Ho Ho Homicidal Maniac (Murder and Mistletoe #2)

Chapter 11

Blake

The cookie decorating class was even more fun than I expected. We created a whole herd of zombies, one of which I even based on my brother. And while I still remembered accusing Nico of wanting to take my legs, the longer the date lasted, the sillier I felt about jumping to such outlandish conclusions.

Once the event ended, he took me to the ice skating rink, where I got to demonstrate my quite formidable skills and show off a little, and for lunch we went to a fancy little restaurant priding itself on modern cuisine based on products obtained through hunting and foraging.

Nico was shocked to find out I have never shot a gun and promised to teach me, which actually sounds like a fun day together, unless it turns into him hunting me down with a rifle. Though as I spend time in his presence, I worry less and less about being hurt. How odd, that being around him feels almost as if I’m living in a movie about happy people going on adventures together.

We laughed at some unfortunate people slipping on the ice outside, had the most amazing cinnamon mochas, and by the time the sun started descending the sky, he surprised me with a group tour focused on the mystery of the Christmas Killer.

Mrs. Pratchett, like most of the business owners I’ve met today, knows and likes Nico. She delivered a colorful experience as she leads us through the snow-covered streets and points out sites associated with Vermont’s most famous serial murderer.

We stay at the back of the tour so Nico can fill me in on details or correct some assumptions. The focus is mostly on the historical murders, to not spook the tourists, but the guide does mention two kills from the last few years, strongly suggesting that there’s a pattern to the beheadings. When she talks about the bauble maker, Nico is once again eager to whisper to me that it was the copycat’s doing. He even promises to share details of his investigation once we’re back home, and I can’t help being giddy.

I’ve never been on a date before, but I have to admit this couldn’t have been a better day. Maybe aside from Nico being a dangerous man who abducted me. Then again, am I not free now? Sure, he has his eye on me, but I don’t have a self-destructing chip in my brain. I’ve been in the proximity of people and phones all day yet keep delaying my plan to alert someone. It doesn’t feel urgent when I’m having fun with the person whom I’ve found fascinating all my life, not in spaces that promised me safety.

So as we near the end of the tour and walk into the town’s famous Christmas market, bustling with joyful people and full of stalls offering everything from traditional crafts to snacks, I can’t believe how fast time has passed.

“And remember, Be nice or the Christmas Killer gets you ,” Mrs. Pratchett says, accompanied by the whole group, which at this point knows the slogan by heart. This is where the tour is to conclude, so we all applaud our guide, who in turn recommends a visit to the Winter Emporium, before winking at Nico.

“Look at you, so excited you’re all flushed,” Nico teases and pinches my cheek.

If this day wasn’t magical enough already, I notice snow falling, the flakes glistening in the lights all around us and above the market stalls.

I grin, meeting his gaze as the small crowd of tour-goers disperses, leaving us alone by the big Christmas tree that looks straight out of a cheesy movie. For once, I don’t quite hate that.

“Well, I just had the most exclusive serial killer tour. Crime Mind and Dead Pumpkin would have cut their arms off for a chance like this,” I tell him, beaming with joy.

It’s so incredibly exciting to get firsthand knowledge correcting popular misconceptions about the murders, and each time Nico whispers in my ear, my skin heats up, until I no longer know what cold is. He puts his hand on my back as he leans in, and every time he does that, my insides flutter like a shaken snow globe. I have to admit I have a bit of a crush on him, but even now, I scan our surroundings for an opportunity for alone time so that I can get my hands on a phone and call my brother. That’s not what someone does on a normal date, which reminds me that my situation is anything but normal .

“Are they your podcast nemeses’? How did you get so into true-crime anyway?” he asks as we stroll past stalls filled to the brim with handmade soaps, candles, and crocheted angels.

I snort. “They tried to create unnecessary drama earlier this year. I don’t hate -hate them, but feel free to leave negative comments and downvote their content,” I tell him, bumping my shoulder into his arm. It feels good to talk to someone with such ease, someone who’s close enough to touch, not somewhere in the virtual space, and I breathe in the sugary aroma of donuts as we pass a stall making them fresh. “This is a bit dumb, but I got into true-crime, because I was afraid of crime.”

“How so? Did something happen to cause it? Is this about your parents?” Nico asks in a softer voice and strokes my shoulder. His gaze penetrates me like a sharp needle, making my heart beat faster. He’s a handsome man, I’ve seen how people look at him, yet his attention is on me only.

I clear my throat. “No, my parents died in a boat accident. But when I was younger, Carl would often talk about home invasions, and people who might want to take advantage of me if I wasn’t careful, so I started researching to prepare myself and know what to look out for. To have some peace of mind.”

Nico’s hand slides across my back, awakening my skin, and I don’t want it gone, not when it’s so cold our breath creates beautiful swirls of vapor. “Did it help?”

I snort. “No. I mean, yes, in the long run. I decided to take precautions and even hired a self-defense teacher. Look how useful that was when that fucker spiked my drink,” I add, shaking my head.

Nico nods. “Don’t blame yourself, unless you’re always alert, someone can sneak up on you. So the crimes don’t unnerve you anymore? You often sound excited on the podcast when you can share new tidbits.”

I smirk as we come near the Winter Emporium and see it full of customers. It is the weekend after all. “I would ask if you think it’s weird, but I already know the answer. I guess it’s fascinating to know what motivates people, especially serial killers, who really don’t seem to think like the average person. It’s… so interesting,” I say, meeting Nico’s gaze. “And yet, there are commonalities. Does the Christmas Killer collect the teeth as trophies, or is there some meaning to pulling all of his victims’ teeth?” I ask in a low voice.

Nico’s smile widens, and my heart skips a beat. Could I ever feel this way about a normal person? Maybe his true identity is part of the thrill and I’m just ashamed to admit it to myself?

A normal person in my situation would have long sought help. Maybe I’m not as normal as I always thought?

That, or Stockholm Syndrome is already taking root.

“I have to keep some secrets to keep you interested,” he says playfully as if we weren’t talking about murder trinkets but his shoe collection.

“Well okay, do you take photographs then?” I ask, biting my lip.

“If I do, would you like to see them?” Nico repositions my hat, but it’s surely just an excuse to touch me and I don’t mind. Wearing clothes he got for me, all the way down to underwear gives me a buzz. It’s as if he’s marked me with them. The question stirs something deep in my chest, a hunger for information no one but me would be privy to .

I would be disturbed if I found a dead body, but it’s different to see pictures. On top of that, if they’re all of terrible people who deserved what came for them?

“Yes,” I whisper as we stand still, intimately close, our eyes locked as if we were telling each other personal secrets. And while my plan for today included getting the hell out of his grasp, here I am, considering a reason to once again follow him down to his basement.

Maybe I’m one of those idiots who believe themselves to be way smarter than they are?

The tension between us thickens, and I wonder if he’s about to kiss me. We are standing so close, and Nico is openly gay in this town. He might do it. Would I be okay with that? A chaste little smooch at a wholesome Christmas market?

What’s happened to my brain? Am I really melting at the very idea?

“Eggnog, Nico?” a man yells from a nearby stall, and the moment is broken, yet I still ache down to my bones for a kiss. Before my fateful nightclub outing, I had no idea how starved my body is for touch, yet being in Nico’s presence makes that painfully clear.

Nico turns to the guy and pulls me along. “I can’t say no to that.”

I glance at a mobile coffee shop closing for the evening. It’s in the form of a small old-fashioned truck in shades of brown and navy, but as the owner gets in the driver’s seat, I join Nico on a bench under a wooden roofing. The burner in front of us has real flames inside, and the heat they produce feels delightful on my icy hands. Within moments, we’re holding a paper cup of eggnog each, and I dive in, showing the stall owner a thumbs up. The beverage is rich, and creamy, with notes of nutmeg and vanilla, and it’s either the best I’ve ever had, or just tastes exquisite at a Christmas market, with a handsome man at my side.

It feels so normal to do this, but then I spot a sheriff's deputy marching across the square, and my mouth dries. If I’m wrong about Nico’s intentions, I will think back to this moment when he squeezes my neck, but my mouth remains closed, and the officer enters her vehicle, out of reach.

A choir starts singing a jolly song and as I admire Nico’s beautiful profile illuminated by twinkling lights, the festive spirit gets to me. It’s not even Christmas yet, but I’m already feeling all gooey inside. Is it just because I’m not alone for once?

Nico takes another sip of eggnog and turns to me with a smile. “What?”

I swallow, torn about what I should say, but as I’m about to open my mouth, a strange creak tears through the air, followed by several shrieks. One glance toward the noise has me rooted to the ground, because the coffee truck has somehow backed into the main tree in the square, and while there are ropes meant to hold it vertical, the decorated fir is already starting to tip.

“Help! Let’s pull it up,” shouts someone.

Nico rises to his feet. “Wait here,” he says and darts toward the tree, which is on the brink of collapsing. Adrenaline sends me up as well, but as the deputy dashes out of the car alongside a colleague, I’m reminded that my situation is as unstable as that damn Christmas tree, and I can’t take any chances if I’m to survive.

“Your phone. Can I borrow it for a second?” I ask the gentleman who sold us the eggnog. He blinks, frowns, surprised that this is the moment I’ve chosen for my request. But he mumbles out a sure and unblocks his cell phone before handing it to me .

The device feels like a brick in my hand, but I need to call my brother before Nico remembers that I am in fact his prisoner.