Page 20 of The Iron Flower

I hesitate for a brief, agonized moment before following him, but by the time I reach the terrace outside, Jarod is nowhere in sight. I race through a maze of potted evergreen trees and frosty ice sculptures as I rush toward the terrace’s railing, spotting Jarod’s dark silhouette far across a long, barren field, and I know I’ll never catch up with him.

The wilds lie just beyond the flat expanse.

I call out after him, but to no avail. Despairing, I turn, and the largest of the ice sculptures catches my eye, illuminated in the terrace’s blue lantern light. The sculpture looms over me, the frozen visage of my famous grandmother staring down, wand raised to slay the Icaral lying at her feet—an exact replica of the monument outside Valgard’s Cathedral.

Black Witch.

The words are soft on the cold air.

I look toward the forest just as Jarod stalks into the line of trees and is quickly swallowed up by the blackness of the wilds.

CHAPTER SIX

A WORTHY GRINDSTONE

The lonely quiet settles into me as I stare out at the forest, my heart aching for Jarod and Aislinn.

I let out a long sigh and turn toward the sculpture of the Black Witch, gentle pinpricks of snow falling on my face. Glancing down, I run my fingertips along the edge of the Icaral’s stingingly cold wing, wishing I could will him back to life. I glare back up at my own face, carved in ice, and silently rail against Carnissa Gardner’s cruelty as the cold seeps through my silks and sets me shivering.

“It’s beautiful.”

I take a deep, steadying breath, recognizing Lukas’s voice.

His hands slide around my waist as his long body presses lightly against my back, a luxurious warmth cutting through the chill, my fire lines stirring in response to his touch.

“Beautiful,” he says, his voice silken. “Like you.”

Conflict fills me. It should be a struggle to be with Lukas Grey, but it’s just too easy to surrender to his pull.

Lucretia’s voice echoes in my mind.We need you to find out where his loyalties lie.

Tenuously justified, I melt into Lukas’s arms, reaching up to grasp the Snow Oak pendant. As soon as I touch it, my earth and fire lines give a warm surge, and I let out a shuddering sigh. Lukas moves closer as the dark branches of his earth lines shiver into being and slide through my wakening lines in a tantalizing rush. My breathing deepens as our affinities twine, line by line...

The wood of the forest pulses from clear across the field, like a fire flaring. A palpable spasm of fear jolts through the trees, as if the wilds are collectively flinching back from us.

Then nothing—a cowed silence, like a terrified child trying to escape the notice of monsters. I’m momentarily filled with a heady sense of strength as I survey the dark forest, Lukas’s breath warm on my cheek.

Together, we’re dangerous.

A reflexive alarm sounds inside me, and I pull away from Lukas, my pulse quickening as I teeter on the precipice of this new, seductive power.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he asks, smooth as glass, his emerald eyes glinting in the sapphire lantern light.

“Something just happened,” I tell him, shaken. “A surge in my affinity lines...and then...a reaction from the trees.” My brow tightens with distress. “The forest has always made me slightly uneasy. But now... I have this feeling that ithatesme.”

Lukas’s gaze flickers toward the wilds. “The trees sense your grandmother’s power quickening inside you.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And they fear us because we have Dryad blood.”

I’m surprised by his bold, forbidden statement. I glance around, relieved to find that we’re still alone on the terrace. “It’s not safe to talk like that, Lukas.”

The side of Lukas’s mouth lifts. “Ah...the Gardnerian charade of purity. I find it amusing.”

His casual cynicism infuriates me. My hand bumps against the frozen edge of the Icaral’s wing as I frown at him. “I don’t understand you. How can you fight for them if you don’t even believe any of it?”

Lukas’s expression hardens. “There is no ethnic purity, Elloren. Only power, and the lack of it.”

A bonfire flares at the far end of the broad field. A number of Gardnerians are gathered around the fire and sending up a celebratory Yule cheer. Blue paper lanterns rise, their glow luminescent against the black winter sky.

I’m momentarily transported by the lanterns’ ethereal beauty. Absentmindedly, I lean into the ice sculpture behind me, and most of the Icaral’s icy wing breaks under the weight of my hand. Aghast, I try to grab hold of it, but the wing slips through my fingers and shatters into glittering pieces at my feet. I watch, bereft, as snow gently dots the crystalline shards.

---