Page 36 of Kiss of Frost

The blood soaked Hamish to the waist, the color as gray as his skin and hair. A river of it flowed down his chin. I couldn’t stop it. I’d never been able to stop it. Once upon a time, his blood had soaked my hands. So much of it. My fingers twitched with the memory of trying to scoop it from the ground and put it back.

“Don’t go,” I begged, the entreaty as futile as the first time. Now, as then, ice numbed my knees and I knelt and prayed to any god who would listen. I prayed to Hamish, too, but he was as silent as the gods had been all those years ago.

Moisture trickled down my cheeks and froze on my skin. Tears.

Not possible.

Not possible.

But they were hard and real under my fingers when I pressed my trembling hands to my beard. Salty icicles formed at the corners of my lips, and the ache returned to my chest. I clawed at it, choking on emotions that spiraled up from the dusty corners of my mind. One by one, they slammed into me: confusion, regret, sorrow.

The last was a scab ripped off a wound. Sharp and ruthless, it cut me open, pulling wet, quivering gasps from my throat. Animal sounds spilled from me as I reached for Hamish, fresh tears freezing almost as soon as they fell. “She cursed me,” I said between sobs. “She must have.”

The beer.

The incubus had distracted me in the Great Hall, and the witch had poisoned the brew. In my mind’s eye, I watched the pitcher spilling in the corridor. Watched myself tip it back and drain it before I settled behind my desk.

She’d poisoned me, cursing me to feel. The lad was young and too inexperienced to fight me. The witch was no match for my strength or power. So she’d resorted to the underhanded tactics of her kind.

“I’m sending them away,” I told Hamish. “I’m sorry.” I was sorry for so many things.

Soft, sad brown eyes held mine. Hamish drifted backward…

“Don’t!” I cried, crawling forward. “Don’t leave me again!”

He faded to nothing. Gone.

The beer shot up my throat and spewed from my mouth. It froze as soon as it hit the floor. There wasn’t much, but my stomach didn’t seem to know that, and it continued cramping. I heaved and gagged on my hands and knees, snot and tears freezing on my face. Eventually, my retching turned to weeping, and I collapsed on my side. The ache persisted, a throbbing, gaping void that couldn’t be filled.

Memories of Hamish flooded my mind, filling my head with images of us riding horses through the fields, laughing and joking. I saw us lying in bed, our limbs entwined and sweat cooling on our skin. We walked into battle together. Bled together. Loved together. I loved him, I loved him, and he was gone.

It wouldn’t kill me, this sorrow, because it wasn’t real. No witch’s curse could unravel my vows. My heart was a solid weight in my chest, its beats as still and cold as the ice-coated room around me. But the sorrow was a weight, too. It would slow me down and put the Oracle in danger.

Grunting, I struggled to my feet. The witch had done this, and she wasn’t leaving the White Gate without answering for her crime. If I could feel sorrow, I could feel other things.

Like resolve. I let it fill me as I entered my chamber and went to the wash basin. The water was frozen, and I punched through it with a spike of anger.

Yes, I thought as blood dripped from my knuckles to the frigid water. I could use that too.

Chapter Eleven

GEORGIE

“Where the hell are you, Callum McLeish?” I asked irritably as I shivered at the window. My heart sank at the sight of the snow, which looked at least ten feet higher than yesterday. The storm had passed, but another approached. Ominous clouds clustered on the horizon, promising a fresh blizzard. If Callum and I had any hope of reaching the Oracle today, we needed to leave the White Gate as soon as possible.

But that was going to be hard to do with Callum missing. After a fitful night on the lumpy mattress, I was a collection of aches and pains. Meanwhile, Callum had slept like a log, his soft snores filling my ear as he cuddled me like I was his personal body pillow. He’d risen in an obnoxiously cheerful mood and announced he was going on a “reconnaissance mission” around the fortress.

“What are you reconnoitering?” I’d grumbled, massaging my neck by the fire.

He’d looked skeptical as he stripped, preparing to shift. “I’m not sure that’s a word, lass.”

“It’s a word.”

“If you say so.” Grinning, he dropped his pants and stepped out of them.

“I do say so.” I made my expression stern—and studiously ignored how good he looked with the morning sunlight gilding his muscles. “Do you think it’s wise to go running around the castle?”

“I’ll stay smoky.” Nude, he crossed the chamber, seized my hips, and tugged me against him. “And I’ll look for coffee.”

---