This time, Somerset tried the door handle—locked—before he tapped his knuckles against the wood.
“She’s not in,” a low, slow voice said mournfully. It wasn’t Dylan’s. Somerset turned around. The big bull reindeer snorted and shook its head, cracking off chunks of frozen hair and ice. “She’s up in the barn. One of the cows is calving. Been a fertile year.”
There was a pause, and then Dylan said in a small, confused voice.
“Can that reindeer talk?”
Chapter Seven
Itturnedoutreindeercould not talk.
The stocky, big-knuckled farmhand whocouldchuckled about that to himself as he broke ground through the snow ahead of them. Chunks of wet white stuff crunched under his boots and caked the filthy jeans he wore.
“Talking reindeer,” he muttered, shaking his head. The hat he’d taken off hung from his fingers. “It might be nearly Christmas, but it’s not Christmas Eve until tomorrow.”
Dylan slogged along next to Somerset. At least the snow had eased off, although the flat white sky was thick with the promise of more to come.
“What does that mean?” Dylan asked as he nudged Somerset.
Somerset didn’t look down at him, his attention on the barn ahead and the treeline that nudged up against the paddocks around them. He answered the question absently. “Animals can talk on Christmas Eve.”
“What?” Dylan tripped over the snow-crusted tails of his borrowed coat, cursed, and flailed briefly before Somerset grabbed his arm to keep him upright. “No, they can’t.”
Somerset didn’t move his hand, fingers still wrapped around Dylan’s arm. It waskind oflike holding hands—if you didn’t mind being marched along. “You thought reindeer could talk.”
“One reindeer,” Dylan corrected him. “I thought maybethatreindeer could talk, and maybe it was magic.”
Magic, because apparently that was something he believed in now. Dylan hadn’t completely given up on the idea he was in a coma. It was very possible. Until he knew for sure, though, it was safer to play along. It had kept him alive so far.
“A magic reindeer?” Somerset snorted at the idea.
Dylan narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “It’s not any weirder than Wolves—”
Somerset tightened his grip on Dylan’s arm. His fingers dug into flesh and muscle hard enough to hurt even through the heavy, borrowed coat.
“Not here,” Somerset said quietly.
Dylan yanked his arm free. He rubbed it pointedly as they walked, but still—after a glance at the waxed jacket back of the farmhand in front of them—changed what he’d been about to say.
“I’ve never heard an animal say anything on Christmas Eve.”
The farmhand turned around. He was built like a square, all thick muscle and heavy bones, but he had a round, impish face. It was wrinkled but still oddly young-looking, with bright blue eyes that twinkled when he smirked.
“Maybe,” he said, “they didn’t want to talk to you.”
He laughed again, swiveled on his heel, and stomped on through the snow. Dylan gave the broad back and curly salt-and-pepper hair an emphatic finger. Next to him, Somerset snorted out a laugh and let it go.
The barn was a big, weathered structure; the red paint faded to brick orange and peeled off in patches. Snow was packed high on the top of the gambrel roof, ready to fall with the first strong wind. The farmhand crunched up to the main door and swung it unceremoniously open. Warm, animal-musky air washed out over all of them.
“Someone to see you, boss,” the farmhand said. He jerked a dirty thumb over his shoulder. “One of the Yule Lads.”
There was a pause, and then a big woman stepped into the frame of the door. She was taller than Somerset and nearly as broad in the shoulder, although she was bundled up in enough sweaters and coats that some of that could be an illusion. Dark blonde hair streaked with white was chopped off crookedly at about jaw-length.
She was beautiful.
Dylan couldn’t put his finger onhow. The woman didn’t look like a supermodel or anything; she had weather-beaten skin, a square jaw, and a prow of a nose. There was also blood on her hands and what looked like shit on the knees of her oversized jeans.
It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter what she looked like, Dylan suspected.
