Page 1 of Horn of Winter

Chapter

One

The gentle rumbleof traffic ran across the chilly night air, breathing a sense of life into an otherwise dead area. The night was clear but bitterly cold; frost danced across the neatly cut grass and gave the nearby gravestones a luster age otherwise denied them.

Cemeteries were not one of my favorite places to be. I simply couldn’t understand the human need to commemorate the dead by raising often elaborate tombs over their loved ones’ bones, especially when those same tombs were left to decay as the years went on and visiting the dead became less of a priority or even slipped from memory.

Pixies spread the ashes of our dead in the ancient forests of our homelands—although technically, we Aodhán pixies no longer had a homeland. We maintained a connection to the ancient Ysbryd forests, but most of us had lived in cities ever since we’d lost the job of guarding the relics of the old gods eons ago.

I was only here tonight because I’d learned this cemetery was inhabited by a ghul, and I was hoping it might be able to provide some much-needed information. While ghuls did like to feed on flesh, their preference was for decaying, not fresh. They werefor the most part insubstantial but fearsome-looking beings who held a very deep fascination for the living. It wasn’t unknown for them to choose a “target” to follow through the night, listening to their conversations and watching their movements. Which, according to my mother, made them the ultimate gossip gathers with eons of information behind them. As far as I was aware, she’d never used this particular ghul, but she had regularly talked to one up in the Peak District. I have no idea why she’d travel that far, but if there was one thing I’d learned over the last few months, it was how much Ididn’tknow about my mother and what she did beyond the realms of running the family’s tavern.

And now she was dead—murdered.

I sucked in a deep breath and resolutely pushed away the grief that automatically rose. I hadn’t yet allowed myself to properly grieve for her—even after we’d found her body—and I remained utterly determined not to do so until I found her killers and brought them to justice.

Or killed them.

I frowned at the dark ferocity rumbling through that thought. Revenge never went well for us pixies. In fact, killing in general—unless in self-defense—was generally very bad news. Both the Aodhán and Tàileach pixies—who’d co-guarded the relics with us before a light-fingered ancestor of mine had spoiled the gig for everyone, and who were the only other human-sized pixies of the five branches here in the UK—were notoriously hard to kill, but like every gift a god gave, there was a flip side.

In this case, it was the blood curse.

Basically, if you shed blood without just cause, you doomed your offspring to a miserable existence or faced servitude to the dead person’s family until the debt was paid off—and the length of time spent in said servitude was decided by the old gods, not the relatives. Given the predilection of those gods forcausing chaos in the lives of humans, and the likelihood of the punishment extending centuries rather than years, few of us ever dared put the curse to the test.

I certainly didn’t want to be the first in my family to do so, especially when there were already too many old gods interfering in my life.

The barely audible whisper of steps had me looking around. Mathi Dhar-Val—who was not only a former lover but also the liaison between me and Deva’s Fae Council, who I now worked for—strolled casually toward me, snappily dressed in a long blue trench, crisp black trousers, and shiny black boots. Like all Ljósálfar elves, he was lean in build but absolutely divine to look at—golden skin and hair, angelic features, and eyes the color of summer skies. We’d been together for nearly ten years before splitting eight or so months ago, and although I’d always known he was not my one true love—and could never be, in fact, given he was a highborn light elf, and they only married their own kindandrank—I’d always enjoyed his company. I still did, although we would never again be bed buddies.

I pointedly glanced at my watch and said, “And what time do you call this?”

“An inconvenient and ungodly time, that’s what.” Though his tone was cool, amusement danced through his eyes. “There are few people I’d get out of bed for at three in the morning, dear Bethany?—”

“But plenty you’d getinto bed with at three in the morning,” I cut in, amused.

“Well, yes, that goes without saying.” He stopped beside me and stared at the old wrought iron gates. “Why, exactly, are we here? I wasn’t really listening when you rang. I was in the midst of fornicating with a delicious prospect.”

Amusement twitched my lips. “A future-wife-type prospect?”

“Yes, although in all honesty, I doubt I’ll be making any sort of offer. She’s perfect in the bedroom but somewhat tedious outside of it.”

My amusement grew. “I can’t imagine she reacted all that well to proceedings being so rudely interrupted by a former lover.”

“I am not a man to leave things unfinished and that is, of course, the reason I am late.”

“Your dedication to satisfactory endings is something I always appreciated during our time together.” My voice was dry. “But why—given highborn marriages are considered little more than business and breeding transactions—does it matter if she’s boring beyond the bedroom? It’s not like you’ll be faithful to her. That’s not the Ljósálfar way.”

“We may not believe in love or indeed fidelity, but divorce is not usually an option thanks to the contracts signed. I find myself needing at least some degree of compatibility inallmatters, not just sexual, with the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.” His glance was somewhat pointed. “We do have very long lives, remember.”

I laughed. “Ihavespoiled you for other women, haven’t I?”

“Quite possibly so.” He motioned to the gate. “What lies beyond them that is so important you drag me out of not only a warm bed, but the arms of an even warmer woman?”

“A ghul.”

“Of course.” There was an odd sort of resignation in his voice. “Why else does one come to a cemetery at three in the morning if not to talk to a ghul or a ghost?”

“This particular ghul has apparently been haunting the area for as long as there has been a cemetery here, and may or may not know what guards the old scrolls that were part of the Éadrom Hoard.”

Though those scrolls remained safely tucked away in the Ljósálfar’s vaults, the hoard had been stolen the same day Mom had been killed. We now knew Mom had probably been trying to stop the theft and had been betrayed and murdered by someone she trusted. We had no idea who that person was.

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