STEFAN RETREATED to the parlor, towing the sack behind him. Fire was instant death to a boy made of wood.

Marie took point, slogging buckets of water from the kitchen to the front door. She lined them up and refilled them as quickly as she could.

In the Stahlbaums’ family parlor, Christmas waited to begin. The great evergreen tree towered over the center of the room while the fireplace burned low, giving off heat and a flickering light. The debris of Christmas Eve gift-giving littered the floor—colorful paper, boxes, cloth wrappings. There was even a bit of orange peel from the treats stuffed in the stockings above the mantel.

Stefan tugged at the strings of his cousin’s bag. Christian had said there was something besides fireworks inside. A weapon. He fumbled to undo the ties, but his fingers were stiff and tired from the battle.

A breeze stirred the wrapping paper littering the floor.

Marie emerged from the kitchen with yet another bucket of water. She smiled bravely at Stefan. “We’re beating it back,” she announced, and carried on.

The paper rustled again. This time, from behind the Christmas tree.

Stefan frowned. What breeze could do that? The windows were shut, the only gusts coming from the front door each time Marie opened it.

An icy chill ran up Stefan’s spine to his scalp, where it froze in a lump of dread.

Something was inside the house.

Stefan’s hand went to his scabbard, but his sword was no longer there. He edged away until his back was against the wall opposite the tree. To his left, the room opened onto the foyer where Marie labored. To his right, a great mirror hung the length of the wall, reflecting the fireplace. It gave the impression of a much larger room with two trees, two sofas, many scattered chairs, and two strangely carved young men.

“Show yourself!” Stefan said.

The rustling stopped. He could hear small footsteps beneath the furniture.

He struggled again to open the sack, but the bag would not yield. Frustrated, he grabbed an unlit candlestick from a side table and hefted the pewter base in his hands.

He could hear breathing across the room, close to the fire. He waded through the wrapping paper, edging toward the sound.

“Ah!” Something sliced at him below the knee. His pant leg tore. He stumbled backward, swinging the candlestick toward the ground, hitting only the floor.

“Marie!” he called out, his back against the tree.

Snickt! A flash of blade and tassel fell away from his shoulder, and a dull ache stabbed the small of his back. They were in the tree!

Stefan spun, eyes darting from star to garland to cross-shaped base, seeking the enemy. He could see nothing but the gleam of ornaments and shadowy branches.

He backed away again, coming close to the fireplace. Too close.

The paper on the floor rustled again, and a high-pitched keening rose up around him.

A shadow grew along the far wall, spreading upward to touch the ceiling.

It’s not a mouse, Stefan thought. It couldn’t be. For the shadow towering over him was bigger than a man, taller than the tree. And it wore seven crowns.

“Thee hast killed our mother,” seven voices spoke at once in smooth, archaic German. A shadow sword flickered at its side. “Now, boy, thee shalt pay.”