Piper stares at me like I’ve just rewritten five centuries of Bellamy history with a single sentence. Rhea’s amber eyes are blown wide, hands trembling at her sides. Magic hums in the walls, in thefloorboards, in the lights overhead—an unstable, jittering pulse echoing Piper’s heartbeat.
The shop itself seems to flinch under the pressure.
Rhea finally whispers, “So we’re cursed because Great-Great-Grandmother Veda wanted more power and ghosted a demon?”
I blink. “That’s… not an inaccurate summary.”
Piper looks like she might pass out… or hex me… orboth. “I need air,” she murmurs.
“You’re inside,” I point out.
“SLAADE,” she warns.
The shelves rattle again, louder this time. Glittering tinsel wriggles like startled snakes. An entire rack of spell candles flickers in synchronized panic.
Rhea glances around, wide-eyed. “Oh gods.”
Piper drags both hands through her curls, muttering Bellamy curse words I haven’t heard in two centuries. The magic crackles,then—BANG. Something slams against the shop window so hard the glass shivers.
Rhea jumps. “What was THAT?”
Piper and I both turn. Outside, framed in a blizzard of twinkling snow and streetlamps, stand a group of grinning townspeople—carolers.
Except… Not normal ones. These have glowing red cheeks, too-bright smiles, and matching holiday cardigans knitted with unsettling precision. All of them holding sheet music like weapons.
Rhea whispers, “Piper… why do they look like cult members on Christmas break?”
Piper presses a trembling hand to her temple. “Because my life is hell.”
“Correction,” I say softly, moving toward her, “your life is cursed.”
The lights flicker as the carolers begin tapping on the glass. In unison. A synchronized, eerie rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Oh, that is absolutely a summoning cadence.
Rhea pales. “Oh no. Oh HELL no.”
Piper whispers, “They’re going to sing, aren’t they?”
The carolers inhale. And then— “DING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH”—but it’s too loud, too sharp. Too magically charged.
The windows vibrate. The ornaments tremble. A row of enchanted bells begins chiming aggressively, the sounds clashing in disharmony.
I step in front of Piper automatically. “They’re enchanted.”
“No shit,” Rhea mutters. “Those are MENACING altos.”
Another bang rattles the door. One caroler—an elderly man with a disturbingly jolly grin—presses his face to the glass and sings with possessed fervor, “AND THE BELLS ARE RINGING—FOR SLAAADE AND PIPERRRR—”
Piper chokes. “OH MY GOD—THEY KNOW YOUR NAME—”
I roll my shoulders. “Theyshouldn’t.”
“Slade,”Rhea snaps, “fix it!”
I gesture to the window. “They’re affected by the bond. And the curse. And your family’s questionable magical filtration system.”
“Just—JUST—GO TALK TO THEM!” Rhea squeaks.
