Somerset growled under his breath and started toward her. Before he could explain exactly how she had the wrong people to flex her authority at, Dylan stepped in front of him.
“They really pay you enough for this?” he asked.
She glanced at him.
“You have a better offer?”
Dylan fished in his pockets. “I’ve got…” he checked the crumpled notes. “Fifty bucks. And I’ll tell everyone you tried to stop us.”
The bouncer rolled her eyes, took the money, and stepped aside. “I put the little one on his ass,” she told Dylan as they walked by her. “Make sure to add that bit.”
Stúfur glared at her, and she just smirked back. Then, they crossed the threshold and stepped into the North Pole.
Somerset’s breath steamed in front of his mouth as he headed through the club. A remix of Little Drummer Boy thudded from the speakers, loud enough that the bass felt like a shove, and dancers ground to the beat on various candy-cane-colored poles. The dance floor was crowded with bodies that writhed and pushed against each other.
Most of them Somerset knew. A few decades was no time at all here.
Some of them knew him, too. After the first few bumped into him, the press withered away as he stalked across the floor. In the middle of it, one of his brothers—Nik, the baby of the family—caught the mutters and turned away from the dancer he was trying to flirt with. He saw Somerset, took in Ket and Stúfur with him, and then turned to push his way toward the bar.
The Sleigh was on a raised dais in the middle of the club. The reindeer were harnessed, leather waxed and bells polished, as they waited for the crack of the whip to go. A lean, blond youth in dark red leather—but not very much of it—sprawled in the seat with his booted feet kicked up on the rail.
“Sin?” Somerset said as he glanced at Ket.
He got a nod in confirmation.
“That tracks.”
Stúfur stopped in front of him. He dropped his hand to the gun strapped to his thigh. “It’s just occurred to me,” he said. “Ten to three isn’t great odds.”
Jars stalked toward them through the crowd, his legs stiff where the braces were strapped around his knees and ankles. When Somerset glanced around, he saw the rest of the Yule Lads moving toward them through the crowd.
“I count nine,” he said. “Gull’s still off the board.”
“Oh, fuck it then,” Stúfur chuckled. “Nine I can take on my own.”
Jars stopped in front of them and opened his mouth to say something, just as the bass drum kicked off hard enough to crackle the speakers. He clenched his jaw, the muscles tight under the scruff of stubble, and turned to glare at one of the speakers.
Frost bloomed on every single speaker, thick enough to be ice, and they all fritzed out at once. As the club plunged into silence, Jars tugged his shirt straight and turned back to Somerset.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
Somerset unzipped his jacket. “Really?” he said, tilting his head toward Ket and Stúfur. “Didn’t you send them to invite me?”
Jars smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. Not much ever did. “Not how I’d put it,” he said and took a stiff stride forward. His voice dropped to a pleasant, convincing tone. “It’s too late for second thoughts, little brother. You knew what the price would be when you flouted the Court and Yule itself to elevate your own Santa. Exiles don’t get to come home.”
“I left,” Somerset said.
Then he sucker-punched Jars right in the face. His brother had time to look surprised, golden eyes wide for a moment, before he was knocked on his ass. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose, his sleeve soaked as he tried to stem it.
It was never a great idea to fight a Yule Lad fair, especially not Jars. Somerset turned and grabbed Dylan’s shoulder.
“Get to the Sleigh,” he said. “Put on the watch. Crack the whip.”
Dylan’s eyes went huge. “What?” he said. “That’s not enough—”
“We’ll keep them off your heels,” he said. “Go.”
He gave Dylan a shove to get him moving and turned back. Jars had managed to get one leg under him. He used a passing Huldra’s cow tail as a pull to help him back up. Somerset kicked him in the ribs to put him back down.
