“Santa,” he said, drawing out the name like he was sampling a new wine. “We’re so blessed to have you join us today.”
I gave him the old ho-ho-ho, low and growly. “Anything for the kids, Reverend. That’s what the season’s about, right?”
He took my hand and shook it. His grip was iron, his palm dry and uncalloused. He squeezed a fraction longer than normal, just enough to see if I’d flinch. I didn’t.
He tilted his head, studied my face like he was counting the number of bones he could break before I screamed. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” he said. “But you’re doing a fine job. The children seem… captivated.”
“Just spreading Christmas cheer, Reverend,” I said. “One traumatized brat at a time.”
He didn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “We value volunteers here at Fable. We keep a close watch on them, too. For the children’s safety.”
I met his gaze, unblinking. “That’s very responsible of you.”
He looked down at the sleeve of my Santa suit, where the tattoos showed through the fake fur. “You a man of faith, Mr…?”
I shrugged. “Santa.”
He nodded, dead serious. “Of course.”
He let go of my hand and straightened his tie. “We’re about to begin the Christmas Eve service in the sanctuary. After that, the children’s choir performs. You’re welcome to attend, if you’re not needed elsewhere.”
I got the message. Stick around, or I’ll assume you’re robbing the place.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
He gave a last, lingering look, then turned and strode off, wife and daughter in tow. The volunteers followed, leaving me alone on the throne.
I sat back, let the adrenaline drain out, and peeled off the beard. My jaw ached from clenching it so long, and the suit was already soaked through with sweat and kid snot.
I watched the Reverend gather his flock, watched the way everyone moved to give him space, watched the way thedaughter—Darla, if I remembered right—walked a step behind, her face set in a way that said she’d rather be anywhere but here.
I wondered how many other wolves she’d seen, and if she’d know one when she met him.
I reached for the flask in my boot, took another pull, and closed my eyes for just a second. Outside, the church bells started ringing, and the last of the Christmas lights blinked and buzzed, fighting to stay alive.
I stood, brushed the fake snow off my knees, and went to find the girl with the chestnut hair.
***
It didn’t take long to find her. In a sea of Christmas sweaters and bored suburban faces, Darla Maple was a supernova. Modest, sure—green dress with sleeves down to her wrists, hem hovering just above the knee, nothing you could call slutty even if you were born in the 1940s—but the shape of her was pure rebellion. You could tell she’d been raised to be invisible and learned, over time, to make the world stare anyway.
She was surrounded by children, half of them crying, the other half vibrating on raw sugar and religious anxiety. Darla crouched low to the ground, coaxed a kid out from under the “NOEL” banner, then scooped her up and set her on a nearby folding chair. She knelt in the fake snow, hands gentle but quick, brushing tears and snot with the sleeve of her dress like she’d done it a thousand times. The whole time she smiled, not the frozen pageant-winner smile, but a real one that seemed to light up the dead winter daylight bleeding through the window glass.
Her hair was pulled back from her face but not tightly; chestnut curls spilled down one side, catching flecks of tinsel and the occasional snowflake as she moved. She had a birthmark just above her right eyebrow—a little comma that broke thesymmetry and made her face impossible to forget. Her eyes were blue, but not icy like the Reverend’s—hers had some warmth in them, a little green at the center, a hint of chaos barely kept in check.
She laughed at something a volunteer said, then looked up and caught me watching.
I didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. But for the first time all day, I didn’t feel in control.
She gave me a nod—just a dip of the chin—and turned back to the toddler, whispering something that made the kid giggle and stop crying instantly. The other volunteers deferred to her, not in the way people obey out of fear, but with the respect given to someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing.
I watched her for a solid five minutes, long after my own Santa obligations had dried up. Every so often, she’d glance over her shoulder, catch me staring, and arch one eyebrow like she was challenging me to keep it up. I did.
After a while, the crowd thinned out. The sanctuary doors opened, and the congregation began to filter in, faces upturned, ready for whatever holiday nonsense was next on the docket. Darla hung back, fussing with the decorations, re-setting chairs, scooping up candy wrappers, and shoving them in her apron pocket. She had the kind of easy competence that made the chaos of the room seem orchestrated, almost deliberate.
I waited until she was alone near the refreshments table before I made my move.
I pulled off the Santa hat, slicked my hair back with one hand, and approached. She was pouring fruit punch into Dixie cups, moving fast but precise. When she saw me coming, she didn’t freeze or smile; she just watched, eyes sharp and alive.
