After the last of the fireworks faded, we headed back to the store, and I slept for a solid eight hours, untroubled by nightmares or any dreams at all.

  In the morning, we said our final goodbyes to Ed, then headed over to the now-abandoned Fireworks Kiosk. Tucked in the back, we found an exit door—only it didn’t lead out into the cornfields like it should’ve. Instead, it connected to a narrow staircase that spiraled down, drilling into the earth.

  Or through reality. I wasn’t exactly sure which.

  We followed it for nearly twenty minutes before it finally spat us out into a cavern so cold it stole the breath from my lungs. A thick blanket of snow carpeted the floor, and massive icicles hung from the ceiling like a dragon’s teeth.

  As much as I hated to do it, I pulled some cold-weather gear from Storage and layered up. Fleece-lined jeans went over my Daisy Dukes, and a winter jacket—looted from Style for Less—fit snugly under my bathrobe. Croc snickered. Harper cracked a joke about all those muffins finally catching up to me. I ignored them while the rest of the group bundled up in equally questionable fashion choices.

  My mini-map showed we weren’t alone in the icy expanse.

  Something else was definitely in here with us, though whatever it was, kept its distance. Maybe it was the Kiosk Club Cards. Maybe it was my Great White in a Barrel title. Either way, I counted it as a win. One less cannonball into the swimming pool of never-ending blood and violence.

  Eventually, we stumbled across a narrow wooden door tucked into one side of the cavern. It creaked open to reveal a tiny log cabin, barely more than a single room. Frost-crusted windows lined the walls, and a stone fireplace crackled merrily, filling the space with welcome heat. There was a tiny bed, way too small for any human, along with a handmade table and a rocking chair, both built for someone much smaller than us.

  I wrinkled my nose at the pungent, eye-watering aroma filling the air. The cabin smelled like an open sewer, and it didn’t take long to find the source of the rancid stink. A wooden bucket in one corner with a few flies lazily circling above like fighter jets.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what the bucket was for.

  We quickly found the front door which opened onto a large, fenced-in lot packed with towering pine trees, all strung with colorful Christmas lights. A sign, scrawled in bloody red letters, hung above the door.

  Evergreen Dreams Tree Farm – Open All Year Round!

  Several white triangles decorated my map—Dwellers, though not overtly hostile.

  It didn’t take long before a diminutive man with ruddy cheeks, a pointed red cap, and a long white beard shuffled into view. He couldn’t have been more than four feet tall, but he was built like a shit brickhouse. His skin had a faint blue tint, his teeth were filed to sharp little points, and a massive axe—easily as tall as he was—rested across one shoulder. A pair of leather bandoliers crisscrossed his chest, each one studded with brass jingle bells that gleamed in the dim light.

  Dweller 0.491045A – Pinewhisker the Axe-Gnome (Lot Manager) [Level 45]

  There’s a reason Evergreen Dreams Tree Farm is open year-round. Because nobody’s had the balls to shut it down. All thanks to Pinewhisker.

  Standing just shy of three feet tall—not counting the pointy, blood-slicked hat—this jingle-bell-wearing maniac is the self-declared “Yulelord of Trees.” But don’t let the rosy cheeks and festive beard fool you. This isn’t your grandma’s garden gnome. Pinewhisker is a mean little son of a bitch with a drinking problem, a booming cackle, and a battle axe carved from the heartwood of a cursed world tree. The guy guzzles mead like its water, and the more he drinks, the less shits he gives about your limbs staying attached to your body.

  Provoking him is inadvisable. This can include but is not limited to: Asking about the tree prices. Complimenting his beard in a tone he deems “mocking.” Breathing too loudly in his general direction.

  Despite his homicidal tendencies, however, Pinewhisker isn’t completely evil. He’s just chaotically festive. If you show up with a fresh jug of honey mead and the respect due to a centuries-old axe-wielding holiday demon, you might just walk away with a quality yule tree. And your torso intact.

  I quickly scanned the description as Pinewhisker regarded us with deep set eyes, which flashed to the Kisok Club Card Tattoo plastered against the back of my hand.

  “I don’t think he likes us too much,” Croc whispered to me as I waved away the prompt.

  “That might be the understatement of the century,” I replied quietly.

  “I can hear ya’,” the grumpy gnome said. His voice was thick, the words coated with a Nordic accent of some sort. Finnish maybe, or Scandinavian.

  “We know,” Temperance said, already fingering her cleaver fondly. “And we don’t care.”

  The Gnome grunted but made no move to attack us. “You looking to buy a tree or what?” he barked, clearly annoyed by our presence.

  I shook my head. “Just passing through.”

  That seemed to give the creature pause, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, tasting the air.

  “You reek of sulfur and napalm,” the Gnome said flatly. “It clings to your clothes. To your skin. I take that to mean you killed Uncle Sam, then?”

  The question surprised me.

  Although I’d certainly met intelligent Dwellers before, most didn’t seem to have much of an awareness about the floors above them or below them. It was almost like each level was its own self-contained world, entirely separated from the others. But Pinewhisker, as disagreeable as the Codex entry made him sound, seemed more keenly aware of what was going on than most Dwellers.

  I nodded. “He wouldn’t let us pass,” I said matter of factly, “so we cut our way through. Doesn’t need to go that way, though. Our business isn’t with you.” I let the overt threat of violence hang in the air between us.

  Pinewhisker was quiet for a moment as he considered my words.

  “He was a mean bastard, Uncle Sam,” Pinewhisker finally said. “A right cunt, if I’m being honest. But he was also tougher than Krampus’s nutsac.” He shuffled aside a few steps, his back pressed against one of the nearby trees. “If he couldn’t kill ya’, I doubt I’d fare much better. Go on then.” He flapped a hand toward a brightly lit exit, festooned with even more Christmas lights. “I don’t want no trouble.”

  “So you’re just going to let us pass?” Jakob asked, sounding skeptical.

  The Gnome issued a sharp laugh.

  “This is the forty-ninth floor,” the gnome said, “not the fifth floor or the fifteenth. Not everything here is a mindless beast. We’re a shrewd lot. Doesn’t mean the Dwellers here won’t use your entrails to decorate the trees, but they’ll be smart about it. Just like me. I’d kill you if I could.” He shrugged. “But I can’t. No point in trying to stop you if it means my guts end up splattered across the ground like a pile of pig shite. Don’t know where ya’ hail from, but down here on forty-nine, might makes right.

  “You don’t live to the ripe of age of two-hundred and nine without learning when to walk away from a war ya’ can’t win.” He considered us for a long moment. “Might be a lesson you ought to learn before you go picking a fight with something tougher than you. Like the Flayed Monarch or the Franchisor,” he added knowingly. “Mucking around with folk like that is how you end up dead. Or worse than dead,” he warned darkly, something nasty flashing in his eyes.

  “I take it you know who we are then?” I asked.

  He grunted, and one hand darted into his thick woolen jacket. He pulled out a wanted poster with my mug plastered across the front. “Every franchisee knows who you are, lad. But not all of us are willing to be cannon fodder for the machinations of those below. Not that it much matters. Not in the long run. If I was a gambling gnome—which I am—I’d bet everything I own that you never make it off this floor alive. The forty-ninth is not for the weak.”

  “That’s what everyone said about the twenty-fourth floor,” I said, “but here we are.”

  “I’ve been wrong before,” Pinewhisker admitted, scratching at his beard. “But I don’t think I’ll be wrong this time. Just a friendly word of warning, from one entrepreneur to another. You’ll want to find a place to bunker down come nightfall. Gets real cold when the star moon rises and the Yetis like to come out and play. And if you run across Kringlegard, I’d give it a wide berth if I were you.”

  I squinted at him in suspicion.

  “Why are you helping us?” I asked.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Never hurts to play both sides,” he replied. “Like I said, we’re a shrewd lot. Could be you’ll all die, but what if you win, huh? If that happens… Well, perhaps you’ll remember ol’ Pinewhisker. But it’s no skin off my nose, either way. You want to die, be my guest. You’ll find what you’re looking for that way.” He waved a hand off in the distance. “But if you have any sense in your heads, you’ll learn your place and leave well enough alone.”

  “That’s always been my problem,” I replied. “Too dumb to know when to quit.”

  Pinewhisker snorted. “You’ve got balls on ya’, I’ll say that much. I’d wish you luck, but I don’t waste my wishes on the dead.”

  Without another word, the gnome turned and tottered back into the trees, disappearing like a wraith in the night.

  “Well, I’d say we’re off to a good start already,” Croc said, as we all stood there staring at the place Pinewhisker had been a moment before.

  “You have a truly curious perspective,” Jakob said. “You do understand that he just told us we’re all going to die, correct?”

  “Of course, but he didn’t actively try to murder us, which is pretty encouraging,” Croc replied. “Plus, he was so adorable with that little red hat. Do you think a hat like that would look good on me?” The dog’s head shifted and elongated, and a pointed crimson cap appeared, grafted to the top of the dog’s skull.

  Temprance grimaced. “It’s no worse than the googly eyes.”

  “I think it’s charming,” Harper said, scratching the mimic behind one ear.

  We made our way out of the lot and into a snow-encrusted pine forest, ancient trees stretching up toward a curved dome high above us made entirely of glass. Fat flakes of snow fell drifted down, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath. “We’re in a giant fucking snow globe.”

  Temperance scowled while Jakob marveled.

  “I wonder if this will be like a Hallmark movie,” Harper asked, staring up as vibrant ribbons of green, blue, and gold clawed their way across the deep purple of a twilight sky.

  “Somehow I doubt it,” I replied, pulling my gaze away from the aurora borealis and focusing on the dark forest stretching out ahead. The trees were decked out in merry strings of Christmas lights, wrapped in layers of colorful tinsel, and weighed down with cracked ornaments that looked like they’d been stolen from a dollar store clearance bin.

  Unlike many of the other floors we’d visited, there weren’t any hallways or stretching corridors. Just snowy footpaths that wound through the trees like someone had tried to draw a maze while drunk. There were half a dozen paths to pick from, so I cast Unerring Arrow and watched as it snaked into the trees, following the left-most trail. I checked my mini-map for any sign of hostile Dwellers, but didn’t see anything in the immediate vicinity.

  That didn’t necessarily mean were alone—mimics could hide in plain sight without breaking a sweat—but for now the coast seemed to be clear.

  Still, the forest left me feeling more than a little uneasy, and I didn’t much like the idea of trekking through the enclosed woods, where anything could be waiting for us.

  “Croc,” I said, turning to the mimic. “Do you know how to make a sleigh? Like the kind Santa drives?”

  The mimic’s googly eyes visibly brightened. “My time has finally come.”

  A look of intense concentration split Croc’s face as its body changed and morphed, limbs contracting, torso elongating and flatting out as skids and seats formed. In moments, the dog was gone completely, and a rubbery blue sleigh with googly eyes and that stupid, pointed red hat sat in the snow.

  “Does this work?” the mimic asked, waggling a tail that jutted out from the ass end of the sleigh.

  “It’s a good first effort,” I said, before motioning for Jakob and Temp to climb in.

  Jakob cocked an eyebrow. “You want us to fly?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking it’s got to be less dangerous than trekking through the forest on foot. Unless you’re opposed?”

  The Cendral glanced up, searching the sky for potential threats. “No, no, I think the plan has merits.”

  He climbed in though Temp hesitated, lips pursed nervously as she traced the toe of her furry boot through the snow.

  “What’s the problem?” Croc asked. “I promise I’m structurally sound.”

  “Don’t laugh,” she said with a scowl. “But… I’m afraid of heights. And I’ve never flown before. I’ve always been of the opinion that if God wanted us to fly, he would’ve given us wings.”

  Jakob grinned and pulled a rope from his Spatial Storage. “Don’t worry, Kleiner Hase,” he said, waggling the rope at her. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall.” He patted the empty seat beside him.

  Her scowl deepened, but she reluctantly nodded and climbed aboard. Jakcob took a few seconds to wrap the rope around his own waist before doing the same for Temperance, then he secured one end to the rubbery railing.

  I activated Psychic Sovereignty and extended one thread around the sleigh and used another to lift myself from the snow-covered ground. With an effort of will, we rose into the air, while Harper flitted along beside us on outstretched wings.

  Once we’d cleared the treetops, I cast Unerring Arrow again, which shot straight as an arrow off into the distance, before veering hard right away from the aroura borealis painted across the sky in broad brushstrokes.

  “Stay close,” I called back to Harper, “and follow my lead.”

  We set off at a quick clip, coasting fifteen feet above the treetops—high enough to keep clear of anything that might be hiding in the forest, but not so high that we made ourselves easy targets.

  I kept my head on a swivel, scanning for threats both above and below as we raced toward the horizon. More than once, my mini-map lit up with red triangles, and I spotted movement in the pine forest—but never clearly enough to trigger a pop-up notification about whatever was stalking us from the shadows. A few times, something hidden in the trees hurled razor-sharp icicles our way, but they all sailed harmlessly past and crashed harmlessly back into the forest.

  As the grays and purples of twilight finally gave way to true night, a glassy moon rose into the sky. Naturally, it looked like an enormous, pointed Christmas Star—the kind you’d precariously place on the top of a tree. It glimmered with a distant, surreal beauty, casting sharp beams of silver light across the snow. Whatever lurked in the forest below grew more restless with each passing hour, and as more icy spears came hurtling from the trees, we were forced to climb higher.

  It was sort of magical in a strange way, carving through the icy skies, Temp and Jakob snuggled beneath a blanket one of them had fished out of Spatial Storage, while Harper buzzed along beside me.

  Then the light shifted.

  It was subtle at first. A flicker in the sky. A shimmer that wasn’t quite where it had been before. The aurora borealis twisted, its colors deepening from soft emeralds and sky-blues into sickly, iridescent hues that stirred with faint life.

  “Hey, uh…” Harper slowed, falling back alongside the sleigh. “Is it just me, or is that thing getting closer?”

  I frowned and craned my neck. She was right. The streaks of color were no longer drifting lazily across the sky. They were advancing. Moving toward us with purpose.

  “I thought auroras were supposed to stay put,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

  “They are,” Jakob said grimly. “They do not hunt.”

  This one clearly did. A notice appeared, hanging before me like a warning sign.

  Dweller 0.490768S – Polaris Vora (Skybound Amoebiform) [Level 68]

  At first glance, Polaris Vora might seem like a breathtaking natural phenomenon, shimmering across the sky in hypnotic waves of emerald and violet. But it is so much more. So much worse. This airborne gelatinous monstrosity uses its sheer beauty to lure in unsuspecting onlookers, who are then promptly absorbed, digested, and reduced to a slow-swirling soul smear in its radiant guts.

  Like many cosmic horrors, it doesn’t think, plan, or negotiate. It only consumes. It is hunger incarnate. It drifts lazily through the skies until it detects motion, warmth, or the sweet psychic stench of a mortal soul, and then it moves with horrifying purpose. Despite its jellyfish-like grace, this thing is massive, miles across, and capable of chasing down aircraft, birds, or whatever unlucky idiot decided to try paragliding on this floor.

  There is no fighting this Dweller. The best you can hope to do is run. Failing that, drop something bigger than you as bait. Or someone. We’re not judging. As the saying goes, you don’t have to outrun the bear, you just have to outrun the other campers. Do not attempt to attack it directly unless you have a death wish or an ancient anti-celestial railgun. Even then, your chances of survival are a coin toss at best.

  I gaped at the description. I’d never even seen a Dweller designated as S-Ranked before and this thing was more than twenty-levels above even me. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that we could kill it.

  The lights rolled forward like a sentient tide, undulating across the heavens with unnatural speed. The tendrils of color thickened, twisting into long, trailing limbs that seemed to defy the laws of physics as they reached for us like grasping hands. And the closer it got, the faster it moved, ribbons of shifting light warping into something fleshy and glistening.

  “Oh fiddlesticks. I don’t like that,” Croc muttered. “I don’t like that one bit.”

  “Go faster,” Temp snapped, gripping Jakob’s arm hard enough to bruise.

  She didn’t have to tell me twice.

  I pushed the limits of Psychic Sovereignty, spurring us on to greater speed. The sleigh dipped slightly, angling lower as we tore toward the forest canopy, staying just ahead of Polaris Vora, which shrieked through the sky like a banshee made of burning tinsel.

  And just like that, our magical Hallmark moment evaporated in an eye blink.

  I banked hard to the west, hoping to skirt around the pulsing mass of lights, but the damn thing was pacing us, matching our speed with unnerving ease.

  “We’re not gonna outrun it,” Harper declared, her eyes narrowed against the wind.

  “I know,” I growled. “But maybe we can outmaneuver it.”

  I pulled us down into a low glide, skimming just above the treetops. The forest blurred beneath us and my mini-map promptly lit up with red triangles as unseen creatures scuttled through the trees. I thought about touching down but didn’t like the idea of dropping us right in the center of an ambush with any number of unknown enemies. So, instead, I continued to push us forward, my body shaking from the strain of holding the spell together.

  We raced mere inches from the top of the canopy, pine trees occasionally brushing the bottom of Croc’s rubbery skids. I glanced back over one shoulder and for a moment, I thought we’d shaken the encroaching, gelatinous horror. Then something materialized on the horizon. Dark blots. At least half a dozen of them. Carving through the frosty night air like knives through velvet. The shapes were too fast and too angular to be anything natural.

  Shadows with antlers quickly materialized in the dark. Colossal hooves sparked with black fire as they ran across the sky.

  One of the creatures broke ahead of the others, wreathed in a halo of burning crimson, like a shooting star aimed right at us.

  “We’ve got company at twelve o’clock,” I bellowed, watching the monster approach from the front while the Polaris Vora closed in on us from behind.

  Jakob squinted, then blanched. “Mein Gott, Reindeer.”

  “Those are not normal reindeer,” Temp shouted to be heard over the roaring wind.

  She was right.

  These weren’t the jolly sleigh-pullers ripped from Christmas Carols. These were aerodynamic nightmares—skeletal, jet-black beasts with exposed ribcages glowing like furnace grates. Their eyes burned with hellish purple flames, and their antlers were sharpened metallic points that reflected the shifting lights from the pursing monstrosity.

  The lead reindeer tilted its head and let out a reverberating warcry, then it dove as the herd split into a hunting formation. Two charged straight toward us like heat seekers, while two more peeled off left and two more headed right.

  “They’re flanking us!” Harper shouted, wings flaring as she shot higher into the air. “Whatever that light-blob-thing is, they’re herding us toward it!”

  “I noticed,” I called back, realizing just how well and truly fucked we were.

  The Polaris Vora pulsed hungrily as it closed in, its colors darkening into shades of dark violet and deep arterial red. The air around us started to hum—high and tinny, like a million tiny sleigh bells being shaken just out of sync.

  This wasn’t just a pursuit.

  It was a trap. A noose pulling tight around our throats. And we’d walked right into it.