Prologue

B en Whitlock

Ben shifted in his uncomfortable but sturdy maple wood chair as he glared down at the piles of market analyses from the recent colonial trade fair that were scattered across his desk. As mayor of the small Connecticut town named after him, he had a duty to make sure commerce was running smoothly in his community of supernatural beings, though the mundane tasks of administration hardly thrilled his vampire spirit.

As he reviewed the account books and financial obligations, he couldn't shake the feeling that everlasting life shouldn't be such a drudge. Immortality was wasted doing bureaucratic tasks.

A century or two ago, the idea of a vampire mayor would've been laughable. Now here he was, woven into the fabric of a community that depended on him, not just for order but for an empathetic ear. It gave him purpose, yes, but in the quiet moments between meetings and paperwork, the ache of solitude gnawed at him. Ben longed for someone to share forever with, someone who could bring joy back into his undead existence. But thus far, he'd had no luck finding his eternal mate. It had been two hundred long years since he had been turned, and the future looked bleak.

He straightened a stack of approvals for upcoming building projects, pausing to run a finger along the edge of an ornate silver letter opener, a gift from Zenaida, a witch who knew better than to send a bouquet of garlic. Zenaida had run against him for mayor for the last fifty years.

She'd lost each time.

Badly.

"Send in the next appointment," Ben called out to his assistant.

He leaned forward, hands steepled before him as Mrs. Clarington from the local apothecary laid out her concerns about the new potion regulations.

"We'll revisit the bylaws at the next meeting," he said.

The elderly witch nodded, lines of worry smoothing from her face as she gathered her belongings. She murmured thanks, the door closing softly behind her. Alone again, Ben's gaze drifted to the snow-laden streets outside, his thoughts turning to the upcoming Yule festival in the town. People didn't seem as excited as they usually were for this time of year. Could it be that his ennui was rubbing off on them?

Knocking snapped him from his brooding. The blacksmith, a burly werewolf, stepped in.

"Problem with the forge?" Ben guessed, noting the soot streaking the man's apron.

"More like with the iron shipment. There have been delays over at the port."

"Leave it with me," Ben assured him, a plan already forming. "We'll have your iron by week's end."

The werewolf dipped his head in acknowledgement before exiting. Ben scribbled a note, his mind working through logistics.

Another knock interrupted him, and he called for the visitor to enter. Ben didn't need to look up from the parchment sprawled across his desk. The chill that swept through the room was signature enough announcement for the fae ruler of the Kingdom of Nightmares.

"Evening, Roderick."

"Benjamin," Roderick drawled, his voice the velvety darkness of a starless night. Roderick's shadow stretched out before him as if to claim space in the room. "Still playing mayor to these creatures?"

"Someone has to keep the peace," Ben replied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Not all of us revel in chaos."

"Peace is overrated, and it dulls the senses."

"Perhaps, but it keeps the stakes and torches at bay."

"Ah, true." Roderick circled the desk to look out the window that showed the town's square. "Your people do have an aversion to being staked through the heart."

"An odd quirk of theirs." Ben leaned back in his chair. As they bantered, Ben felt his earlier melancholy dissipating. Roderick had a knack for showing up when Ben needed him most. Centuries of friendship had forged an unbreakable bond between them.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"I thought you could use a break from the tedium of municipal governance."

"You know me too well."

A commotion outside drew their attention. Ben moved to the window as well and peered down at the town square below. His supernatural citizens milled about, bickering and wandering aimlessly.

"Doesn't seem they're feeling the holiday spirit," Roderick said.

"Any suggestions?"

"Perhaps a visit from Krampus is in order." Roderick wiggled his fingers, and a distant jingle of bells froze everyone on the street before they scattered back into their homes. He snapped his fingers, and Ben knew some of the houses would have a small bundle of twigs waiting for them.

He chuckled. "Somehow I knew you'd suggest a bit of well-meaning terror."

"It keeps things interesting."

"Interesting isn't quite the word I'd use for your antics," Ben remarked, leading them away from the window. "More like...nightmarish."

"Finally, recognition for my hard work," Roderick deadpanned, yet there was a spark of pride behind his stoic expression. "I must go. I will see you soon."

"Leave the sack at home," Ben called out, but he didn't receive an answer.

Later that evening, Ben stepped out onto the snow-dusted streets of Whitlock. The town square was back to being a flurry of activity with Yule preparations underway, but something still felt off. He watched as a group of werewolves strung up garlands with less howl and more sigh than normal, their usual exuberance dulled.

A banshee wailed softly as she hung wreaths on lamp posts, her lament not for lost souls but rather for the missing cheer that seemed to haunt the town. Even the goblins, known for their raucous laughter, were subdued, their chuckles muffled under woolen scarves as they shuffled past with boxes of ornaments.

Ben meandered through the streets, his gaze sweeping over his people. It wasn't just the cold that nipped at the edges of the town. It was a drudging shuffle that seemed to have taken root in the once vibrant supernatural community. They all looked like zombies—even the ones who weren't.

And then there was Zenaida. She bustled through the crowd, a whirlwind of energy and smiles, her dark hair flowing behind her like a banner of defiance against the dreary mood. Her grating cackle cut through the muted murmurs of the townsfolk, and she danced around a frost giant with the grace of a leaf on the wind.

"Good evening, Mayor!" she sang out, twirling past him with a basket full of mistletoe and holly.

"Zenaida," Ben acknowledged, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why was she so unaffected when the rest of them weren't? What did she know that they didn't? Something was brewing in her cauldron, and that didn't bode well for anyone.