This time it was the young Duke of Winter who shook his head. He stood to the side of the table, out of the way, with Stúfur stationed pointedly but politely at his shoulder. Dylan didn’t get the politics of it exactly—at all—but he assumed the intent was to convey the duke was very much not a prisoner…until he needed to be.
“We vet for that,” Caolán said. His mouth ticked up in not-quite-a-smile, and he fiddled absently with a green holly pin on his lapel. “Do you know many perfectly good parties have been ruined because someone can’t refuse a boon, like ‘break out the good liquor’ or ‘steal me away.’ Never mind the High Kings toppled because they insulted the wrong witch by turning down a meal. He had none.”
“In future,” Stúfur said as he craned his head to look over Caolán’s shoulder, “might be an idea to vet for treachery, as well.”
Caolán gave the Yule Lad an unfriendly look. He took half a step aside to put some distance between them. “As far as I am aware, Hill served the Court loyally for centuries, as did Demre. They held positions of responsibility and regard. If they meant us harm, it could have been done much easier than…this.”
He gestured at Hill’s sprawled body with obvious disdain.
“He’s been poisoned,” Jars said. He stepped forward and ran his finger down the shaft before he lifted it to show the rusty mark on his finger. “Mortal blood. Saint blood. His blood.”
Dylan lifted his hand toward his nose as he remembered the jolt of pain and the taste of iron in the back of his throat.
“We don’t mix well, the Sainted and the Soulless,” Jars continued. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and fastidiously wiped the stain off his skin. A dry-as-salt smile tucked the corners of his mouth as he glanced at Somerset. “It’s a good thing one of us can read, isn’t it?”
The need to make this—all of this—abide by some sort of observable natural law pricked at the tip of Dylan’s tongue. It made no sense that blood was a poison, but other bodily fluids could be introduced with no ill effects. That wasn’t exactly something he could ask about without…explanations of things he wasn’t supposed to talk about.
So…
When he was out on a call, he took the word of friends and family if they said the patient was on something. This was the same principle. And if he believed Jars…he should probably take the needle out of the vein.
Dylan stepped back and grabbed a handful of gauze pads out of the first-aid kit. He ripped them open and layered them on top of each other.
“Somerset?” he said. “When I tell you, pull the chair leg out of his throat.”
He boosted himself up onto the table and straddled Hill’s lean body. If he’d gotten this wrong, he would have another thing to add to his conscience. He wondered if it was a bad sign that he’d find Hill’s death a lot lighter than Alice…than whatever had happened to Alice.
“Now,” he said.
Somerset kept his hand braced on Hill’s chest. He grabbed the chair leg with the other and yanked. It didn’t come out clean. Fresh tendrils of green growth and thin, hairy roots had sprouted from the dead wood; they pulled out chunks of flesh and snapped off around bone. Hill arched up off the table, his mouth open in a soundless scream.
“That explains what didn’t agree with him,” Stúfur remarked.
Blood spurted out of the wound. Dylan stemmed it by slapping the gauze over the hole and pressing it down into place. He could feel the heat of Hill’s raw flesh as it stung through the layers of cotton. He gritted his teeth and pressed down on the dressing to hold it in place.
“Someone toss me the tape,” he said, his free hand stuck out blindly. The roll smacked against his palm, and he grunted not-quite-a-thanks as he pulled it around. He ripped off a length of it with his teeth and slapped it into place. Then another to secure the other side of it. The raw edges of the dressing frayed and crisped as the blood scorched into them, but didn’t catch.
It wasn’t exactly tidy, but it would do.
Under him, Hill made a ragged, gasping sound. His eyes, black beads in a flushed face, opened wide and then sagged shut again. The long, lanky body went limp.
Dylan hissed with relief as he pulled his hand away and leaned back. His palm was sunburn red, and a handful of seed blisters had started to form in the creases.
“Ow.”
Somerset grabbed him by the waist and lifted him off the table.
That was just starting to get undignified. Dylan bit his tongue on a protest—not in front of the Winter Court, after all—and wondered if that was why so many Santas were depicted as fat. Self-defense against being picked up and put somewhere safe.
“I don’t know if I made that better or worse,” he admitted. “The anatomy is the same, mostly. but…”
He trailed off with a shrug.
“We don’t need him to live a full life,” Jars said. “Just to answer our questions.”
Dylan glanced at Hill’s limp body.
“He’s not going to do that for a while.”
