The Winter Witch Page 4

  Chapter 6

  The graveyard might have been beautiful if it wasn’t so tragic. Some of the stonework has faded with age and even more are overgrown with the vines that crawl across every inch of the wall bordering the space. Gray stone markers indicate first names only, and I wander from marker to marker, searching for the names most familiar to me. Near the back, I’ve almost given up when I spot them.

  William and Catherine.

  Hot tears burn my eyes, and I blink them back. My knees threaten to buckle, and I grab hold of a nearby marker for support.

  Alaric is there in an instant, and I lean on him, appreciation for his strength warring with disgust at the feelings I'm developing for him, for the monster he is.

  He’s taken so much from so many.

  But he’s also lost so much too.

  “You knew them,” he says quietly.

  “They were my parents,” I admit.

  He doesn’t answer, and I shut my eyes, taking a moment to offer a silent prayer to the goddess for their souls.

  When I finally look up at him, his expression is shuttered, his gaze far away from this morbid garden.

  “Why did you show me this?” I ask, still trying to reconcile his kindness with his cruelty.

  “I am not the only thing in this place that has been cursed,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every soul I’ve killed and buried here is cursed along with me. Their spirits live on, serving me and the castle itself as only ghosts can.”

  “The bucket of water,” I realize and look back at the graves marking my parents. “Stoking my fire, laundering my clothes, it was them, wasn’t it?”

  His expression is tight, but underneath his attempt to mask it, I see the pain buried deep. “I don’t know how it’s possible or why. I didn’t ask for this.”

  His voice is strained.

  I bite my lip, torn at whether to comfort him or condemn him.

  One of those ghosts could be my parents, and the thought is both a comfort and a horror. It seems everything I learn here is a contradiction, Alaric most of all.

  “Can you communicate with them?” I ask.

  “I’ve tried many times, but there is never a response.”

  My shoulders slump in defeat.

  I shrug out from underneath his arm and walk slowly back through the graveyard toward the door we came in.

  Alaric soon follows and produces the key to seal the place shut again. Just before the door closes, I cast one last look into the macabre secret garden he’s created for his victims. One day soon, I’ll end up in there. The thought clogs my throat and reignites the fire in my soul to avenge every single one of the bodies laid to rest here.

  I turn to Alaric, the flame of my own conviction reignited in my veins.

  “A marked grave in a pretty garden doesn’t atone for the lives you’ve taken. Those people had homes. Families. Not only did you rob them of their lives, you robbed the ones left behind as well. A nature this dark cannot be absolved by digging a few holes and carving names into stone.”

  Alaric’s expression hardens.

  He stills at my words until I’m not even sure he’s breathing anymore.

  For a split second, I wonder if I’ve gone too far and brace myself for his attack. But he only continues to stand rigidly against my condemnation.

  Finally, he speaks, his voice low and full of anger.

  “I know I cannot make up for my crimes and especially not with something as simple as a proper burial site for those lives I’ve taken. But you of all people should understand there is much more to a person than a single deed or action. That intentions matter. Otherwise, let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  His angry words smack of accusation, and I’m struck by the hypocrisy of my own. And by the pointed way he’s illustrated it.

  My own response dies on my lips as fear grips me. Does he know my true intentions for coming here then? Has he somehow found me out?

  I think of the vial of blood hidden away in my cloak, and urgency to check on it overwhelms me. But I don’t have to excuse myself with some lie. Before I can utter another word, Alaric turns on his heel and strides away, leaving me to find my way back to my room alone.

  Alaric doesn’t return for the rest of the evening, and I begin to wonder if he’s abandoned me. Food arrives along with hot tea, and I realize it’s completely possible the castle will take over in nursing me back to full strength until Alaric deems me healthy enough to eat.

  The thought disturbs me for more reasons than simply survival.

  I find that, in the absence of his company, and despite everything else, I miss him.

  I do check the hidden pocket in my cloak for the vial of blood and am relieved to find it there. I still don’t have a plan in place to use it, and I spend the next few hours trying to think of a way to trick him into drinking it. But nothing makes sense. Especially now that I’ve chased him away.

  And my heart aches at the thought of taking his life, of ending the spark of genius I see in him when we discuss new ideas, of robbing the world of what he could be, if only he wasn't isolated in this gilded prison.

  Every time I am tempted to go looking for him, I think of his parting words. He basically called me a hypocrite, and I’m still worried he knows my true motives. So, I spend some time reading alone. But it’s not the same. And I’m unsettled about how we’ve left things.

  When I can’t shake my own dark mood, I’m forced to admit I regret my words earlier. That somewhere along this surprising journey, the cursed prince and I have developed something true and genuine. We have become friends. Maybe even more than friends.

  I sleep fitfully, plagued with nightmares where, rather than him attacking me, I am the one drinking from him.

  I wake out of sorts and confused by what to do next.

  After a bath that feels utterly lonely, I finish dressing just as there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

  “Come in.”

  My stomach flips at the sight of Alaric, and I can’t ignore the butterflies that dance when his eyes meet mine.

  “How did you sleep?” he asks, and in his gaze, I see reflected the regret I’ve felt since our quarrel.

  “Terrible,” I admit. “You?”

  His expression softens.

  “I’ve ordered tea to the drawing room. The view of the mountainside is lovely there. Would you like to join me?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He offers his arm to escort me, and my hand tingles where it brushes his own.

  We share a look, and then I glance away, unwilling to linger too long over the feelings he stirs.

  The halls are chilled and full of a presence that makes me wonder if my parents’ spirits truly are here in this place helping to care for me. The idea brings me comfort. What would they say, though, about my friendship with the creature who killed them?

  “Here we are.”

  Alaric leads us into a room I’ve never seen before, and I pause to survey the space. The first thing I notice is the décor. A large evergreen wreath decorated with red bows and holly hangs over a candlelit mantelpiece, and within a Yule log burns. A tall spruce tree stands in the corner, accented with red bows and glittering silver and gold baubles, and lit with at least a hundred small candles, balanced perfectly on the thick branches. A sitting area takes up the center of the room, with two couches and chairs between. Nearby, a serving cart is loaded with tea and gingerbread, the scent filling my heart with a bittersweet nostalgia of time with my parents.

  It takes me a moment to even notice the view, but when I do, my breath catches.

  The far wall is nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows offering a clear vantage of the mountainside that rolls softly then drops steeply away. Beneath the sheer drop, nestled into the snowbanks, is Willowdale. Smoke curls from the chimneys of the houses so far off they look miniature from way up here. Tonight, they will all be celebrating Yule and wondering where I am and why I haven't
broken the curse yet.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, turning to look at him. "Do you normally celebrate Yule alone?”

  He holds my gaze as he studies me. "I normally do not celebrate it at all."

  He leads me to one of the couches, and I lower to the soft cushions, glad to be off my feet. I know the healing would go faster if I pushed my muscles more often, but I’m still torn about doing anything to speed the process.

  I glance back at the view, as a bonfire is lit and the merriment begins. "So, you sit here each year watching the village celebrate?"

  Alaric crosses to the cart and pours tea, loading a plate with gingerbread before handing it to me.

  “This was my mother’s favorite room,” Alaric says, surprising me by bringing her up. "When I was a child, we would celebrate in here together, and she would talk to me about my people, and the importance of being a kind and just king someday."

  “She sounds like a wise woman,” I say, unsure whether to push now that he’s finally speaking of his past.

  “She was," he says. "She was something of a wild woman, though. She did not conform to convention. She jousted and was trained in all manner of weapons, but more than anything she loved the outdoors.”

  “As do I.”

  He doesn’t respond, and I sip my tea in silence. Even without words, I’m glad for his company, and once again, I’m forced to admit how much I’ve come to enjoy being with him.

  I’ve nearly finished my drink when he speaks again, his voice much more strained than before.

  “I don’t enjoy it, Adara.”

  I look up sharply, and for a moment I’m caught up in the thrill of hearing my name from his lips. Then his words register.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The blood cravings. Taking a life. Living alone up here. I don’t enjoy what I’ve become. It’s not a choice.”

  “Alaric,” I begin, but he interrupts me.

  “When I was young, I wanted nothing more than to rule. But my privilege blinded me to what ruling really meant. I wanted the riches, the grand balls, the adulation. I knew nothing of what my people suffered or what it felt like to be hungry or alone.

  “One night, during a winter storm, the worst the kingdom had ever seen, a woman came to the castle doors. She was beautiful despite her bedraggled state and, in my entitlement, I assumed she would be flattered at my attention.”

  “And was she flattered?” I ask, caught up in his story now.

  “Not exactly.” His smile is sardonic and wilts fast. “When my persistence became too much for her, she grew enraged and revealed herself as a witch. Her first thought was to exile me, or transform me into some kind of rodent, but my mother pleaded with her.

  “In the end, she cursed me to become the creature of my heart. Cold, calculating, and out for blood. Literally. From that day forward, I became the monster I am today, cursed to thirst for the blood of humans above all else."

  He pauses and, in a gravelly voice, he says, “Mad with hunger, I killed my parents two days later. Left their bodies on the terrace, because I was too ashamed to look at them. When I realized what had happened, I set out immediately to find the witch and force her to lift the curse, but she’d vanished. When I returned, I buried my parents in the forest. Then the snow began to fall and the ground hardened. After that, I began burying the rest in the garden I showed you.”

  His story is bleak and paints a picture of a once-selfish, entitled prince who quickly learned the error of his ways. I can’t help but think the witch who cursed him acted cruelly, or at the very least, rashly. And she certainly didn't consider the weight of the consequences for her own choices. She is perhaps more responsible for the murders he's committed than he is.

  Were witches common in that time? Since then, only a handful had been born over the years since he’d been cursed. Was that by design? Was her curse somehow tied to my magic?

  Alaric’s nervous gaze brings me out of my musings, and I try to come up with some kind of loophole for what the magic has done to him.

  “What about animals?” I ask, thinking of the wolves he protected me from. “Can’t you feed on them instead?”

  “I have tried. Many times. But animal blood is different. It doesn’t quench the thirst, and I don’t want to needlessly deplete the game available to your village. Not when the humans need it more.”

  He has a point. Thanks to endless winter, game is already scarce for villagers. We can't afford to lose more, especially if it doesn't even save the lives of his victims.

  “What if you simply fought against it?” I ask. “Become stronger than the curse?”

  “I’ve tried fighting my nature. Resisting the insatiable hunger I feel burning in my throat night after night. The longest I can go between feedings is one year. Much longer than that, and my bloodlust takes over." He glances away, unwilling to look me in the eye. "I lose myself completely until I’m sated. Your parents' death was the consequence of me testing my own limits."

  I tense at the mention of them, but he continues, seemingly determined to tell me everything now.

  “I’d gone too long without feeding and nearly went mad. They were hunting too far from the village for their own safety. The moment I smelled their blood I lost all thought and reason." He pauses, holding my gaze with his, despite the immense guilt I can see in his eyes. "They were kind in the end, despite what I did to them. And brave. Your father fought to the last for your mother. I could see that he loved her very much.”

  My throat tightens as I think of them now. The stories my father would tell me at night before bed. The warm hugs my mother gave freely. Gingerbread baking in the oven on the eve of Yule. So many happy memories that died the night they did.

  I can’t bring myself to speak, and after a beat of silence, he goes on.

  “When the thirst subsided, I counted ten dead. I can’t explain to you the depth of remorse I felt at—”

  He looks away, staring out the window at the blanket of white, and I wonder if he’s thinking about our last conversation and how hard I’d been on him.

  “My control allows me to take only one life a year rather than dozens, as long as I maintain that schedule without fail.”

  “That’s why you demand a sacrifice.”

  He nods, shifting in his seat. “Their time with me is never uncomfortable. I give them luxury and fine food and a warm bed. I let them tell me their stories. Teach me about life outside this castle. Remind me what it’s like to be among people again.”

  It sounds terrible, the torture of reminding himself what he’s lost, but I don’t say so. Besides, the victims are the ones he feeds on. The ones whose lives he ends.

  The ones like me.

  But already, I’ve been here a month. Does he normally wait so long to feed once his yearly guest arrives?

  “And how long has it been?” I ask. “Since your last feeding?”

  His eyes meet mine, and it strikes me now how much darker his eyes look than the last time we spoke. “Just over a year. I must admit, I don’t think I can go much longer.”

  For a moment, his eyes flash with a predatory hunger that sends a shiver of terror through me.

  "Is this why you cursed your kingdom with eternal winter? To punish others for your own pain?"

  He looks shocked at my words. "Is that what you think? That I am the one bringing on the endless winter?"

  It's my turn to be shocked. "Aren't you?"

  "By the goddess, no. That was the second part of my curse. That my people would suffer with me. As long as I lived, we would live in perpetual winter. My land would die more and more the longer I stayed alive."

  "She was the true monster," I say with venom. "She is the truly evil one."

  He shrugs in deep resignation. "Be that as it may, this is the fate we are now living, and nothing can be done about it."

  “Why are you telling me all of this?” I ask, my voice breaking a little at so much pain. Both his and mine. A shared pain, tw
o sides of the same coin.

  “You were right about what you said. About absolving myself. My guilt is a heavy burden, and I can’t expect you, or anyone, to balance that with the things I’ve done, no matter how much I wish it were different. But I wanted you to know I would change it if I knew how.” He looks away, staring into the fire.

  “If I could die, I would do it,” he says quietly, surprising me with the conviction in his voice. And the reality of his words.

  “You can’t die? At all?” I ask, thinking of the vial of blood and my ultimate purpose here.

  He shakes his head. “I’ve tried. In every way you can imagine. This curse is stronger than even my own will to live, it seems.”

  My mind whirls with this information, but I don’t know what to say to his admission.

  “I’m sorry,” he adds when I don’t speak. “For what it’s worth.”

  Inside, my thoughts churn with everything he’s told me.

  “Do you tell all your meals how sorry you are?” I joke, hoping to lighten the mood.

  But his eyes are sad as he replies, “I’ve never spoken this freely with anyone. You’re different, Adara. You make me different too. I wish—”

  He stops.

  Without thinking, I rise and go sit beside him, turning to face him. “What do you wish?”

  His gaze searches mine, and in their depths, I see it all. Pain, misery, sadness. And hope.

  They are the same impossible feelings I too am battling.

  His gaze drops to my mouth.

  “I wish,” he says, leaning closer, and my breath hitches.

  For a moment, I am tempted to give into my own desires, to close my eyes and enjoy the feel of his lips on mine. If I’m being honest, I’ve never wanted anything, or anyone, more than I want Alaric’s kiss.

  I lean forward, my skin buzzing with anticipation. And longing.

  But then the chilled sensation of his skin nearing mine brings me back, and I remember what he is. What he intends to do with me. What he can't help but do to me, or someone else if not me. And what I’ve vowed to do to him.