“Here,” chokes the Frost King. He picks up the spear with those splintered fingers and holds it out, his breathing wet and ragged, hand twitching in pain. “Take it. Just let Wren go.”
“No.” I struggle against the binding, but another vine wraps around my waist, pinning me in place. “He’ll kill you!”
Zephyrus flicks his gaze skyward. “How many times must I repeat myself?” he mutters. “I do not want my brother’s death. I want balance restored to the world. A remnant of Boreas’ power will remain, never fear.”
I go still. “What are you talking about?”
The West Wind looks to the North Wind expectantly. But Boreas twitches as the beast begins to surface, as those shadows begin to rise, blackening the pale of his skin. He arches off the ground with a furious shriek.
I watch the transformation with sickening dismay. “Boreas,” I whisper. If he makes the change, I fear he will be unable to turn back, weakened as he is.
He slumps, teeth gritted, black eyes wide.
Attention still fixated on his brother, Zephyrus explains, “Our power is tied to our immortality. To give up our power is to choose a mortal life.”
I try and fail to wrap my thoughts around this discovery. I’d always assumed his power and immortality were separate. If they are linked…
There is no fear in his eyes as Boreas offers up his spear, the repository of his power, the source of his immortality, to Zephyrus. He will hate a mundane, mortal life. What will he cling to when that power is gone?
“Don’t,” I plead. “Just… think about what you’re doing.”
His voice, when he speaks, is guttural. “This is my choice, Wren. I am certain.”
“But that will throw everything out of balance.” The land needs winter just as it needs spring. If he loses his power, who will call down the snow, the bitter cold?
“Don’t fret, Wren,” Zephyrus says, eyes on the weapon. “The earth is older than the oldest gods, its gifts bestowed upon the divine eons ago. The seasons will return to their normal cycle in your realm: a brief winter, and then respite, regrowth.”
The West Wind is so intent on the spear he does not realize he has released the tethers that bind me. The vines loosen around my torso. My feet slide to the ground as the spearpoint glows with increased intensity.
The darkwalker within Boreas begins to fade, shadows gradually receding from his skin. My husband’s eyes, returned to their unclouded blue, flick to me as Zephyrus reaches for the weapon, his guard down. And I understand what he wants me to do.
As soon as Zephyrus closes his hand around the spear, it vanishes and reappears at my feet. I snatch it up. An electric pulse surges through my body, flooding my bones, shredding open my veins. The stone point flares with light, and Zephyrus’ eyes widen. I bare my teeth in a snarling grin.
“You, Zephyrus of the West,” I spit, “are an ass.”
Blazing light floods the small space as, with a mighty heave, I swing the crackling weapon in a wide arc.
Ice ruptures from the tip, arrowing toward Zephyrus’ chest. He flies back from the impact, ramming the wall with so much force it cracks. Another shudder rocks the cave. The ground lurches as the spear disintegrates in my hands. All that power, mere dust. And as the first chunk of rock plummets overhead, I lunge toward Boreas, fling my body over his, and bear the weight of the cave collapsing over me.
43
LOVE(NOUN):A PROFOUNDLY TENDER, passionate affection for another person. Attraction that involves sexual desire. A person you love in a romantic way. Eternal devotion.
44
AKNOCK SOUNDS AT MYdoor, a rapidtap-tap-tap, sharp and immediate. “My lady?”
I sit curled in a chair, head leaning against the window, watching the clouds dissipate with the sun’s rising. It’s how I’ve spent the last few mornings. My breath steams against the frosted glass. Hot, spreading condensation that evaporates within moments, because nothing lasts—including the walls around my heart.
Three days have passed since I found Boreas in that cave, and I have yet to visit him.
The memory of that dark place haunts me. Boreas, his bruised, beaten face and body. And the broken arm and collarbone, and the lacerations to his skin, and the horror of his hands, and the arrows embedded in his thighs, his arms. Then there was Zephyrus, expression cold as he stood over him. Brother, liar, traitor.
My stomach pitches dangerously. I close my eyes until the dizziness subsides and press my forehead against the frigid glass.
I am a coward.
A touch on my arm draws my attention to the hand that rests there. Orla says, her eyes swimming with worry, “My lady? Did you hear me?”
