Somerset looked up at Jars and raised his eyebrows. “Any of that sound familiar?”
“They handled our finances whenyouwere here too,” Jars said stiffly. “Money was just simpler then. It couldn’t do tricks.”
That was true, Somerset supposed. Back then he’d had the vague idea that their money was just kept in some vault, and Demre fetched it when they needed some. It was only when he’d opened his own business, he’d gotten more interested in how it worked.
Not that he was going to admit that to Jars. They might have struck a tentative alliance, but that didn’t mean Somerset liked him.
“Stúfur told me you found something,” he said. “It better be more important than Jars needs to change our password more often. I was…occupied.”
Enid looked sympathetic. “At the toilet?” she asked.
The snigger from Stúfur earned him alook.Once that had quelled his brother, Somerset delivered a dry-as-rice “No” and waited. After glancing around the room, Enid reached for the hand sanitizer again. She had to give the bottle a good shake to dislodge enough to squeeze into her hand.
“Some of the money just went into his pocket,” Enid said. “Hesays that was payment, but either way…everything else seems to involve one place. A house. Donations to the local sheriff’s department and mayor. Rental cars dropped off at a depot in a nearby city. They’re all in or near—”
She paused to give the moment a little bit of drama.
“Bury,” Dylan interrupted in a flat, resigned voice. “Bury, Montana. That's right, isn’t it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dylan stood under theshower in what Jars had informed him were his quarters. The water was turned up as hot as strong as it would go, but it still couldn’t wash the lingering chill of Somerset’s fingerprints off Dylan’s hips or cock. He leaned one arm against the slick tile and tilted his head forward, the stream of water beating against the back of his neck.
The frost-kissed traces didn’t have anything to do with why he washereand Skellir wasthere.In Bury, where the Wolves came from and where, hopefully, they’d gone to close the deal with Irene’s baby. Dylan still felt guilty, though.
At least he’d had time for a shower.
He flicked the tap, cutting the water off, and stepped out of the cubicle. The bandage had peeled off his arm, sodden and dripping. He stripped it off the rest of the way, half-planning how to redress it, and then realized he didn’t have to. Black stitches stood out in loose squiggles, and the injury had knit itself together. It wasn’t pretty, the scar tissue was lumpy and tender, but it was healed.
Maybe Yule didn’t hate him that much…or it just didn’t want to deal with a subpar Santa before the big night.
A robe hung on the back of the door, white and almost ludicrously fluffy. Dylan left it there. It was probably, like his clothes, freshly made for him, but until he knew for sure he’d rather not. He might have inherited a watch and a job from his grandfather, but he drew the line at the old man’s robe.
It had been the only option. A year’s worth of arguments about not needing to be kept out on a shelf aside, it was Christmas Eve. The Yule Lads would never agree to let him leave town, never mind go to a fight.
Either he stayed behind or there was no rescue. As it was, they’d still had to negotiate over who went to Bury and who stayed to guard Dylan.
It had made sense to agree, but that didn’t make Dylan feel less useless.
Someone had laid out clothes on the bed. The ripped shirt he’d slung over the back of a chair was gone. That was…something to get used to.
“Thanks,” he said, slightly dubious, to the room at large. Nothing changed. He eyed the walls suspiciously, in search of an eyeball or a camera, but he supposed if there was something watching they’d already gotten an eyeful.
He got dressed quickly. The clothes fit his mood, black and severe. Before he got on the Sleigh tonight—if he got on the Sleigh—he’d don the rest of the regalia. Being Santa, Dylan thought wryly as he tucked his shirt into his jeans and laced the belt through the loops, was getting to be a habit.
Someone knocked on the door. That was progress. It would have been more progress if the Lad had waited for an answer before he opened the door. Nik leaned into the room. The youngest of the Yule Lads scowled at Dylan. He wasn’t impressed witheitherJars and Somerset’s currently detente or being left out of the fight.
“Your food’s here,” he said. “It smells like shit.”
Considering what the Yule Lads considered a home-cooked meal, that boded well.
It had been over a day since Dylan had last eaten anything, other than a handful of trail mix or a couple of peppermints. He was three slices of pizza in and it hadn’t even touchedthe sides yet. Cheese scalded the roof of his mouth as he took a bite, and he soothed it with a swig of lemonade from a wet paper cup.
“Someone here could have made you pizza,” Nik pointed out.
“You’d put pineapple on it,” Dylan accused, one hand over his mouth as he chewed. “Or use ketchup for sauce.”
Nik rolled his eyes. “As long as it’s a tomato, what’s the difference?”
