The Winter King Read online

  So he shook himself out of his stupor and morphed his body out of the visible spectrum of those around him. Then he slowly rose from his table and moved in.

  That was a mistake. The closer he got to her, the stronger the knowledge was that what he was seeing, what he was witnessing, and what he was feeling, was all real. That reality was like both an icepick through his heart – and a quickly following blowtorch to melt it all away again. It hurt. It felt wonderful.

  It was unbelievable.

  How many years? How many blasted winters had come and gone to see him occupy his icy throne alone?

  No. He was dreaming. He had to be. The Shadow King had thought his realm was uninhabitable? The Unseelie King had thought no woman would want his darkness either? The Goblin King had been positive no queen in the realms would find his world acceptable? They had nothing on him, which became obvious when they all found their mates. Kristopher’s world, on the other hand, was a universe of ice, for fuck’s sake. Ice was literally uninhabitable. Yeah, he was dreaming.

  But…

  You don’t dream, genius. You never have. Guess what? This is real.

  He should have known she’d be mortal. All this time, he was assuming it would take a supernatural queen to withstand the cruelty of his realm. But he was a fool. Of course she’d be human. After all, at one time long ago, he’d been human too.

  He dared a distance of a table away, and there, he made the people who were sitting at the table cold enough that they eventually grew too uncomfortable to stay. They rose and left, and he stole one of their seats. He turned in the chair, leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and watched with a keen interest he hadn’t show anything – anything at all – in more than a thousand years.

  After her friend left and he followed her outdoors – getting too close at one point – he watched her throw her cup of coffee against the wall in fury, and he couldn’t help but smile. Not only was she perfect in every physical and mental way, she had a temper. Just like Winter.

  He knew what was happening with her. He knew why her coffee had been cold all day. The trick now was… how to approach her with the truth.

  And so, here he was, sitting across from a positively drop-dead gorgeous and utterly seething future Winter Queen, having fucked it up royally by playing all of his cards absolutely wrong. She was hell bent on having answers here and now, and he was nearly positive that she wouldn’t be able to handle them. She wouldn’t even believe them.

  And yet he hadn’t been able to stop himself from playing hardball. There was something about her that made him want to pick a fight with her. To get her riled. He would have seriously given every ounce of gold he owned see what she was like when she was absolutely furious. And naked.

  His hands curled against the table top, and his eyes heated up as she slowly straightened. He’d just told her she wasn’t going anywhere. Not without him.

  He could see the comprehension dawning in those glacial eyes of hers. She was in trouble, and she was just now really grasping it. What she did next, he was fully expecting, and he let it happen. There was no sense in alarming the people in the coffee shop.

  She turned and fled, grabbing her bag and hastening out of the shop in nearly record time. She left her hot coffee on the table, a fact he felt somewhat guilty for. She’d wanted that cup all day, after all. The thing was, Persephone Nix was becoming the Winter Queen, and she had no idea how to handle it. Winter’s power was emanating from her, escaping from her in little magical ways that did things like turn all of her hot drinks cold.

  He wondered what else she’d done lately that would have hinted at the transformation. Spells gone awry? Ice forming beneath her feet? He was wondering what kind of shower she’d had that morning. Had it been cold? Or had she been forced to turn it all the way up and get out early?

  He laughed softly at that thought, leaned forward, and slowly sipped at his own piping hot drink. He’d learned to control his own winter long, long ago.

  Kristopher knew she was probably a good four to five blocks away by now. She looked like the kind of deer that could sprint at a good pace when she needed to, and he was betting she more than felt like she needed to just then. But he had a mark on her now, so to speak. He’d touched her. He would be able to find her anywhere.

  Kristopher’s ability to read humans had been granted to him when he’d become the Winter King, so long ago, he barely remembered it now. Winter had chosen him. And because he’d had no choice in the matter, he’d accepted.

  When he did, he gained many abilities. Among those was the power to read a mortal on sight. All he had to do was look at a person to know their name and whether or not they were trouble. Good? Bad? Right? Wrong? Only the kings and their queens, once they came to the table, were immune to this particular power of his, which was especially unfortunate now that one of them was known to be a traitor.

  For everyone else, Kristopher knew: Was their heart in a promising place, or did it wither and seethe? Were they hurting or filled with joy? He knew it all. And yet with Persephone Glacia Nix, mortal or not she was already so much a queen, all he’d managed to learn was her name, her lineage, and the fact that she was not a normal human. She was a warlock. That was a rarity beyond measure. He’d also learned that she worked with Lalura, a fact she’d more than verified for him when she threatened to take him to the Thirteen Kings.

  This, too, made him laugh now as he casually finished off his drink. He looked up when the waitress approached, hands on her hips, sympathetic look on her face.

  “Can’t win ‘em all, huh Kris?”

  “Maybe not, Neve. But I’ll win this one.”

  The waitress pursed her lips and sat in the seat across from him. “So, who is she?”

  Kristopher eyed the waitress, a tall, slender, pale beauty with ash blond hair dyed black and light blue eyes framed by too much eyeliner. She did it to hide her looks, and he supposed he could understand that to some degree. She’d never wanted anything but to be treated like a mortal. “What’s it to you, little sis?”

  “She’s the first one to ever run out on you. I like her already. A lot.”

  Kristopher threw back his head and laughed, and the sound filled the café with magic. The windows frosted over, and outside it began to snow.

  “Winter has started.” Neve looked from the windows back to her big brother, her eyes large with knowledge. “She’s your queen, isn’t she?” The question came on a tone of voice that he’d never heard from his little sister before. It was a tone of awe and hope, and even of fear. Most likely the fear that he would royally screw this up. She’d been wanting him to find his queen for centuries.

  So he took a deep breath, glanced to the windows and the world beyond, and said, “Yes. She very much is.”

  “You’re going after her, aren’t you?”

  He turned back to his sister. “Yes.”

  “And you’re just giving her a head start for sport, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a bastard, Kris.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  Chapter Seven

  793 AD, TromsØ, the northwest coast of Norway

  Erikk awoke groggily. His head ached, and clouds of blurriness surrounded his vision. He blinked to clear it and slowly sat up.

  “Erikk! Erikk!”

  Pain lanced through his senses, starting at his vision to his sense of touch as a terrible suffering began behind his eyes, moved to the base of his skull, and spread through his muscle, bone and tissue, until his skin grew taut with goose bumps in a flush of discomfort the likes of which he’d never known.

  But Ylva had just come barreling through the front flap of his tent, her face as pale as the snow.

  “Erikk, they’ve gone! They’ve taken the boats, Bjarke and his crew! And mother and father will not wake up!”

  Erikk jumped out of bed in the manner he was accustomed to doing, and at once regretted it. The pain that had been sitting and sulking like
a waiting monster within his skull awoke and jumped out of its own bed at the same time, roaring with fury. He swayed on his feet, leaned against a nearby chest, and tried not to let his pain show on his face.

  “Erikk, what is it? What’s happened to you?” She rushed to stand beside him, her hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  Now he knew why the ale had been bitter. It hadn’t been old; it had been poisoned.

  “Go to mother and father. Find Jorunn and hurry her to them. They’ve been poisoned.”

  Ylva gasped softly and took a step back. A moment later, she whirled around in a flurry and was out the door. Erikk closed his eyes. Snowflakes the colors of the Northern Lights spun behind his shut lids, and sickness roiled in his gut. He gritted his teeth as it tried to rise. There was nothing in his belly to vomit.

  Slowly he straightened and opened his eyes. The pain was growing worse, nudged on by the fear thrumming through him. He needed to leave the tent, find Ronald, learn what had happened. Just as he shoved through the tent flaps, a man with bright red hair and a starkly terrified expression approached him.

  At least that was a bit of luck.

  “Ronald, what –”

  “Erikk, it’s worse than you think,” his friend cut him off. He placed his hand firmly on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Your parents do not fare well, and I can see the bastard placed the same herbs in your own drink. But you are stronger.”

  “I know,” Erikk said, shaking his head. He already knew about the poison! With the way he was feeling now, as young and healthy as he was, he had a terrible, dread-filled feeling that his parents would not be faring well at all.

  But time was passing! He needed to know about Bjarke!

  “But that isn’t all,” continued Ronald. “Bjarke took our strongest men and shoved off this morning. He told Ylva that when he returned wealthy beyond measure in several moons’ time, he would take her as his bride and no one would be able to stop him. He bragged that he would be chief.”

  There was a silence now as everything Ronald had said sank in. There was so much there.

  Several moons’ time meant that he planned to sail far. Wealthy beyond measure meant he didn’t intend to trade. He intended to sack something and take what he wanted. And of course, he didn’t think anyone would be around to stop him from claiming Ylva as his wife because everyone who could have done so would be dead. Poisoned months earlier.

  “Son of a bitch,” Erikk hissed. His anger was fueling him, overriding his discomfort and pain.

  “Erikk!”

  Erikk turned slightly to watch Jorunn running toward him. The wiccan had a body strong as iron for her age. Her hair was the color of dirty snow, but her teeth were white and she was never ill. She was called wise woman for a reason. “You’ve been poisoned, Erikk,” she said when she reached him. “You need this!”

  He watched in numb fascination as she took a pouch she’d already had open in her hand, and poured some of its powdered contents into a goblet Ylva held out for her. Jorunn’s wide leather belt bore many flasks and bottles attached to it. She pulled a flask from it and added its liquid contents to the goblet.

  Ylva hastily swirled her finger in it a bit to mix it, then held it out to her older brother. “Drink, Erikk! Mother and father have already had theirs!”

  They’d been awake to swallow? Was there hope they would survive?

  Erikk didn’t question Jorunn’s concoction or his need of it. He simply grabbed the goblet none-too-gently, and downed its entire contents in three swallows. It tasted like bitter berries and dirt.

  “Good!” said Jorunn, nodding emphatically as Erikk lowered the empty goblet. “Good,” she repeated, more softly this time. “At least you were able to finish it. We could only get so much down your parents’ throats.”

  Erikk turned to her. “You mean they are still –”

  She nodded before he could finish, her expression withered. “I’m sorry. We tried to wake them. They are not as strong as you.”

  Everyone kept telling him that. He squared the old woman with a hard look. “Is the potion you just gave me going to work?”

  “On you, there is no doubt. On them… we can only hope.”

  Erikk felt something horrid rise in his chest, not physically, but emotionally. He tamped it down with a fury that was building just as quickly and spun away from Jorunn to face Ronald. “Come with me.”

  Ronald only nodded as Erikk stormed through the camp and everyone came out of their tents or gathered in the street to watch him. He dared not look into their faces; he knew what they were thinking. His family had been attacked. There were traitors amongst their own brethren. Some of them had sons who were involved, who had accompanied Bjarke to the sea as part of his crew. The silence in the air spoke volumes.

  By the time Erikk reached the seaside to find the two largest and strongest longboats taken, the sky was turning dark, and the air was filling with the heaviness of impending storm. “Help me,” he commanded Ronald.

  Ronald assisted him in untying the smaller boat, one meant for no more than four passengers. But as he did, he looked up at his friend. “What can you hope to do, Erikk? He has a long head start and the weather is changing.” He shook his head.

  “I know not, but I can’t stay here. Bjarke plans to take the men down the coast. No doubt, he’s been planning this for some time. There’s been talking of taking Lindisfarne.”

  “The monastery?”

  Erikk nodded, wrapping ropes and throwing them into the boat. “All his talk of riches? He’ll meet up with others in other families who feel the same way about the Christians, and the lot of them will attack the church. It’s been brewing.”

  “By Odin. It’ll be messy, no matter what happens.”

  Erikk nodded again. As soon as it was completely free, he jumped into the vessel. But when Ronald made to jump in after him, Erikk held out his hand. “No. I need you to stay with Ylva. She needs you to protect her.”

  “I need no one to protect me. I’m coming with you.”

  Ronald and Erikk looked up along the shore, where the cliffs abutted the sand. Ylva stood atop the nearest rock, her stature proud, her hair blowing about her in a wind that was just kicking up from the sea. Jorunn had accompanied her and stood beside her.

  “Very well, then, you need no protection.” Erikk said, knowing his sister was not only smart, but strong. She was also young and stubborn. “However, I need you to protect the people, Ylva. You are the last of us. Should something happen to me and – ”

  “And mother and father not awaken?”

  Erikk met her gaze. A silent understanding passed between them. Slowly, and with resolution, Erikk finished, “It will all be up to you, Ylva. You need to survive.”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer, and could no longer even bare to look upon her, so he turned then, ducked into the boat to grab the oars, and looked at Ronald instead. They nodded to one another in understanding. Ylva was but eleven years. Ronald was being given a load of responsibility, and it was far heavier than was being stated aloud.

  “Take this,” Ronald rushed forward, shrugging off his furs to toss them into the bottom of the boat. Jorunn pulled several things from her belt and threw them into the boat as well. Then Ronald shoved the boat off the sand and snow, and Erikk began rowing, trying not to notice the way Ylva’s small white form stood motionless as ice as the moisture in the air clung to his face and braids and the shore grew further and further away.

  Chapter Eight

  Present day, Seattle Washington, United States

  Kristopher had just left the café and made it to his bike when something in the nearby alley caught his eye. Several homeless men were gathered around a burning trash can. People thought that for the most part, things like this no longer happened in the city limits, because police officers normally caught the fires early and had them put out for public safety, sending the homeless to a shelter if possible. But there were areas where people still did this. Th
ey just happened a little further in, a little deeper down, and a little more out of human sight. The men gathered around this particular trash can were not mortal.

  Kristopher looked at them and immediately knew who and what they were. One was a vampire who’d wasted away to nearly nothing for some strange reason. Vampires didn’t get diseases; there was only one way for one of them to waste away. He wasn’t feeding. It was something Kris could perhaps take up with Roman D’Angelo during the next meeting.

  Another was a goblin in human guise, one of the larger kind who’d no doubt been missing from the Goblin Kingdom since long before Diana Chroi had taken the throne as queen. Some goblins just managed to get out and not get noticed by lying low and not causing trouble. They simply preferred the mortal realm to their own.

  And the third was an incubus... who’d been banished by their king. He wondered if the incubus knew that Hesperos had been inducted to the Thirteen. Not that it mattered. It was the incubus who set off Kristopher’s alarms the loudest, though even that was a very distant, very faint noise. He wasn’t worried, he was simply curious.

  Kristopher watched the three of them a moment or two more out of the corner of his eye, then mounted his bike with smooth grace. It was his favorite motorcycle, and one he only took out of the garage for special occasions. He hadn’t been sure why he’d wanted to take it out tonight – until now. The 1927 Brough Superior SS100 wasn’t necessarily fast, though it certainly had been in its day, but it was rare and it was beautiful. And like so many things, when suped up with magic, it could become a bat out of hell.