Frost Bite

Chapter 1

There are only two outcomes for women and girls—death or servitude. We are bred to either survive or perish. But what is survival of the body if the mind still decays? If the heart still breaks and our flesh is not our own? What becomes of us then?

“Imogen, you are unkempt. Get yourself washed up so you can help Mama with supper.” Papa never helped. It was always expected of us—me and my sister, Lucy. But after tonight, it will just be one of us.

“What does it matter? You’ve sealed my fate. Let me sit in my filth while I enjoy my last meal,” I grumble back.

Papa backhands me. It leaves a sting on my cheek, and no doubt, a handprint in its wake. “Don’t sass me, Imogen! It is your duty as the eldest daughter. You know how important your sacrifice is. Don’t you care what happens to this family? To your sister?”

I choke back my tears. Never let them see you weak. I’m going to die to fill his belly, and to ensure that my sister lives a joyless life whilst being bedded down by her future husband.

She was only twelve years old when Papa sold her, promising her to a man twice her age. And for what? So he and Mama could have an extra cut of beef each winter? It is a cruel world we live in, but even more so for a girl. Now, at seventeen, Lucy has mere months left of her freedom.

I hang my head, conceding. “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. I’m honored to fulfill my duty.”

He huffs but nods in agreement, satisfied that I’ve come to my senses. “If it is any consolation, I’m told it’s a merciful death. We will celebrate you for the rest of our days. Stories will be told of your great sacrifice.”

The taste in my mouth is bitter, metallic.

I bit my cheek when he hit me. But the pain is nothing compared to the hopelessness that I’ve carried with me since I was a child.

Ever since they sat me down and spoke of the great Saint Nick and his Four Horsemen.

The Wild Hunt, as it’s called here in this dreadful town, takes place every year on the eve of Yuletide.

I am cursed.

This town is rotten to its core, but the curse has curled up around my ankles and sunk its teeth into my flesh.

These wretched people offer up their eldest daughters just so they can sleep cozier in their beds, their bellies stuffed to the brim.

It’s a sickness. But if I don’t comply, if I somehow manage to live, they’ll send Lucy in my place.

Then they’ll drop me in a well and starve me until I die anyway.

My family would be disgraced. Don’t be selfish, Imogen. My mother’s warning plays in my mind.

I wait for my father to dismiss me before scurrying off to the barrel out back. The water is stale and full of pollen and dead mosquitoes, but it’s all we have to clean ourselves with. I scoop out as many of the rotting bugs as I can before dipping my rag in.

As I wipe away the sweat and dirt from my body—starting with my hands, then my arms, and finally, my chest and face—I wince slightly at the tender spot on my cheek.

I try not to think about another life. I force myself to forget the fantasies of my youth, the ones where I imagined some great hero would come and save me from this twisted fate.

I never cry. Tears are selfish. And I’m not allowed to be.

But it’s not the death itself that frightens me, nor the act of violence against my body.

It’s knowing that it will continue through every generation.

Every eldest child will be picked for slaughter on her eighteenth birthday, plucked from her home like a pretty wildflower, while being stamped out like a weed.

It will never stop. I am one of many who came before me. Their blood and wasted dreams permeate these roads and these woods like a plague.

We sit at the table in silence except for Lucy’s quiet whimpering. Papa doesn’t scold her the way he does me. He ignores it. To acknowledge her cries would be to admit there’s something to cry about.

Mama was the youngest child in her family, so she has no peace or comfort to offer.

I cannot blame her. She’s a prisoner of this life, the same as us, bound to her father first and then later her husband.

My only hope is that Lucy breaks the chain.

That she’ll somehow get far away from here and raise her children in peace.

Or better yet, I pray she doesn’t have any children at all.

I can barely stomach the boiled potatoes, but I shove them down my throat and force myself to swallow.

I’ll need my strength tonight. I accept my fate, but I will not go quietly.

I will put up a fight. I won’t let them kill my spirit nor my will.

And when Death finally delivers the final blow, I will look him in the eyes and smile, knowing that I saved my sister from this fate.

Lucy’s fork rattles against her bowl. “Tell them we changed our minds, Papa. I don’t want Imogen to go.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Be proud of your sister, Lucy. She has offered herself to Saint Nick. It’s the highest honor.”

Bastard. I didn’t have a choice. And everyone at this table knows it. But he will fill his head with his own lies and fantasies so that he may sleep better at night.

Outside, as the sound of drums grows nearer, my stomach knots.

I steal my sister away to the bedroom one last time, facing her with a forced smile. I remove one of the blue ribbons from my twin braids, a blonde strand still coiled around it. “Take this. As long as we each have one, we will always be connected.”

She bursts into tears and throws her arms around me. “It’s not fair, Imogen. Why must you sacrifice yourself to a god we can’t even see?”

I pat her back, consoling her over my impending death. “Because people fear what they do not know. They believe in what they cannot see. Wrong or right, it is the way of man. And we are at their mercy.”

She hugs me tighter. “Let’s run away.”

The Horsemen will find me no matter where I go now.

The sacrifice has been made, and they will seek payment.

I cup her face in my hands. “You must find a way. It’s too late for me.

But I, too, believe in things I cannot see.

I believe you are destined for greater things than being a child bride.

Be smart, patient, and cunning. When the hunt is over, there will be a window for you to slip away. Promise me you’ll try.”

Lucy nods and wipes her face with her tattered sleeve. “I promise.”

I kiss her cheek. “Good. Someday your daughters will know a better fate.”

“Imogen,” Papa calls from downstairs. “It’s time. They are waiting.”

My fingers tremble around the buttons of my worn coat. Lucy bursts into tears again. I can’t look at her any longer. It breaks my heart.

When I open the door to our crumbling cottage, I’m met with a barrage of smiling faces. I used to imagine them as devils with snakes for tongues and spiders for eyes. But they look as normal as me. They really do believe this is a great honor. That somehow, this is holy.

But when I look a little closer at the crowd, sifting through their eager faces, it’s the eyes of the women who tell the truth.

The dark, haunting legacy of pain and betrayal at the hands of our men.

The shadows in their joyless stares seem to reflect mine.

But they are too beaten down and brainwashed to speak out against this inhumane act. This festival of death.

I don’t look back at Mama or Papa. I don’t say goodbye or wish them good fortune. I will not allow them to have another piece of me. They’ve already taken too much. And when Saint Nick places that bag of gifts on their doorstep in the morning, I hope they deem it worthy. I truly do.

“Imogen Bishop,” the town crier begins, “you have accepted your duty and have agreed to join the Wild Hunt. In return, your family shall be rewarded with gifts from the great Saint Nick. However, if you should go back on your word and, by some miracle, survive the night, your sister, Lucy, will be sent in your stead. Cross your arms over your chest and make your vow.”

“I offer myself to Saint Nick on this eve of Yuletide. I submit to the Wild Hunt. I vow… to die.” I leave my arms in place until the crier rings the bell.

Five soldiers surround me on horses. They are more like overweight crones with sticks, but they think highly of themselves. One places a sack over my head while another wraps a rope around each of my wrists.

“The hunt will begin at Devil’s Rock. That is where your escorts will leave you. Do not take off that sack until the sound of hooves is no longer in your ears.”

The horses grunt and lurch forward, pulling me with them by the ropes they’ve bound me with. I swallow down the bile that inches up my throat, my stomach churning.

With only the clothes on my back—a torn dress, my favorite coat, now worn from three harsh winters, and Mama’s hand-me-down boots, once sturdy but coming apart at the heels—I walk blindly to my death.

My heart thunders as we march into the forest. Lucy’s cries echo in the distance as twigs and branches scratch against my bare legs. I take a deep breath, grateful that I won’t have to hear my sister’s wails for much longer.

When we come to a stop, my knees nearly give out. The end is near. It’s funny how you think you can accept your fate until it’s nipping at your heels. I shudder as they free my wrists and shove me down. The cold stone of the rock chills my bottom through my tattered coat and thin cotton dress.

“We will take our leave now, and we thank you for your sacrifice. Remember, do not lift that sack until we are long gone,” one of the soldiers mutters.

I nod and cross my arms again as I listen to the hooves stampeding away. I get lost in its cadence, wanting it to last forever. Because when it stops, I will be alone. And when the sound of hooves comes again, it will be from them. The Four Horsemen. My executioners.

I’ve never been this deep into the woods before.

It is forbidden. These are sacred grounds reserved only for the chosen.

Lucky me. In the stillness and quiet, it’s hard to imagine four deadly monsters lurking out here.

The only sounds come from the rustling of branches and the occasional squawk of a raven.

I’m sad I’ll miss this year’s festivities.

Even more so that I’ll never get to celebrate Yule ever again.

While the people of my village sip mulled cider and decorate lanterns, they’ll cast wishes and exchange gifts.

They’ll make flower crowns and dance around the bonfire.

I wonder if they’ll sing songs about me.

Will they mourn my death? Or perhaps they’ve already forgotten I exist.

The path is dark and riddled with fallen branches.

Last night’s storm wreaked havoc on these woods.

I take small steps, careful not to get my feet caught in the brambles.

I will be in no condition to run if I twist my ankles.

Not that it will do me any good either way.

I must run to play the game, but I won’t be able to avoid my fate of being caught.

Those are the rules. And if I want to keep Lucy alive, I must abide by them.

A flock of birds shoots out from the top of a tall tree, squawking. A shrill warning. My heart thumps like the drums that came to claim me. In the distance, a deafening thud of hooves pounds against the ground.

Oh gods.

The neigh of a horse follows after the gruff command from a man who has too much grit in his voice. He’s coming for me. This is it. I have to move.

I break into a full sprint, my pulse racing as fast as the winter wind.

I don’t dare look back. But no matter how fast I run, the sound of hooves gets closer.

No. I can’t do this. I want to go back. I shouldn’t have to do this.

Is it too late? Maybe I can convince them to let Lucy live.

Or we can run away together like she wanted.

I nearly trip over a severed tree stump as my thoughts become chaotic. I leap over it, narrowly clearing it. My boot splits from its sole when I land hard on the ground. I cry out as a sharp pain shoots up my leg upon impact.

The rain and snow fall down hard and fast, piercing through the holes of my coat and soaking my dress. But I keep going. The path is a blur, my head dizzy from the rush of nerves and fear. I take shallow breaths, panting as I sprint faster than I ever have before.

But it’s no use. These are not mortal men. They’re still gaining on me.

There’s nowhere to hide. No one to call to for help. My time has come. It’s over. They will reach me in minutes. All I can hope for is a swift death.