Somerset turned the heat on in his truck, for Dylan’s sake.
The other man sat hunched in the passenger side, his hands shoved into his armpits and his questions kept behind tightly clenched teeth. He relaxed his shoulders a little as the heat blew out around him, but the questions stayed where they were.
Somerset pulled the old, black pickup away from the curb and cut off a woman in a navy Ford. She dropped her window enough to curse him up one side and down the other as he drove away.
“Ask,” he told Dylan.
Dylan held his hands out to the vents. His fingers were pale enough that they verged on blue, the palms scraped up and nails uneven. After a second, he glanced over at Somerset.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Somerset quirked an eyebrow as he flicked the turn signal on. “Are we going to blow by the whole Santa part?” he asked.
“We flew,” Dylan said. Before Somerset could correct him, he amended the statement himself. “Or close enough. So I get that the world doesn’t work how I thought. I’ll deal with that later, once I’m not being hunted by wolves in the bodies of bachelor party idiots.”
It was a practical approach, but most humans weren’t practical when they learned about the Courts. They had, almost to a man, an immune system response of denial and delusion. Somerset took his eyes off the road to look at Dylan and try to read his face.
He looked cold. Beyond that, Somerset couldn’t tell.
Maybe he was just playing along. Pretending he believed Somerset until he could make a break for it. Not that he’d get far. Even if Somerset had lost his touch enough that he’d let Dylan get away from him, the Wolves wouldn’t bethatfar behind.
“I need to get some answers,” Somerset said as he turned onto Drummer Road. “There’s only one place in Belling to get those.”
Dylan had warmed his hands enough. He pulled them back and tucked them under his thighs.
“I can give you the watch,” he said. “You’re the one who was meant to get it.”
Maybe. Somerset frowned to himself as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Why, though? After he’d left, he’d been the Winter Court’s most-wanted for decades. They might have lost interest over the years, but they’d not forgiven him. There was still a bounty on his head and enough ill-feeling to mean even his kin wouldn’t hesitate.
So why had Gull come to him instead of one of his other brothers?
That question he couldn’t answer. Dylan’s, he could. Although Dylan might not want to hear it.
“Too late for that,” he said. “Gull gave you the watch, and you took it. That makes you the keeper of the regalia, like it or not. Until you make your choice, anyhow.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dylan lean forward, the snow melted out of his hair, and the black seat belt strap stark against his bruised neck.
“My choice?”
Somerset braked as the lights flicked red. Next to him, Dylan swore under his breath as he was jarred in the seat. While he waited for them to change back, he reached down and flicked the radio on. There was a burst of static, and then the station caught in the middle of a Christmas song.
It was always a Christmas song, even in July. That’s why he preferred CDs. He had tried streaming, but all that did was provide a wider and weirder selection of Christmas songs.
“Santa’s dead,” Somerset said. “Long live Santa.”
There was a pause while Dylan worked his way through that to the background trill of carols. He laughed when he realized what Somerset meant, a bewildered snort of noise.
“I don’t even believe in Santa,” Dylan protested.
“Good,” Somerset said. He hesitated once the lights changed as he tried to remember the way. The streets had been different the last time he visited. The snow didn’t help as it thickened. It was hard to pick out old landmarks when visibility was down to the immediate front of the car. “The last thing we need is sentiment involved.”
Left, he decided. If he was wrong, he’d work it out eventually. He pressed his foot on the gas, and the truck rolled forward.
Next to him, Dylan shifted in the seat. He eventually took a deep breath and shoved his hand through his hair, leaving it unruly and stuck up in tufts.
“OK,” he said. “I have to ask, what’s to stop me giving it to the Wolves?.”
Anger scratched at the inside of Somerset’s chest at the suggestion. When he swallowed it down, it tasted like old blood and milk.
