Chapter 3
One week later…
HELENA
Keeping my head down, I traverse the streets of Braemar, delivering missives and small packages.
Each time I glimpse a group of fae soldiers from my peripheral vision, I have to force myself to remain calm.
More than once, I’ve witnessed the fae commit atrocious acts of violence in the streets.
I fear that one day it’ll be my turn. I’ll catch the notice of the wrong fae, and then my life will be over.
I wish I didn’t have to keep delivering letters, but I need the money.
My pay has decreased significantly since the Winter Court army conquered Braemar, but I must keep working until I can find something that pays more.
Thousands of people died during the attack, so naturally there are fewer people around to send letters, but people are also trying to save money. Life has become scary and uncertain.
The fae are occupying Braemar, and if the stories told by the traveling merchants are true, part of the Winter Court army will remain here indefinitely. I shiver at the thought.
When I try to deliver the next letter from my postbag, no one answers. I knock a few times and wait, but I don’t hear movement in the house. A peek through a window shows a half-completed quilt resting on a sofa next to a sewing basket. There are shoes scattered on the floor too.
What happened to the family that used to live here? Did they perish during the battle?
I swallow hard and return the letter to my postbag, sticking it alongside the other letters I haven’t been able to deliver this morning. Too many times, when I knock, no one answers.
My heart races as I near Smithson Lane. I pause in my steps and glance around, but there aren’t many people out on the streets.
I also don’t see any fae patrols nearby.
I glance at the addresses on the remaining letters in my postbag.
If I take a shortcut down Smithson Lane, it’ll save almost half an hour of walking time.
Normally, I don’t mind the extra walking or time spent outdoors. But… there’s no telling how many fae patrols I might encounter during those extra thirty minutes. The smart thing to do would be to take the shortcut.
I walk closer to Smithson Lane, and my hands tremble.
I keep my head down, my cloak hiding my face, as I near the house that was once mine.
The cottage I’d shared with Harry. And, just five houses down from the cottage, sits the tiny blue house I grew up in, a rental my mother worked hard to afford.
Harry. Mama.
They’re both gone.
A few tears escape my eyes, but it’s so cold that they instantly freeze on my cheeks. Even though the battle is over, since Braemar surrendered unconditionally to the Winter Court army, the weather has remained severely cold. It also snows on occasion, though thankfully it never lasts for long.
As I pass the cottage with its perfect front porch where Harry and I used to sit together in the evenings, I can’t help but glance through the windows.
Is Peter still alive? And if he’s not… does that mean I can take possession of the cottage once again?
I’ve never wished death on anyone, not really, but I wouldn’t be too sad if I learned he’d perished during the fae attack.
Should I knock? I find myself walking closer to the cottage, my steps slow and uncertain.
The door suddenly bangs open, and a gasp bursts from my chest when a familiar man steps outside.
Oh, gods. It’s Peter.
He’s alive.
And I need to make a quick retreat before he sees me.
Unfortunately, his eyes flare with recognition just as I start to turn away. Even with the cloak partly obscuring my face, he still knows who I am. Fear shudders through me, and I clutch my postbag in a tight grip to steady my trembling hands.
He displays a wicked smile as he hurries down the steps. Toward me.
I back up and turn away, then hasten down the street. Or at least, I try to make a quick escape. He easily catches up, grabs my arm, and pulls me to a halt.
I immediately yank my arm from his grasp, and as I spin around to glare up at him, my hood falls back. The cold wind ruffles my hair. I cast a quick glance around to make sure there are no fae patrols nearby. The last thing I want is for one of the horrid creatures to see my face.
According to Mr. Sinclair, many young women have gone missing in the aftermath of the fae attack, and I don’t want to find out what happens to them.
Even though I think I know. So, whenever I’m outside, I try to conceal my age as much as possible.
Sometimes, I even walk with my back hunched over and a slight limp, hoping to project the appearance of an older woman.
“So, I see you survived the attack,” Peter says. “Where did you hide? And… where are you living now? Not on the streets, I hope. My dearest sister-in-law, you ought to be here living with me. I would keep you safe.” He gives me a lewd look and waggles his eyebrows.
“I see you survived the attack too. More’s the pity,” I reply in a scathing tone.
“As for where I hid during the battle and where I’m living now, it’s none of your business.
” I start to turn, but he grabs both my arms. Even through the many layers of clothing, I feel his fingers digging into my flesh.
When he leans closer, I detect the whiskey on his breath, and I realize I might need to placate him just to make a safe escape. Everything inside me screams to insult him in as many ways as I can, but it probably wouldn’t be smart to incur his wrath.
“Have you remarried?” His gaze roves over my body before coming to rest on my bosom. The cloak is parted slightly to reveal the dress I’m wearing, one that’s a bit low-cut for winter, but since the cold rarely bothers me, I wore it anyway.
I force a polite smile. “No, Peter, I haven’t remarried. I-I am still mourning the loss of your brother. I loved Harry dearly.” I hold my breath, waiting to see if my calmly spoken words, and the mention of his brother, will douse his anger.
Unfortunately, he sneers and tightens his hold on my upper arms. Oh, how I wish he didn’t look so much like Harry. With his dark blond hair, brown eyes, and similar facial features, they could almost be twins. It’s more than a little unsettling.
He steps closer, putting his body flush against mine. I shudder and try to step back, but he won’t let me go. He leans down and trails his nose along my cheek, and I nearly gag at the foulness of his breath. My stomach twists with apprehension.
Oh, Gods. How am I going to extract myself from this ugly encounter?
If he tries to drag me into the house, will anyone come to my aid? There’s no one on the street, at least not that I can see, but surely some of the neighbors are home. Maybe. If they survived the battle.
I try to push down the hopelessness that’s rising alongside my fear. I’ve always known Peter had a temper, but until now, he’s never put his hands on me.
“Please, Peter. You’re hurting me. I-I’m working right now, and I have a bag of letters I must deliver.
Please let me go.” I hate that I’m begging him, hate that I’m giving him the satisfaction, but I’m starting to worry he might hurt me.
His grip is so tight that my upper arms will likely be covered in bruises tomorrow.
“Oh, I’m hurting you, am I?” He chuckles and continues trailing his nose along my cheek.
He keeps taking deep inhales. Disgust rolls through me.
Everything about him repulses me. Always has.
When he tried to convince me to marry him, I wasn’t tempted for even a moment.
I didn’t even consider it when he first threatened to have the constable enforce the inheritance law that meant the cottage legally belonged to him.
“You’ve been drinking,” I blurt. “You should really go get some sleep. Perhaps we’ll run into one another again.”
We won’t. We absolutely won’t.
I resolve that I’ll never set foot on Smithson Lane again.
He straightens, though he doesn’t release my arms. Instead, he starts pulling me toward the house.
Panic descends.
Instinctively, I fight him. I thrash in his grip, and when that doesn’t do anything, I finally draw a long breath into my lungs, then scream for help.
I’m not even sure what I’m shouting. I only know that I’m begging a passerby or a neighbor to intervene.
I don’t want to contemplate what horrors might befall me if Peter manages to drag me into the cottage.
No one knows where I am. I mean, Isabel and her father know I’m out delivering mail, and the postmaster knows I’m out too, but no one knows my exact whereabouts.
I typically deliver letters and small packages all over the north side of Braemar.
The point being, if I go missing, no one will know where to look. Not really.
To my relief, I finally hear something. Perhaps help is on the way. Bootsteps sound nearby. I also hear voices. But… there’s laughter too. Deep, eerie, resonating laughter that doesn’t sound quite… human.
I go still. A second later, so does Peter. Not only that, but he releases me entirely. I take two steps away from him while rubbing my upper arms. I put a protective hand on my postbag. I really need to get going and finish delivering these letters.
But that laughter… it chills me to the bone.
I peer down the street at the approaching fae soldiers. Oh, gods. No. This can’t be happening. I silently curse Peter for being the reason a fae patrol finally noticed me.
The leader of the group, a tall muscular fae male with a cocky grin and thick black horns crowning his head, saunters toward us.
He stares only at me, and his gaze is both calculating and jubilant.
I don’t want to know what he’s thinking, and I pray he lets me go.
Maybe he’ll just talk to me for a bit, probably so he can take pleasure in scaring me, and then he’ll allow me to walk away.
Mr. Sinclair’s warning echoes in my mind.
Be careful out there, Helena. So many young women keep disappearing. Every day, more and more just go missing. Some young men, too, but mostly women.
Well, I tried to be careful. That’s why I’m here on Smithson Lane. I hoped to take a shortcut and thus limit my time on the streets today. If only I’d kept walking. If only I hadn’t slowed down and approached my old cottage.
The tall fae male comes to a stop before me, bringing a gust of frigid wind with him. I clutch my postbag as I hold his gaze. Perhaps if I tell him I’m a mail carrier, he’ll let me be on my way. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Fear has stolen my voice.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Peter suddenly says. “This woman was trying to rob me. When I tried to take back what she stole, she started screaming like a lunatic. Thank the gods for fae patrols.”
The fae male’s mouth quirks, and his gaze finally cuts to Peter. “Well, was she trying to rob you, or did she actually rob you? Which is it? And what, pray tell, did she want to steal from you?”
“I… I….” Peter’s eyes flare, then he spins on his heel and tries to flee.
He doesn’t make it far. Before I can take my next breath, the fae male has already summoned black, batlike wings and used the sharp tip of one wing to slice Peter’s throat.
Oh, my gods.
I cry out and watch as my brother-in-law falls to the ground. He quickly bleeds out on the street, his eyes wide, his face suddenly slack. Dead. He’s gone. Just like that. It was so easy for the fae male to kill him.
There’s another flash of white light, and the fae male’s wings just…
disappear. Highborn. From what I know about the fae, only highborn fae can summon wings.
But it’s the sort of magic I’ve only heard about.
I’ve never seen it in action. Not even during the battle.
I’d remained hidden beneath the floorboards of the bakery with Isabel and her father during the attack.
“I hope that wasn’t your husband,” the fae male says with a gleeful chuckle. Behind him, his five companions laugh along.
“No, that wasn’t my husband,” I somehow manage to reply. Shaking. I can’t seem to stop shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid.
“Then who was he to you? I don’t believe you were trying to rob him, nor do I think you were strangers.”
“He was my late husband’s brother. You are correct. I wasn’t trying to rob him. I-I am a mail carrier, and he came outside and accosted me during my route,” I say in a trembling voice. “I smelled whiskey on his breath.”
“Ah, so your drunk former brother-in-law was trying to hurt you.” He displays a wide grin. “How interesting. I wonder what he might have done to you had I not so gallantly intervened.”
I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “Th-thank you for helping me, sir.”
To my utter horror, the tall fae male steps closer and reaches for my hair. My knees threaten to buckle, and I’m not sure how I remain standing. A continuous shiver moves through me while he slowly caresses my hair.
“Your hair is so smooth and black, and your eyes so very blue,” he says, almost to himself. “And your facial features… gods, the similarity is uncanny. The king will be so pleased.” Then he laughs.
I want to ask who he thinks I resemble, but once again, fear has stolen my voice. So, I stare up at him as he keeps stroking my hair. Will he kill me soon? Or will I be one of the young women who just disappears? Tears blur my vision.
“Oh, don’t cry, sweetling,” he says in a fake soothing tone. He drags his knuckles over my cheek, his touch mockingly gentle. “Shh. It’ll be okay. The king will like you very, very much. I daresay you will be his new favorite possession… for however long he allows you to live.”
“Please let me go,” I whisper, and a tear cascades down my cheek. Or at least it starts to. It quickly freezes alongside my tears from earlier.
The tall fae male chuckles. “Oh, you beg so prettily, and the tears really are a nice touch. My brother will like it when you cry and plead for mercy.”
His brother… is the king?
I suddenly feel like I’m falling, plunging into an icy abyss.
King Theron of the Winter Court.
Is that who he’s talking about? I pray I have it wrong. I pray I’m just confused. Surely the male petting me isn’t a fae prince, and surely his brother isn’t actually the king of the Winter Court.
He smiles again, this time broadly enough to reveal his white, pointed teeth. He rips my postbag away and tosses it aside. I watch helplessly as undelivered letters go flying. Then he sweeps me into his arms and summons his wings again. My stomach drops to the ground, and I stare at him in shock.
It’s happening.
I’m about to disappear. I’m about to be taken.
His next words confirm my deepest fears.
“Come along, fair human. We must go to the castle. It’s time for you to meet your new master. King Theron of the Winter Court.”