Faster than he can react, I twist under his guard and flip the knife from his hand to mine, its sharp tip kissing the base of his neck.
“How bold of you. And how foolish.” He appraises me without fear, but not without intrigue. “Will you kill me, then?” His voice softens and slows, curling around me with its beguiling threads.
I could do it. The dagger is his. God-touched.
Though I hope his death brings destruction of the Shade, an end to winter, I do not know for certain that’s what will happen. What if he dies, but the Shade remains? What if the darkwalkers survive, able to roam the Gray freely? Until I am certain of the consequences, certain that I will be able to walk free of the Deadlands without obstacles, the Gray rid of suffering, I need him alive.
Slowly, as if understanding it is no mortal weapon I hold, the Frost King lifts his hand. He bypasses the dagger, instead resting his fingertips against my chin, drawing them up the curve of my face. My grip on the handle slackens at the unexpected touch.
He moves so quickly I can’t track it. Clasping my wrist, he slices through the center of my palm. I hiss as my skin splits and blood wells.
“Mortal blood is necessary for the Shade’s existence,” he explains, as if I did not have a knife at his throat moments ago. “Any mortal blood will do, but the blood of a mortal bound in union to the king is far more potent. A willing donation is always stronger than blood taken by force. Choose,” he says. “Your blood”—he tilts his head toward those trapped beyond the Shade—“or theirs.”
Fury and helplessness twine into a choking amalgam. This is no choice. It is a poison I must swallow and be glad of: saving these people at the cost of my own lifeblood.
I ask myself why that is. Why the king needs my blood to strengthen the Shade, something of his own creation. Is his power weakening?
“Mine,” I spit. Soon, this will not matter. I will be free of him. We will all, at long last, be free.
He deepens the incision. Blood flows hot and thick, trickling down my wrist. His grip unyielding, the king shoves my hand inside the barrier.
Darkness ignites. Red streaks the cloth, and spreads, traveling along the Shade in its entirety. Dull pain shimmers up my arm. My scream cracks against the back of my teeth. I can’t pull free. The more blood it drags from my veins, the more opaque the Shade grows. Once the scarlet hue burns away every piece of darkness, it snuffs out. The Shade spits out my hand, the cut on my palm already scabbed over.
“Come, wife.” He sheathes his dagger. “It’s time to depart.”
The barrier, once thin as cloth, is now so dense it shields what lies beyond.
What have I done?
When I ram my shoulder against the substance, the darkness curls away, peels back. A glimpse—a frightened eye, grasping hands—before the darkness knits together, blocking my view of the other side.
What if I had refused to strengthen the Shade? Could the townsfolk have crossed the weakened barrier? Would the Frost King’s influence over the Gray have loosened? I might never know.
The Frost King begins towing me toward his mount, which stamps at the muddy snow and tosses its head impatiently.
“We can’t leave them.”
His fingers tighten around my upper arm as I attempt to jerk free. “Calm yourself, wife.”
I will not go quietly. I will not go at all.
“Think of the children,” I cry. “You can do something. You can call back winter.Please.” I dig in my heels, but the ground remains frozen, the earth slick, my body weak compared to his immortal strength. No matter how hard I fight, I can’t break free.
“Let her go.”
A figure steps out from behind a stretch of brush, snow dusting his wild curls. The motion is so graceful there is no separation between god and earth. Something has changed in him. His eyes, perhaps. The green of new growth, of life, of spring. A color so rich in intensity I swear it bleeds out. Zephyrus is gone. Before me stands the West Wind, and he heralds a warning.
Bow drawn. Arrow pointing at his brother’s heart.
The wind breaks, a howling declaration, a scream of defiance as the North Wind’s voice takes on an insidious, frightening edge. “You overstep, Zephyrus.”
The West Wind treads lightly across the packed snow. Fresh pink buds bloom in his wake. “Let Wren go.” His voice is different as well. Strange and ethereal.
The Frost King’s grip around my arm loosens. His other hand shifts, sliding around my shoulder, moving to the top of my spine. It then travels down, trailing over each raised vertebra, a slow, intentionaltouch, low, lower to the base of my spine where my backside curves outward. And that is where his hand comes to rest: at the small of my back.
The possessiveness of his touch elicits a shiver from me.
“My business is of no concern to you,” he responds.
