized where the impulse came from.”
“So how do we find it?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, surprising me. “Right now it’s like a slow leak. If it were larger…”
“It would be easier to find.” I echoed his sigh. “Great. Does that mean there isn’t anything we can do?”
“No. It means we continue rescuing the shop. Everyone who walks out of here with a smile helps to restore the Christmas magic, and the stronger the magic, the easier it will be to find the opposing force.”
“That doesn’t seem like much of a plan,” I muttered, and he smiled, one finger lightly tracing my cheek. My knees immediately threatened to go weak.
“It means we are not adding anything to your list,” he said firmly. “Shall we start by replacing all the stock you sold today?”
My mouth dropped open. What happened to horns and temptation and showing me what it really meant to touch them? From the way his eyes gleamed, I was positive he knew what I was thinking, but he simply disappeared into the stockroom and returned with several boxes of ornaments.
“Fine,” I huffed, unable to keep the petulant note out of my voice as I started unpacking them.
“Question,” he said suddenly after working next to me for a few minutes.
“Answer.”
“What do you know about winter solstice traditions?”
I blinked at him. “Random topic shift, but okay. Um… it’s the shortest day of the year? People celebrate with… fires and stuff?”
“Fires and stuff.” His expression suggested he was barely restraining an eye roll. “Truly, your knowledge is vast and detailed.”
“I run a Christmas shop, not a pagan ritual supply store. My winter knowledge is mostly limited to ‘Jingle Bells’ and hot chocolate recipes.”
“Clearly.” He set down the ornament he’d been holding. “This is unacceptable.”
“What is?”
“Your ignorance of the traditions that underpin your favorite season. How can you properly celebrate Christmas without understanding its origins?”
“By drinking eggnog and singing carols like a normal person?”
“Insufficient.” He crossed his arms, a determined look on his face. “I am going to educate you.”
“Right now? We have like seventy more ornaments to unpack.”
“Multitasking, remember? I will quiz you while we work.”
“This sounds ominous.”
“This is educational.” He picked up another ornament, examining it while formulating his first question. “Tell me, what is the traditional purpose of Yule logs?”
“To burn in the fireplace and look festive?”
“Incorrect. Yule logs are burned to honor the sun’s return, to banish darkness, and to provide protective ash for the coming year.
The log must burn for twelve hours minimum, and the ash is saved and scattered across fields for good harvest.” He set the ornament down.
“Another wrong answer. I may have to inflict a penalty.”
“A penalty? For not knowing obscure Yule trivia?”
“Knowledge requires incentive. Penalties provide motivation.” His smile was sharp and predatory. “Next question: what role do evergreen boughs play in winter celebrations?”
“Decoration? They look pretty and smell nice?”
“They represent eternal life through the darkest season, demonstrate nature’s resilience, and provide shelter for winter spirits.” He was clearly enjoying this, the bastard. “Another incorrect answer. I definitely see a penalty in your future.”
“This is a terrible teaching method.”
“On the contrary, I suspect you will remember these lessons quite vividly.” He moved closer, circling me like I was prey he was considering chasing, and my pulse started to speed up. “Third question: why are bells rung during winter celebrations?”
“To accompany songs? To make joyful noises?”
“To ward off malevolent spirits, to call beneficial entities, and to mark sacred moments in seasonal transitions.” He stopped directly behind me, close enough that I could feel his presence like heat against my back. “Three incorrect answers. I believe a penalty is in order.”
“I feel like this is less about education and more about you being a menace.”
“Can it not be both?”
Before I could respond, he moved. One moment I was standing at the counter, surrounded by tissue paper and ornaments. The next, I was upside down over his shoulder, the world tilting sideways as he scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
“Your first penalty,” he announced.
“What? This is… Put me down!” I smacked his back, which was approximately as effective as hitting a brick wall. “This is not a teaching method!”
He started walking through the shop, carrying me like a sack of particularly indignant potatoes, and I had to grab his shoulder for balance. The position gave me an excellent view of his tail, which was swishing with unmistakable amusement.
“This is ridiculous. Anyone could look inside and see this.”
“I am aware. That is part of the punishment.”
“I hate you.”
“You told me I made you feel safe. Make up your mind.”
He had a point, damn him. And despite the absurdity of being hauled through my own shop, I wasn’t actually afraid.
Annoyed, yes. Embarrassed, definitely. But not scared.
Because he was careful—one arm secure around my legs, the other ready to catch me if I slipped.
Ridiculous and menacing, but careful. But still… Two could play at this game.
I reached down and grabbed his tail at the base, squeezing it firmly. He froze mid-step, a choked sound escaping him.
“Noelle,” he growled, his hands tightening on my thighs. “Release it.”
“Or what? You’ll discipline me more?” I tightened my grip, the fur softer than I expected. “You said my hands get me into trouble.”
“That is a different kind of trouble entirely.”
“Let me down and I’ll let go.”
His muscles were rigid beneath my hands. I could feel the tremor running through him, the barely leashed tension. For a long, fraught moment, I thought he might refuse. Then he sighed, a gust of warm air against my thigh, and slowly, carefully, lowered me to my feet.
He turned to face me, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. They weren’t just glowing. They were burning. The red was deeper, hotter, and the hunger in them was so intense I could almost taste it.
“You,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, “are a terrible student.”
“You’re a terrible teacher,” I retorted, my pulse fluttering in my throat. “You punish me for wrong answers and then get upset when I touch things I’m not supposed to touch.”
“There is a difference between accidental contact and deliberate provocation.”
“Is there?” I took a step closer, emboldened by the fire in his eyes. “It feels like you’re looking for an excuse, Bastian. An excuse to touch me. An excuse to discipline me. An excuse to stop pretending this is just about a binding contract.”
His jaw clenched. “This is not pretending.”
“Isn’t it?” I reached up, my fingers hovering just below the base of his horn. Not touching. Just a breath away. “You talk about consequences and discipline, but you never follow through.”
“Do not tempt me, Noelle.”
“Too late.” I let my fingers brush against the sensitive spot, a feather-light caress.
A shudder wracked his body. A low growl rumbled in his chest, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, one of his hands shot out, wrapping around my wrist, stilling my fingers against his horn.
“I warned you.” His voice was raw, strained, as if the words were being torn from him.
“I know.”
He stared at me, a war of emotions waging in his eyes. Want and fear. Hunger and restraint. He was fighting a battle with himself, and I had the sinking, thrilling feeling that I was about to win.
Then he let go of my wrist and stepped back, creating a chasm of cold air between us.