“Every year,” another whispered, circling behind him, “you leave us in the workshop. Every year we rebuild you from the sleigh’s logs and reindeer bones.”
“Tonight,” the third said, untying the velvet rope from the tree, “you remember why we call it incesta .”
The game began again.
“You came back,” said the eldest. “We thought you’d forgotten the rules of the game.”
Santa — or whoever wore the coat now — stumbled through the chimney and landed in a living room that smelled of mulled wine and something wrong.
The fire spat green sparks.
Santa’s sack was empty. His list had only one name, repeated in every font of sin.
