“I gave you food. I can’t prove you didn’t eat it,” the witch said as she pushed her chair back and stood up. She reached for the cleaver, the weight of it dangling easily from one hand. “That makes you my guests, and I can’t let someone walk into my home and take you from under my roof. I have a reputation. And not just for being such a good lay, I bagged Santa.”
She wiped the blade on her skirt. On the mantle, the cat uncurled itself and stretched, back arched and tail bushed out as it lashed from side to side. It hissed at the doors.
Somerset gestured for Dylan to stay behind him. He edged along the wall, shoulder against the wood, to take a quick look out the window.
It wasn’t the Wolves outside in the snow.
“Skeillir!”
Two of the Yule Lads stood in front of the cabin. One of them had an arm slung around the farmhand’s shoulders. It should have looked like a companionable gesture. It didn’t.
Mostly because of the hook that scratched at the farmhand’s sweaty neck. A little because of the yellow stain that dribbled down the front of the man’s khaki trousers.
The other, the one who’d yelled, was short and stocky with cropped brown hair. He wore a battered leather jacket and a gun in the holster strapped to his thigh.
Things had changed since Somerset had left. The Courts used to confine the Lads to handcrafted weapons only. They’d refused to pin themselves down to a reason, but Somerset had always suspected it was for the aesthetic.
Whatever the reason, they had apparently bent at last.
Stúfur and Ket.
They didn’t go by those names anymore. If they wanted to bring Somerset’s old name out of mothballs, though, he could do the same.
Stúfur cocked his head to the side to listen expectantly. When Somerset didn’t answer, Stúfur heaved a disappointed sigh.
“We know you’re here, Skeillir,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the farmhand. “Our new friend described you. He was very flattering.”
The farmhand was visibly sweating. He reached up and curled his finger around the hook to pull it away from his throat. The skin over his fingers split open, the cut deep, as the sharpened edge of it bit into him. He gave a thin, pained cry and clutched the ruined hand to his chest.
“B… boss,” he stammered out in a frightened voice. “I didn’t…I didn’t tell them anything. They already knew.”
Stúfur turned and gestured in exasperation at Ket. It was too far for Somerset to hear their conversation. He didn’t need to. They had been brothers longer than half the countries in the world had existed. Most of their conversations they’d had a dozen times before.
I’m talking.
It’ll help if they hear him beg.
I don’t want to have to hear him beg. He begged the whole way here.
Fine!
On cue, Ket rolled his eyes and kicked the farmhand in the back of the knee. The man went down with a yelp, his hand splashing red all over the snow. Behind the fences, the already agitated reindeer bellowed and stamped, shaking their heads.
“We can’t—” Dylan protested as he stepped toward the window.
Somerset grimaced and pulled Dylan in close. He wrapped his arm around Dylan’s throat and put a hand over his mouth.
“Ssh.”
Dylan squirmed and then rammed a surprisingly well-aimed elbow into Somerset’s ribs. It hurt. A bit.
The witch chuckled to herself.
Somerset glared at her and tightened his hand around Dylan’s jaw. It was going to occur to the man to try and bite Somerset sooner or later. He peered out the window again and watched Ket pull the hook back. It glittered briefly in the sun, and then Ket brought the hilt of it down on the top of the farmhand’s head.
The crack was audible where the conversation hadn’t been, and the farmhand’s eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped into the snow, arms and legs twisted unnaturally.
Stúfur clapped his hands and turned back around.
