No.
No, no, no, no—
The world tilts, gears grinding. My thoughts smear like wet ink. My legs kick once, twice, sending a tub of stuffed animals flying, plush bodies scattering like casualties across the floor.
Distantly, I register a dim crash from the front of the store. A bellow of rage that doesn’t sound human—deep and rough and full of murder.
Bran.
I try to claw toward that sound, toward him, but my fingers won’t obey. My hands are heavy. My eyelids are heavier.
“Go to sleep,” Henry says kindly, like he’s tucking a kid in. “We have such a long drive ahead of us.”
The hallway blurs. The boxes and walls smear into a gray smear. My own breath sounds far away, echoing down a tunnel.
Somewhere beyond the door, I hear chaos—the thud of feet, someone shouting my name, the crash of something big hitting something bigger.
I try to answer. I really do.
The darkness doesn’t care.
It swallows me whole.
THIRTY
BRAN
Something’swrong.
I don’t have proof.
But something in my gut goes tight right around the time I’m asking a little girl in a velvet dress if she’s been good this year, and all I can think isshe’s been gone too long.
Twiggy said two minutes. I’ve counted four.
“Santa, can my cat get a present?” the girl asks seriously. “She’s also been good. Mostly.”
I drag my eyes back to her, force a smile behind the beard.
“Of course,” I say. “What’s your cat’s name?”
“Princess Murderface,” she says.
I blink.
“That is an excellent name,” I say gravely.
She beams, hops down, and races back to a woman laughing near the line.
I watch her go and scan the edge of the crowd again.
No Tallulah.
No striped tights. No crooked elf hat. No mess of hair and sharp eyes and bells.
Just a hallway pulsing in my peripheral vision like a sore tooth.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I manage for the next kid, barely.
