“Maybe they don’t have to know,” Ket said. “Whoever did this must have some way to claim control of Yule without the watch. No more Santa was just posturing. What would be the point of all this if they couldn’t claim the season? And if we find them, we can take it off them and crown a new Santa. The Courts won’t be happy to be doorstepped with one, but it’s happened before.”
Somerset grabbed a hunk of bread and dunked it in the dripping and yolk.
It had. They hadn’t been. But Somerset supposed they couldn’t exile him a second time.
“It sounds like a plan,” he said slowly as he took a bite. “There’s just one problem—”
Stúfur barked out a laugh at that as he dragged a chair out to sit down.
“One problem.” He jabbed his elbow into Ket’s ribs to get his attention. “Did you hear that? Only one problem. What are we even worried about, that the poor thing has got lonely?”
Ket shifted the chair away from him; its legs scraped against the floor.
“He has a point,” he said, despite the distance he’d just put between them. “One problem might be understating it.”
Stúfur chewed on a chunk of hard, black bacon, his lips stained dark with char, and counted down on his fingers.
“Santa’s dead, the watch is destroyed, the Winter Court is going to skin us for floor rags, and… what else? Oh, that’s right! It’s ChristmasfuckingEve.”
Somerset licked yolk off his fingers and said, “I think the traitor is Jars.”
There was a shocked pause, and then Ket laughed. “Bullshit.”
“Is it?” Somerset asked. “It’s been decades since I parted ways with the Courts. I’ve kept my head down and my nose clean. Why would Jars suddenly decide I’d anything to do with Santa’s disappearance? Unless he knew well enough, Ididn’t.”
Stúfur frowned as he chewed on a maw full of food. He wiped egg from the corner of his mouth.
“Jars wouldn’t.”
“Who else could? He’s the head of our guard, the only one there when the relics were made, and he decides the Lads’ rotation.”
His argument was convincing enough to make Stúfur and Ket trade troubled looks over the spread.
“You make a good point,” Stúfur admitted reluctantly.”But why?”
Ket scraped a fork over his plate. He looked thoughtful. “The Sainted live a long time, but they don’t live forever,” he pointed out. “Last time I saw Kris, he had gray in his hair and lines on his face. If Jars wanted him to sit in the Sleigh, he doesn’t have much time left.”
Stúfur made a disgusted noise and shook his head. “If he did it, then let him rot for it,” he said. “I’m not going to take the fall for him getting sad one of his mortals has worn out. Or for Somerset’s toy. Fuck it. We always did our best work under pressure.”
“No, we didn’t,” Ket and Somerset said at the same time. They traded annoyed looks over the table while Stúfur popped open a can of beer to wash his breakfast down.
“Fine,” he said. “Whatever, but we did always have each other's backs. So, do we have a deal?”
He stuck his hand, clenched into a fist, over the table and waited. After a grudging pause, Somerset growled under his breath and grabbed the top of it. Stúfur added his hand over Somerset’s, his fingers greasy and gritty from his work at the stove.
“Deal,” Somerset said. “And a truce. For today.”
“For today,” the other two echoed.
Stúfur sat down at the table and reached for the bread. “And if it all falls apart,” he said cheerfully. “Tomorrow I’ll lay the blame on you and your snot-rag.”
Somerset supposed that was fair enough. He’d kill Stúfur before it came to that, though. Corpses made good scapegoats.
Chapter Thirteen
Thechickenwingshadstill been frozen.
Dylan grimaced as he scavenged under the bar for snacks. They had to have little bags of pretzels. Nuts. Even a jar of cherries? He’d propped the door open to let the smoke out and the light in, but he didn’t want to venture outside yet… no matter how hungry he was.
