Page 101 of Frost Like Night
He stands there, watching, and the pieces click.
Greer, telling us that soldiers waited above. Theron, remaining in the ballroom. Me, sending my only support out to create a diversion.
It was part of Angra’s trap. Getting me alone.
It really is just Theron and me—and suddenly the thought is terrifying.
Theron continues easing forward, his head tipped to one side so his golden hair makes a curtain across his shoulder. “You don’t know the agony you’ve put me through,” he says, only two arm’s lengths away from me now.
I let him creep closer, my eyes pinned to his as I try to take stock of the situation. He has no weapons, his green and gold Cordellan uniform unadorned. A slight lump sits against his chest, just to the right of his collarbone. The keys?
A bit of my tension ripples away. He has them.
But a new worry quickly arises. Angra gave Theron the keys for the exact reason I knew he would—to get me to stay here. The longer I stay, talking with Theron, the better chance he has of weakening me. If those keys weren’t here, I’d grab Sir, Mather, and Greer and be gone before we could fall into any traps.
Now, though, I’m stuck. Just like Angra wants.
“Likewise,” I reply. But whatever meaning he takes from my words sends relief pooling over his features, beaming as he closes the space between us.
“I knew it,” he declares and grabs my hand.
Touching him sparks the connection I feel whenever I come into skin-to-skin contact with another conduit-bearer. Seeing into their past, their memories, even their emotions at that moment—Theron opens himself to me when his skin touches mine.
I see Theron, waiting for me, pacing the halls of my palace, overseeing my kingdom with the same smugness I attributed to his father.
Theron, talking to Angra in Summer, in Winter; the two of them planning this moment, knowing I would come to him.
Reverence floods Theron with every memory of Angra. Adoration, devotion, so pure it breaks my heart.
I break free of Theron’s touch, everything in me aching. He wants me—but this isn’t human, this need. This is something fostered by the Decay. Even the expression on his face is one he would never wear, were he himself—a dark possession in the way his eyes follow me unblinking as I back away.
I force myself to meet his gaze. Force myself to stay calm, to ignore the hum of warning through my body. My instincts don’t see just Theron—they see danger, a man who looks at me in a way that’s almost familiar.
Herod.
Angra turned him into Herod.
My knees wobble and I buckle forward. Theron slides his arms around my waist, caging me against his body. He doesn’t touch my skin again, but he’s so close,too close—
I can’t speak, can’t move. I knew Angra infected him—ensnared him—but I never allowed myself to imagine that he would go this far. Of course he would—Angra knows my fears. He knows my weaknesses.
And he combined them in Theron.
“Meira,” he says again, and his mouth is on mine before I can move. His arm around my waist is a vise; his lips insistent and hungry and bruising, the opposite of every other kiss I’ve gotten from him.
More emotions, so clear they’re words spoken from his mind into my own.
This will be perfect. This is how it should be. She will love me with all the devotion I have earned from her.
Coldness wraps around me, the frigidity of my kingdom clawing at my rising panic. His touch sears me, his thoughts, the one wish he’s harbored for so long that even in this brief whisper of it, every sensation feelsreal, too real, branding his body to mine—
A lump presses into my chest from his jacket. The keys.
Focus!
I fumble with my magic to finally block his thoughts—never have I been so happy for Rares’s training—and lay my hand on his jacket. Something hard and iron and distinctly key shaped sits within. The smooth velvet slides between my fingers as I reach into his pocket.
Theron’s hands pinch against my shoulders and he jolts back from me. “You . . .” His eyes go to his pocket, then to my hand, fingers reaching toward it. “You didn’t come for me,” he states. His words echo around me, and the atmosphere of the ballroom goes from quiet and watchful to deadly. His fingers on my shoulders dig deeper. “You didn’tcome for me,” he repeats. “You came for the keys. You came to stop Angra.”
