Somerset stared, unable to move past what had just happened. His brain replayed it on a fractured loop as if he could find a way to fix it. Over by the witch, Stúfur raged and kicked, but Ket had bowed his head and sagged in defeat. The Wolf had taken the hook from his neck.
There was no need for it anymore.
Their job done, the Wolves left. They disappeared down the road and into the woods, on their way back to Winter.
It was two days to nothing.
Christmas wasn’t going to come this year. After that, it could only get worse.
Chapter Eleven
Theshortestofthethree Yule Lads—even though he still had a few inches on Dylan—finally ripped the fork out of his body. Its tines were crusted with blood, chips of bone, and years of filth.
Stúfur. That was what Somerset had called him.
Did elves get tetanus?
Then he realized he had something more immediate to deal with. Stúfur broke the fork over his knee, tossed it aside, and then stalked across the yard toward him.
“You,” he rasped out as he pointed one scarred finger in accusation. “What did you do?”
“I… They were going to kill me,” Dylan protested. He backed up, his feet scuffing through the snow, until his back hit the side of Lund’s totaled car. He glanced at Somerset, who just stood with clenched fists and ignored him. “They would have killed you!”
Stúfur threw his head back and screamed, the cords in his neck drawn tight and his fists clenched.
“Let them!” he yelled. “I’d die to preserve the Sainted line, and my life is worth ten of yours. What have you saved? Thirty more years of nothing worth much? Of a life that will be forgotten before you die.”
Dylan blinked as he totted up the math and wondered whether the Yule Lads just hadn’t kept up with how long people lived in the modern world. Or did he look worse than he’d thought?
It didn’t matter, but…
That mental detour was cut short as Stúfur lunged for him, hands outstretched for his throat.
Shit.
There wasn’t time to move. Dylan braced himself… and Somerset stepped in front of him. Stúfur bounced off him like he was a wall.
“No,” Somerset said.
Stúfur glared at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked. “That boy traded the lifespan of one of mysnotragsfor the Unbroken Line of Nick! Did you… Did you miss it!”
“You don’t touch him,” Somerset said. “The watch was his to give away.”
“To one of the Sainted!” Stúfur said. “Not to a Wolf. Seriously, did they hit your head instead of your knees?”
He turned around and threw his arms wide as he looked at Ket. The other Yule Lad stood where the Wolf had been and scuffed his foot through the snow, turning it over in search of something.
“You saw it?” Stúfur demanded. “Or did I hallucinate it all from blood loss?”
Ket shook his head and crouched down. The meat hook dangled from his belt. He reached down and plucked a stray cog from the turned-over slush.
“What does it matter now?” he asked. “It’s done.”
Stúfur swung his arm around toward Dylan. “Done?” he spluttered. “Done by him. What is this? He gutted Yule, and we’re going to what? Let him walk? Let him live out his snotrag—“
Somerset took a long step forward and grabbed the back of Stúfur’s jeans. He yanked up and walked the shorter, swearing man forward on his tiptoes.
“We swore to protect Yule with our blood and our breath,” Somerset said. He gave Stúfur a push that sent him tumbling into the pile of shed reindeer antlers. The bony prongs rattled down around Stúfur as he kicked and swore. “He didn’t. This is on us, not him. Go near him again, and I’ll break your legs so badly you’ll be even shorter.”
