The sound wasn’t a knock. It was a slide.
A heavy, grinding friction of rough fabric against brick, echoing from the one place we hadn’t barricaded.
Julian and I froze, our eyes locking in the dim light of the dying fire. The flames had burned down to embers hours ago, leaving the hearth a gaping black mouth in the center of the room.
Scrape. Scrape. Thud.
A puff of black soot billowed out into the living room, hanging in the air like a phantom.
“The chimney,” Julian whispered, raising his weapon. His voice was steady, but his eyes were wide, reflecting the primal fear of a man realizing he forgot to lock the most obvious door.
“He can’t fit,” I said, my voice trembling. “The flue is too narrow.”
But I remembered the crawlspace. I remembered the way he had folded himself into the walls of my childhood home, compressing his body like an octopus squeezing through a keyhole. Elias wasn’t just strong; he was fluid. He was a creature of tight spaces.
Scrape.
A brick fell into the grate, clattering loudly against the iron andirons. Then another. He was dislodging the masonry from the inside, widening the throat of the chimney.
“Get back,” Julian ordered, shoving me behind the heavy oak sofa. “Get back, Elara!”
He leveled the gun at the fireplace, his stance wide, his finger tightening on the trigger.
From the darkness of the chimney, a voice drifted down. It wasn’t singing anymore. It was a guttural, wet rasp, amplified by the acoustics of the stone shaft.
“Here comes Santa Claus,” he whispered.
And then he dropped.
It happened in a blur of motion and ash. A massive, dark shape plummeted from the flue, landing in the grate with a bone-shaking crash that sent a cloud of soot exploding into the room.
Julian fired.
Bang!
The muzzle flash lit up the room for a split second, revealing the monster in our midst. Elias was covered in black dust, his eyes white and wild, his teeth bared in a grin that looked more like a rictus of pain. He wasn’t wearing the Santa suit from the song; he was wearing rags bound with duct tape, a scavenger’s armor.
The bullet missed, chipping the stone mantle.
Before Julian could fire again, Elias moved. He didn’t stand up; he sprang forward from a crouch, launching himself across the room like a wolf.
He collided with Julian, the force of the impact lifting the detective off his feet. They crashed into the coffee table, splintering the wood and sending the gun skittering across the floor into the shadows.
“Julian!” I screamed.
I scrambled out from behind the sofa, looking for a weapon. The fire poker. The lamp. Anything.
The fight on the floor was chaotic and brutal. Julian was fighting for his life, landing punches that sounded like wet slaps against Elias’s bulk. But Elias… Elias fought like he didn’t feel pain. He took a fist to the jaw and didn’t even blink.
He grabbed Julian by the throat, lifting his head and slamming it back against the floorboards.
Thud.
Julian groaned, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the thick, taped forearms constricting his windpipe.
“Bad Prince,” Elias snarled, spit flying from his mouth. “You tried to steal her. You put her in a cage.”
I grabbed a heavy ceramic vase from the side table. It was blue, painted with hydrangeas. My mother would have loved it.
I rushed forward and brought it down on Elias’s head with everything I had.
CRACK.
The vase shattered. Shards of pottery rained down on them.
Elias roared, releasing Julian’s throat. He reached up, touching the back of his head where blood was already matting his filthy hair. He turned slowly to look at me.
His expression wasn’t angry. It was hurt. Confused. Like a dog kicked by its master.
“Princess?” he whimpered. “Why?”
“Get off him!” I screamed, backing away.
He stood up, unfolding to his full height. He loomed over me, a giant made of soot and shadow. He ignored Julian, who was gasping for air on the floor, trying to crawl toward his lost gun.
“I came down the chimney,” Elias said, taking a step toward me. He held his hands out, palms up. “I brought gifts. Where are my cookies?”
“Stay back,” I warned, retreating until my back hit the wall.
“We have to go,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The sleigh is waiting. The reindeer are hungry.”
He lunged.
I tried to dodge, but he was fast—terrifyingly fast for a man his size. His hand closed around my wrist, his grip like a steel manacle.
“Let go!”
“No letting go,” he scolded. “That’s the rule. Hold tight.”
“Elara!” Julian shouted.
I looked past Elias. Julian had found the gun. He was propping himself up on one elbow, aiming.
“Don’t shoot!” I screamed. Elias was directly in front of me; a bullet would go through him and hit me.
Elias heard the click of the hammer cocking. He spun around, dragging me with him, using me as a shield.
“Cheater!” Elias howled.
He lifted his boot—a heavy, steel-toed work boot—and stomped down on Julian’s extended leg.
SNAP.
The sound was distinct. Dry wood breaking. Or bone.
Julian screamed. It was a high, ragged sound that tore through the cabin. The gun fell from his hand as he curled into a ball, clutching his shin.
“Julian!” I cried, struggling against Elias’s grip.
“He’s broken,” Elias said, dismissing him. He turned his attention back to me, his face inches from mine. He smelled of old smoke and unwashed skin. “Toys break when you play rough. You know that.”
He began to pull me toward the broken window, toward the storm.
“Time to go,” he said. “The North Pole is far away.”
I dug my heels into the rug. “No! I’m not going with you!”
“You have to,” he said, tightening his grip until my bones ground together. “I made the list. I checked it twice.”
My free hand flailed, searching for purchase. My fingers brushed against the wall… against a picture frame hanging there. A photo of the cabin in summer.
I grabbed it. I smashed it against the wall.
Glass rained down.
I kept my grip on a large, triangular shard.
Elias was dragging me. We were at the door. The wind was howling through the cracks, calling his name.
“Elias!” I shouted.
He looked at me. “What?”
I drove the shard of glass into his shoulder.
I didn’t aim. I just stabbed. The glass punched through the layers of canvas and tape, sinking deep into the muscle.
He didn’t scream this time. He gasped. A sharp intake of breath.
His grip on my wrist loosened.
I ripped my arm free and shoved him. He stumbled back, tripping over the rug, and fell against the doorframe.
He looked at the shard of glass sticking out of his shoulder. Blood—dark and thick—began to seep around the edges, staining the duct tape crimson.
He looked at me, his eyes wide with betrayal.
“You hurt me,” he whispered. “You’re not supposed to hurt the Knight.”
“I’m not a princess,” I hissed, stepping back to stand over Julian. I grabbed the gun from the floor, leveling it at him with shaking hands. “I’m the Dragon. Get out.”
Elias stared at the gun barrel. He looked at the blood on his shoulder. Then he looked at Julian, writhing in agony on the floor.
Confusion warred with rage on his face. The script was broken. The game had gone wrong.
“Naughty,” he muttered. “Naughty list.”
He reached up and ripped the glass from his shoulder with a wet sucking sound. He dropped it on the floor.
“I’ll tell,” he said. “I’ll tell everyone what you did.”
He turned and ran.
He didn’t go out the window. He charged through the front door, smashing the barricade aside like it was made of matchsticks. He burst out into the rain and the dark, a wounded animal retreating to its den.
I stood there, the gun pointed at the open doorway, listening to his heavy footsteps splashing away into the night.
“Elara…” Julian groaned.
I dropped the gun and fell to my knees beside him.
“I’m here,” I said, my hands hovering over his leg. “I’m here.”
His shin was bent at a sickening angle just below the knee. The denim of his jeans was tight, swollen. He was pale, his skin clammy and gray. Shock was setting in.
“Did you… did you get him?” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
“He ran,” I said. “I hurt him. But he ran.”
I looked around the cabin. It was a wreck. Soot covered everything in a layer of grime. The furniture was overturned. The window was smashed. The door was hanging off its hinges. Rain was blowing in, soaking the rug where we knelt.
We were exposed. The fortress had been breached.
“We have to leave,” I said. “He could come back with… reinforcements. Or fire.”
“I can’t walk,” Julian gasped. “Leg’s snapped. Tibia, definitely. Maybe fibula.”
“I’ll drive,” I said. “The truck…”
Then I remembered.
The tires were slashed. We were miles from town, on a dirt road that was turning into a river. No cell service. No landline.
“The truck is dead,” I whispered.
Julian closed his eyes, his head lolling back against the floor. “Then we barricade,” he whispered. “Again.”
“No,” I said. “This place is compromised. The chimney… he knows he can get in.”
I looked at the fireplace. The soot was still settling, coating the room in darkness.
I needed to stabilize his leg. I needed to stop the bleeding if the bone had broken the skin. And then…
And then what?
Drag him down the mountain in a storm?
“Elara,” Julian said, his voice weak. “The gun. Keep the gun.”
I picked up the revolver. It felt heavier than before.
“He’s bleeding,” I said, looking at the trail of red drops leading out the door. “He’s hurt. That makes him slower. But it makes him angrier.”
I looked at the open door. The lightning flashed, illuminating the empty yard.
“He’s not done playing,” I said.
I grabbed the tablecloth from the dining table and ripped it into strips. I found a sturdy piece of kindling from the woodpile.
“This is going to hurt,” I told Julian.
He nodded, bracing himself. “Do it.”
As I began to tie the splint, listening to his muffled screams, I realized the game had shifted. It wasn’t Hide and Seek anymore. It wasn’t Santa Claus.
It was King of the Hill.
And we were losing the high ground.