My heart quickens its dulled beat. I shouldn’t believe him, yet I do. He has little to lose in telling the truth. “Am I the first woman to attempt to kill you?”
“No. But you are the first one I believed might succeed.”
I lean closer. “You sent me away. Left me to die out in the cold. Killing you would be a mercy.”
“I’ve told you before. I am a god—”
“You’re no god,” I growl. “You’re a darkwalker.”
He stiffens. My knee slides closer to his thigh. I don’t recall changing position, but now I hover over him.
“Do you deny it?”
He glances away. “No.”
A bark of disbelieving laughter breaks free. “All this time you warned me not to venture beyond the gates, when a darkwalker occupied these very halls.” Irony can be so cruel. “Does anyone know?”
“No.” A pause before he goes on. “The transformation has been gradual. I’ve yet to reach the point of no return.”
Doesn’t matter. He lied. He put my life, the lives of his staff, in danger. He cannot live.
“I’ve put protective measures in place. If I begin to lose control—”
“Stop. Talking.” Through my tightening airway, I hiss, “You tookeverythingfrom me. My mother, my father, my sister. You have no idea the ways in which I’ve suffered by your hand. This will end. My suffering will end. I don’t care if I have to kill you a thousand times for winter to finally break.” I press the knife harder. Men I have killed. Never a god.
May his death be a symbol. Death to my grief. Death to my torment. Death to power. Death to the dark water that has closed over my head.
Yet I don’t move.
“You have come this far,” he says, strangely intense as the dagger slices the vulnerable skin of his neck. A drop of blood slides down its curve, collecting in the hollow of his throat. “Why stop now?”
Indeed.
He presses forward so the dagger sinks in further. “Kill me.”
My fingers tremble around the hilt, and I swallow. This should be simple, an act of complete effortlessness. It is not murder. It is retribution. Restoration. The North Wind has no true heart to speak of, no love but his power. So why do I feel as though I’m making a mistake?
My eyes sting as pressure spreads through my skull. I have hardened every part of myself, but what if the king has found a way through my armor? He has seen the inner workings of my heart, things I have revealed to no one else. He did not turn away. I have not forgotten that.
“Kill me,” Boreas demands. “Finish it.”
Through my trembling, I stammer, “I can’t.”
He studies me warily. “Why not?”
“If I knew,” I say, voice cracking, “do you think I would be in this position?” If I had known what lay behind that door in the north wing, I never would have opened it. Because there was pain in that room,tarnishing that empty bed, the dusty children’s books. I tore open a wound and he suffered, and I should be glad of it, but I’m not and I haven’t the slightest idea why.
Sobs tear from a deep, black place inside me. “I hate you,” I spit, the sound garbled and wretched, choked by my own shame. “I hate you so much.” The rage fades. “And I’m sorry, I’m sorry about the room. I didn’t know…”
My head hangs. Tears and sweat slide down my nose, spattering the Frost King’s bare chest. Had I made this decision months ago, the blade would have punctured his heart. But I waited. First, I waited for the opportune moment. Then I waited because he began to treat me kindly, and now, when I desperately need to act, I hesitate.
I’ve failed in carrying out this task. Does that make me weak? Has cowardice always lurked in my heart? Even if I kill the Frost King, my situation will not change. I am still trapped here, without a means to leave the Deadlands. I am still unbearably alone.
“I have nowhere to go.” My words are hoarse, strained by confession. I can’t return to Edgewood. What is left for me there but the remnants of an old life?
If I do not belong in Edgewood, if I do not belong in the Deadlands, where do I belong? Where is home for me?
“I know you told me to leave,” I whisper.
