“The owner is a weird woman,” Somerset said. “And prickly. So mind your manners. Not everyone in the Courts is as good-humored as me.”
Dylan spluttered out a laugh, stopped, and glanced sidelong at Somerset.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re serious. OK. That’s… um… sure. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Somerset frowned. His reflection glowered dimly back at him from the windshield. He didn’t know why Dylan had acted like that was a surprise. Back in the Courts he’d been known for his pranks and jokes. Sometimes he’d laughed until he nearly made himself sick at them. Sometimes, he was the only one who laughed, admittedly, but surely that made his point?
Faded, worn signs were nailed to the trees and fence posts as they approached the farm.
SANTA STOP HERE.
ELVES WELCOME
NORTH POLE MILK AND COOKIE CO!
“It looks like someone believes in Santa,” Dylan said dryly.
“Well, she would,” Somerset pointed out. He pulled up in front of the old cabin and killed the truck’s engine. Smoke rose from the cabin’s chimney, so she was home. A wreath of cookies was posted up on the front door, and an inflatable Santa was halfway through deflated on the threshold. “She was married to him.”
He pushed the door open and walked toward the house. Halfway there, Somerset realized that he was on his own and turned around. Dylan was still in the truck, his face bewildered as he stared after Somerset. When he didn’t move, Somerset raised his eyebrows and made an exasperated ‘come on then’ gesture.
Dylan stared at him for a bit longer and then visibly shook himself. He pushed the door open and scrambled out. Snow crunched underfoot as he jogged over to join Somerset. The snow caught in his hair, and he shivered as he took in the cabin.
“You’re telling me thatMrs. Clauslives here?” he asked skeptically.
“I wouldn’t call her that,” Somerset advised. He shrugged his coat off, the stains that smeared the expensive wool sure to give his dry cleaner fits, and held it out to Dylan. “Here. You look cold now.”
Dylan tried to turn him down, but Somerset ignored him. He draped the coat over Dylan’s shoulders and headed to the cabin.
The wreath on the door smelled like caramel and vanilla. The cookies were moist and golden, with glossy chocolate chips that looked as if they were still half-melted despite the chill. A banner strung over the top of it advised ‘Take One’ in elegant calligraphy.
Somerset knew better. He reached out and grabbed Dylan’s wrist before he took one. His coat hung off Dylan’s shoulders. It was big enough that it made him look slight. He wasn’t, though. Somerset had felt the wiry muscle layered over Dylan’s bones when he’d carried him on the wind.
“Think Hansel and Gretel,” Somerset told Dylan. “A minute on the lips and a very short lifetime to regret. Don’t eat or drink anything she offers.”
Dylan stared hungrily at the cookies. He licked his lips, the swipe of his tongue more distracting than it probably should have been, and said, “I wanted to see if they were real.”
“You are an awful liar,” Somerset said dryly.
He hung onto Dylan’s wrist—the flutter of Dylan’s pulse against his fingertips—as he knocked on the door. The heavy rap of knuckles echoed inside the cabin, but no one came to answer it. Somerset pulled Dylan with him as he stepped to the side and peered in through the dirty window, one hand cupped around his eyes.
The low-banked fire burned unattended in the hearth. A cat that looked alarmingly large lay on the rocking chair on top of a pile of knitting. It looked up, eyes reflecting the dim light, and yawned ostentatiously at him.
“She’s not here,” Somerset said.
It wasn’t like he’d called ahead to tell her to expect them. Paranoia still chewed fretfully at his nerves. He let it. Maybe everyone wasn’t out to get them, but some people definitely were. He stepped back from the window and wiped the side of his hand, wet from the lightly iced window, down the side of his black jeans.
“I’ll go and see if she’s round the back,” he said. “Wait here and…”
Dylan gave the wreath a quick, avaricious side-eye. He would definitely grab a cookie if Somerset left him with it. Since the last thing they needed to add to their problems was a curse, however petty, Somerset changed his plans.
“Forget that,” he said. “You come with me.”
Dylan tried to sheepishly protest, but Somerset ignored it. He nudged Dylan ahead of him and around the side of the building.
There was a pile of antlers nearly as tall as Somerset stacked up against the back of the house like cordwood. The small yard was thick with snow and vaguely tool-shaped lumps. Dylan stepped on something and swore as he hopped backward.
A huge reindeer, placidly impervious to the snow matted into thick fur, watched them from under ice-weighted antlers as they picked their way to the back door. Its breath steamed wet and thick around its nose.
