Chapter 27
Iride through the night and into the thin gray of morning.
I stop at the Wayside, not for food or drink, but to scrub the blood from my hands and rinse the taste of vomit from my mouth after I’d keeled over on the road, retching until my ribs ached.
I don’t linger. I avoid the forest, lengthening the journey on purpose, because I cannot bear shadows right now, or trees that remember too much.
Along the road, the stories have already taken root.
They pass from mouth to mouth like a virus, whispered first, then spoken louder, embroidered with every retelling.
Castle Frostwyn. Slaughter. Cold blood. Once again, Lord Luceran Frostwyn has butchered his court.
The Winter Beast, they call him. As if a name can carry the weight of a lie until it becomes truth.
I do not listen.I do not correct them.I do not give them details they are already too eager to invent.
I just keep going, toward the farm. Toward the only place left that might still be mine.
By the time we reach the gate, I am barely upright in the saddle. I’m half draped over the mare’s neck, lips cracked and burning, skin raw and flaking from cold and wind. My head swims. My limbs feel filled with lead.
Mink and Fitz zip ahead, darting through the front door.
I expect to hear my father’s voice shouting at the strange little creatures to get out of his house.
Instead, I hear a man I don’t recognize.
My spine goes rigid.
I force myself upright, vision sharpening as the world snaps into focus.
Two wagons stand in the yard.
Big, sturdy horses are hitched to them, steam curling from their flared nostrils. One wagon is already loaded down with our belongings. Our best chair, and the second-best beside it. The small table we eat at. Crates packed tight with kitchenware and items from my father’s room.
Then I look to the second wagon.
Strapped down at the back with thick rope is my mother’s wardrobe.
My breath leaves me in a soundless rush.
Mink and Fitz burst back out of the house shrieking with laughter as a man charges after them, broom raised high.
“Get out of here, you dirty little critters!” he bellows.
They zig and zag effortlessly, evading his clumsy swipes, and dart straight back to me.
The man lowers the broom slowly. His eyes narrow.
“Who are you?” he demands.
I slide off the mare, boots sinking into the mud. “I could ask you the same,” I snap. “Where is my father? What are you doing with our things?”
“Our things?” he scoffs.
I stride toward him, fists clenched. His eyes flick left and right, searching for help that doesn’t come fast enough.
I snatch the broom from his hands before he can blink and bring it down hard against the side of his head.
He yelps.
“Where is my father?” I shout. “Who are you? Are you robbing us?”
I swing again. He gets an arm up just in time, so I twist the broom and jab it into his gut instead. He folds with a wheeze, cheeks puffing like he might puke.
“Where are you taking my mother’s wardrobe?” I scream. “What have you done with my father?”
Footsteps pound behind him.
Reinforcements. Two men from the barn, another from inside the house. I plant my feet, grip the broom like a staff, every muscle screaming with resolve. This land isn’t much, but I will defend it with my life if I have to.
But they don’t advance.
“Bloody heck,” one of them laughs. “Is this girl beating the pulp out of you?”
“How fucking pathetic,” another adds.
The man in front of me waves them off, face flushing as he straightens. He reaches into his coat pocket.
I shake the broom at him in warning.
He lifts his free hand in surrender. “Easy. Easy. Are you Neve?” he asks.
My brow furrows. Some of the fight bleeds out of my stance, though the broom stays raised.
“How do you know my name?” I demand.
Carefully, as if I might strike again, he draws his hand from his pocket. A folded piece of parchment appears between his fingers.
“This is from your father,” he says. “Bartal Devlin. That’s right, isn’t it?”
I give a wary nod.
“Here,” he adds. “It’s for you.”
He offers the letter. I snatch it from his hand, and he immediately retreats a few steps toward the house.
“Don’t move,” I snap.
He lifts his hands again. “I wouldn’t dare, miss.”
I keep the broom clenched in one hand, the parchment in the other, my eyes never fully leaving him as I unfold the page. The writing is unmistakable. My father’s nearly illegible scratch, but I can read it just fine.
Dear Neve,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve found your way home, just as Lord Luceran promised.
I’ve gone on ahead to Rethmar to get settled and to make a start on the plot of land he’s purchased for us.
Call me sentimental, but even though our new home is furnished with brand-new things, I couldn’t leave these old bits and bobs behind.
I’ve hired some men to pack everything up and bring it to me here.
My gaze flicks up to the man again. A bruise is already blooming where I struck him, darkening the skin along his temple. He gives a small, resigned nod, as if to confirm it all.
I look back down.
My darling, this is the fresh start we’ve always wanted. Away from the cold. Away from the memories that cling to that patch of dirt as stubbornly as the winter itself. I love you, daughter, and I can’t wait for you to join me soon.
All my love, Father.
The letter lowers in my trembling hand.
I stare ahead, taking in the wagons once more. Our chairs. Our table. Our kitchen crates. Our life reduced to a handful of worn furniture and boxes of memory that would mean nothing to anyone else, all of it waiting to be hauled somewhere new.
A new home on land of our own.
From Luceran.
He told me the winter would never end.
So instead, he found us somewhere it could not reach. Somewhere warm. Somewhere untouched by frost and grief and blood. Somewhere my father and I could begin again.
My fingers curl tight around the parchment until it crumples against my palm.
He was going to set me free. He had already decided. Before last night ever came.
I glance toward the wagon, and there, tucked into a crate is my book.
The broom slips from my hand without me noticing, hitting the mud with a dull thud as I drift closer, boots dragging. The men don’t speak. They only watch, trading quiet, uneasy looks.
I reach into the crate and pull my book free.
My fingers know it by heart.
I flip through the pages, barely seeing the words until they find me anyway.
In the face of danger, in the grip of despair, when it would be easier to run than stand and fight, the lovers remain unbreakable.
The hero takes her into his arms and kisses her, and the heroine lifts her foot from the ground, losing herself entirely in his embrace. Then they live happily ever after.
My throat tightens. I snap the book shut, clutching it to my chest for one aching heartbeat.
What have I done?
The answer claws through me.
I spin on my heel and run.
Mud splashes as I sprint back to the mare, grabbing her mane and hauling myself into the saddle in one desperate motion. She rears briefly, snorts, then stamps her hooves, muscles bunching beneath me as she turns.
“Wait!” the man calls from the porch. “Do you want me to tell your father anything?”
I glance back once, wind already tearing at my hair.
“Tell him I love him,” I shout. “Tell him to be happy.”
Then I click my tongue and press my boot to the mare’s side.
She surges forward, breaking into a run, carrying me away, toward frost and regret and a love I might already be too late to save.
I ride past everything once more, and when I pass the Wayside again, I realize how utterly exhausted I am.
But I cannot stop. I ride on, and instead of a bed, I rest against the mare’s neck, stealing an hour of shallow sleep while Mink and Fitz guide her by the mane and stay alert and ready to catch me in case I tumble off.
They wake me when the sleet thickens, just as the castle looms ahead.
Frostwyn has always been a desolate place, but tonight it feels worse, angrier somehow.
The snow churns violently, wrapping the towers in a white blur that lashes at my skin, each strike burning as I press on.
Even Mink and Fitz abandon their mischief, burrowing beneath my cloak to keep from being torn away by the wind while the mare staggers beneath me.
I feel it in the way her stride falters, in the slowing thud of her heart beneath my legs, as though the cold itself is dragging her down. When we finally break through the storm and her hooves strike stone in the courtyard, she nearly buckles.
I’m off her back at once.
I steady her, running my hands over her face, my forehead resting briefly against hers in wordless thanks for carrying me this far, for not giving up when everything else seemed intent on stopping us. But there is no time to linger.
I turn and sprint for the steps.
The great doors stand wide open.
Snow pours over the threshold, the gray twilight bleeding into the hall beyond.
Curtains whip wildly in the icy wind, snapping like wounded wings as it whistles through the space, hollow and haunting.
Beneath the fresh drift of snow, blood still stains the marble.
Goblets lie shattered. Tables remain overturned.
Nothing has changed.
It is as if the castle itself froze the moment I fled.
Fear tightens in my chest. I can only hope Luceran hasn’t worsened. I run first toward the rose garden where I left him, clinging to the foolish hope that he might still be there.
He isn’t.
My gaze darts upward. Upstairs. Maybe in his room.
Then, across the rose garden, through the shattered stained-glass window of the library, I see the unmistakable flicker of firelight.
I slow my steps, moving carefully now, keeping light on my feet, unwilling to disturb the snow or draw the attention of anyone I would rather avoid. I slip through the broken window, mindful this time of the broken glass. The gash on my cheek throbs, a sharp reminder of the last time I was here.
Inside, the library is hushed.
I move between the aisles, keeping to the shadows, drawn inexorably toward the hearth. As I round the final shelf, I see him.
A figure curled in the chair before the fire. A heavy gray fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders.
My breath catches painfully.
I would know that profile anywhere.
“Luceran,” I breathe.
I rush forward, dropping to my knees before him as the sight of his face undoes me completely. Tears spill freely as I bow my head into his lap, my hands clutching at him.
“Neve,” he rasps, the single word dragged from his throat with effort. “You came back.”
I lift my head. His hand trembles as it slides along my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek with infinite care.
“I should never have left,” I whisper.
I can see the veins beneath his skin, dark, almost black, branching beneath its pale translucence. Shadows bruise the hollows beneath his eyes, gray threads through the ivory of his skin, and his hair lies flat against his face, limp, as if damp with sweat.
“Your heart,” I whisper. My hand drifts up his chest, hovering over it, afraid to press too hard. “I can make something. Something to ease the pain.”
He shakes his head and folds his hand over mine, firm despite the tremor in his fingers. He pulls me closer until I’m sitting in his lap, my body fitted against his as perfectly as ever.
“It’s too late for that,” he says hoarsely. “I only want you now.”
I refuse to give up so easily.
“What are you saying? You can’t just sit here. We need to do something.”
I try to move. I want to run for the kitchens, to tear open cupboards, throw every herb I can find into a pot and pray something helps. But he won’t let me go. His arms tighten, drawing me closer.
“Just stay,” he murmurs. The words fade at the edges, as if even they cost him too much. “Just for a moment.”
It takes all the restraint I have to be quiet for him, to make it easy, to rest my head against his chest and stay calm. For him. His chin settles against my brow, and my fingers twist into his hair as I breathe him in.
“I know what you did for my father,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
A faint huff of breath leaves him. “Where would be the fun in that?” he mutters. His voice is so low now I barely hear it over the crackle of the fire. “It wasn’t meant to end this way. You shouldn’t have come back. I didn’t think you would.”
“I love you,” I say, the words quiet, my nose brushing his collarbone. “There is nowhere else I should be but at your side. I should have believed you.”
He shakes his head slowly. His fingers thread through my hair. “None of that matters anymore,” he says. “All that matters is that I get to hold you again.”
Footsteps echo faintly somewhere beyond the shelves.
“Neve,” a voice calls.
My head snaps up. Luceran barely stirs until pain hits him hard and sudden. He snarls, his hand clawing at the flesh over his heart. I cover his hand with mine at once, pressing my lips to his cheek, pulling myself tighter against him as if my warmth might steady him again.
The footsteps draw closer.
“Neve…”
A shadow stretches between the shelves, deep and unnatural, the firelight refusing to touch it.
“Who’s there?” I growl, my arms wrapping protectively around Luceran. “Show yourself.”
The figure steps forward into the light.
I gasp.
Atilia.
Relief floods me so fast it nearly knocks me over. “It’s you. Please, he’s getting worse. We need to do something.”
Then I see it.
The smile carved across her face is wrong. Where teeth should be, there are rows of fine, needle-sharp points, and her eyes… they are not blue. They are bottomless black.
They reflect nothing. Not flame. Not shadow. Not me.
“Neve,” it says again, the sound rising and falling, lilting, almost musical, as if it’s savoring the shape of my name on its tongue.
Cold floods my veins.
“You are not Atilia,” I say slowly, forcing myself to stand. Luceran reaches for me, weak fingers clutching at my clothes, trying to pull me back to him, but he doesn’t have the strength. I step forward despite him. “Who are you?” I demand. “Tell me.”
The thing wearing Atilia’s face tilts its head and shrugs, the motion disturbingly casual. “I have many names,” it replies. “But they are meaningless.” Its smile widens. “All that matters is that my master hungers.”
My jaw tightens. “Hasn’t he already had his fill?”
It laughs.
The sound is wet and broken, like something rotting beneath the surface, and my stomach churns in revulsion.
“My master does not know satiety,” it croons. “He is an eater of worlds. A devourer of bloodlines.” The black eyes fix on me. “And he is always ravenous.”