Somerset ducked down to look into the car. “You’re not my boss,” he corrected firmly. “And yes, it is. Move.”
Dylan groused under his breath and grabbed Somerset’s hand. It turned out that it wasn’t actually that intimate a moment. Somerset just unceremoniously yanked him out of the car and slammed the door. He put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder and turned him around so he could see…
…the North Pole. Which was still a strip club.
Dylan scowled and tried to back up. “Oh no,” he said. “I told you. I’m not getting locked up out of the way—”
“That’s not why we’re here,” Somerset said as he caught Dylan’s elbow. “We need to talk to whoever paid us a visit at theJust-as-High, and since we don’t have time to do it the fun way…that means we go through the proper channels.”
It sounded reasonable. Dylan still dug his heels in as he tried to think up an excuse. He’d not dodged every summons, appointment, and meeting set here for the last year just to walk in now without protest. It wasn’t even the threat that the last Santa’s killer might be under the same roof as him. At least, not entirely.
His reluctance was more to do with the flashing neon stripper pole andmember’s onlysign on the door. If hewasSanta, if Yule really belonged to him, then it would be a reflection of him.
The traditional Santa’s workshop or some sort of Christmas first-aid tent. Instead it was a tittybar, because it didn’t matter what watch he wore or whip he cracked.
He didn’t belong, and somehow Yule knew it.
“We don’t have time for the proper channels either,” he said. “Why don’t you deal with this, and I’ll—”
Somerset gave him a shove into the road. Dylan staggered as he tried not to trip over his own feet.
“Don’t worry,” Somerset said as he crossed under his own steam. “The proper channels aren’t going to take long. The Winter Court is probably already on their way here.”
Chapter Eight
Somerset had been wrong.
The Winter Court was already there.
And not just a handful of minor dignitaries either. Winter had sent one of their dukes to Belling, and he’d come all the way to Yule’s domain to express his displeasure. The slender man, dressed all in charcoal gray leathers, sat flanked by four of his court, two at either shoulder, at one end of a long, scarred oak table. At the other end Jars sat stiffly in an ornate carved chair. He only had Stúfur to back him up, the Yule Lad’s shoulder propped against the chair as he leaned on it.
The scene put Somerset’s hackles up. It looked easy, familiar. Somerset thought he could trust Stúfur, but he’d thought the same of all his brothers at one point and been proven wrong.
“Is this a bad time?” Somerset asked as the door swung shut behind him. He stripped his coat off and tossed it into a nearby booth. “We could comeback.”
Belling’s new duke turned to look Somerset up and down. Apparently it didn’t impress, because he curled his lip before he turned back to Jars.
“Are your servants always so free with their tongues?” he asked.
The jab made Stúfur snort, and one of the duke’s advisors leaned in and muttered something to him. It could have been that the duke had just called one of the Yule Lads a servant —Somerset didn’t care, but some of his brothers were more conscious of their dignity —orthat he’d turned his back to one of Winter’s most feted killers. Whatever it was, the duke didn’t care for it. He stiffened and hunched his shoulders up toward his ears, then stood up in one graceful, flowing movement.
“I see I am mistaken,” he said smoothly as he sketched a brusque bow in Somerset’s direction. “It’s no mere servant, it’s the Saintmaker himself. The most selfless of Yule’s retainers.”
The title was new, the insult wasn’t.
Winter had never believed that Somerset had raisedoneSanta to office with no hidden motives. The fact they couldn’t see what his angle was had only convinced them it was even more mercenary than they’d thought.
It looked like doing it twice hadn’t changed Winter’s mind about him.
That, more than anything else, was why no one could know about him and Dylan. Somerset might wear his own feelings on his sleeve where the newest Santa was concerned, but it would be dangerous if they knew Dylan returned them.
“I prefer Somerset, and if I—” he started, but Jars’s voice interrupted him before he could finish.
“And not alone,” he said. He reached for his crutches and levered himself clumsily to his feet as he dipped his head toward Dylan. “Santa. We’re honored that you were able to finally make it. After all, as Duke Caolán pointed out, the Yule Lads simply serve Yule. It’s Santa Claus who rules it.”
Dylan was suddenly the focus of everyone’s attention.
“That’s OK. Please don’t get up.” Dylan gestured clumsily for Jars to stay where he was. “I can’t stay long.”
