The Winter Long

“Simon!” I shook him. “Don’t go to sleep. You have to fight this.”


He chuckled. “As if elf-shot can . . . be ignored. You are your mother’s daughter. Too stubborn . . . by half.” He yawned again. “You should have been mine,” he murmured, and went limp. The elf-shot had him. He’d wake in a century, if he woke at all.

I stayed frozen where I was for a few precious seconds, trying to make sense of things. Then, moving slowly and methodically, I reached forward and shoved the arrow through his arm, causing the already-crowning arrowhead to break out into the open air. A literal gush of blood accompanied the motion. I let go of the arrow and washed my hands with it, covering my fingers in as much of the wet redness as I could. Then I wiped them on my knife, until both my hands and my blade were completely covered. My arm throbbed. I ignored it.

“Sleep well, Simon,” I murmured, and stood, turning back to Evening. “He’s gone.”

She had gathered the shreds of her glamour while I was distracted: she was once again beautiful, perfect, untouchable, so much better than me that it was a wonder I was allowed to look at her at all. I locked my eyes on her face as I started across the clearing, noting the small, smug smile that she wore.

“Good,” she said. “That means it’s just us, at last. You’ve been very bad, October, but I can forgive you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ve been very bad,” I agreed. I cheated my eyes to the side. There was the Luidaeg, standing apart, bound by the injunction that she not harm Evening. At least she could defend herself now. I returned my attention to Evening before she could start to question, and said, “He was yours.”

“He was flawed,” said Evening. “You can be better.”

“I can be better,” I agreed. There were only a few feet between us. Could it really be this easy? Was she really that sure of herself?

“But first, put down the knife,” she said.

Apparently not. Damn. “Right,” I said, and lunged for her.

I expected a bolt of ice to catch me in the chest. Instead, she danced backward, trying to evade me. There was what looked like genuine fear in her eyes.

Several things suddenly started making sense. “Luidaeg!” I shouted. “What you said before, about her not being able to touch me. Is she allowed to hurt me?”

“No,” called the Luidaeg. She sounded almost smug. “She can’t.”

“Good,” I snarled, and lunged again. This time, I didn’t let fear of reprisal hold me back. I slammed my shoulder into Evening’s stomach, bowling her to the ground. She screamed. I shoved her down, straddling her, and raised the knife covered in Simon’s elf-shot-riddled blood in my left hand.

“Don’t,” she begged.

“Sorry,” I said, and stabbed her in the shoulder.

It wasn’t a mortal wound, but Evening stiffened all the same, eyes going wide with shock and pain before they clouded over in what looked very much like exhaustion. “You can’t kill me,” she said, punctuating her words with a yawn. “I’m . . . the First . . .”

“I don’t need to kill you. I just need you out of the way.”

“. . . be back . . .”

“Promises, promises.”

Evening closed her eyes.

I stayed where I was until her breathing leveled out, becoming deep and slow. Then I crawled off of her, watching warily for some sign that she was going to wake up. The Luidaeg walked over to stand beside me, and we watched her together.

Finally, after several minutes, the Luidaeg said, “You can pull your knife out now.”

“Soon,” I said.

She put an arm around me, pulling me close. I let myself be pulled, sagging against her as my own pain and nonmagical exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me. We stood there, watching Evening sleep, and I had never been so tired in my life, and I had never felt so far away from home.





TWENTY-THREE