“But wait, you’re not…” Pembroke’s hands rushed over the Slain’s body, clothed in a patchwork of rags. A chest, so well defined it could only have been chiseled. His hands trembling as his fingers found the wooden hinges attaching the shoulder joints to the arms. Wood. The entire body. A replicant.
Pembroke took a step back, confusion and dust whiting out any other thoughts. The reindeer tried to focus on the Slain’s face. It was unmoving. A strong brow never creasing. An expression of benevolence painted on. “Sorry kiddo—there really is no Santa Claus.”
Pembroke realized. “You’re a puppet!”
A toy, alive. But how? Pembroke stepped towards the replicant. He smelled sweet like dust, but a woodier, richer version. Pembroke realized the replicant smelled of lacquered sugar plum. The Toy-Mak
