1. The victim

THE VICTIM

ONE HOUR FROM NOW…

T he ugly sweater party at the Evergreen Manor is in full swing and the grand ballroom is decorated to the hilt for the night.

Tinsel and garland drape every surface, along with mistletoe and holly, while classic holiday tunes blare over the speakers. But it's the screams of laughter and the clinking of glasses brimming with spiked eggnog that add the official merriment to the occasion.

Every last member of the Honey Hollow's Purple Bonnet Society is present and accounted for tonight. All of my friends, my foes, and everyone in between. In truth, only a smattering of members ever miss a meeting. But tonight, it's a veritable who's who of the witches who run this coven. Okay, so that wasn't very nice. I shouldn't name-call, especially at this time of year. But I can't help it. This so-called society is made up of nothing but a bunch of old gossips.

A tiny chuckle strums through me because I just so happen to be the biggest gossip of them all. It's a title I've gifted myself, and a position I take quite seriously. Nobody is better at digging up dirt than yours truly.

Although to hear Miranda Lemon tell it, she's convinced her daughter Lottie takes the cake in the dirt-digging category. And the cake would be baked by Lottie as well, seeing that she's the town baker.

I swear, all Miranda Lemon does is brag about her children and their children as well. Funny how little she brags about that daughter of hers who runs the strip club.

I swallow down another laugh.

That's right. I have the dirt on every last one of these yippy-bippy bimbos running amok with gaudy gold garland roped around their necks while making merry and bright.

I scan the women gathered here tonight with their vibrant purple Santa hats and equally loud and atrocious ugly sweaters as they jingle and mingle the night away.

I pour myself another glass of eggnog—spiked as previously mentioned. I'm sure of it because I happened to spike it myself. After all, there's nothing a little spiced rum won't cure. And if I play my spiked eggnog cards right, I'll manage to garner a few more secrets from these cackling coots before the night is through.

That's always the end game, always the goal. Money is fun, but gossip is sweeter. Sure, money has given me power, but it's the secrets that give me the upper hand when I need them most. And I hold those secrets until I'm good and ready to unleash them into the world.

And for one poor soul here tonight—or two or three poor souls—I think it's time to feed the machine again and get the gossip grapevine moving. I do love to see my subjects squirm. And they have been squirming all night, just begging me for mercy.

Here I stand, amidst the revelry, while nursing a glass of glorified rum, my own sweater—an atrocious mix of green and gold—making me itchy as can be.

Whose lousy idea was this ugly sweater party, anyway?

Oh, that's right. Suze Fox, the ugliest sweater-wearing woman you ever did see.

The only reason she suggested the theme was because she's too cheap to buy something proper to wear for herself. I've got a little dirt on her, too, that I don't mind letting fly out of my mouth. I'll have to do just that as a thank you for the chafing I'm currently putting up with.

But then, my discomfort is a small price to pay for the satisfaction of watching the room, knowing the power I wield with the secrets I harbor.

I swirl the eggnog in my glass, eyeing the crowd with a sigh of amusement and disdain.

"Tonight, I'm sending an entire handful of these fools up the creek," I whisper as the thought brings a smile to my face.

The goods I have on more than one of them is the kind of information that could ruin lives.

There's my so-called friend , a penniless fraudster masquerading as the crème de la crème of society. Oh, how I relish the thought of stripping her of her pretenses and revealing her true colors to the world. Soon, the only color she'll wear will be orange—as in prison garb. That's what she deserves, especially after what she's done to me.

And then there's the doozy I've got on yet another woman who dared to cross me—a secret so scandalous it could land them behind bars for life as well.

Who knows, maybe the two of them can be cellmates?

Now that would put me to bed with a smile on my face for the rest of my life.

I let my gaze wander over the sea of ugliness until it lands on the ugliest one of them all in the corner.

There they are.

A cold satisfaction settles in my chest at the mere sight of them.

I'm going to read them the riot act and then stick it to them where it hurts most. Nobody does what they've done to me—to my heart—and gets away with it.

A surge of adrenaline hits me and I pick up a slice of the scrumptious-looking plum pudding before stepping outside the ballroom for a moment of quiet.

The frozen night air is a sharp contrast to the warmth inside the ballroom.

I glance up, startled, as a sprig of mistletoe dangles inches from me.

I roll my eyes at the unholy weed. The so-called elves that decorated this place to the North Pole nines left no corner untouched.

The elves .

Thimblewick! That adorable little man with his pointy chin and eyes that shine bright as stars comes back to me.

Oh, the elves, how much I miss them most.

Oh, how that thought of those mythological creatures takes me back to simpler times. To the moments of my storied youth when my father knew Santa himself. Or at least he claimed to.

My father would whisk my siblings and me off to the "North Pole" a time or two as well. Of course, he passed away before I could ever find out how he pulled off the magic.

The sound of footfalls interrupts my thought and it seems my solitude is short-lived as a shadow emerges from around the corner.

That's when I spot them—and what they're holding in their hand leaves me to gasp.

"What are you doing with that?" I ask, my voice dripping with curiosity and more than a hint of fear. The object in their hand catches the faint light, and a chill runs down my spine. "What are you doing? Why are you looking at me that way? Wait, you can't?—"

They lunge my way, and before I can scream, a sharp stab of pain ripples through me.

My mouth opens and not a sound comes out as I glance down and inspect my wound. I try to take a step toward the ballroom, and instead, my body crumples to the ground.

The world begins to wobble and fade. Then darkness envelops me like a Christmas tree whose lights have just been turned off—for good.

The ugly sweater party continues to rage inside, oblivious to the sinister turn of events just beyond the ballroom doors, where I seem to have met my untimely demise—where all of my secrets and schemes will die along with me.