Stúfur slapped his hands away. He tilted his head to the side as he rubbed his throat. It was a bit overdramatic. The bruises had already started to fade.
“Because now you’re not the only one with designs on the Sleigh,” he said. “Everyone in there has their eye on the prize. We just have an advantage... and that bit I kept to myself.”
It sounded good.
Stúfur’s plans always sounded good, though. Right up until someone ended up ass-deep in a midden, and he walked away smelling of roses.
“It would have been nice,” Somerset said. “If you’d let us know about your plan ahead of time.”
Stúfur shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
He wouldn’t. It was done now, though, and they didn’t have the luxury of arguing about it. As they stood there, a man stepped out of the door to have a smoke, the flicked flame of his lighter illuminating his face as he looked their way with interest.
Make that at Somerset with interest.
He took a couple of drags, then tossed the cigarette down on the sidewalk. Sparks flickered and died as he ground it underfoot and then went back inside. Whatever he said to the bouncer made the big woman look their way with interest.
If they didn’t get a move on, they’d lose whatever element of surprise they had left.
“Fine,” he growled. “Let’s go and see who thinks they have their feet under Santa’s desk.”
Stúfur straightened his jacket. “My money is on Sin,” he said over his shoulder as he headed toward the door. Ket fell in next to him. “This is his sorta place.”
That wasn’t one of their brothers—not unless their mother had found a new husband—but it wasn’t one of the Sainted either. At least, it wasn’t one of the candidates from the last succession. It made sense, Somerset supposed as he started across the sidewalk, enough of the sainted had died last time to make room for new players.
He got five steps before the idea that he’d forgotten something nudged at him. Another three before he worked outwhat.
Make thatwho.
“Shit.” He turned around and walked back over to the truck. Dylan was still inside it. Somerset stepped off the curb, ice slick under his feet, and opened the door. “Changed your mind?”
Dylan laughed and rubbed his hands down his thighs nervously. “Is that an option?”
No.
“Maybe,” Somerset lied. “There’d be a price to pay.”
It occurred to him that it didn’t have to be a lie. If Dylan told him to, they could just get in the truck and drive. There were places where even the Winter Court’s reach didn’t stretch. Not yet.
“I don’t even know what you want me to do,” Dylan said. “Is there some sort of ceremony? Do I need to do… something?”
Somerset held out his hand. “All you have to do is get to the Sleigh,” he said. “I’ll handle the rest.”
Dylan stared at him as he thought about it and then twisted his mouth.
“If this was my grandad’s plan,” he said. “Why didn’t he bring me back here, raise me so that I knew what was going on?”
It was a good question. There wasn’t really time to think up a good answer, but Somerset was surprised to realize it had one anyhow.
“I’ve never met one of the Sainted who wasn’t a spoiled bastard,” he said. “Even your grandfather when he was younger. Maybe he thought it would be better if you were different.”
Dylan scoffed at the idea, but finally took Somerset’s hand and climbed out of the truck.
Stúfur and Ket were waiting by the door where a bouncer, arms crossed over her grain barrel chest, was blocking their way. Stúfur stood in front of her, chin jutted out and fists clenched as they glared at each other.
“Apparently, we’ve been barred,” Ket said as Somerset and Dylan joined them.
The bouncer glanced away from Stúfur. “VIPs only,” she said.
