Followed by Fros(17)

I heard a howl further down the slope—not the call of a wolf, but of a hound, much like the red-haired basset Ashlen’s father took with him on hunting trips.

My cold heart leapt into my throat. I could barely breathe. But why would they have sent out hunters rather than assume the winter had hit harder than usual? Did these unknown villages know of me? Had my curse become a rumor left in my frozen wake across the land?

I thought of all the malicious rumors I had spread in school to diminish or get revenge on my fellow classmates. The irony almost made me sick up.

The springs had frozen, which meant the towns at the base of the mountain had no water to their newly planted crops. I had a feeling these hunters had not brought their dogs along for the mere purpose of asking me to leave.

I bolted back down the mountain, slipping on frost and patches of snow, tumbling over loose rocks. I skidded and fell, skinning my knee. I winced as cold blood trickled down my leg and froze, but I pushed myself up and sprinted to the fire. I collected my cold, damp clothes, pulled on my coat and gloves, and shoved the rest of my things into my bag before throwing it over my shoulder. I scooped up as much dirt and debris as I could and put out the fire, patting down the flames with my hands. I ran back to a patch of snow and scooped up an armful of it, dropping it onto the coals. They hissed, sizzled, and smoked. I dashed away.

The hounds brayed behind me—three of them—as I hurried across the mountain, running until my path dropped into a steep incline, forcing me to climb rather than hike. I slid and caught myself on the rough trunk of a fir, then carefully picked my footing until I could run again. My narrow, rocky path opened up into a wide, tree-rimmed clearing, its muddy soil dotted with grass and clover.

Men’s voices sounded beyond the excited dogs, though I could not make out their words. I pushed my stiff legs faster, willing my frozen joints to bend, begging them to carry me. My right foot sunk into mud. I wrenched it free, leaving my shoe behind.

The dogs’ barks hung in the air. Glancing behind me, I saw two harriers and a basset—just as my clearing ended in a steep landslip, free of trees. I struggled to climb the loose rocks, but for every two steps up I slid one back. I didn’t realize the dogs had reached me until a harrier snapped its jaws onto the hem of my skirt and yanked me down.

“Whoa, whoa!” a man called, and the other two hounds waited beneath me, growling. I fought off the harrier, slapping my hand across its muzzle. It yipped and released me. Flinging myself against the landslip, I started to climb again, feeling tiny rocks dig into my hands and my one bare foot. I heard one of the men behind me curse. The other bellowed something about an ice witch.

“You’ve caused us trouble for too long!” the first shouted as he grabbed my shod foot and yanked me off the steep incline. I fell hard onto my hip and cried out. The same harrier who’d snapped at my skirt grabbed my coat sleeve and tossed its head back and forth. I clawed at it until its master called it off. I couldn’t breathe.

I met the master’s eyes—a man in his thirties, perhaps, a short hat strapped to his head around his chin. An axe in his hands. He and his companion were bundled against the mountain chill with boots, long pants, coats, and gloves, only their faces and necks exposed.

“Leave me alone!” I screamed, kicking with my back against the landslip. The other man—much older—managed to get an arm around my thighs, clamping my legs shut.

“If you wanted to be left alone, you shouldn’t have brought your spell to Mayshaven,” the younger spat, adjusting his grip on his axe. The hounds yipped so loudly around me I could barely hear him say, “Let’s do this quick and get gone.”

I shrieked and writhed in the older man’s grip, his arms like a bench vise, as the younger shooed the dogs. I screamed for help, cried out for Sadriel, but no one answered. I was alone. I had been alone since the day Mordan took me to the willow-wacks and set this curse upon me.

My curse.

As the axman neared my shoulder, I bit the middle finger of my glove and ripped it off. I could not reach the axman, but I could grab the hunter who held me.

Clenching the muscles in my stomach, I bolted upright and grabbed my captor’s exposed neck with both hands. He immediately released my legs, but I clung to him, my nails digging into his flesh as frost stemmed from my right hand, tracing up his jaw and down his neck, beneath his layers of clothing. He screamed, but I did not let go, even as he fell backwards with me on top of him, even as his hands tore at my back and shoulders. One of the dogs bit my calf, and the animal yipped loudly as ice shot into its teeth.

A hand grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me back, but the axman was too late. His comrade already lay as a statue in the mud, his arms bent at the elbow and frozen in place, his eyes wide and mouth agape. His skin shimmered with frost, his skin pale, lips blue.

The axman released me and ran to the frozen man’s side, then turned to ogle me with wide, quivering eyes. I backed away, limping, but instead of coming after me, the axman ran back across the clearing, his hounds fast at his heels. The dog that had bitten me—the basset—limbered behind slowly, shaking its head, its tongue dragging across the earth.

It happened so quickly I could barely register it, even with the frozen man lying before me, even with blood caking over my knee and oozing from the puncture wounds the hound had left on my leg.

I sat there, soft snow falling around me, panting, cold air passing in and out of my lungs. Angry moths flew circles in my gut. I shivered and held myself, trembling at the sight of the frozen man. A man who had come to kill me. I had no doubts about that.