He glances at the line of curious specters. “It can wait.”
Pleased surprise moves through me over the fact that he would set aside his duty, if only for a few moments, considering I barged in here uninvited.
“Raspberry vanilla cake,” I announce, removing the round silver dome covering the dish to reveal the perfect slice.
My mouth waters as I bring a morsel to my mouth, a small, helpless sound slipping out. Silas never fails me.
I offer Boreas my fork, cheeks bulging. “Cake?” A few crumbs plop on my lap. I glance down at the mess, then back at Boreas, whostudies me with a quirked brow, his cold, cold eyes softened in rare amusement.
“No, thank you.”
I’m still not convinced he dislikes cake. No one dislikes cake. “Come on. One tiny little bite?” I hold the fork to him, and he leans away from it, suspicious. “Please?” My lips form a pout. “Friends share dessert, you know.”
He stares at my mouth long enough for my cheeks to heat. I’ve never been one to retreat, so I maintain my position, fighting the desire to wet my lips, curious as to how his eyes might darken, deepen, were I to do so.
“If I take a bite,” he asks, “will you remain quiet until this session is complete?”
“Yes.” Maybe.
He shifts his focus to the slice of cake. The dip of his throat draws my eye, and his brief nod allows me the opportunity to bring the fork to his mouth.
His lips part and close around the tines, and as I pull back the utensil, the sweet slides free, trapped inside a mouth whose very breath is cool, but whose lips, in this moment, appear softened, and warm.
“Good?”
He shrugs, chews. The curve of his mouth gives him away.
“You like it.” I wiggle the fork at him. “Admit it.”
“I like nothing of the sort.” But he gestures toward the plate, and I pass him the fork so he can scoop another bite into his mouth.
Clearing my throat, I lean back in my seat while he consumes half the dessert in only a few bites. I’m helpless to stop the smile spreading across my face.
The North Wind likes cake.
I knew it.
“Next in line, step forward.” Boreas’ voice, deep and ringing, fills the vast, echoing space.
A timid woman minces a few steps forward, back bent beneath a thick shawl.
“State your—”
The king stiffens. He’s on his feet, a sinuous motion so quick my mortal eyes can’t follow, as the parlor doors slam open with such force they’re torn clean from their hinges.
The air screams as a blanketing darkness pours across the threshold and into the chamber. The spear materializes in Boreas’ hand, crackling with power. Ice erupts from the spearpoint, shooting toward the whirlwind colored like deepest night.
One by one, the specters begin to fall.
I clutch the arms of my chair, frozen. A woman tumbles to the ground with splayed limbs. Then a man, his braid whipping him in the cheek as he falls forward. The cold bites into my naked hands, my bare neck, as clouds collect against the curved beams of the ceiling. Snow begins to fall in sheets—a means of defense against the infiltration. The black force retreats slightly.
“What’s happening?” My voice is lost to the wind, my eyes watering uncontrollably. “Darkwalkers?”
Beside me, Boreas grits his teeth. “No.” He spits the word. “Just another distant relative.”
He plants himself in front of me, and a cool substance slides across my skin. I peer around his shoulder, unable to tear my eyes away from the corpse-like specters. The dead cannot die again. So what power have they succumbed to?
From out of the haze, a voice demands, “Who dares pick from the Garden of Slumber?”
