Winter

“Do it,” I blurt, my words tumbling out faster than I can think. “Kill me before she crosses over. I’ll kneel for you . . . if that’s your thing. Whatever floats your murdery boat. Just don’t hurt her.”

His head tilts so that now it’s me he’s watching. Studying me. The intensity of his gaze like a razor-edged blade dragging across my skin, splitting me open for all to see. Something in his demeanor shifts, and I can’t help but feel I’ve surprised him somehow.

“You would die to protect her?” His voice is the soft tumble of snowflakes drifting in the wind.

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in my voice because it’s true. “I would die to protect all of them.”

Quiet descends. I can hear Jane yelling louder, the idiot. Screaming at the top of her lungs like a banshee. She must have tracked me here.

Must somehow know I’m in trouble . . .

He lifts a hand and frost begins to grow over the Shimmer. I watch the frost crackle and pop across the wall, spider-webbing until the wall is no longer transparent.

When I’m convinced she won’t be able to come through, I turn to face my tormentor turned executioner.

His gaze slides to the neverapples strewn over the snowy ground. “The stolen fruit was for your family?”

Perhaps I’m wrong, but his voice has lost some of its iciness.

I nod and drag a hand over my eyes, unshed tears pricking my throat. I have an embarrassing habit of crying when angry. “Sort of. I mean, yes. Not by blood, but that doesn’t matter. There are—there are four kids, plus me.”

Not sure why I add that last detail. If one starving human fails to sway his dark heart, four will hardly make a difference.

Without a word, he buries his steel back into the silver scabbard at his waist. At the sound, my blood rushes back into my toes and I release a ragged breath.

“What is your name, mortal girl?” This time his dark tone leaves no room for denying his request.

I clear my throat. “Summer. Summer . . . Solstice.”

In East Texas, my name gets a lot of attention, along with musings about hippy parents and too many drugs. Not everyone names their kids for the day of the year they were born.

But apparently such names aren’t odd to my tormentor, because he hardly blinks. He does, however, stare at me for what seems like minutes, seemingly torn on how to proceed.

“And your name?” I ask carefully. For the Fae, names have power, and just asking implies an intimacy we don’t have. Actually, I’m not sure why I asked, except to keep this conversation going as long as possible.

Pretty sure I read somewhere that if I’m ever taken by a murderer, talking to them helps humanize me.

He ignores my request entirely and dives straight into a speech. “Summer Solstice, for the crime of thievery against the Winter Prince you are hereby enslaved to the Evermore.” Another pause. “Your punishment will be carried out at Evermore Academy for four mortal years, or until your heart no longer beats. Whichever comes first. After the four years, you may buy your freedom.”

“I’m sorry, what?” My mind races to understand. Words like punishment and years tumble around my skull. “Enslaved at your stupid Fae Academy? For . . . years? Over apples?”

I try to remember everything I’ve heard about this academy. Humans can serve there, but they’re typically from families outside the Tainted Zone. Families with money, who hail from the most elite echelons of our society.

Basically, not me.

They go. Some come back. Some don’t. It’s all very hush-hush.

“Consider it a mercy.” His voice has once again regained its gruff, icy exterior.

“A mercy? What planet do you live on?”

Ignoring my outburst, he sweeps a hand toward the Shimmer. “Arrive back here at midnight, by the time the moon crests the ridge. Even a second past, and I promise, you will not like the consequences that befall you.”

“Be punctual, got it.” I sound torn between laughing and crying, and my skull feels wrapped in bubble wrap. The shock and the terrible cold make a dangerous combination. “Any other advice before I head off to my prison? What to pack, perhaps?”

There’s no emotion in his voice as he says, “You’re allowed to bring only the clothes you wear. Preferably warmer than your current attire, if you value your fingers and toes.”

I go to argue when a searing heat bites my right arm. I fling it up to examine, desperate to find the source. Metallic lines of gold and black appear over my forearm, twisting and crossing. I watch, horrified, as they snake up my elbow, claiming my flesh all the way to my shoulder.

The pain is unreal.

With a scream, I fall to my knees and gouge my arm into the snow, trying desperately to cool the flames. But the fiery ribbons keep unfurling, claiming more and more of my aching flesh.

Devouring and devouring and . . .

Oh, God, the pain.

Darkness consumes me. I blink, trying to keep hold of my wits. I’m sure my arm is gone, sure whatever is ripping chunks from my flesh will devour me whole. I feel my body rolling around trying to buck out the torment, and I don’t even care how silly I look.

Hot bile slaps the back of my throat.

Right before I hurl, the ravaging pain stops, like water thrown on a fire. My cries become whimpers as I double over, holding my ruined arm close to my body. Snow presses into my cheek; tears wash down my face.

I don’t want to look, but I have to look.

Unscrunching my eyes, I force myself to assess my arm. Because of the otherworldly pain, I’m one hundred percent positive I’ll be met with a mess of blistered, ruined flesh.

Instead, a meshwork of metallic lines crisscross my otherwise perfect skin like a tattoo.

“You’re branded now,” he says, casually, as if the agony I just lived through means nothing. As if I’m livestock. “There’s nowhere you can hide where we cannot find you, so don’t even think about running.”

I drag my gaze from my arm to his face, making sure the disgust and hatred in my expression is clear. “You’re a monster. You could have at least warned me.”

“If you think I’m bad, just wait until the academy.” There’s something about the way he says this that rubs under my skin. Like this is all some big joke.

“Looking forward to it,” I assert. Even though I am definitely not looking forward to it. “Will you be there?”

There’s no way to tell his age behind his shadowy mask. Even if I could make out his face, Evermore are immortal.

“Why?” There’s a whisper of amusement in his gruff voice. “Looking forward to that, too?”

“Looking forward to repaying your unkindness. And if I find this Winter Prince, well, he should pray I never do.” As soon as the words leave my big mouth, I cringe.

Yes, Summer, threaten a magical being who could turn you to ice and then melt you for fun. Grand idea. Better yet, threaten a Fae prince.

The Fae seems to agree. “I promise, you do not want to see me again. Keep your head down and your mortal lips shut, if that’s even possible, and you might just survive us.”

With that ominous warning, he bends down, plucks my lollipops from the ground—bastard!—and then turns on his heels and strides away.

Wrapped in a layer of shock, I watch him go. Watch his ice-blue cloak drag quietly over the snow, his tall form framed by the snow-heavy trees and illuminated by the too-big moon.

The moment I lose sight of him, reality bursts my nice little bubble and smacks me in the face. My anger, too, has faded with my tormentor. Stripped of that powerful emotion, my physical condition becomes impossible to ignore. Violent tremors thrash my body, my jaw locked together like a steel trap.

A brave look informs me my fingers are an alarming shade of purple.

Purple is way worse than red.

Staggering to my feet, I somehow make myself walk as the pain in my frostbitten limbs explodes, nearly overtaking my senses.

But it’s nothing compared to the pain in my heart.

Four years? I’m supposed to survive four whole years with the Fae, and then somehow pay for my freedom . . . with what, exactly?

More importantly, how will my family survive without me?

A potent mixture of horror and dread floods my slushy veins, and for a moment . . . a single frosty breath, I imagine laying down and giving myself to the cold and fear and frustration.

A snowy tomb seems better than what awaits me at this academy.

Something bumps into my leg, hard, and begins to purr. Chatty Cat. He meows up at me with a look like, c’mon already, let’s blow this joint.

Chatty Cat yanks me out of my pity party so hard I get whiplash.

Pity is for fools and beggars, and you are neither, Summer. I grind my jaw and picture my parents, the years I spent on the streets. The icy Fae bastard thinks I can’t survive one overhyped academy of puffed-up immortals, but he doesn’t know all I’ve already overcome.

Whatever happens, whatever they do to me, I can withstand it. I have to.

Determined to ignore the pain, I go back to the business of collecting the neverapples. My hungry, frozen body complains, but the promise of bringing real food home spurs me on.

My life might have just ended, but no reason the others have to starve.

5

Aunt Zinnia hums the tune for Dynasty as she bends over a baking pan, testing the doneness of her cornbread. Despite the heat, she wears a fuzzy pink and blue robe with cat faces. Her frizzy honey-gold curls are captured in a clawed clip, but a few have escaped and stick out at weird angles.

The window above the sink is open, the chorus of insect chirps mixing with the low static hum of the TV. Moths and June bugs swarm over the outdated brass light fixture centered on the water-stained ceiling.

The local news blares from the microwave-sized TV on the counter. “This grandfather from Briar county claims his granddaughter grew fangs while he held her in his lap, then bit him before escaping out a window. Could another darkling infestation be on the rise?”

Not wanting the story to alarm the children, I rush over and switch the channel to national news.