The corners of Lund’s mouth turned down more. “It happened here,” she pointed out. “And my boss’s working theory is that our victim was thrown out of a low-flying plane, probably something to do with drugs. We both know there are more likely and less believable options. What did it? A troll, an ogre, or a flight of fucking fairies?”
“I don’t know,” Somerset said. There was a little part of him that still had enough pride in what he’d been to cringe at that admission, but the whiskey helped with that. “I turned up this morning and someone had flattened a junker Chevy on my doorstep. If there was anything unnatural about it, I’ve not heard any chatter. Maybe the guy really did fall out of a plane.”
The look Lund gave him told him what she thought of that. She tapped her hand on the bar for a moment and then slid off the barstool.
“Maybe,” she said as she reached into her jacket. She got out her phone and fumbled with the screen. Once she had pulled up whatever it was she wanted, she held it in front of Somerset’s face. “What do you think? He look like someone who’d piss off a drug-dealer with a pilot’s license?”
Somerset studied the picture. Then he turned away to stick the whiskey back on the shelf. “He looks like ground beef.”
Lund made an aggrieved noise. “Let me know if you hear anything,” she said. “And if you’re lying to me, our arrangement is over.”
“Well, that’s put the fear of God in me,” Somerset said. “What would I do without the drunks and degenerates around here to depend on.”
That got him a snort. Somerset turned to watch as Lund zipped her coat back up and stalked out of the bar. Once she was gone, he reached under the bar and pulled out a heavy, brown glass bottle of the real stuff. Or, at least, the closest you could get this far from Court.
Somerset cracked the wax seal with his thumb nail. It fell away in two bits, and he brushed it onto the floor. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and poured a measure of mead into a shot glass. It was honey gold, streaked through with strings of clotted red.
What Lund didn’t know was that their arrangement was already over. It only had value to him while the Just-as-High had value to him. And the Just-as-High’s value to Somerset had evaporated the minute he’d picked out the face below the bruises on Lund’s phone.
Somerset picked up the glass and took a drink. It cut through him like ice, the taste of blood and honey so strong he could smell it. Unlike the whiskey, there was nothing easy about the red mead. It delivered harsh clarity instead of a comfortable blur.
His brothers had found him.
And something had found them.
Chapter Three
Therewasabusinesscard tucked into the door of Dylan’s locker. He plucked it out.
It was cheap white cardstock printed with the Belling, MN police department logo in one corner and belonged to ASMA LUND. Below the name, the card identified her as a detective in small caps and gave her email and phone number.
“She said she wanted to speak to you,” Alice said from behind him. “About last night.”
Dylan turned around. “About the bachelor party,” he asked as he tucked the card into the pocket of his jeans, “or the guy that wrecked my car?”
Alice grimaced as she took in the raccoon mask that passed for Dylan’s face today. She should have seen it earlier, when the bruising was still in seasonal tones.
“That does not look pretty,” she said.
“No change there, then.”
Alice pursed her lips and gave him a disapproving look. She turned to scrabble around in her locker as she talked over her shoulder.
“The ‘It’s Raining Men’ guy,” she said. “Apparently, they think he was thrown out of a plane. God. Some Christmas, huh?”
“A plane?” Dylan asked, the doubt raw in his voice.
Alice shrugged. “What else could it be? It’s not like there’s a lot of high-rises in Belling, you know?” She turned around and shoved a plastic jar of something at him. “Arnica gel. Helps with the bruising.”
It couldn’t hurt, Dylan supposed. He took the jar and turned it absently in his hand.
“What’s wrong?” Alice asked. “You don’t have to take it. I won’t be—“
“No.” Dylan shook off the momentary distraction and cracked a smile. He held the jar up and wrapped his fingers around it. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”
Alice nodded. Then she stepped forward and pulled Dylan into a quick, rough hug. It caught him off-guard, and he froze—awkward and stiff—as she squeezed his ribs. Her chin dug into his shoulder, and she smelled of lavender and anti-bacterial gel.
“I’m glad you’re OK,” she said as Dylan diplomatically extricated himself from her grip. It wasn’t that he minded the gesture, but he’d never been able to work out the angles. She stepped back and frowned at him. “But what made you go back to the Just-as-High in the first place? You knew they were closed for the night.”
