Page 5 of Christmas with a Cursed Werewolf

A book catches my eye—bound in dark leather with silver clasps. When I reach for it, I could swear the shelf shifts, making it easier to grasp.

The cover is unexpectedly warm to the touch, probably from sitting near a heating vent. As I open it, the pages fall open to a section about folklore and mythology. My breath catches. The margins are filled with handwritten notes, diagrams of creatures I thought existed only in stories.

"Werewolves," I whisper, tracing the detailed illustrations. "Vampires, fae..."

The notes are precise, clinical like field observations rather than fairy tales. My fingers tingle where they touch the page, probably from the dry paper, and in this light, the words seem to shift and dance.

I really should have gotten more sleep last night.

The temperature drops suddenly, my breath visible in the air. A draft must have kicked up, it's making the shelves around me creak and groan, the old wood settling.

Books flutter open as I pass, their pages turning in the wind. Something tugs at me, urging me deeper into the stacks.

Professional curiosity, I tell myself. Just a historian's natural instincts.

Before I can press him for answers, a deep rumbling draws my attention—the building settling, surely. When I look back, Alistair has vanished. The old butler moves like a ghost; I never even heard his footsteps.

The air feels different now, heavier. A section of wall that I could have sworn was solid stone seems to shift before my eyes. Exhaustion must be making me see things, but when I blink, there's definitely a hidden compartment revealed.

Inside lies a journal bound in dark leather, its cover bearing the same strange symbol the compass pointed to. In the dim light, the symbol almost seems to pulse.

When I lift the journal, it's unexpectedly warm, as if someone had just set it down. The first page bears an inscription in elegant script: "To those who would understand the Veil, beware the price of knowledge." The words blur and refocus as I try to read them. I really need to get more sleep.

The candles flicker violently.Another draft?

The strange vibration in the air takes on an urgent quality, like a warning. Time to go. I clutch the journal to my chest andhurry toward the door, trying not to notice how the bookshelves seem to move behind me, closing off the paths I'd discovered.

Just shadows and tricks of light, I tell myself.

In the corridor, the holiday music returns, along with the normal sounds of the gathering below. But everything feels different now.

The air tingles against my skin like static electricity, and the journal's weight against my heart feels significant. Like I've stumbled onto something bigger than my research could have prepared me for.

I hurry back to my room, mind racing. The journal, the compass, the strange phenomena in the library. None of it makes sense.

But one thing is clear: there's more to Frostspire Keep than Ronan wants me to know. More to my being here than coincidence.

As I close my bedroom door, I swear I can still feel that strange vibration in the air like the castle itself is holding its breath. The journal feels warm in my hands as I settle onto my bed, and in the darkness, I could swear the symbol on its cover gleams.

Whatever secrets this place holds, whatever I've stumbled into, I know there's no turning back now. Tomorrow, I'll return to the library. But tonight, I have reading to do.

Even if I'm imagining half of what I experienced, my historian's instincts tell me I've found something extraordinary. Something that might explain Ronan's fear, the staff's strange behavior, and why this castle feels so much more than just an old building.

I run my fingers over the journal's cover, trying to convince myself the warmth I feel is just my imagination. But deep down, I know better. Something is happening here at Frostspire Keep.

And somehow, I'm part of it.

Under the Mistletoe

RONAN

Istep into the Grand Hall just in time to see Briar placing her hands on her hips, staring at the sorry excuse for a Christmas tree. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, not that it does much to brighten the room. The tree stands in one corner, bent under the weight of faded decorations and dust. A tango of neglect and the lingering magic that threatens to snuff out completely, soon enough.

I hate that tree.

Everyone else is gathered here already—Giselle fussing over a box of ornaments, Nolan bouncing on the balls of his feet, excitement pouring from him like he actually thinks this day will matter. And Briar—always Briar—center stage. Her head tilts slightly as if considering something truly vital, like whether she should add more tinsel, when the world is literally one cracked stone away from collapsing in on itself.

She turns toward me, her eyes catching the dim winter light. “We could use some help here, Mr. Wolfe.” That spark in her voice—hopeful, insistent—ignites something deep in my chest. I shove it down where it belongs.

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