Dylan didn’t want to get any deeper involved in this. He didnotwant to be Santa.
There was a lot he didn’t want, but there was one thing that he did want.
He took a breath, his throat dry and scratchy, and—
“So when were you going to tell me about that?” Somerset asked from behind him.
Dylanhadbeen about to. Despite that, he still felt guilt catch in his chest as he turned around. Somerset leaned against the door frame into the kitchen, his arms crossed and his face unreadable.
“I was about to tell you,” Dylan said.
Somerset snorted and pushed himself upright. “I already told you,” he said. “You’re a terrible liar.”
He walked over and held his hand out. Old habits tightened Dylan’s fingers around the watch, the familiar hitch of panic between his ribs. Somerset waited. After a second, Dylan forced himself to unlock his fingers and let the watch drop into Somerset’s palm.
His grandfather’s watch.
Santa’s watch.
He let that thought hang for a second as he considered it. It still sounded crazy. That didn’t mean it was wrong.
Somerset turned the watch over in his hand. Then he set it down on the bar. The lights overhead still flickered, dimmer now in the daytime, and caught in the glass. Dylan went to pick it up again, but Somerset grabbed his wrist in one hand.
“Not that I don’t trust you,” he said. “But since I saw a Wolf eat this a few hours ago, I’d like to verify what you say as well.”
Somerset let go of Dylan’s wrist before Dylan could ask what he meant.
There was a knife behind the bar. It had a cheap white handle and a thin, over-sharpened blade. Somerset picked it up and casually sliced his thumb open. He kept doing things like that. It should have lost its impact, but Dylan still winced every time. The cut was deep enough that it took a moment before it bled.
Once it did, Somerset pressed it down against the watch casing, smudging his thumbprint over the glass.
“What’s that going to—”
Something unfurled from the inside of the watch. It was thin and filmy, like the first morning breath on a cold day, and the smell of pine needles and mint came with it. Crystals of frost bloomed over the glass until it was completely opaque, breaking down the blood into a faint, pink stain. Then the mist withdrew back into the watch, packing itself back in, and when the frost melted, the blood was gone.
Dylan had a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Did it… justeatthat?” he asked.
At some point, someone was going tohaveto answer at least one of Dylan’s questions. Not yet, though. Somerset just gripped him by the shoulder and walked him back toward the kitchen. Dylan grabbed the watch from the bar on the way past.
Despite his unease over what he’d just seen come out of the clockwork, it still felt better to have it on him than not.
Stúfur burped.
“So what are you saying?” He pushed a pile of greasy plates out of the way and leaned forward, elbow braced on the table, to stare at the well-worn watch. “That’sthe regalia?”
Somerset sucked the cut on his thumb absently as he stood next to Dylan. His free hand still rested heavily on Dylan’s shoulder, as if he was a flight risk.
It wasn’t that he was wrong. Dylan bounced his heel nervously as he tried to read the room.
There was a dubious pause. Then Ket pulled his hook out and jabbed the sharp point of it into his thumb. Blood welled sluggishly out of the puncture, and he reached over the table to squeeze it out onto the glass.
For the second time, the… magic, Dylan supposed he should get used to that… wriggled out from behind the face. It was a bit slower to finish its freeze-dried breakfast, but maybe it wasn’t as hungry. The pads of Dylan’s fingers were itchy as he tried to remember how many times he’d scratched or cut himself on a chipped bit of glass or broken hasp on the buckle.
“That’s the regalia,” Stúfur said. This time it wasn’t a question. He leaned back in his chair and shoved a greasy hand through his hair. His face was loose with confusion. “What the fuck did the Wolf eat then?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan said.
“Yeah, well,” Stúfur said. “I didn’t ask you.”
