Not many things could win a “whose head is hardest” contest with a redcap, but Somerset was giant-kin. Or mountain goat. It wasn’t like their mother kept their dads around once she tired of them, and things had been different back then. Either way, the top of Somerset’s skull cracked against the redcap’s forehead, hard enough to make his ears ring.
He would probably have seen stars too, for that matter, if it wasn’t for the cloying darkness.
The redcap made a strangled noise and sagged in Somerset’s grip. He was still conscious, more or less, but was reduced to twitching instead of thrashing. Somerset smacked him against a wall for good measure and then chucked him to the side.
“Nik,” Somerset yelled. “You trying to get someone killed?”
A laugh trickled in from somewhere in the pitch-black. It could have been to the left or right, or up or down for that matter. The dark was so heavy it made it hard to orient yourself. Somerset heard the distinct whistle of Nik’s halberd and then a shocked yelp from one of the redcaps.
“Isn’t that the point?” his little brother taunted him.
The snap of Jars’s voice, tight with irritation, cut through the blanket of black that hung over them. “Not. Everyone. Turn it back up.”
Light flashed back into the world like a torch. It was just the yellowish glow of overhead lights, but it jabbed into Somerset’s eyes like he’d looked directly at the sun. He squinted through the glare and pulled a knife out of the scabbard holstered to his thigh. The reflections that bounced off the blade dazzled as he brought it up in a quick arc. He caught the baton as it descended, sparks thrown off as metal scraped on metal.
On the other side of the baton, a draugr snarled at him, face twisted with the stigmata of rot. Its breath smelled even worse, rancid as it hissed through cracked brown teeth.
“Oath-breakers,” the not-dead thing spat at him. “You’ll rot for this. Worse than me.”
Somerset grunted and kicked the thing’s knee out from under it. It broke like a stick, not a leg, and it went down like a puppet with its strings cut. The jerky, unnatural movement caught Somerset off-guard, and he didn’t react quickly enough. As it dropped, the draugr flicked the length of the baton down and drove the butt end of it into Somerset’s elbow.
He felt it pop out of place, and his fingers went numb. The knife slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground. The draugr peeled thin, split lips back from its teeth in a satisfied grin and wound its arm back for another blow.
Ket’s hook pierced it through the bones of its arm, shreds of jerky flesh and leathery skin caught on the point of it. It slid up, ripping through the flesh, until it caught on the heel of the draugr’s hand. It had time to look surprised, jaundice-yellowed eyes wide, and then Ket yanked hard enough that the thing’s arm popped out of its shoulder like an overcooked chicken.
“Can’t even blame it on getting distracted this time,” Ket pointed out. The draugr’s fingers curled and clawed as it blindly looked for purchase. Ket flicked the hook to get rid of it, and the whole arm went flying into the melee. “He’s not even here.”
“Mind your tongue,” Somerset warned him. He shook the feeling back into his hand and stooped to grab his knife off the ground. The edge of it was chipped, but it would still work. He rolled his wrist around to check the balance while he scrubbed the heel of his other hand over his eyes. “Any sign of our changeling?”
Ket pulled a sour face and spat on the ground. “He can hide, but he can’t run,” he said. “We’ll get him.”
They better.
Somerset wiped his nose on the back of his hand and then his hand on his T-shirt as he looked around. The skirmish was over. All they had left was to mop up the dregs and straighten the furniture for morning.
“If you were a changeling who’d just realized how far in over his head he was,” Somerset said, “where would you—”
Before he could finish the question, Stúfur was thrown through one of the plate glass conference room windows. Hexagonal chunks of glass sprayed the room as he crashed into—and then through—someone’s desk. A fist-sized ball of rubber bands bounced off the table and rolled across the floor.
“This do?” Stúfur asked from a prone position. He lifted his hand up over his head. The trophy dangled from his fingers, a bright red Santa hat. “Skellir said he was in costume, right?”
“Somerset.”
The correction went ignored as Gat grabbed the hat out of Stúfur’s hand. No, to be fair, once he wasn’t holding his prize, Stúfur did give Somerset a single upraised finger.
Gat lifted the bedraggled pompom to his face and sniffed at it, nostrils flared and lips parted. People had described him as catlike before, but it really gave the wrong impression. Hewas, but not in the sleek, graceful black cat way that sprang to mind when they heard the word. Gat looked like a back-alley tomcat, with scruffy fever-coat gray hair, one eye, and scars from old scraps.
“Smells right,” he said and stuffed the hat into the front of his jacket. “I’ll find him. Someone time me.”
The kelpie that had just drop-kicked Stúfur through the wall pushed her way into the room. On her way through, her head and the breadth of her oddly set shoulders took out what fragments of glass had stayed in the frame.
“You won’t get away with this,” she warned. Her skin had shaded toward a murky brown, her teeth square and yellow, as she worked. It clashed with the lipstick she’d chosen for the day. “I’ve hit the silent alarm. The Hunt will be here soon.”
Decades of using his common sense instead of his fists…or at least in conjunction with them…and Somersetstillfelt an eager shiver of excitement at that idea. It would be good to finally know—for sure—which of them was best.
Jars braced one leg against the hip of the redcap he’d pinned to the floor, the struts of his leg brace making a soft clank, and yanked his spear free. The redcap clenched his teeth to avoid making any noise as blood leaked out of its leg. Jars glanced over at Gat.
“Call that your timer,” he said.
