The Winter Witch Read online

  I swing my dagger, the blade nicking the wolf as it lands on me. A scream rips from my throat as its teeth sink into my arm, causing me to lose hold of my weapon.

  My pack goes flying, and I’m tossed into the snow, blood flowing crimson across the pure white drifts as the wolf pins me down, paws heavy on my chest.

  The animal growls and bares its teeth, stained red with my blood. I cry out, throwing up my arms to stop it. Teeth catch on my sleeve, piercing my forearm and ripping at the skin there.

  I struggle to kick out, fighting back as the animal continues its attack. It nips at my throat, tearing the flesh of my neck but not eviscerating me entirely, thank the goddess.

  A distant howl interrupts the wolf, who backs off me and cocks its head, listening. It responds to the howl with its own.

  Great, it's calling for back up.

  Both my arms are bitten into, and I can barely move one of them, plus my entire upper body feels mostly paralyzed from the bite in my neck. With my left arm I pat my cloak until I find the herb pouch I’ve tucked away there. Drawing it out, I use my teeth to free the drawstring—causing untold pain from the movement—then toss it at the wolf before it can attack again. The herbs dance in the air, and the wolf yelps, jerking further away as I whisper the words that will activate the spell.

  When I’m finished, the wolf backs off and lets out a mournful howl then turns and runs away.

  The herbs fall to the ground around me, shimmering a pale blue hue against the snow, still offering protection and repelling anything else that might do me harm.

  I fall back against the ground, breath heavy as I test my limbs for movement. Already, I’ve lost a lot of blood and am woozy. But I can’t stay here. I’ll die.

  And Willowdale is counting on me.

  A few moments pass, and my heart rate begins to slow. Maybe too much. I know this, and yet I can’t make myself move. Blood spreads in the snow and the cold becomes a cocoon of numbing comfort. I sink into it, lost to my purpose after all as a blissful numbness replaces the pain.

  When I stir again, I peel my eyes open and find the wolf has returned—this time with friends.

  They stand just outside the protective boundary I’ve cast. Dried blood coats the alpha's muzzle, matting its fur. Beside it, two other wolves flank the first. All of them watch me hungrily, and a cold fear snakes its way through my bones.

  The large one that originally attacked me tests the boundary of my spell, and jerks back with a yelp when my magic zaps the creature. Still, the wolf doesn’t leave, but rather stays and waits. Like it knows.

  My charm will wear off eventually. And I cannot step outside the borders of the spell without exposing myself. With a sinking sense of failure, I realize I’m trapped.

  Consciousness comes and goes, but the wolves remain, waiting, as if they know I cannot thwart them for long.

  In a more lucid moment, movement just beyond the trees draws my attention.

  A blur of something too quick to make out.

  I tense, afraid more wolves have arrived. Or something worse yet. But then one of the wolves is snatched away. There one moment and gone the next. It yelps then falls suddenly silent.

  The other two paw at the snow restlessly.

  Another blur of something in the trees. Then a second wolf vanishes, whisked away by some unseen force.

  When it comes for the third, it stills just enough for me to see.

  A man.

  Tall and lean. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. With silver eyes that pierce right through me. He stares down at my bloody, dying form for a moment, his nostrils flaring, his pupils dilating, then turns back to the wolf that's begun to growl at the stranger.

  Like it’s nothing, the stranger grabs the wolf around the torso, like it's a toy doll, and they both disappear into the trees.

  The wolf's last yelp is followed by utter silence.

  I try to sit up, but the pain in my neck and arms are too much, and I fall back again. I can feel my life force fading, and the only thing that truly terrifies me about dying is that I haven't saved my people. Not yet. This can't be the end.

  The man returns.

  His collar and sleeves are stained with blood, but his skin is spotless—and so porcelain he looks almost made of snow.

  Despite the fact that he saved me, I shiver with fear as he approaches.

  If I could run, I would. Something about his eyes, the way they assess me. Like a predator sizing up its prey. He moves like a beast in the wild, with stealth and fluid ease. It unnerves me, and a voice in my mind screams for me to flee.

  But my injuries are too critical, my blood loss too severe. I have no strength left with which to move, let alone fight. I can do nothing but watch as he stalks toward me, a burning hunger in his now-glowing silver eyes.

  Chapter 3

  The truth of my situation hits me with the suddenness of a snowsquall, and fire burns in my veins at the realization.

  As the tall figure stares at me, his cold, hard eyes assessing me, I glare back up at him, using the last of my strength to challenge him silently, to show him I will not go meekly into the coldness of death.

  Because I know who he is.

  And that knowledge settles into me like a bitter frost.

  It's him.

  The demon who killed my parents.

  The creature I’ve come to kill.

  I know it without asking, thanks to some deep intuitive understanding. That and the fact that no other man would survive out here with nothing but the thin, black cloak he wears.

  As he steps closer, I hold my breath, unsure how the protective boundary will react to his approach.

  But he steps easily through it like it’s not even there.

  I frown, letting my eyes unfocus just enough to see if the magical perimeter is still there, and it is. But somehow it didn't work on him.

  He crouches beside me, his sharp eyes raking me over. My heart races, and I brace myself. What the wolf did to me is nothing compared to what he’s capable of. But he only frowns at my wounds, making no move to touch me.

  “Are you all right?” he asks in a deep voice laced with concern.

  “I’m not sure. I . . .” I try to sit up but once again, the pain stops me.

  “Here. Let me.”

  He reaches for me, but I shrink away.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he says.

  It’s a lie. Or a temporary truth. But when he reaches for me again, I let him scoop my broken body into his arms. He stands easily with my weight balanced and my head leaning against his chest. This close, I should be able to feel his heartbeat through the thin layer of cloth covering him, but there’s nothing. Only cold stillness where a rhythmic pulse of life should be.

  He turns and heads up the path; the same one I was heading toward when the wolf interrupted my journey. But his steps are much lighter in the snow than mine were. I tilt my head as much as I can and am surprised to see he's barely leaving any footprints, whereas you can see mine easily.

  I marvel at the strength and ease with which he moves.

  Only then do I remember—

  “My pack,” I say suddenly, and he stops, frowning down at me. “Please,” I say. “It has all of my belongings.”

  He hesitates.

  I wonder if he’s thinking that a dead girl doesn't need much.

  I'm about to argue my case more, but dizziness washes over me, and my head swims as the adrenaline in my system wears off and my injuries once again begin to take their toll. Outside my protective circle, my strength drains quickly, and my vision begins to blur.

  “Please,” I say again. It's the only fight I have left in me, that one simple word.

  The creature says something, but I can’t hear him over the roaring in my ears.

  Still, my one-word plea seems to have the desired effect. He doubles back and plucks my pack from the snow, then hurries up the path toward the castle that looms on the mountain above us.

  I try to fight the urge to give i
n to my exhaustion. For all I know, he’s carrying me home to drain my blood in the comfort of his own dining room. But pain and thirst overwhelm me, and my body doesn't have much left to give.

  Reaching into my cloak, I feel for the vial of blood I’ve tucked away in a secret pocket.

  It’s still there and the relief whooshes out of me in an exhale that sucks me under until I’m lost to darkness.

  Warmth envelops me and I stir, waking suddenly when I realize I’m no longer lying bleeding in a snowbank. Instead, I’m in a room I’ve never seen before, lying in a four-poster bed covered with furs. Around me, candlelight flickers, illuminating golden sconces mounted to walls trimmed in decorative moldings and expensive artwork. In the large fireplace, a blaze crackles, warming the room and casting everything in red-golden light.

  I lift a hand to my throat and find it already bandaged. A similar bandage wraps each of my injured arms. Peeling away the furs covering me, I see that my cloak and dress are gone, and I’m left only in my slip. Half-panicked, I pray to the goddess that the creature who brought me here didn’t search my cloak, or worse, toss it out like garbage.

  I look up sharply, scanning the room for where it might have gone.

  In a chair by the window, the man who saved me sits, reading a leather-bound book inscribed with gold lettering.

  When he looks up, our gazes lock, and I find myself mesmerized and unable to look away.

  He closes the book slowly, marking his page with a silver chain before setting it aside. I watch as he rises and moves to a serving table at the foot of the bed. He pours tea and closes the distance between us, holding the delicate porcelain cup out for me.

  “Welcome back,” he says, sliding his free hand under my back to help me sit up.

  Dizziness threatens to overwhelm me, but I take a deep breath and it passes quickly enough. The scent of cinnamon and honey entices my taste buds, and I take the tea in confusion and relief.

  “Where am I?” I ask, sniffing the concoction to see if I can sense any poisons. When my regular senses and my witch sense fail to find anything suspicious, I take a cautious sip.

  The drink warms my throat, and I breathe more deeply as I think back to how I ended up here.

  “You’re in my home atop Ice Mountain.”

  I look up at him, noting his strong jawline and stiff posture.

  “You saved me.” He doesn’t answer. “Why?” I can’t help but ask.

  “You were hurt,” he says.

  “I was bleeding. Isn’t that what you intend to do—bleed me?”

  He flinches, a gesture so small I almost miss it. Then his expression hardens.

  “I do not wish to share my meal with a pack of beasts.”

  His voice is cold and clipped. I shiver with the threat his words contain. And I remember the wolves and the ease with which he disposed of them.

  “The curse is real,” I say, awed by what he’s capable of, even if it makes him a predator and me the prey. “You’re impossibly strong and fast. And the likeness of your face I’ve seen from generations past . . . you’re immortal.”

  “And you’re the sacrifice they sent to feed me.”

  This time, it is I who flinch. My injuries ache with the motion.

  "You're going to heal me up so I'm good and healthy come dinner time then?" This isn't going according to plan, and I feel off kilter, unsure how to proceed when I'm at such a clear disadvantage.

  "Something like that," he says gruffly, turning his gaze from mine abruptly.

  An awkward silence hangs between us as I finish my cup of tea and set it on the side table next to the bed.

  When he notices that I'm done, he brings me a bowl of something and hands it to me. "Eat. You need your strength."

  I roll my eyes at him. "Right, because you like your victims plump, I suppose."

  "Just eat," he says in exasperation, and honestly, I would laugh at the absurdity if this whole thing wasn't so terrifying.

  Every part of me wants to refuse him out of defiance, but there is little wisdom in that course of action. He's not wrong. I need my strength, and I need food to get it.

  He has provided some kind of porridge with cream and honey.

  Reluctantly, I give in, and my stomach rumbles as I feed it for the first time in a while.

  Still, the food isn't magic, and I'm going to be weak as a kitten for some time. I take small bites, swallowing carefully, but I still flinch from the pain despite that. My right arm also aches badly as I lift the spoon to my mouth.

  "Do you really plan to keep me alive until I heal?" I ask.

  He grunts, turning his head to face the fire. "It would appear so."

  My mind races as I try to come up with a new plan. I can no longer rely on stealth, or strength, which means I must outsmart him if I want to succeed.

  I look around the room, desperate to know if my pack made it here with me.

  My eyes land on my cloak tossed over a velvet high-backed chair near his reading nook. Beside it on the floor, I spot my unopened pack. His gaze follows mine, and I hurry to cover my relief.

  Noticing his book, I quickly turn the topic so he doesn't give thought to the importance of my personal items. “What are you reading?”

  He raises an eyebrow, appearing mildly surprised. "Nothing you would have heard of," he says with so much haughtiness I want to smack him.

  “Try me,” I say.

  "Of Defiance and Reign," he says. "It is a poignant tale about a prince exiled from his land and becoming a beggar, only to—"

  "Only to rise up in a new land and become king, saving the people from a tyrant," I say, interrupting him. "Yeah, I've read it. Compelling enough, but I found the prose bloated and the self-aggrandizing prince a bit of an ass."

  "Of course you would," he says with a sneer. "You are a peasant and unused to the ways of the elite."

  I nearly choke on the spoonful of porridge I just ate, which causes painful spasms in my throat. "You know nothing about my life," I point out, coughing as gently as I can to avoid more pain.

  I could tell him about our agreements with other kingdoms, who sent their scholars and knights to stay with us and train me, just to prepare me for this quest. A quest I've practically failed at before even getting here, but that's not the point. The point is I'm not some ignorant, illiterate street rat. I'm polished to a shine and more well-read than he can imagine. I also have a hard time keeping my mouth shut, something Grandmother has drilled into me my whole life.

  "Better to let them think you are a fool and prove them otherwise, then show your true power and give them a greater advantage over you," she would say.

  So, in her honor, I bite my tongue and take another bite of my meal.

  As I do, I realize my arm is bleeding through the bandages.

  My captor notices as well and rushes to my side, reaching for a small vial as he does. "Your dressings need to be changed. Allow me."

  Since I'm a bloody mess, I don't have a lot of choice. I set my bowl down and allow him to unwind the bandages. He begins with my right arm. His fingers are cool against my fevered flesh, and his touch sends a thrill of pleasure down my spine.

  Which I obviously ignore as my brain reminds my traitorous body that he is a monster. A monster I am here to kill, not befriend. He has terrorized our kingdom for far too long.

  But then he looks at me so tenderly as he spreads an ointment onto my skin. It smells of lavender and osha, and he's so gentle with the application, I'm having a hard time matching him to the legend that has lived in my mind since I was born. In my nightmares I saw him as a demonic force, teeth sharpened to points, dripping with the blood of the innocent, his eyes cruel and his heart merciless.

  Now, I find myself looking into the eyes of a man lost, but who is treating my wounds and being careful not to cause me more pain.

  He completes one arm, then the other, then he checks my neck. I flinch as he peels off the wet bandages at my throat.

  "This will take the longest
to heal," he says softly, as his gentle fingers brush against my collarbone.

  He finishes re-wrapping my neck then stands without turning to me again. "Rest now," he says as he walks to the door

  Before he leaves, I stop him with a question. "Where did you learn to do this?" I've been trained in healing, and I can tell a fraud when I see one. He's genuinely skilled. And his herb choices suggest he’s been trained by true healers. Maybe even witches.

  "I wasn’t always a monster," he says softly, before closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 4

  His absence makes the room feel inexplicably colder, lonelier, and I mentally swat myself for being so easily distracted by a pretty face and sad eyes. Just because he's not as ghastly as I expected doesn't mean he's not still deadly. A severe frost can be just as dangerous as a blizzard even if the snow isn't falling. You'll freeze to death either way if caught in it without shelter.

  His chiseled jawline, penetrating gaze, cheekbones that could cut ice, and sculpted body hide the rot that lies beneath, and I won't be fooled by his charms.

  I'm just lucky he likes his dinner healthy. It buys me time to plan.

  With an extraordinary amount of caution, taking the smallest movements possible, I slide out of the bed and gingerly make my way to my pack. My muscles ache, my bones feel bruised, even my skin feels as if I'm being pricked by a thousand needles.

  The fire has died down to embers, and the cold stone floor sends a chill up my spine. When I reach my pack, I pull it to my chest, relief flooding me as I glance in and see all of my belongings are there, including my Grimoire. Grabbing my cloak, I slowly make my way back to bed, having spent what little strength I had, and collapse in exhaustion. It takes me a few minutes of heavy breathing to calm down enough to go through my bag.

  Turning my cloak over in my lap, I search frantically for the vial of poisonous blood and release my breath when I find it still in the secret pocket. I leave it tucked there, then look for my dagger, but that is long gone it seems. It must have been left in the snow. Which means I'll either have to find another weapon, or come up with a way to make him drink this voluntarily.