Followed by Fros(11)

I don’t know how far I had gone by the time the sun began to set, sinking into the distant horizon where my winter did not reach. Fifteen miles, at least. I realized that the land around me was completely unfamiliar. I could no longer be sure in which direction Euwan lay.

Shivering, I sat amidst the roots of an old oak tree and removed my bag from my aching shoulder. I rubbed the muscles at the base of my neck, but it did little good. My schoolbag retained the shape of my shoulders, the fabric having frozen in place. My stomach growled, for I had not eaten all day. I carefully wrapped a piece of cheese in my skirts in the hopes of keeping it warm, and I devoured it quickly, swallowing half-chewed bites before they could freeze in my mouth.

I saw no reason to build a fire, as I needed it neither to cook nor for warmth, but when a lone wolf’s hungry howl sounded in the mountains behind me, I scrambled for the flint I had taken from my kitchen and began gathering what wood I could find. Each stick and twig froze in my fingers. I quickly realized I could not touch the wood with my skin, for surely my fire would never light. I pulled gloves from my schoolbag and hastily tugged them on and built a fire the way Danner had once shown me—Danner, the last boy I had allowed to kiss me, one year my junior. I wondered, briefly, what he thought of me now, and felt some relief that he had not seen me in my cursed state, ugly as I was.

I paused before my unlit fire. Did I really want the light? Any passersby would be able to see all I had lost—the paleness of my skin, the age in my hair, and the dark circles around my eyes . . . I would win no hearts with my face, and my body had lost its softness and flexibility. Even my dresses hung awkwardly from my frame, the stitches too rigid to fall as intended.

Ultimately my fear of the dark overpowered my vanity, and I returned to my fire. It took several tries, and I nearly lit my left glove on fire, but I managed a spark to get my kindling going. As soon as the flames started, snow began to fall around me, dainty flakes I couldn’t even feel. Fortunately the thick boughs of my oak tree protected my little camp enough that my fire did not go out. Still, I kept my distance from it, not wanting my surrounding chill to weaken its blaze.

Searching the darkness around me for wolves, I comforted myself with the fact that any predator that dared to enter my prison of winter would only get one bite of me before the cold overtook it. But animals have a keen sense humans do not. Perhaps they sensed the wrongness of my storm, for no wolf ever trespassed my camp, not then nor in the years to come.

However, as I tried to forget the cold long enough to sleep, I realized there was one predator who would not be frightened off by my curse. On the contrary—it seemed to draw him to me like a trout to a fly.

He appeared on the edge of the firelight, his grin spreading from cheek to cheek, his velvet cloak stirring in the winter wind. I recognized him immediately.

Death tipped his hat to me.





CHAPTER 4





“We meet again,” he said, speaking in old Angrean. His voice sounded like warmed molasses.

My body grew so cold—so terribly cold—that every breath raked burning trails down my throat and lungs. My knees and elbows locked. It was as if the very sight of him had turned me into an ice statue, half-carved and immobile in the heavy block of my foundation.

The light seemed to bend around him as he stepped to the side of the fire. The black of his cloak appeared never ending: a deep pit with no floor, or dark sky with no moon or stars. His amber eyes glowed almost the way a cat’s would.

They were narrow, searching eyes set above a long nose and wide mouth, which curved at the ends in the hint of a smile. His face looked ageless and smooth—a carving of alabaster.

“Have you . . . come to kill me?” I asked in flawed Angrean. My voice quavered with my question.

To my surprise? he threw back his head and laughed. I jumped, horrified by the idea of Death finding the prospect of my demise amusing.

He collected himself and answered, “I see I can pass on the introductions.”

Somehow I found the strength to crawl away from him, backwards, until the thick trunk of the oak tree blocked my escape. Its roots glimmered with frost under my hands. “You are Death.”

He smiled. “Ofttimes those close to the brink can see me, or parts of me. But you, Smitha, you are special.”

I shivered uncontrollably, my teeth chattering. The snow started to thicken around my camp, the small flakes falling with a greater purpose. “Because I see all of you?” I whispered.

“Because I have not come to collect,” he replied, taking a seat beside the fire. The ruby amulet around his neck glinted orange. The light, at least, touched that much of him.

I stared wide-eyed. “Collect?”

“Not in the way you suppose,” he said coolly, tilting his head slightly to the right. The wide brim of his hat hid his eyes, but I knew he still watched me. I felt his gaze the way one feels the pelting of hail or the slip of a hammer. My chilled heart raced. Still a slow drum, but quicker than it had beaten in days.

“You will live another day,” he said, more amused than anything else. “I can hardly kill someone who speaks my tongue so adequately.”

I swallowed but found no moisture in my mouth. “Then why can I see you? And how do you know my name?”

“I know the names of all who are born,” he said, leaning forward and revealing those penetrating eyes. “For all of them will eventually die. As for you . . . you’ve drawn my attention, Smitha. It is a deathly curse you carry, if you’ll excuse the joke.”