Gathering Frost (Once Upon A Curse Book 1) (3 page)

But by the time shouts rain down on me, I am gone, through the gate. Protests disappear until I am left with only the wind brushing my cheeks and the crunch of grass beneath heavy hooves.

We don't slow until the trees fade and metal takes their place. I am back in the wilds, a concrete jungle more perilous than any forest I can imagine.

But these are my wilds. My home.

A grin spreads across my face, pulls my cheeks until they hurt.

No one can beat me here. 

Flash.

It's a good name, a strong name for a horse. And accurate. Like me, she yearns to run free and swift, yearns to break the reins holding her.

But not tonight.

Tonight, my knuckles turn white as they grip the leather keeping her in check. I wish we could run, and in the daylight maybe. But with only the stars to see by, we must move slowly.

Once these vacant streets held cars. Once they were safe to walk on, to ride on. Once they were smooth.

Not anymore.

Debris has claimed this city. Thousands died on the day of the earthquake, the day two worlds merged into one. Buildings toppled, cracked, snapped in two—falling onto one another and causing more destruction. Without the electricity, everyone not under the queen's thrall left, and everyone stuck moved to Kardenia. Abandoned, the city continued crumbling.

We've cleared a few streets as best we could, using carts to carry rock and steel into side alleyways, giving us easy passage for times like these. But who knows what that bomb unsettled and what my horse might step on.

"Shh," I whisper into her alert ear, to soothe and calm her racing pulse.

Orange flickers in the distance, reflecting off not yet shattered windows. A guiding light that calls to me, drawing the two of us closer.

By the location, I know which mine was detonated. We have a few around the city, bombs we managed to put together, buried near different entrances. Two by each bridge and tunnel. From the light ahead, I know the rebels triggered an explosion by the Lincoln Tunnel.

Eighth Avenue is a clear pathway. I've worked on it myself. But the tunnel entrance is not quite aligned with the path, something we did on purpose, to hopefully make the mines look less obvious.

As the fire begins to light my vision, clear enough to make out specific flames in the dark, I slip from Flash's back and tie her to an old post. My sword and crossbow are left in a pile by her feet, too cumbersome for stealth. Better to go the rest of the way on foot, carrying little. Better to stay hidden for as long as possible in case there are survivors.

I wince as my boots crunch on broken glass, impossibly loud to my ear. But the cackle of fire provides the cover I need. When I start to feel the heat of flames against my face, I slip through the open doorway of a building across the street from the tunnel. The door has already fallen in, and the building looks one gust away from collapsing, but it will do for now. Staying low, I creep along the edge of the room, recognizing it as a pharmacy that’s been pillaged clean.

Empty shelves have fallen over each other, creating a mound in the center of the room. One ahead of me fell opposite the pack, slipping out the window, a roadblock in my path. Sliding onto my knees, I slither underneath it, careful not to touch any bit of the metal. I don't know how stable the hold is, and the last thing I need is to be pinned.

When I reach the window with the best vantage point, I slowly extend my legs until my eyes have a clear view of the scene before me.

One of the mines has blown, but the second is still intact or I would have heard the blast. Fires burn, dying out with the passage of time. No bodies decorate the ground, no limbs flicker in the light. No paws or claws either. No animals and no humans.

There are no sounds outside of the fire, no moans of pain, and instantly I am on edge. The commander would say it was nothing—that part of a building slipped free and happened to fall on our mine. Nothing more.

But the back of my neck tingles.

Then it is cold.

Metal presses against my skin, the shape of a circle. I recognize the barrel of a gun when I feel one.

"Don't move," a voice whispers, close to my ear. A voice meant to menace, but the ugly tone sounds unnatural, unconvincing.

I should be afraid. I should feel my insides tighten. But they are cool, calm. So hard that I wonder if a bullet would even break my skin.

A second passes and he does nothing. No hand grabs for my shirt. The gun does not press deeper into my skin. I wait for pain, but his touch is gentle. Too gentle for this world.

I react swiftly, throwing my head to the side and reaching my arm back to catch his. I twist my elbow, bending his arm unnaturally until his fingers open and the gun clangs uselessly against the floor. Blindly, I reach down, feeling the tile as I flip myself over. My grip tightens on the handle.

One swing of my arm and we have changed places.

"Don't move," I say, unable to stop my smirk. The gun is aimed at his chest, but I doubt I will use it. Bullets are too precious to waste.

My eyes travel higher, up his neck, past his square jaw, until I meet his eyes. His face holds shock, a little awe. I've seen that look before, during training rounds with the guard. I'm much tougher than I look.

But there is something else.

Something familiar.

The fire behind me floods through the window, illuminating his features and I swear that I've seen them before.

"Are you going to shoot me?" His voice holds a musical quality. It captures me, makes me lose myself for a moment. And suddenly I remember. In a burst, recognition shocks my brain.

The ice-blond hair. The perfect pale skin. The only difference is his eyes, which seem dark as midnight in this light.

It's Queen Deirdre's son. Prince Asher.

"No," I say quickly.

Before my finger accidentally releases a shot, I drop my arm, slipping the clip loose from the gun and sticking the unused bullets in my pocket.

I watch his eyes slide over my shoulder, to the glassless window. He is calculating an escape. But I can't let that happen.

The prince has been missing almost since the day of the earthquake. The only reason I know his face is because every member of the guard must memorize it before they get their pin, before they are officially named a Black Heart. The queen would give anything to have him returned to her.

Maybe even freedom.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to distract him. Killing is easy. It is what I've been trained for, but capturing someone requires a different level of expertise. If I move fast enough, I might be able to use the blunt end of the gun to knock him out. One good blow to the head should do it.

"Touring the city, of course." He smiles, eyes falling back on me. Something stirs inside of them, a sort of deepness I've never seen before.

"What do you think so far?"

"Friendly." He shrugs, unable to completely cover his humor.

If he thinks he can charm his way out of this, he is sorely mistaken. And while he is distracted, I pounce.

He's quicker than I expected. My punch lands on the back of his head, but he has stepped to the side, out of the force of the impact.

While my weight is off balance, he jumps for the window, but I grab his ankle, bringing us both to the ground. Stone or glass, I can't tell which, pokes into my side as we land. Stinging, but not debilitating.

He kicks out.

I dodge.

He pulls, using the sill as leverage.

I slide across the floor, fingers sinking deeper into his skin, a relentless vice. He stops to breathe, and I take the moment to yank with all of my strength, bringing him back to the floor with an oomph.

My leg slides over his thighs, trying to secure my hold, but he tosses me to the side with his hands. I fall against the empty shelves.

My eyes go wide as a loud crack fills the shop. Time stops. The ground beneath me shifts. Debris jingles against the floor. I look dumbly at the prince. He has his moment to flee, to watch as the ground swallows me whole from the safety of the window.

Instead, his arm extends forward and I grasp it. One strong wrench and I am flying toward him. The muscles in my shoulder scream as the floor starts disappearing below my feet. But he holds on, pulling me up, and we fall through the open window, cutting ourselves on the way out.

Not a second later, smoke follows us out as the sinkhole fully opens.

Without words, we run. He to the right, me to the left. To safety.

"This way," I yell. He doesn’t listen. I can't really blame him. I am, after all, trying to capture him. "There is another mine on that side, come this way."

He stops, eyes glancing to the fire behind him, and sprints toward me. I race until I reach the clean street, the area that the guard cleared—the only area I know is safe in this city.

"Why'd you do that?" My voice is heavy. Thick. I don't recognize the tone. It is new to me. 

"You looked like you could use a hand."

I can't tell if the gleam in his eyes is from the fire or from something deeper, something within him.  Either way, I let my gaze slip to the cut on his arm, away from his face.

"I would have let you fall," I admit, voice stony once more. 

"I'm not so sure." His voice is quiet. Slow, like time suddenly seems to feel. Long but fragile, thin enough to break.

Voices rise in the distance. Voices I don't recognize.

"You're not alone?" I ask, stupid, but I don't know what else to say. My time has almost run out. If I want to knock him out, I need to do it soon. But my arm hangs limp at my side, rejecting any instructions I give it.

My feet step forward until I am no more than a few inches from his body. He is a little taller than me, but not by much.

He makes no move to run, no move to fight. There's a question in his gaze, a curiosity about what I'll do next.

"If I see you again," my voice is iron, hard with an edge that cuts, "I won't be so generous."

Then I punch him.

He falls, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he drops. One of his friends will find him. I'm sure of it.

My hands are unsteady as I turn around and disappear into the night, never once looking back. They tremble with uncertainty. I have just let it slip away, any chance of freedom, any chance that the queen might release me from her grasp, might reward me.

I have let her son escape.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I bury that truth in the rubble around me, deep in the ground, below the empty subway tracks, shrouded from the light of day.

I hide it.

I forget it.

I forget him.

When I arrive home, the commander is waiting for me.

"Did you have a good time?" He drawls, sipping on a mug likely full of beer. But he is not a drunk—he has too much control for that. Instead, he takes a long sip, slowly, eyes never leaving me, and I know I am in trouble.

There is only one thing that might free me. One lie that I've been working on for the past half an hour as Flash and I returned.

"I think I saw the prince," I mutter.

His eyes go wide. The cup is down and in a blink, he stands before me, gripping my arm. For an older man, he still moves quickly, like a wolf.

"Tell me."

"I went to the mine, it was one of our Lincoln Tunnel bombs," I begin. The best lies, I've found, are the ones that lay just outside the truth. Only slightly fabricated. "I couldn't find any bodies, but I heard voices. I thought someone must have set it off on purpose, so I hid inside a building trying to find the source of the noise. It was a group of men. One of them, I swear, was the prince."

"And?" Disappointment lines his eyes. I know the unsaid words in that question.
And why isn't he here? And why did you fail me? And why did you let him go?

"The building started to give out underneath me, so I had to run. By the time I circled back around to the group, they were gone."

He wouldn't believe me if I said anything else. He knows me too well—poor odds never would have held me back from a fight. Even if there were five men in the group, I would have taken them on. Ten. I would have charged.

I'm still not sure if he believes me now.

Eyes narrowing, he squeezes just slightly on my arm, trying it seems to peer deep into my heart. We both know he searches in vain.

Completely still, I wait for his mind to come to a decision. I am not nervous. My palms don't sweat, my shoulders do not itch, I feel no need to shift a muscle. There is a constant, solid beat in my chest that does not change.

The one benefit of not being able to feel—it makes lying so much easier.

"Very well." He leans back, satisfied. There is no held breath I need to exhale. No sigh of relief leaves my lips. I've escaped for now. I never expected to be caught anyway. "Go upstairs and prepare for the queen. Dawn is in a few hours, and she will most definitely want to hear this news."

I am released.

Before he adds a punishment to my disobedience, I dash up the stairs. Each creek is familiar, each straining pull of wood. Our house is one of the largest in Kardenia—the queen favors the commander. Three full stories, and my room is at the top, closest to the stars.

I close the door behind me, falling against it. These four walls are my own slice of freedom—here and in the silence of the wall, I am myself. Not just a guard, but also a girl. 

All around the room lay trinkets I've scavenged from the old city. My mattress is fluffy and soft, pulled right out of an old shop. Colorful vases line my windowsill, a little collection. Every morning I watch as the sun rises, pulsing through each glass, illuminating my room like a rainbow. A long mirror leans against my wall, framed in wood with yellow paint that has started to chip. I prefer it that way, slightly tainted, not so shiny, not so pretty.

One time during a scavenge in the old city, I happened upon a museum, so I stole a few paintings. They are bright and cheerful, speckled with brilliant flowers and the golden shimmer of the sun. I've hung them over every inch of my walls, so almost no stone is visible. Sometimes I imagine myself in these places. All around the world. Floating through the canals of Venice, pushed by a gondolier. Walking in the gardens of Monet, where petals drift aimlessly on water and trees stretch longingly over lakes. In the tropical forests of South America, surrounded by a world of green, where leaves sometimes surpass humans in size.

I wonder if those places even exist anymore. Or if I hold them in my mind, keeping them alive through wishes and dreams alone.

A sigh escapes my lips as I push off from the door and make my way to my armoire, flinging it open. Most of my clothes are black, in total contrast to my room. I've gathered a few pairs of jeans, some warm sweaters, a few woven shirts. But I push them all aside, reaching far back to where my dresses hide. I only have two, both handmade by the seamstresses in town, floor length gowns beaded and embroidered. Far too feminine for my liking.

But the queen, though thrown into a modern world, is very traditional. And if I am going to the palace, I must present myself as a woman and not a member of the guard.

I pull out the forest green silks, opting for the outfit that matches my name and my eyes, and hang it on the door, letting the wrinkles stretch out and flatten. I need to look my best if I am to tell the queen that I saw her son, and I let him get away.

My bed beckons, and I know I should rest, but I find myself gravitating to the window instead. One twist and it flies open, pulled by the wind.

This house is higher than most, so my view extends all the way to the wall and beyond. Sitting in my leather chair, I watch, letting my eyes glaze over. Sleep will escape me, I can already tell. My mind whirls too fast, spinning in circles, going nowhere but never slowing as I recall the events of the night.

I can't remember the last time someone had to save me. Even offered to save me.

That sinkhole would have swallowed me whole, buried me in the ground, if he had not been there. I would be alone in the dark right now if I had survived, buried under rock and steel, bloodied and in pain. Dying a slow death.

Still, I let him go. Does that mean the debt has been paid? Somehow, I don't think it was an even trade.

As the sky begins to glow, a soft yellow hue spreading bluer and brighter with time, I rub my eyes, pushing my tiredness away. Pushing those thoughts away. They were supposed to remain buried in the debris of the city—they were not supposed to follow me home, to haunt my waking hours.

My weary legs stand, shuffle over to my vanity, and I plop down once more. Wrinkles line the bottom of my eyes, dark with lack of sleep.

I start with my hair.

It is long, somewhere between black and brown, almost like it doesn't quite know what it wants to be. Straight near the top then wavy as my fingers travel down. I grab my brush, combing through the knots, wincing as we wage war. When I've won, I twirl it tight, pulling it into an oversized knot atop my head, securing it with a few pins. Not the most magnificent hairdo I've seen, nothing compared to most ladies in the town, but it's the extent of my skills. So it will have to do.

Next, I hesitate before moving onto my face. I look drained, tired. My skin is golden, tanned like honey. A natural glow. But now it looks pallid in the candlelight. When I was little, before the world ended and began anew, the kids at my school used to ask what I was. I remember them teasing me, questioning me. It was only a few months of my life, just before the earthquake, but I still remember. And now I ask the question of myself. My mother never explained. She said she didn't want to label me, that I was a little of everything. Brazilian. Japanese. Irish. Spanish. Words that used to hold so much power but now seem empty.

I dab on some blush, putting life into my cheeks. It is the only form of makeup I've ever bothered to use, perfect for hiding my many sleepless nights. All the other brushes, pencils, and powders I've come across seemed frivolous and unnecessary.

Catching my eyes in the mirror, I pause. My namesake. Jade. Emerald. Two circles that pop. My mother said that before I was born, she wanted to call me Aurelia after her grandmother. But in the hospital, when they placed me as a bundle in her arms, she changed it. My big, beautiful eyes were curious and loving as they looked up at her, and the word just escaped her lips, sounding right.

They are gemstones now. Crystalline. Not soft with love. But I wonder if they still shine with curiosity, at least at times. Probably not.

"Jade!" The commander calls, voice echoing up the staircase. My time is almost up, so I stand, pulling my gaze from the mirror to the dress in the corner. As quickly as I can, I slip my feet through the top, sliding the dress higher up my frame until my arms can sliver through the long sleeves. I fumble with the laces at the back, tightening them as much as possible, and then I delicately knot a bow at the base of my spine.

I own no fine jewelry, so I slip on my black heart pin. It is the only trinket I need. And despite myself, I strap a knife to my inner thigh. But I am stronger that way, more secure, more like myself.

With my flats on, I finally open the door and rush downstairs, meeting the commander in our front parlor. He waits in his formal uniform—exaggerated shoulder pads, golden buttons in two rows down his chest, sword dangling from a fine belt. Fit for the queen.

I wish I could wear similar clothes.

Even though my skirt falls in folds to the floor and my arms are completely covered, leaving only my neck and a small portion of my chest exposed, I squirm, naked somehow.

"Are you ready?"

I nod yes and we exit, making for the painted carriage waiting outside. A footman opens the door and I glide in, resting on red velvet cushions puckered with pearl buttons. The queen sent one of her own carriages to pick us up. I'm uncomfortable, out of place as we bounce on the stone street, jittering around in this box. I wish for the saddled horse I am far more at ease traveling on. 

"Are you nervous?" The commander asks.

It's a stupid question, but I don't say that. Instead, I shake my head, and he taps his fingers on his leg, impatient like me. Perhaps he is nervous. But somehow I can't imagine him that way.

"Do you know why the queen wishes to speak with me?" They are close. He often ventures to the palace for meals, meeting in private with the queen. Speaking of the town's security mostly, I'm sure, but perhaps they've discussed me as well. It's a thought I don't wish to dwell on.

"I do," he says, but he catches my eye before I can open my mouth to speak. I hold it shut, waiting, on my best behavior. "But I will not tell you."

I bite my lips together, trapping the protest in my throat.

Silence stretches between us for the rest of the trip. Not necessarily uncomfortable. Neither of us are the sort to babble on just to fill the air. Usually, we both prefer the quiet.

The carriage changes angles, so I am pressed back into my seat, pulled by my own weight. We have reached the hill, the road that circles up and around, winding its way to the gate.

Last time I was here, it was as a prisoner. Now, I come as a guest. The two don't seem very different. Not really.

The carriage pulls to a halt and the door opens. The commander offers his hand and I step down, looking up at the towers looming overhead, spiraling gracefully into the sky.

No guards man this wall. It is whispered that giants hide inside the castle, double the size of any grown man. The queen enlisted them to build her a home grander than any other in the land, taller than any human hands could reach, and once they stepped under her spell, she kept them like pets. Some of the guards who were alive during the war swear they saw them, swear that the giants revealed themselves to fight against the rebels, but no one has seen them since.

I shiver, a light tremble that pulses down to my feet. It's a foreign feeling, one I don't very much enjoy, but a tiny speck of fear leaks into my mind. The only emotion the queen lets us all retain—a bit of dread to keep the people loyal.

The commander ushers me forward, and I follow in step with him as we pass through the gate and walk up a tall staircase to the front door. When we're a few feet away, it opens mysteriously, pulled by someone from the inside, though there are no windows to give our location away.

Below my feet lies a tiled floor, a mosaic of scarlet accented with pearly highlights and onyx shadows. The walls are polished stone, giving the appearance of liquid as the torches cast a glow against the surface. No natural light fills the hall. It is dark, yet soft in the yellow ambiance.

The commander does not stop or turn, he remains straight until the hall opens into a wider room. Vaulted ceilings loom above while sunlight finally filters into view, falling in a beam toward one location.

The throne.

But the carved wooden seat is empty. Its red cushions are fluffed and don't retain the impression of weight. I step forward, past the commander, my shoes scuffling against the tile, wondering if the queen will appear out of thin air, wondering if she sits there now, invisible.