“She goes nowhere.”
The other women shrink further into their chairs as the conflict sharpens to a point. For a moment, I swear something black slithers across the king’s gaze, momentarily blotting out the slender blue rings.
“Wren.” Elora touches my lower back. “It’s all right.”
“No.” My voice cracks. “Choose someone else.”
The Frost King’s expression darkens. His height seems to expand, though he hasn’t moved. Instinct screams that I should make myself smaller, less of a threat. A harsh gust slams open the window shutters, and the smell of cypress engulfs the space, chasing out the warmth. I blink stupidly. His spear has reappeared. Its stone tip thrusts upward, the butt of the haft resting against the bowed floorboards.
“Take care, mortal,” he warns softly, “or your insolence will bring misfortune upon this town. I have chosen. My mind will not be changed. Now stand aside.”
“I will not.”
His mien remains a slate of blank emotion. The spear, however, begins to hum, its point brightening with an eerie glow. What power resides in that weapon? What ruin will he render should I continue to deny him?
“For every minute you delay my departure,” he says, “one of these women will die.”
He reaches for Miss Millie’s daughter, who screams, attempting to lunge free of her chair, but his fingers curl into the collar of her gown, dragging her backward over the table. Food and wine smear her dress. The chair crashes onto its side. Dishware slides off the table, shattering.
“Please!” Miss Millie screeches. Her eyes roll with the terror of the hunted. “Please, not her!” Through the open windows, I spot the townsfolk, their pale, ghostly faces. Miss Millie’s daughter manages to wrench free, but he catches her arm a moment later.
Using her momentum, the king swings her toward his front, lifting the spear with his other hand. Its point blazes with a pearly light.
“Stop!” Elora’s voice, breathless with terror. She shoves around me. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll come with you.” Her wide, dark eyes meet mine, and silently plead that I do not stand in her way.
The Frost King glances at my sister, then at me. “You will come quietly?” Though the question is for Elora, his gaze never leaves my face.
“Yes. Just don’t hurt anyone.” To her credit, she manages to speak without stumbling over her tongue.
“Very well.” He releases his captive, who falls into a heap. Miss Millie rushes forward, taking her daughter into her arms, both of them sobbing hysterically.
The Frost King offers his hand. “Come.”
Shaking, Elora places her fingers in his. He begins drawing her toward the door.
One moment, I am calm. The next, I am consumed by a hatred so devouring it shreds through the remainder of my self-control. I move before I’m aware of it, snagging a knife from the table and spearing it toward the king’s side. My blade plunges into his lower abdomen.
A collective gasp rings out.
Warm liquid pours onto my hand. It gleams black in the low light, and patters onto the floor.
The Frost King’s face comes into sharper focus. He stares at me like… like he’s never experienced anything of the sort. He came here believing he would be fed, catered to, before leaving with his prize, and instead, someone stabbed him with a dinner knife, of all things.
My fingers twitch around the wooden handle. He is the Frost King, the North Wind, whose power drags winter onto the land, but I’m surprised by the heat rolling off him in waves of sharp, unadulterated fury.
His fingers curl around mine, breaking my thoughts. Cool black leather presses against my feverish skin as he withdraws the knife from his body, his taciturn gaze unyielding, and forces my grip open so the weapon clatters to the ground. In seconds, his blood clots and his skin knits together. A wound fully healed.
A great clap of thunder sweeps across the room. When the king next speaks, his voice floods my mind with its indomitable presence. “Let me remind you, mortal. I am a god. Icannotdie.” He lets that knowledge settle. “But your sister surely can.”
Drawing his spear, he yanks Elora back by her braid, baring the curve of her throat, the skin pale and unmarred and so thin it reveals the translucent blue veins beneath.
“Wait!”
Elora trembles. My knees knock together as the wind fades to a lull. One of the women has fainted.
“Please,” I say, the word a stone in my throat. “Please don’t hurt her. Take me instead.”
The edges of his mouth curve slightly. “You are perhaps the last woman I would ever take, for you are neither beautiful nor obedient.”
