Something inside me stills. “What is this?”
For below, something teems. A writhing mass, body upon body, blurred behind the Shade. A horde of villagers has gathered, many hundreds, perhaps thousands, having traveled far and wide from the Gray to plant themselves on the Frost King’s doorstep. They blanket the landscape, trickle into the lower valley, their starved bodies swamped in thin cloth and ragged furs.
The air vibrates with their screams as they drive against the barrier in waves. They cannot pass through the Shade. Only the dead may do so, and only via the Les.
“Why are they trying to enter the Deadlands?”
A low, rough sound vibrates down my spine. It reminds me of a growl. “The darkwalkers continue to escape into the Gray. The villagers blame me for the breach and seek to end my life, among other things.”
A much-deserved reproach. And yet, I am curious. “Why do they blame you?”
His hands tighten on the reins. I sense his hesitation. “Do you know what the darkwalkers are?”
“Soul-sucking abominations?” Beyond that knowledge, I know nothing of the beasts.
“When one passes into the afterlife,” he says, “the soul detaches from the physical body and merges with the Les to await their Judgment. Some, however, refuse to accept their fate. They seek to return to their former lives. This resistance will often corrupt the soul.”
That explains why darkwalkers feed off the living. They seek a life that no longer exists, through the breath and soul of another.
Snow compresses beneath my boots. I don’t remember dismounting. My muscles twinge as I trudge closer to the frozen Les.
A mother with a young babe swaddled against her breast grapples at the barrier. It flows like dark water, shifting away from her touch. Desperation ignites as her gaze meets mine. Now she is clawing at the wall. Now she is ramming into the blockade, again, again. Now she is screaming as her baby cries the feeblest of sounds, and she is pleading, she is wailing.Monster! You monster!
My stomach curdles into a hard, wrinkled pit. Men stab their knives and pitchforks and rusted swords against the wall to no effect. I stand with the Frost King as though we are a united front, and I feel close to vomiting because it is the furthest thing from the truth. What must these people think of me?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Their fists strike the barrier, light flaring at the various points of contact. “I’m so sorry.”
Snow crunches behind me, drawing my attention. The Frost King has dismounted and now stands at my back, those dead eyes resting on the struggling townsfolk.
“You have to help them.” Two steps, and I’m before him. My hands curl into the front of his cloak.
He blinks at me in surprise. “Is that what you would have me do? Offer my aid to those hungry for vengeance?”
A hoarse laugh claws free. “You cannot die. You said so yourself. And if you helped them, they wouldn’t have a reason to kill you!”
For a moment, I think he might actually consider it. “No.”
“Please.” Snow seeps into my trousers, numbing my skin. “They are hungry and cold. You can do something.”
His upper lip twitches, just once, like a nervous tic. “I do not control the darkwalkers. They go where they wish.”
“But they’re escaping through the Shade somehow.”
“Yes, and by giving your blood to the Shade, you will be strengthening the barrier, closing the holes that have formed over time.”
My mouth opens and closes dumbly. “What?”
Wrapping a hand around my upper arm, he hauls me closer. In his other hand, he holds a knife.
My pulse quickens. “I thought you didn’t sacrifice your wives.”
“I don’t.” The blatant frustration in his tone comes as a surprise. He drags me nearer to the Shade despite my thrashing. The crowd jostles forward, a wave of skeletal hands and sagging flesh. My head spins. How much blood does he need? A drop? A bucketful? The line between life and death grows thin.
“Take off your glove,” he says.
The dark fabric of the Shade ripples outward. It heaves and curls into itself, supple and warm andalive.
The Frost King stops an arm’s length from the barrier. Since I’ve failed to follow his order, he removes my glove, exposing my sweaty hand to the scouring air. His knife digs into my palm, but it doesn’t break skin.
