It was Somerset’s turn to hesitate.
When he’d sworn himself to serve Yule with his brothers, no one had bound them to be honest. The Winter Court had known that it would be better if they weren’t always. Because Somerset’s job was to keep Santa, and by extension the Line of Nick, safe, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
Somerset already knew what lie to tell to keep Dylan out of whatever Winter Court intrigue had fallen apart on them. Winter’s wolves had killed Alice, and the Yule Lads had killed the wolves. With no one to save and revenge already meted out, all that left was grief. And that was a manageable emotion.
Skellirwould have told the lie. Hehadtold the lie, in one form or another, to other Santas.
If he told this lie, though, Dylan would never forgive him. Not if he believed it, and definitely not if he didn’t.
Skellir would pay that price, Somerset didn’t fucking want to.
“The wolves—”
The oath dug magic into his tongue, the lie he knew heshouldsay coming up his throat like vomit. He clenched his teeth and choked it back down.
The geas had no wit of its own. It drew its compulsion from what Somerset believed. So all he had to do was convince himself that the truth was what would keep Dylan safe.
It was a shame he didn’t believe that.
“Was she hurt?” Dylan pushed at him. His voice was tight and thready with anxiety. “Are they…? I didn’t see what happened, but Detective Lund said they were missing. I need to know what happened. It was my fault. Did the wolves take them or…?”
Dylan’s voice cracked as he got to that question, and he had to stop. He clenched his teeth, and the muscles bulged in his jaw.
It would eat at him. Somerset could recognize that, even if he didn’t understand it. Dylan had only ever agreed to be Santa on sufferance. If they gave him a reason to go sour on Yule, he might still change his mind. It shouldn’t be possible, but his grandfather had pulled it off. Yule couldn’t afford to assume it wasn’t bloodline related.
That was enough to make the two opposed impulses fall into step. The oath relaxed its grip on Somerset’s tongue. He rubbed his jaw with one hand.
“The wolves took them.”
“Where?” Dylan asked. Then the more interesting question, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Somerset said. He shrugged when Dylan glared at him. “They’re wolves, not lords of the courts. They don’t take prisoners—”
“She wasn’t a prisoner,” Dylan interrupted him. “They said she was a…a ticket.”
Somerset dug his thumb into the hinge of his jaw to work the ache out of the muscle. He frowned as he took in that information.
“A ticket where?
Dylan paused. He closed his eyes for a second before he finally answered. “Home? I don’t where that is.”
“They’re called Winter’s wolves,” Somerset pointed out. “Guess.”
Dylan flushed. The color didn’t last in his face. “Well, I don’t know where that is,” he pointed out. “It could be a cave or it could be a country.”
“It is,” Somerset said. He chewed absently on the inside of his lower lip as he turned that over in his head. “They weren’t after you?”
Dylan shook his head. The hair that Somerset had tidied back fell over his face. “I don’t think so. They wanted Irene. It was just bad luck that I got the call.”
Luck, good or bad, was always suspicious.
Somerset nodded at Dylan’s arm, the gray fabric stretched over a bulky bandage. “And that?”
“Gift with purchase?” Dylan said.
It didn’t make sense. Their kind loved babies—whether to rock or roast depended on the individual—but there was never a shortage of them. Mortals were careless with their offspring. For every infant won back by a savvy parent with wits and violence, there were a dozen whose disappearance went unnoticed.
Or sometimes, just unmissed.
