10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

T he resistance at Demre and Hill folded quickly under the Yule Lads’ assault.

To be fair to the security detail who’d taken the brunt of it, they had come to work expecting to deal with a disgruntled banker or pushy cop. Not thirteen—Ket had caught up with them halfway there—heavily armed assholes who didn’t get a chance to cut loose like this often these days.

Somerset blocked a knuckleduster-weighted roundhouse aimed at his head, the impact of metal and bone against his forearm a dull, spreading ache, and grabbed the redcap by the throat. The brutal fey’s deep-set eyes bulged, and his face reddened to nearly the color of his cap as Somerset lifted him off the ground.

“We don’t have an appointment,” Somerset said mildly. He tightened his grip on the redcap’s throat until he felt the structures underneath creak. “But I hope your COO can still fit us in.”

The redcap squeezed a wet croak out of his crushed throat as he thrashed. His steel-toed boots cracked painfully against Somerset’s shins and knees. Thin lips peeled back from uneven teeth as the redcap sucked in a breath through his flattened nose—although the Yule Lads couldn’t claim credit for that one.

“You—”

The world went dark before the redcap could either give Lucas up or tell Somerset to fuck off again. It was a solid, featureless black, so heavy it felt like it had weight as it dropped over them. It sucked out even the splutter of color from the backs of your eyes. The sort of disorienting absence that people only experienced in deep, deep caves or nightmares.

A night so total there was no way to tell what monsters hid in it.

It was a good trick. Most of the time.

There was just one problem.

Somerset was the monster in the dark.

Really ? That sounded like something an elf would come out with. Maybe Jars had a point about Somerset being gone too long.

The redcap used Somerset’s moment of self-reflection to grab a handful of his hair. He yanked on it viciously, and Somerset snarled silently as he heard the sickly crackle of his scalp being pulled away from his skull for a second before the hair ripped free. The hot scrape of pain jabbed down into his jaw and the back of his neck. He left the redcap to clutch his trophy and snapped his head forward in a short, vicious headbutt.

Not many things could win a “whose head is hardest” contest with a redcap, but Somerset was giant-kin. Or mountain goat. It wasn’t like their mother kept their dads around once she tired of them, and things had been different back then. Either way, the top of Somerset’s skull cracked against the redcap’s forehead, hard enough to make his ears ring.

He would probably have seen stars too, for that matter, if it wasn’t for the cloying darkness.

The redcap made a strangled noise and sagged in Somerset’s grip. He was still conscious, more or less, but was reduced to twitching instead of thrashing. Somerset smacked him against a wall for good measure and then chucked him to the side.

“Nik,” Somerset yelled. “You trying to get someone killed?”

A laugh trickled in from somewhere in the pitch-black. It could have been to the left or right, or up or down for that matter. The dark was so heavy it made it hard to orient yourself. Somerset heard the distinct whistle of Nik’s halberd and then a shocked yelp from one of the redcaps.

“Isn’t that the point?” his little brother taunted him .

The snap of Jars’s voice, tight with irritation, cut through the blanket of black that hung over them. “Not. Everyone. Turn it back up.”

Light flashed back into the world like a torch. It was just the yellowish glow of overhead lights, but it jabbed into Somerset’s eyes like he’d looked directly at the sun. He squinted through the glare and pulled a knife out of the scabbard holstered to his thigh. The reflections that bounced off the blade dazzled as he brought it up in a quick arc. He caught the baton as it descended, sparks thrown off as metal scraped on metal.

On the other side of the baton, a draugr snarled at him, face twisted with the stigmata of rot. Its breath smelled even worse, rancid as it hissed through cracked brown teeth.

“Oath-breakers,” the not-dead thing spat at him. “You’ll rot for this. Worse than me.”

Somerset grunted and kicked the thing’s knee out from under it. It broke like a stick, not a leg, and it went down like a puppet with its strings cut. The jerky, unnatural movement caught Somerset off-guard, and he didn’t react quickly enough. As it dropped, the draugr flicked the length of the baton down and drove the butt end of it into Somerset’s elbow.

He felt it pop out of place, and his fingers went numb. The knife slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground. The draugr peeled thin, split lips back from its teeth in a satisfied grin and wound its arm back for another blow.

Ket’s hook pierced it through the bones of its arm, shreds of jerky flesh and leathery skin caught on the point of it. It slid up, ripping through the flesh, until it caught on the heel of the draugr’s hand. It had time to look surprised, jaundice-yellowed eyes wide, and then Ket yanked hard enough that the thing’s arm popped out of its shoulder like an overcooked chicken.

“Can’t even blame it on getting distracted this time,” Ket pointed out. The draugr’s fingers curled and clawed as it blindly looked for purchase. Ket flicked the hook to get rid of it, and the whole arm went flying into the melee. “He’s not even here.”

“Mind your tongue,” Somerset warned him. He shook the feeling back into his hand and stooped to grab his knife off the ground. The edge of it was chipped, but it would still work. He rolled his wrist around to check the balance while he scrubbed the heel of his other hand over his eyes. “Any sign of our changeling?”

Ket pulled a sour face and spat on the ground. “He can hide, but he can’t run,” he said. “We’ll get him.”

They better .

Somerset wiped his nose on the back of his hand and then his hand on his T-shirt as he looked around. The skirmish was over. All they had left was to mop up the dregs and straighten the furniture for morning.

“If you were a changeling who’d just realized how far in over his head he was,” Somerset said, “where would you—”

Before he could finish the question, Stúfur was thrown through one of the plate glass conference room windows. Hexagonal chunks of glass sprayed the room as he crashed into—and then through—someone’s desk. A fist-sized ball of rubber bands bounced off the table and rolled across the floor.

“This do?” Stúfur asked from a prone position. He lifted his hand up over his head. The trophy dangled from his fingers, a bright red Santa hat. “Skellir said he was in costume, right?”

“Somerset.”

The correction went ignored as Gat grabbed the hat out of Stúfur’s hand. No, to be fair, once he wasn’t holding his prize, Stúfur did give Somerset a single upraised finger.

Gat lifted the bedraggled pompom to his face and sniffed at it, nostrils flared and lips parted. People had described him as catlike before, but it really gave the wrong impression. He was , but not in the sleek, graceful black cat way that sprang to mind when they heard the word. Gat looked like a back-alley tomcat, with scruffy fever-coat gray hair, one eye, and scars from old scraps.

“Smells right,” he said and stuffed the hat into the front of his jacket. “I’ll find him. Someone time me.”

The kelpie that had just drop-kicked Stúfur through the wall pushed her way into the room. On her way through, her head and the breadth of her oddly set shoulders took out what fragments of glass had stayed in the frame.

“You won’t get away with this,” she warned. Her skin had shaded toward a murky brown, her teeth square and yellow, as she worked. It clashed with the lipstick she’d chosen for the day. “I’ve hit the silent alarm. The Hunt will be here soon.”

Decades of using his common sense instead of his fists…or at least in conjunction with them…and Somerset still felt an eager shiver of excitement at that idea. It would be good to finally know—for sure—which of them was best.

Jars braced one leg against the hip of the redcap he’d pinned to the floor, the struts of his leg brace making a soft clank, and yanked his spear free. The redcap clenched his teeth to avoid making any noise as blood leaked out of its leg. Jars glanced over at Gat .

“Call that your timer,” he said.

Gat flashed a sharp grin at that and loped off to get to work.

The kelpie snorted, the inside of her nostrils red and froth-white, and dropped her head. Her hair escaped the ponytail it had been in to bristle aggressively down the back of her neck. She charged at Jars.

Somerset sheathed his knife and watched the fight intently. Was there any sign of recognition in the kelpie’s black-on-black eyes as she snaked her head out, skin pulled so tight over her bones it looked skeletal? Or a second of hesitation from Jars as he punched her between the eyes?

If there was, Somerset had been away too long to read the tells. It looked like an honest fight to him. Short, but honest. The kelpie’s eyes crossed as Jars knuckles cracked into her skull and she dropped like a rock. Her body twitched and thrashed on the ground, bloody froth on her flat, saw-edged teeth, as her brain tried to reset from the insult.

Jars braced his weight on the spear, the tip dug into the carpet tile, and bent from the waist to grab the kelpie’s mane and drag her out of his way so he could step by her.

“Aegir, help me find our mouse’s laptop,” he said. “The rest of you, find his hole.”

Stúfur, halfway back to his feet, gave a dirty snort of a laugh.

“That’s what he said,” he cracked. The rest of the Yule Lads burst out laughing as they snorted and elbowed each other.

Jars looked annoyed for a moment, his jaw set in that familiar way it had when he thought they should take something seriously. Then it relaxed into a smirk.

“Enough,” he said. “It’s not Skellir talking to Santa, so get to work.”

Somerset hesitated as he tried to pull up a disarming response on the fly. Before he could, Jars grabbed hold of Aegir’s shoulder and headed into the office.

“Well,” Ket muttered at his shoulder. “Shit.”

Nik glanced at Somerset as he slung his halberd over his shoulder to sheath it. He took in the expression on Somerset’s face and then jabbed his elbow into another Lad’s ribs.

“Shit, Kerr, he really thought we didn’t know,” he crowed. “Like he doesn’t look like a dog in front of a plate of sausages every time Santa breathes in the same room as him.”

Kerr grabbed Nik’s shoulder and gave him a shove forward to get him moving. “Don’t be a dick,” he said. Then he shrugged at Somerset. “But he’s not wrong. If you wanted it to be a secret, you shouldn’t have grabbed so much ass when you thought no one was looking.”

He pushed Nik ahead of him as he headed off .

Nobody said anything for a long moment, and then Ket said, “I mean, I told you that.”

They found Lucas two floors down, wedged under an IT desk in a tangle of cables. He cut Gat’s hand to the bone, the nasty little knife he pulled splitting it from the heel to knuckles. It didn’t do him much good. Gat might have one eye, but he had two hands.

“This is…this is—” the changeling spluttered as he dangled from Gat’s grip, his feet a couple of inches off the ground. “My sponsor will end you for this. She’ll make you crawl the length of the Court and feed you glass when you get to the end of it. She’ll—”

Gat shook him. Lucas shut up as his teeth clattered and he bit his tongue. He was bound, plastic ties zipped tight around his wrists, and dragged out of the building by a couple of Somerset’s brothers. He protested==briefly—as they slapped the red hat back on his head, but no one listened.

“Must be nice,” Stúfur remarked. There was a bowl of candy on whoever’s desk it was. Gat had dripped blood all over it. Stúfur grabbed a handful and then tipped the rest out to confuse the scene.

“What would?” Somerset asked.

“Having a mother who’d go to bat for you,” Stúfur said. “We went whining to ours, she’d give us a cuff and tell us we deserved it for getting caught.”

“She’d not be wrong.”

“I know,” Stúfur said. “Still. You gotta sometimes wonder what it’s like to be soft.”

Somerset thought briefly of Dylan, who was still mortal and had gotten dragged into all of this because he’d not been able to leave a stranger to die alone.

“Dangerous,” he said. “Go back with the others and check on Dylan. I’m going to talk to Jars.”

That plan made Stúfur raise an eyebrow. He tossed a bloody jelly bean into his mouth. “You sure?” he said. “He’s played that card close to his chest until now. There’s probably a reason he decided he didn’t need it anymore.”

“Yes,” Somerset said. He slapped Stúfur on the shoulder as he headed out of the office. “And I need to know what it is.”

It didn’t take him long to track down his oldest brother. Jars was in the damp, sporadically lit parking lot under the building, strapping Lucas’s laptop into a saddlebag on his bike. Somerset hesitated for a second, one foot in the elevator doors to stop them closing again, as he watched him. Then he stepped out and walked over.

“How long have you known?” Somerset asked as he stopped just out of spear’s reach.

Jars yanked a buckle tight. He gripped the back of the saddle to help him turn, his weight on one heel. His eyes looked like match smoke in the dim fluorescent light.

“That you’re fucking Santa?” he asked. “You weren’t subtle, Skellir.”

The correction was on the tip of Somerset’s tongue. It was habit. This time he swallowed it.

“Why show your hand now?” he asked.

Jars raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “My hand? Everyone in that room already knew you had been death-struck, or were too distracted to pay attention.”

The word made Somerset flinch. “Don’t call it that.”

“It’s what it is,” Jars said bluntly. “To love a mortal is to love a grave. Every day you’re you, and he’s someone a little closer to death.”

“You should know.”

There had been a time that would have made Somerset feel better, to see someone hurt more than he did. Not today. Dylan was a bad influence.

Jars grimaced. “Still the asshole.” He walked toward Somerset, the click of the stirrups looped under his foot loud as they echoed off the wall. “You run away, you come back, you fuck Santa—and you’re still self-righteous. This is why I made you eat goat shit when we were children.”

“And you’re a stiff-necked cod-head,” Somerset said. “That’s why I put coals in your boots.”

“It kept my toes warm on our way down the mountain,” Jars said. “And I get that. We weren’t made to be nice, after all. Why you tried so hard to hide that you were fucking the figurehead, I don’t get.”

Somerset had his next jibe already queued up. He pulled it back as the question knocked him out of the old rhythmic patter of insults.

“I…it’s forbidden,” he said.

“So was the apple. Who did that ever stop?”

Somerset put his hand in his pocket and pulled his magic out of his bones in slow, ice-needled threads. Magic would give Jars an advantage in what would be a short fight, but only if he could open his mouth to get the words out.

It had worked on the wolf .

“Because I think you killed Santa,” Somerset said. “And tried to kill Gull.”

It would be stupid to expect honesty from Jars. If he was anything, Somerset’s brother was a political thing. He knew how to act, and to whom, to get what he wanted. Still, even with that in mind, the lock of total bewilderment on Jar’s face was…convincing?

“I… You think I betrayed Yule?”

Somerset opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get the words out Jars suddenly shoved Somerset with both hands. The blow made Somerset stagger back a couple of steps before he could catch himself. He always forgot that Jars’s lean build was deceptive; he was stronger than most of them. The magic he’d painstakingly, and pain fully , twisted through his fingers faded away to nothing again.

“You think you’re going to pin your sins on me?” Jars demanded. “When I already have your fucking responsibilities?”

He threw a punch, his knuckles already split and battered from the fight upstairs. Somerset swayed back to dodge it and tried to grab Jars’s arm to pin it. Somehow that turned into a grapple, and next thing he knew the two of them were on the ground, punching and swearing at each other as they rolled around on the oil-stained concrete.

It wasn’t a short fight. Somerset bit Jars’s ear until he tasted blood, and Jars got a handful of Somerset’s hair and smacked the back of his head against the ground. An elbow to the temple made Somerset’s vision bleed red and cracked divots in the concrete, and he knelt on Jars’s leg and bent the struts in the brace.

The scuffle ended with Somerset in a headlock, Jars’s elbow dug into the nape of his neck for leverage. Reluctantly, Somerset slapped his hand against the concrete to tap out. Jars took the opportunity to throttle him harder, then let go. He gave Somerset’s head a shove as he scooted backward until he could grab a car mirror to pull himself back up onto his feet.

Somerset rolled over and lay there as he caught his breath.

“You think I did it?” Jars demanded. He wiped the his hand over his mouth and then wiped his hand on his shirt. “You’re the one that turned up with a new Santa out of nowhere, you anointed him with the missing Watch, and then fucked him stupid enough to do whatever you said.”

“I wish it was that easy,” Somerset muttered as he sat up. “I know I didn’t do it, and if you thought I did, why didn’t you say anything?”

Jars curled his lip. “I didn’t care,” he said. “Santa’s dead, long live Santa. It’s not the first time we’ve replaced the red man. ”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t rather have put the Whip in Kris’s hands?”

Jars took a breath and let it out before he answered. “If you’re going to play these games, Somerset, you need to keep your information up to date. Kris doesn’t want to be Santa, and he doesn’t want me. So what do I care who wears the Watch? But I do care if the current shitstorm, that threatens centuries of peaceful alliance with the Winter Court is your fault too.”

“It’s not,” Somerset said.

“That’s what a traitor would say.”

Somerset smiled thinly. “I was thinking the same thing while you were talking.”

“Yeah? Because you didn’t say it.”

Silence hung in the air as they contemplated the impasse they’d just come to. Somerset rubbed his hand through his hair, with a wince as his fingers found a patch of raw, bald scalp. He couldn’t afford to trust Jars, and he assumed Jars felt the same way. That left…

“You know what they say,” Jars said, as if he could listen to Somerset’s thoughts. “Keep your enemies close…”

“And your brothers closer,” Somerset said. “If it helps, I know someone who’s good with money who could help us look through that laptop.”