“I can’t even tell anyone, can’t send help,” Nik said. He clenched his hand in his hair, tufts of it sticking up through his knuckles, and sniffed wetly. “The Kallikantzaroi are supposed to be gone, pruned branch and root.”
“Get up,” Dylan said.
Nik spat on Dylan’s boot instead. “Fuck you,” he said. “Your weakness, your fondness, did this. A Santa that cares more about some fuckingmortalthan Yule. I hope they—”
It wasn’t a good idea for Nik to finish that thought. Dylan crouched down and grabbed Nik’s jacket, leather thick and clumsy between his fingers.
“You can get up,” he said, “or you can stay here, but I’m going.”
He shoved Nik back against the wall and stalked off down the corridor. After a second he heard boots scuff the ground behind him. Nik grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back.
“You can’t,” he said, his voice cracked through with resentment. “I can’t. It’s Christmas Eve. You have to be here to take the Whip and drive the Sleigh. We’ll just have to hope that my brothers are smart enough to find a way out without violence.”
Dylan pulled away from him. “That’s not really their strong suit,” he pointed out. Then he held his phone up in front of Nik’s face. The glare made Nik blink and lean back as he squinted at the screen. “Nineteen fifty-one. That’s when Demre and Hill were founded. Nearly a hundred years, Nik. How many babies do you think that adds up to? The Kallikantzaroi aren’tinBury, theyareBury.”
Something that Santa had known all about before he was killed, but the repercussions of that bit of knowledge would have to wait. Nik’s face had blanched as the information sank in.
“Six of us gone,” he said raggedly. “Six.The Winter Court will eat us alive.”
Dylan turned on his heel and struck out again. “No one is going to die today.”
Never make any promises.That was one of the first things that Dylan had learned as a paramedic. No “You’ll be OK” or “We can save the leg,” and absolutely never promise that someone is going to make it. Right now, Dylan didn’t care.
“What are you going to do?” Nik protested. He sounded bitter, but he was still at Dylan’s shoulder. “I can’t let you leave the North Pole. It’ll be bad for Yule to lose my brothers, but worse if the Sleigh stands empty on Christmas Eve.”
That was it. Up until now the closest to a plan Dylan had was that he wasn’t going to let anyone die for him, but that worked.
“I am Yule,” Dylan said, the memory of Somerset’s words almost making him believe it. “And don’t worry about the Sleigh, we’re taking it with us.”
The argumentsagainsttaking the Sleigh—argued grimly by the remaining Yule Lads or indignantly by the Saint-blood as they clustered around the Sleigh—mostly boiled downto “No one has ever done itbefore” and “If you die, we won’t have the Sleigh for the new Santa.”
Dylan had only been able to come up with one argumentfor, which was that he wasn’t asking. So far that was carrying the day. It had gotten his regalia fetched, the Sleigh dragged out, and the reindeer harnessed.
He pulled on the heavy fur-lined jacket and black leather gloves and braced one foot against the Sleigh’s running board as he went to boost himself up. The bells on the harnesses chimed as the reindeer snorted and tossed their impressively-horned heads. The sound made Dylan’s skin prickle with the memory of cold hands and rough kisses. His throat tightened at the thought that might have been the last time, but he squashed that fear down with the blunt weapon of his promise.
No one is going to die.
Although, Dylan thought bleakly as he hesitated, that didn’t mean that Somerset would want anything to do with him after this was over. As far as Santas went, Dylan’s appointment hadn’t been plain sailing.
One of the Saint-blood—Kris, Dylan thought, from his beard and gray-blond hair—shoved his way to the front of the crowd. He grabbed Dylan’s arm and dug his fingers into the down-padded sleeve.
“Bring them home,” he said. “Yule can survive anything else.”
The support caught Dylan by surprise. Not just that one person had said it, but that he saw a few other Saint-born in the crowd nod in agreement. It wasn’t even close to half, but more than he’d expected.
“I will,” he said.
Kris nodded as if it was an agreement, let go, and stepped back. He grabbed one of the other Saint-born and pulled them back.
“We serve him,” he reminded them gruffly. “Not the other way around.”
The Saint-blood curled his lip. “Maybe it’s time we asked more questions about who we serve,” he said, his voice pitched to carry. “What does anyone even know about him? What line is he from? He’s not one of us.”
Someone threw a punch. Dylan wasn’t sure if it was one of his unexpected supporters or not. It didn’t really matter, as the gathering quickly turned into a brawl.
Nik grabbed hold of the edge of the Sleigh, one foot braced on the polished runner. The other Yule Lads followed suit. As they grabbed on, Nik looked at Dylan.
“What are you waiting for?” he said as he reached back with his free hand to absently check his axe. “If you are going to do it, do it now.”
