The witch was propped into a sitting position against the wall, wrapped in a rug with an old horse’s bridle in her mouth. Iron wasn’t quite the uranium of the Otherworld that mortal fairytales imagined. It was a good hobble where magic was concerned, though. She glared over the leather strap with fierce dislike, her eyes burning with it. The farmhand had crawled away while he had the chance.
“Goddamnit,” Ket muttered. He sucked the blood off his knuckles. “I should burn the place down before we go.”
The witch cackled around her bridle and kicked her bound-tight heels on the ground. She didn’t seem too worried about the idea. Ket scowled at her.
“No one would know,” he said. “I’d throw you in as kindling.”
She grinned at him and, with the hand she’d partially freed, beckoned for him to come closer. Ket snorted at that and stalked back over to the motorbike.
“We know him best,” Stúfur protested. He grabbed Somerset by the collar and dragged him along in Ket’s wake. “Who better to get the truth out of him? What better way to remind them that they should show us respect.”
Ket gave him the finger over his shoulder. “Fuck that,” he said. “And fuck them. Since when do we care about their respect? What are you now? An elf? A huldrekall? Did we only think you were a Yule Lad because you’re ugly? No? Then let’s go.”
Stúfur snarled under his breath and gave Somerset’s collar a yank. Snow balled up between Somerset’s manacled hands and soaked through his jeans as they went. He dug his heels into the ground, hooking them on rocks and in ruts, and squirmed in a half-hearted attempt to get loose.
“You going to let him talk to you like that?” Somerset asked.
Stúfur yanked on his collar again. “Don’t try and stir the pot,” he said roughly. “You ain’t got a clue.”
That was fair enough.
When they reached the motorbikes, Stúfur finally let Somerset scramble to his feet. Ket was already astride his, boots braced on the ground, and Stúfur grabbed Somerset by the collar and belt. Apparently, he was going to ride like baggage.
A howl caught through the darkness. Seconds later, two other voices were raised in answer. To the ear, it could pass for a normal wolf’s howl. If someone had never heard a wolf, they might even think it was a dog. The unnatural part was the fear that clutched the bowel, the spent taste of adrenaline sour on the tongue even though he’d not run.
Not yet, that howl said, but you will.
“Wolves?” Ket said.
Stúfur’s hand tightened on Somerset’s neck. “How did you—”
The rumble of a car engine interrupted him as a black Dodge Charger smashed through the gates, metal bent and torn, and skidded in the snow. Behind it, half lost in the wind and snow, the Wolves came.
For things that had slipped between worlds, they looked unexpectedly solid and mundane. Sweat soaked their clothes, the fabric freezing from the outside in, and they panted raggedly as they ran. It wasn’t graceful. It was just brutally effective.
“Son of a bitch,” Stúfur snarled.
This time, he didn’t hesitate to draw his gun and open fire. He kept Somerset in front of him, a human shield, as he backed up toward the house. One of the bullets clipped a Wolf’s shoulder and punched straight through. Blood sprayed over the snow, but it didn’t slow down.
Ket jumped off his bike and threw himself to the side. The edge of the Dodge’s bumper still caught his hip and knocked him off his feet. He tumbled into a snowbank, the hook knocked out of his hand and buried in the white drift.
The Dodge hit the bikes and knocked them over. Then it drove over them, crushing the glossy black fuel tanks and buckling the tires. What was left of them got caught up in the undercarriage of the black car and fouled it. It ground to a reluctant halt, bleeding smoke and brake fluid, and the Wolves ran past it.
In the hours since Somerset first saw them, the Wolves had burned through more of their hosts' humanity. Court eyes peered out through their human faces, alien and empty. When they crawled back out, the men they were riding would be changed.
Or dead. That was still on the table.
Stúfur dragged Somerset around as he tracked the Wolves with his gun. He fired twice. Then, a third time. One Wolf dropped, writhing on the ground like a scalded bug, and the other Wolves trampled him underfoot. They split up as they got closer, circling the two Yule Lads.
While Stúfur tried to decide which Wolf to track, Somerset snapped his head back. His skull hit Stúfur’s not-quite-healed nose and smashed it again. Warm and sticky blood dripped down his neck, and he squirmed out of the coat in one smooth motion.
“Why didn’t Gull come to you?” he asked.
Stúfur swiped blood off his face onto his hand and flicked it away.
“What?” He holstered the gun and pulled the heavy, serrated knife instead. “I don’t know why I carry that thing. I’ve never shot anything that had the grace to stay down.”
One of the Wolves lunged at him. It jumped onto his back and clawed at his throat with sharp, thorn-tipped fingers. Stúfur reached back, grabbed it by the scruff, and dragged it over his head. The Wolf hit the ground hard, and Stúfur went to slit the Wolf’s throat. Before he could do more than graze the skin, another Wolf darted in and slashed the backs of his knees.
