“Fine,” Leif snapped, darts flying from his glare. “We’ll just go to Marchland, and our dad will get the antibiotics we need to save Tommy.”
Desperation coiled around Lark’s chest. “It’s too far, Leif.” The words fell like dying petals. “We’d never get there and back to Saltmarsh in time.”
“I’m sorry, son,” the big man confirmed. “I’m afraid she’s right.”
“That leaves me but one course,” Lark said, muscles tense, will as steel. “Look over there!” she cried, pointing behind and to the right.
As the guards turned, she bolted between them—racing for the door. Unfortunately, the younger, clean-shaven guard was faster. She’d only dashed two steps before he grabbed her arm and swung her around.
“No, you don’t!”
Lark didn’t flinch. Reflex took over. Instead of pulling away, she rolled into him—back to his chest—and jabbed his nose with her elbow. His grip weakened, she dropped into a squat, thrust a leg out, and spun, knocking his feet out from under him. The soldier stumbled backward, tripped, and rolled down the steps. Leif and Milena scrambled aside.
Using a backward roll for some distance, Lark sprang to her feet, readying herself to take out the bigger guard. She didn’t want to hurt them, but they were in her way.
With a stern growl, the bearded soldier hefted his pike into both hands, assuming a fighting stance. “Intruders!” he bellowed.
Great. Calling for more of them.
Lark charged. She dodged the spear’s tip, grabbed the shaft, and drove it between them. He outweighed her by a lot—didn’t matter. Keeping her grip near his hands, Lark flipped up and over him and used her momentum to fling him with her. She ducked, spinning him over her to the porch floor. The hard landing knocked the wind out of the big man. She darted through the doors and slammed them shut behind her.
Four more guards stationed inside must have heard the bearded soldier yell because they raced toward her—two with nightsticks and two with pikes. A fifth man in uniform, this one with shiny gold bars on his shoulders, remained two-thirds of the way up the bowed staircase, surveying the spacious foyer.
Plenty of room to fight.
Lark feigned left, then pivoted right, fell into a handstand, and kicked the approaching soldier under his chin. She dropped and rolled, rising on oneknee in front of the next guard. One quick punch—straight to the groin. He responded as she’d hoped, doubling over in shocking pain.
Two more closed in, flanking her. Spotting a bare strip of wall across the room, she bolted, both men on her heels. Lark wished she could have seen their jaws drop when she accelerated to the wall, planted her feet, and ran two and a half meters straight up it before performing a twisting flip, landing in a crouch behind the Black soldier. He raised his club as he turned but wasn’t fast enough as she swept his feet out from under him. The last guard standing—tan with dark hair like hers—leveled his spear and charged.
Lark didn’t know if he meant to scare or skewer her with it. He didn’t know she just wanted to beg for Tommy’s life. He might think she was there to assassinate the queen. So, while she tried not to hurt them, lest she incur Her Excellency’s wrath, she had to assume he might aim to kill.
Using fleet footwork, Lark hopped right, left, then curled inside to his right, jabbing an elbow into his stomach. He dropped his spear across her chest like a safety bar—exactly what she needed. Still gripping the weapon’s shaft, Lark bent her knees and dug her hip into his groin. When she pushed her legs straight, she had him dangling on her hip, atop her back. From there, it was easy to fling him over her shoulder, crashing to the floor with a mighty thud.
But the others had recovered—and now she was surrounded. Her brain spun, hunting for an exit.
“Stop!” barked a voice from the stairs.
All eyes turned to the tall man in his thirties—athletic build, coffee-brown eyes sharp with authority. He descended the steps like he owned the place, his gaze never leaving Lark’s as the intruder and guards alike froze, awaiting his next command.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” he asked Lark.
“Lark Sutter. Saltmarsh Reach. I wouldn’t have barged in if it weren’t urgent. Look, I didn’t hurt anyone. But my friend’s dying. He needs medicine now.”
The officer raked his fingers through a thick sweep of nut-brown hair topping a neat fade over his ears and around the back. He was a ruggedly handsomeWhite guy with straight brows, a square jaw, and a crooked nose that hadn’t quite healed right.
“Saltmarsh Reach, huh? And came for medicine. Was there an outbreak on the coast?”
“No, sir. We were attacked. A mutant bit my friend—he’s burning up with infection. Please … I need to speak to Queen Frost.”
“Who wishes to see the queen?”
All eyes shifted to a regal woman in a pastel sundress—modest cut, airy fit. The recruitment posters hadn’t been propaganda, nor had they done her justice. Queen Frost was, without question, the most stunning person Lark had ever seen. Her presence outshone her elegance—effortless, commanding. Though clearly years older than Lark, the woman possessed a timeless beauty from the lines of her face to the curves of her figure. Ivory skin kissed with pink. Platinum-blonde hair. Eyes like seawater. Lark felt small beside her—in every way that counted. She didn’t need the crown. Queen Frostwasroyalty—radiant, unshakable, the pinnacle.
Lark remembered to breathe. Then she dropped to her knees. “I do, Your Excellency—Lark Sutter. You’re the only one who can save Tommy.”
Chapter ten
Lark and the Ice Queen
