The Winter King

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “M-my b-b-back.” As shock set in, her body began to shake.

  He pulled her into a sitting position, cradling her against one side of his chest as he inspected the deep furrows scoring her back. “Did the garm do this?”

  She tried to speak, to tell him what had happened, but the words wouldn’t come out. All she could do was shake her head and tremble from head to toe.

  Quickly, he made a second bandage and tied it in place over her back. Then his arms closed around her, muscles bunching with effortless strength as he gathered her up and held her close. She felt the cool press of his lips against her hair, breathed his crisp, woodsy scent. His heart was beating so fast and so loud, she could hear it through the thick layers of cloth, fur, and leather he’d donned for the Great Hunt.

  The tears she’d fought so hard to battle back welled up again. She gave a choked sob and turned her face into his chest, gripping the fur of his outer vest in one fist and clutching his shoulder in the other as she utterly broke down and began sobbing against him.

  His arms tightened further. “Hössa, min stiarna. The garm is dead. It cannot hurt you anymore.” His voice sounded gentler than she’d ever heard it before. Steady, soothing, almost a croon. His kindness only made her cry harder.

  “She s-said it was a trap . . . that they meant to kill you . . .”

  “Who? Who told you someone was trying to kill me?” When she only sobbed and burrowed deeper against him, Wynter’s fingers brushed against her damp cheek. “Look at me, Khamsin.”

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to look at him.

  Anger was her defense, the familiar wall of volatility and destruction she’d always used to keep the world at bay, to keep pain and tears at bay. Even as a child, when Tildy had rocked and soothed her over some wound or emotional hurt inflicted by King Verdan, a core of rebellious anger deep inside Khamsin had continued to smolder, giving her strength, shielding the most vulnerable part of her.

  But how could she muster a protective shell of rebellion when Wynter gave her nothing to rebel against?

  “Khamsin, look at me,” he repeated, and his tone was one of such calm, relentless implacability, she couldn’t deny him.

  Her tear-spiked lashes fluttered. His face came into focus. His eyes so pale and piercing in the masculine, golden-skinned beauty of his face, regarded her with unblinking steadiness. Long, white hair blew about his head and shoulders like ribbons of snow.

  “Reika,” she admitted. Her gaze dropped and her fingers plucked at fur of his vest. “I shouldn’t have believed her. It was stupid of me. But—but I . . . She said . . .” Kham’s voice trailed off.

  “She said someone meant to kill me on the Hunt?” he concluded for her.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth and nodded. “To keep Rorjak from returning.”

  “And you came to warn me?”

  She nodded again.

  “Why?” His voice had gone husky.

  She shivered. The question danced across her skin like the electric purple glow that came when she called the lightning.

  Such a dangerous word, “why.” Because so often its answer led to places a person didn’t want to go. Vulnerable places.

  “Wynter, I—” She risked another glance up at him. His features—normally so stern and severe—had softened into an expression that made her chest grow tight. Her gaze skittered away to a point over his shoulder.

  The wind from her storm was still blowing. Drifts of snow shifted and moved, looking almost alive.

  She frowned. Odd. One of the drifts seemed to be moving against the wind, rather than with it. Her mouth went dry as twin beads of glowing scarlet flashed against the stark white of the snow.

  She grabbed Wynter’s shoulders. “Get down!”

  With Khamsin still clutched in his arms, Wynter dropped and spun just as the garm sprang towards them. He pressed one of her ears tight to his chest and covered the other with his hand, curling his body protectively around her, as the garm’s paralyzing shriek rang out, followed by the blue-white cloud of freezing vapor.

  The scream shivered through him like vibrations through glass, and frost prickled across his back. Another man would have been incapacitated, but Wynter had consumed the Ice Heart. Neither the garm’s scream nor its freezing breath could harm him.

  As soon as the garm passed, he flung himself upright. The coating of ice on his back shattered as he stood.

  “Khamsin, get back in the cave.” He set her down and shoved her behind him, keeping his body between hers and the garm’s.

  “No, I—”

  “Now!” He cut off her protest with a curt, barked command and yanked Gunterfys from its sheath. The garm had spun around and was coming back for a second pass. “I can’t fight the garm and defend you, too, without getting us both killed. Now get into the cave!” He cast one, quick glance over his shoulder. “Please, Summerlass.”

  He didn’t dare watch to be certain she obeyed. The garm was already upon him. He spun and sliced as the garm leapt, claws outstretched. Burning cold raked his chest, and the beast howled.

  The garm’s claws ripped through his leather armor like butter and dug deep, burning furrows across his chest. Wyn put a hand to his chest. It came away damp with blood.

  Only his blood no longer ran red but violet, and it was cold to the touch. Colder than it had ever been before.

  A furious snarl snapped him back to attention. Wyn saw with satisfaction that his was not the only wound struck. The garm was limping. Freezing deep blue droplets of the monster’s blood dripped down its left foreleg. It was snarling, its lips pulled back, the rows of dagger-sharp teeth gnashing together with audible clicks. Glowing red eyes fixed upon him with unmistakable malevolence as the creature paced around him on the icy lake, waiting for an opening to attack.

  Strangely, the sight filled him with hope. He might have drunk the Ice Heart, might already be more than halfway to his doom, but he still remained mortal enough that the garm considered him prey.

  He gripped Gunterfys more securely and crouched for the beast’s next attack.

  “Wyn! To your left! Your left!” Khamsin shouted the alarm.

  He had heard the scratch of claws on ice and was already spinning to meet the rush of a second garm.

  Two garm? Two? Garm were solitary hunters. He’d never heard of a Winterman encountering two at once. Three, if you counted the one he’d already slain.

  Wyn rolled to one side, swinging Gunterfys in a wide circle as he went in an effort to gut or at least wound both beasts as they passed overhead. The drops of freezing cold that landed on his skin told him he’d struck a blow.

  The sound of crumbling rocks made him look up.

  Wyrn save him! Yet another garm stood on the lip of the cliff. The fourth garm was snarling, fangs bared, claws digging into the ice as it prepared to spring.

  He came up sliding on the ice, but there again the dark power of the Ice Heart flowing through his veins stood him in good stead by granting him more traction than he’d thought possible. He leaned forward, putting pressure on his toes, and his backward slide slowed, then stopped altogether.

  A flash of dark near the mouth of the cave made him swear and scowl. “Damn it, Khamsin! Get back in the cave!”

  She wasn’t completely out in the open, just crouched too close to the opening to be truly safe. Not that she, fool woman, seemed concerned about her own safety.

  Regrettably, not his either.

  He saw her eyes widen just before claws raked down his back. He fell forward onto the ice, and it was only by the grace of Wyrn that he managed to keep hold of Gunterfys as he fell.

  The fourth garm sprang from the cliff and landed on the lake directly in his path. The other two leapt towards him from opposing sides.

  Wyn twisted to
one side, rolled, and popped to his feet as the three garm converged. Gunterfys flashed. He spun in a tight circle, not daring to leave his back open to attack. But even in constant motion, even with Gunterfys swinging, thrusting, parrying in constant attack and defense, the garm’s sharp claws and sharper teeth ripped through his leather armor and shredded his flesh. Violet blood streamed from his wounds, soaking his garments.

  A slash across his thigh dropped Wyn to one knee. He thrust his sword back, over his head to defend against a death bite to the back of his neck, but that bared his chest for a raking blow from the garm in front of him.

  Muscle shredded as the garm’s claws scraped against bone.

  He bared his teeth and roared. With every ounce of energy he could muster, he brought Gunterfys arcing over his head and drove the sword hilt deep through the garm’s skull.

  Its limbs splayed, body twitching spasmodically in death throes.

  Teeth clamped hard on his left arm. With his arm locked in its jaws, the garm shook its massive head, yanking him off his feet. The other garm’s claws raked across his belly. Fire exploded in his abdomen. If he didn’t get free of the garm holding him by the arm, the pair of them would rip him in two. With his free hand, he punched the monster in its nasal slits and clawed at its eyes. The jaws released, and he went flying.

  He heard Khamsin cry his name.

  The ice came up fast, and he hit hard. He skidded across the ice, leaving streaks of rapidly freezing violet blood in his wake.

  Momentum sent him skidding up the small embankment at the edge of the lake. Gripping his torn belly with one hand, he managed to push himself up on his other hand and his knees and start an awkward, three-legged crawl towards the surrounding forest.

  Panting, claws clicking on the ice, the two remaining garm loped towards him.

  His strength was dwindling rapidly. He was losing too much blood. His thigh, chest, and arm were slashed to the bone, his belly torn open. His sword was out of reach, still quivering in the skull of the one beast he’d managed to slay. He couldn’t even summon the strength to stand. Each attempt made agony rip through him while gouts of violet blood gushed from his wounds.

  He was done, and he knew it.

  It was all he could do to lift his head and face his death head-on.

  As Wynter fought the garm, Khamsin cast about the cave, looking for something—anything—to use as a weapon. She found a few rocks, but most were too heavy to throw or too small to be of much use. She snatched up an armful of stones anyways and hurried to the mouth of the cave to throw them, but the rocks fell shy of their targets. She shouted and waved her arms, trying to distract the garm. She didn’t dare step foot out of the cave because she knew Wynter would sacrifice his own life to keep her safe.

  No one had ever risked their life for hers.

  No one.

  And yet this man, this Winter King, this supposed enemy from the north, had taken on not one but four of the most dangerous monsters in the world to save her.

  Khamsin had spent all her life in a fury. Always fighting, rebelling, raging against something. A harsh, hateful parent, her own tempestuous nature, her fears, and her failings.

  She’d never known this. The feeling that clamped so hard around her heart it hurt. Whatever it was made her shake, not with fury, but with humility and fear. Fear for someone other than herself.

  He—Wynter, her husband—was willing to die so she might live.

  Her heart soared when Wynter drove Gunterfys into one of the garm’s head, only to sink when one of the remaining beasts sank its teeth into Wynter’s arm and tossed him about like a rag doll. Wynter fought back, his free hand curled in a fist that pummeled the beast until it gave one last shake of its gargantuan head, roared, and sent Wynter flying across the lake.

  “Wynter!” She screamed his name and lunged forward, gripping the black stone edges of the cave’s mouth.

  The remaining garm loped after him. She could see Wynter struggling to rise, unable to do more than push himself to his hands and knees, his head drooping between his shoulder blades. He was badly wounded. There was no chance he could make an escape, much less fight off the two approaching garm bare-handed.

  Once the beasts reached him, he would die.

  A strange buzzing filled her ears. Khamsin wasn’t conscious of moving. She just did. One moment, she was clinging to the mouth of the cave, the next she was staggering across the ice and shouting to get the garm’s attention.

  Her ploy worked. The garm turned her way.

  Freezing, blue-white slime dripped from gaping, razor-toothed maws that grinned at her with evil eagerness. The huge bodies began to lope towards her, picking up speed with each step.

  Khamsin reached the snowy shore and began to run, leading the monsters away from Wynter.

  She raised her arms as she ran, fingertips reaching for the sky, calling upon her gifts with every ounce of power in her, holding nothing back. The storm overhead exploded, clouds boiling out as thick and black as the ash cloud of an erupting volcano. Lightning cracked in a ferocious display. The air around her went violet and half a dozen bolts shot straight towards her.

  The lightning speared her, lifting her off her feet in a blinding flash of searing, brilliant white. Her head fell back, her arms flung out. Tongues of flame raced through her veins. Torn flesh knit together. The air left her lungs, and her mind, her consciousness, went with it, riding the lightning into the sky, joining the storm. Becoming part of its wild, raw, power.

  Always she’d been afraid of the storm. Always when the storm truly came alive, its strength had overwhelmed her and escaped her control.

  But this time, Wynter’s life was in her hands. If she failed, he would die. And this power of hers—this dangerous, destructive, unpredictable power she had cursed and feared all her life—was her only weapon. Her only chance to save him.

  She poured everything she had into the winds, into the roiling, crashing clouds. Not trying to control the storm, but trying to set it free. To build its wildness. The air around her went pure violet, glowing, throbbing, dancing across her skin. Energy gathered—both inside her and above, in the black, seething clouds. Her hair lifted in a nimbus of lightning-streaked darkness.

  The garm screamed, but she could not hear their paralyzing howl above the shriek of the wind. The gaping mouths spewed matching clouds of blue-white vapor.

  The sky lit up brighter than a summer day. The air around her flashed blinding white as three massive ropes of lightning snaked down from the sky in the blink of an eye and speared Khamsin.

  Her chest expanded on a fiery breath. Pain ripped through her. But she stood firm, absorbing the energy, channeling it through her body, down her arms, out her fingers.

  Her hands shot out, fingers splayed. Lightning shot from her fingertips and leapt across the distance to the garm. Thunder boomed with such force, the ground shook.

  The garm, creatures of the remotest, iciest reaches of Wintercraig, didn’t even have time to scream. Fire shot deep into massive chests with devastating results. Their fluids flash-boiled into vapor, and their bodies expanded like inflated bladders. Furred skins split and viscous, blue fluid spewed from ruptured vessels.

  She held the lightning, pumping the concentrated heat of the sun into the garm’s bodies until their fur charred and caught fire. She held it, until the beasts were engulfed in flames and the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. Held it longer still, until the garm’s writhing bodies stopped moving entirely, and their blackened bones turned to ash that disintegrated and blew away on the gusting winds.

  Only then did she release the lightning, discharging its remaining power into the earth and draining the volatile storm of energy until the black clouds turned gray and the hailstones mixed with freezing rain became snowflakes tumbling softly from the sky.

  Then it was over. The storm dispersed.

>   Drained of strength, her legs turned to pudding beneath her, and she crumpled to the earth. For a moment, she lay there, dazed and struggling to catch her breath, but the determination that had driven her to call and master the storm now drove her towards Wynter.

  She was too weak to stand, so she crawled on her hands and knees. Inch by inch, pushing herself by sheer force of will, she crossed the yards of frozen ground until she reached him.

  He lay in a pool of violet-hued ice, still as stone and just as cold. His golden skin looked more like a translucent veil molded over a carved statue than flesh. His brilliant eyes were closed. His chest didn’t appear to be moving.

  “Wynter?” She laid her fingers against his throat and panicked when she found no pulse. Her only reassurance that he still lived came when she pressed a desperate ear to his chest and was rewarded with the faint, barely audible sound of his heart slowly beating.

  “Wynter, I . . .”

  Her voice trailed off, and with it went her last ounce of depleted strength. She collapsed across his chest, and the world went dim.

  Her last conscious thought was concern that her storm might threaten them still because she could hear the roll of thunder in the distance. And it was drawing nearer.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lies, Love, and Loyalties

  “She’s waking.”

  Khamsin frowned at the sound of Valik’s voice. What was Wynter’s second-in-command doing in her bedchamber? Her exceedingly territorial husband would not like that at all.

  The thought almost made her smile, until the memories came rushing back.

  The Great Hunt. Reika Villani’s deceit. The garm.

  Kham’s eyes snapped open, and she sat bolt upright.

  “Wynter!”

  She cried her husband’s name, then fell abruptly silent. She wasn’t in her bedchamber. And Valik was not the only Winterman crowded around her.