Somerset lost sight of them as the wolf dragged him around again. He set his shoulders, muscles clenched tight under his skin, and forced its jaws closed, fingers wrapped around the wickerwork muzzle.
He’d never done this before. It might work, but it might not.
This was his own magic, the one whispered in his ear along with his name before his ma put him in the cradle. Somerset didn’t have to ask for it, it was already at his heels. He tightened his grip and sealed the wolf’s jaws shut like it was a door. The hard mask of the wolf’s face wasn’t made to be expressive, but it still managed to look surprised as it tried, and failed, to open its mouth.
It staggered away from Somerset as it pawed at its face desperately. Claws split the wands of rowan used for its nose and pulled out raw, green chunks of holly bough. While that wolf tried to break Somerset’s seal, he turned his attention back to the pack leader. He peeled his shredded gloves off his hands, the leather wet and lightly frosted, and stalked toward the more or less still intact host.
Before he could get there the pack leader picked up Ket, swung him in a half-circle, and smashed him against a streetlight. It was one of the few that’d been unscathed by the crash, until now. The hollow metal caved in around Ket’s body and hung him there as the wolf let go.
“Enough,” the pack leader snapped as he backed away from the fight. “We have what we came for tonight. Santa and his watch can wait. We know where to find him.”
The big wolf shouldered the ambulance out of the way and climbed out through the broken window. It shook itself, shedding chunks of ice and frost. The women inside screamed and clung to each other as they were thrown around. It threw a snarl toward Somerset and then turned to disappear into the dark. The other wolves followed.
Somerset bent down to scoop the knife he’d dropped up off the ground. He started after the pack leader, but the wind rallied and pushed him back, hard enough to make him stagger. That was a betrayal he hadn’t expected, and it left him back-footed. Literally.
A quick, ugly smile twisted the pack leader’s face. He pointed over Somerset’s shoulder with his chin.
“Your oath yanks your chain, Yule Lad,” he said. “Time to answer. Last time I tasted Saint-blood, it ended badly for you.”
He sketched a bow, a clumsy mock at Court courtesies, and Somerset didn’t wait to see him leave. Dread clutched, damp and strangling, at his chest as he turned around.
Dylan sprawled on the ground, his injured arm flung out to the side. A puddle of blood, dark and hot, surrounded it. He was very still.
Not dead, though, Somerset told himself. He’d know.
You didn’t last time, the cold thought eeled through his mind,Why this one?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stúfur raise his gun. He turned and slapped it down with the flat of his knife.
“Let them leave,” he said. “We’ve more important things to deal with than wolves.”
Stúfur spluttered indignantly. “They attackedSanta,” he said. “Right under our nose. Bad enough we lost one, but another—”
“He’s not dead,” Somerset said, the words clipped as he wrestled back the urge to hurt Stúfur for being the one to put that into words. Except he wasn’t…and it would take too damn long to do the job right. “And humans don’t get back up from a bullet.”
“So?” Ket said as he held his hand out expectantly.
A second later the handle of the hook smacked into his palm. He spun it around and hung it back off his belt. Something that might have been sap or blood, sticky and pink-tinted, coated the sickle curve of the blade.
The callousness of the question caught Somerset off-guard. He wasn’t sure why. It was a good question. The Lads owed their fealty to the Line of Nick and to Yule, and that was it. Why would they care about anything else?
Somerset supposed he’d spent too much time in the mortal world. He’d picked up some patterns of speech to make that time easier. Most mortals wouldn’t need to ask “so,” they’d just know. Even the ones who didn’t actually care about the answer.
Luckily, Somerset didn’t have to explain that to his brothers. He had an answer to “so” that wasn’t based on sentiment or morality.
“Because the wolves want them,” Somerset said. “And I want to know why.”
Stúfur and Ket glanced at each other and then shrugged their agreement.
“You could have just said that,” Stúfur grumbled as he re-holstered his gun. He turned around to head through the snow toward Dylan’s sprawled body. “And look on the bright side. If he does die, at least this time we’ll have the Watch to anoint the next–”
This time Somerset didn’t resist the rise of his cold, black temper. He grabbed Stúfur by the back of the neck as they passed the Jeep and smacked his head against the side of it. Thecrack of bone on metal dented the car—just another ding to add to the collection—but barely fazed Stúfur. He just staggered, caught himself, and gave Somerset the finger.
“Today or a hundred years from now,” Stúfur pointed out as he backed out of reach. “He’s still gonna leave—”
Ket grabbed Somerset’s arm and pulled him back. “Why not make sure it’s not today.”
That was…a good idea. Somerset stretched his legs into an easy lope and crouched next to Dylan. The thin skin of snow on the road soaked through the knee of his jeans. He reached and pressed his fingers under Dylan’s jaw.
