“Just wait,” Ket said. “We’re still in the shallows.”
The North Pole was a titty bar.
Somerset pulled up outside it and squinted at a neon, flickering sketch of Mrs. Claus as she pulled her bra off on a loop. The red and green neon lettering picked out the name against the side of the building. Somerset turned to look at his brothers.
“What the fuck?” he said, jerking his thumb at the offending building.
Stúfur rubbed his hands together and smirked. “Finally,” he said. “Home Sweet Ho.”
“Shut up,” Ket told him. He shoved Stúfur over and slid down into the middle to take a good look through the window. The flickering colors played over his face as he turned the corners of his mouth down in a grimace. “I hate to say it, but it looks like they got here ahead of us. The Court knows that Santa is missing.”
Dylan twisted around in his seat to peer at the building. “That’s the North Pole?”
“How the fuck did they—” Somerset stopped mid-question and twisted around in his seat to look at Stúfur. His brother was on the phone again. Ice cracked in Somerset’s voice as he asked. “What did you do?”
Stúfur snorted at him. “If I was going to stab you in the back, brother,” he said and kicked the back of the driver’s seat with a battered, heavy boot. “I would have used a knife. It’s Christmas Eve, and there’s not been hide nor hair of Santa for nearly a month. People were going to notice.
“Uh-huh?” Somerset said as he turned off the truck’s engine. “And their first move was to turn the North Pole into a strip club?”
“They don’t respect him,” Ket said. “This made that clear.”
Stúfur gave the back of Somerset’s seat a shove. They hadn’t had cars when they were young—and ‘young’ had been so long ago that none of them remembered it that well—but the intent was still clear. Get moving already. “It also puts a hole in your theory about Jars.”
“How do you work that one out?” Somerset asked as he killed the engine and got out of the truck.
Stúfur pushed the seat forward and scrambled out gracelessly through the gap.
“Does this look like Kris has Yule in his pocket?” he asked as he tilted his head toward the building. “Or Jars?”
He had a point. Not that Somerset liked to admit that. Titty bars and neon weren’t the aesthetic he’d expect if the traditionalists had their boot on the season’s neck.
“Plus, he seemed genuinely surprised when I told him Santa was dead,” Stúfur added casually.
It took a second for Somerset’s brain to pick out what had just been said from the casual delivery. Once he did, he grabbed Stúfur by the throat and slammed him against the side of the truck. His fingers dug down into the pale skin until Stúfur choked.
“I’m going to kill you,” Somerset said.
Stúfur tried to say something, but the words couldn’t make it out of his constricted throat. He grabbed at Somerset’s wrist with one hand as his face flushed.
“Let him go,” Ket said. He slid over the bench seat and out. The hook shimmered like something liquid as he pulled it out of his jacket. He kept it low, against his leg, but the threat was there. “He can’t explain if he can’t talk.”
Somerset clenched his shoulders and pushed Stúfur up the side of the truck until his booted toes were all that touched the ground. His hand tightened until his knuckles showed white, and Stúfur’s eyes bulged. Then he let go, and Stúfur dropped back onto the ground, red-faced and wheezing as he doubled over to try to catch his breath. Somerset flattened his hand against Stúfur’s chest and shoved him back against the door.
“Talk,” he said.
“I covered my ass,” Stúfur said. Then he corrected himself. “Ourasses. You think Jars was behind this plot? Who do you think the rest of the Court will suspect if you turn up after all these years, announce that Santa is dead, and then put your boyfriend on the Sleigh?”
Ket cleared his throat. When Somerset looked at him, Ket shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirked up. “He’s got a point,” he said. “It doesn’t sound good. If I didn’t know you, I’d wonder.”
“You trust me?” Somerset asked.
Ket shrugged and tucked the hook away again. “I know you,” he corrected. “You kick in doors and punch in faces. You don’t have the patience to run a plot over decades… weeks would stretch it.”
It had been a while. Somerset had almost forgotten what it was like to be around people who knew you as well as you knew yourself.
Fucking annoying.
He pulled Stúfur off the car and gave him a cursory brush down. “I still don’t see how you giving them a heads up about it is any better,” he said.
