The threat deflated Stúfur. He sagged back into his uncomfortable bed, arms draped over the rough-edged prongs and his hands slack. There was blood crusted over his knuckles and under his nails.
“What now, then?” he asked.
Dylan didn’t know if it was a good idea to draw attention to himself. He did anyhow as he stepped away from the tree.
“Maybe cut her loose?” he suggested.
Everyone looked around to where the one-time Mrs. Claus was still bundled on her own doorstep. She glared back at him as she gnawed on the bridle fastened around her face. Her teeth clacked and ground against the metal bit.
Ket cleared his throat and tucked the cog he’d salvaged into his pocket. He glanced over at Somerset and raised his shoulder in a shrug.
“Or, and hear me out,” he said, “we could not?”
Both Stúfur and Ket looked at Somerset for his call on that. Whatever antagonism they’d arrived with seemed to have been knocked out of them. Dylan’s fault, he supposed.
Somerset shoved his hand through his hair. The blood streaked through blond spikes.
“Unbind her,” he ordered. Then he looked around at the broken fences, bloody yard, and crushed bikes. “Then we clean up here, and I’ll give you a lift back into Belling. You’re on your own from there.”
Dylan had sat through some awkward car rides in his time.
There was nothing quite like the uncomfortable tension of being taken back to the pound by foster parents. … oh, no, it was an ‘emergency placement.’ The drive from the reindeer farm back into Belling was up there, though.
When they passed the gas station, Dylan turned his head to stare. There were patrol cars parked on the forecourt and police tape strung over the door.
It didn’t tell Dylan whether Detective Lund had survived, but at least someone knew what happened.
They might have gotten there in time.
In the rear of the cab, Ket and Stúfur were squashed into the smaller back seat. In the sliver of the rearview mirror that Dylan could see, Ket had his hook out to sharpen it. He had to look over his shoulder to check on Stúfur. That got him a black, unforgiving look from the dark-haired man halfway through a game of Cat’s Cradle on his fingers.
“I just—“
“Shut up,” all three of them said.
Dylan subsided until the quiet got too much. Then he reached over to turn on the radio. The opening bars of a country Christmas song filled the car. Shit. Dylan flicked it back off quickly.
“Rub it in, why don’t you.” Stúfur kicked the back of Dylan’s seat to punctuate that and jarred him forward. There was silence for the rest of the drive. Dylan picked the blood from under his nails and tried not to care.
He could fix this.
He wasalmostsure of that.
If he was wrong, though? If his grandfatherwasn’tSanta—and even thinking that made it sound unlikely—then what? Dylan picked enough at his thumbnail that it started to bleed. He winced and stuck it in his mouth to suck the pain away. If he’d gotten this wrong, then he’d be the man that killed Christmas.
It wouldn’t make much difference to him. Hell, maybe it wouldn’t make much difference to anyone. There was a lot of money invested in Christmas; people wouldn’t stop buying things or putting on a show for the neighbors just because Santa was gone. Most of them didn’t believe in him anyhow.
It felt like it would be different, though. Like some sort of magic would have gone out of it all.
Dylan dropped his hands back into his lap and turned his head to watch the winter landscape roll by. Hereallyhoped he could fix this.
Someone had towed the Chevy.
All that was left was an oil stain and a sprinkle of broken glass on the road outside the Just-As-High. As Dylan climbed out of Somerset’s truck, he supposed he’d have to chase that up tomorrow. He pushed the door shut and took a deep breath.
Somerset was already at the door to the bar. The keys in his hand jingled as he sorted through them until he found the right one.
“Thanks,” Dylan said awkwardly as he followed Somerset to the door. “I think I left something when I was here the other day.”
