The Winter Long

The smell of ice and roses was everywhere, nearly burying the smell of marsh water and the sea that rolled off the Luidaeg. My own cut grass and copper didn’t stand a chance. Neither did Tybalt’s musk and pennyroyal, but the fact that I could taste it told me that he was still fighting. That was a good thing. If she’d hurt him, if she’d killed him, I would have been forced to find a way to kill her. I wanted time to think about that before I actually tried to do it.

“I’m not yours,” I said. “I won’t be yours. I refuse you and everything that you stand for. Now get the fuck out of my liege’s knowe before I get mad.”

“You really think it’s going to be that easy?” demanded Evening. “You drank my blood, you stupid little mongrel. You’re mine.”

“Oh, is that all?” I turned to the Luidaeg. “How much of your blood have I consumed since we met?”

The corner of her mouth turned upward as far as her terrible teeth would allow. “At least a quart. You’re a thirsty little vampire when you want to be.”

“Uh-huh.” I turned back to Evening. “I am not a descendant of Titania. I am not yours by blood. I have tasted your blood once, and once only. I am not yours by mistake. And while Sylvester Torquill may be my liege, I am a hero of the realm, so named by Arden Windermere, the Queen in the Mists. Kingdom trumps Duchy. I am not yours by fealty. I refuse your claim on me.”

She blinked, looking briefly surprised. Then she rolled her eyes. “It’s not that easy, October. It never has been.”

“See, I think it is. You’ve been arguing about this with me for a long time now, and you’ve sort of blown your cover—you were dead, then you weren’t dead, then you were trying to take back Goldengreen, then you were holing up at Shadowed Hills—even if that didn’t show a major lack of planning on your part, it would tell me one thing loud and clear: you’re desperate. You can’t go back to being Evening Winterrose, harmless Countess. Not after coming back from the grave.” Anger suddenly bubbled in my chest, and I let it, making no effort to swallow back the words that spilled from my lips: “You died! You left me, you left me with no allies and no idea of what to do and . . . and . . . and now I find out it was your fault? You’re the one who sent Simon after me, who ruined my life?”

“You seem to have done fairly well for yourself,” said Evening, looking taken aback. “You have your friends, your house, your little squire—where is the boy, anyway? I can’t wait to introduce myself to him properly.”

“He’s where you can’t touch him, and it doesn’t matter if I’ve built myself something better, because you’re the reason that I had to,” I snapped. “I shouldn’t have been forced to do that. You were supposed to be my friend.”

“I never said I was your friend, October,” she said, all traces of bewilderment fading. “I said I was your ally. I was, at the time. I never harmed you directly.”

“Because you weren’t allowed,” snapped the Luidaeg. “Don’t pretend your limitations are some kind of altruistic gesture.”

“Why not? You do it all the time.” Evening looked past us to where Simon was holding Tybalt in wind-wrapped thrall. “They’re not going to listen to reason. Kill the animal, and come here.”

“Yes, milady,” said Simon. I whirled in time to see him slant a regretful glance in my direction, and then he waved his hands in the air, a simple, almost graceful gesture.

Tybalt screamed.





TWENTY-ONE