“What do you know?”
“I know that the Court never accepted him,” she said. “Not really. And he did the bare bones of his job, and that grudgingly. He might have set me aside, but he never married. He never acknowledged a bastard. He named no apprentice. You want to know what I’ve heard, Yule Lad? Nothing at Court has changed since you left, only aged. Whoever you would have suspected then, you can suspect now. Everything the two of you gave up, everything you gave up for me, and it changed nothing.”
Somerset clenched his jaw, the muscles tight under lightly stubbled skin. “It brought peace,” he said. “For over twenty years.”
The woman laughed bitterly. “I could fart for that long,” she said as she turned around. “It’s nothing to boast of. But I forget my manners. The two of you must stay for lunch. I’ll make stew. It’s a family recipe.”
That offer made the reindeerandSomerset wince.
“That’s a kind offer,” Somerset said after a moment. “But—”
The woman interrupted him. “But nothing,” she said. “Or have you been gone so long you’ve forgotten the laws of hospitality?”
Somerset smiled thinly. “Of course not,” he said. “We didn’t want to… impose.”
She smiled back at him, all teeth and no warmth. “Wonderful.”
Dylan glanced between them.
“Aren’t you all taking this a bit seriously?” he said. ‘It’sSanta.Even if he’s real, it’s toys and reindeer and a fat man in a suit. Does it matter?”
For the first time, Somerset and the woman traded a look that had them both in agreement. Then the woman laughed, clapped her hands on her skirt—dislodging a cloud of reindeer hair, and wagged her finger at him.
“You, my boy,” she said, “know fucking nothing.”
The pot was hung over the fire. It was black and thick, the bottom Dylan had quickly glimpsed before his host covered it with water and oats, crusted thick with old grease and burnt bits. He tried not to dislodge any of it as he worked the wooden spoon through the thick mixture. It bubbled and glooped as he disturbed it.
“Keep it moving,” she said from the kitchen table.
Half a side of meat lay in front of her. Dylan didn’t know what it was. The idea of it being reindeer after he’d snuck a pet of the pregnant cow’s soft nose didn’t make him feel great. On the other hand, she’d intimated that eating Dylan was on the table… so the other options were worse.
That didn’t seem like a good time, whether this was a coma dream or reality.
The woman wiped her forehead on her sleeve and grabbed the cleaver embedded in the table. She swung it up and brought it down in a short, hard blow that sliced through meat and cracked bone. The tip of it embedded itself a good thumbs-width into the wood of the table.
“Your problem,” the woman said conversationally as she wrenched the cleaver free again, “is that you’ve watched too many Hallmark movies.”
The crack of metal cleaving through bone made Dylan jump and rattled his spoon against the side of the pot. He cleared his throat and tried to relax his shoulders. Somerset had only gone to get firewood, he reminded himself. He’d be back soon. And so far, he’d not let anyone eat Dylan.
He stirred harder and dragged his attention back to her question.
“I don’t think I’ve watched any.”
“Liar,” she said. “I’vewatched some, and I live out here. Anyhow, Santa is like that.Miracle on 34th Street? Pretty much on the nose portrayal… of what he is to you.”
The cat lay on the mantle. It was mostly black, brindled with tabby and ginger. A yawn showed the pink roof of its mouth and the sharp white of its teeth. Dylan resisted the urge to shoo it away. Cat hair in the stew was the least of his worries.
“I don’t believe in Santa.”
“Aren’t you special,” she said as she swung her arm up again. The cleaver was dull gray metal, the edge honed to a mirror shine, and there was something disturbingly functional about it. The handle was worn to the woman’s hand, with blood crusted visibly around the tang, and it justfeltmore knifelike than the stainless one that was never used in Dylan’s kitchenette.
It came down with a meaty thud this time. The woman pulled it loose and set it aside as she ripped the lump of half-severed meat and tendon off the bone with her bare hands.
“He was always something different to us,” she said. She picked up cuts of meat off the table and carried them over to toss in the pot. Hot liquid splashed Dylan’s hands as he stirred. “Something darker. Somethingolder.That’s not why there will be war, though. There will be war because Santa has made Winter the most powerful of the Courts.”
Dylan gave her a dubious look as he wiped his hand on his jeans.
“Santa?” he said. “How? Did they buy stock in Coke or something?”
