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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.