Even if also a complete and utter prig.
“This isn’t possible.” He peers hard into the night, and I can’t help but notice chills rising along his neck and the side of his face. “I don’t know what the fuck Alexus did,” he adds, “but things are going to go very bad very quickly if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. You’d better ready yourself.”
I have no idea what he means, and I don’t get time to think about it. I free the dagger from my bodice, unsheathe the blade, and then we’re rolling, tossed from side to side like we’re weightless. Colden and his chains. Me and my dagger—until I lose it—my body thrown against the ceiling before being thrashed to the floor. Wood groans and splinters and splits, over and over, before we come to a crashing halt.
All I can hear is my pounding heart, and I can’t breathe. It takes a minute for my wind to return, a deep gasp filling my lungs with cold air as I cough out bits of earth and wood. Most of the wagon lies around me in pieces, the steel frame warped and bent to one side. Above, the night sky sprawls forever, the snow falling in big, white flakes. But below, that cold mist slinks close, spilling over the road, wisps of malevolent white floating through the wreckage.
Hauling myself up, I get to my knees and crawl, slivers of pine stabbing my palms. The horses lie unmoving, and Colden rests near a tree, crumpled in a mess of chains. One of the other wagons, the one ahead of us, is just as destroyed. It’s close enough that I can make out bodies scattered everywhere, but some are blessedly moving, getting up.
The wagon behind us rests on its side, leaning against a tree. It’s still intact, though the Eastlanders are trapped beneath the weight of their wounded animals.
Nephele. Which wagon was she in?
Voices catch my attention. No—screams. And grunts. Steel clashing against steel, echoing from the camp. With each passing moment, the sounds grow louder.
The sounds of battle.
Colden isn’t far. I clamber toward him, the snow cold on my hands, the mist tangling around my wrists. I don’t know who the Eastlanders could be fighting. It must be whoever the prince spoke about—thevisitor—though that sound certainly isn’t coming from a fight with one person.
Which means it can’t be Hel. More Witch Walkers? That doesn’t feel right either. Even the Frost King felt a moment of fear when he stared out that window.
Regardless, I need a hatchet and loads of newfound brawn. If I can free his chains, Colden Moeshka might be able to end all of this.
Though he’s as heavy as an anchor, I pull him over to his back. He lets out a long groan followed by a drawn-out, “Fuuuuuck.”
Gods’ stars. My dagger is lodged in his shoulder.
He blinks his eyes open and takes me in, then glances at the hilt jutting from his body. “Get that damn thing out of me.” I yank it free, and he barely winces. “Now, use it to pick the lock on these godsdamn manacles.” He struggles to a sitting position, the mist around us rising, and glances behind me. “For the love of devils, hurry.”
Oh yes,pick the lock. With a bloody dagger. In a hanging fog. Because that’s something I do every day. I can’t begin to think straight. Every part of me aches. My mind is as tossed as my body was, and my hands tremble, a leaf in a storm. I’m not even sure if I’m in one piece.
But there’s no hatchet, of course, and so I try to pick the lock, sticking the thin dagger into the mechanism as far as it will go. With shaking hands, I twist the metal back and forth, but I have no clue what I’m doing. Or what I’msupposedto be doing.
“Magick,” Colden bites out. “You’re colorful as a godsdamned firework. Surely you have skill. And don’t look at me likethat. I can all but hear your mind cursing me. Just get these things off me if you want to live.”
Maybe hedoeshave to die. We will never survive one another otherwise.
And he clearly doesn’t know as much about me as I thought. Marks or no marks, panic isnota good motivator. My mind is so blank that I can’t even recall the word for scrying, much less a string of Old Elikesh that might undo a lock.
“Forget it!” He jerks his hands away. “Just run. Find Nephele and run! Go!” His dark eyes lift toward the sky, fixed on something behind me. Those dark irises are shadowed with white, as though he stares into winter itself. He recoils. “This cannot be bloody happening.”
Something cold and icy slithers around me, colder than the mist. I go stock-still. Then I follow Colden’s line of sight over my shoulder.
The rolling fog rises, high as the trees, and coalesces into the form of a creature that’s as tall as Mannus the warhorse.
In the middle of Winter Road stands a naked, nebulous being with white hair down to his waist, pointed ears, and unmistakable lupine features—from slanted amber eyes to fangs tucked behind a curled upper lip. His hands are enormous, and though they have fingers, each digit is dark and claw-tipped, his palms more paw than flesh. He bears the lean, sinewy torso of a man, but he stands on the thickly muscled hind legs of a beast, covered in silky, pristine fur.
I swallow. Hard.
Part man. Part wolf.
Neri.
No wonder the prince ordered the camp to prepare.
Wolves creep from the foggy shadows of the surrounding wood, showing their teeth, growls vibrating in the backs of their throats. There are hundreds—eyes sharp, fangs bared, maws wet with froth. One skulks up beside me until its muzzle is a foot from my face. It lifts its snout, blowing hot breath over me, daring me to move.
I clutch the tiny, bloody dagger Rhonin gave me in a death grip, but every inch of my body might as well be rooted to the ground, implacable fear trapping me in the moment.
