Page 1 of A Bride for the Winter King
Chapter 1
Bad Omens
LORI
Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.The soles of my feet dig in the mud, and the familiar rhythm soothes my soul. But whenever I close my eyes, I can still see them. The spiders.
Their crooked limbs and globulous eyes have burned my retinas. I see them crawl through the cedar hedges that flank my favorite running trail. Scurrying over the gardens to weave their webs. Dozens of them, with big fangs and disgusting darts.
I see them killing my friends.
My chest heaves at the vivid memories of poisonous silk clumping in my hair and clogging my mouth. Choking me. The wretched taste of venom and death sticks to my tongue, and I pick up the pace, trying—and failing—to outrun my own brain.
Trauma’s an old friend I have no use for anymore. It makes me sappy and weak, and I swore never to let it rule my life again. So, I run. My shrink would say it’s not healthy, but if worse comes to worse, I can always runfaster.
Garlands of red fruits sag from the branches of the Shadow Court’s Hawthorn. The sacred tree is almost barren by now, and flocks of raucous blackbirds burden the branches to steal a tasteof its berries. A thin blanket of snow sticks to the bushels in powdery patches, and snowflakes fill the sky above my head.
Winter’s coming…
A tingle of warning tickles up my spine. I’m a Shadow huntress, and like every skilled hunter, I can always tell when I’m runningfromsomething.
My heels slide in the mud as I come to an abrupt halt, and my breath frosts in front of my face. The air is ten degrees colder than it was a minute ago, and the loud thunder of boots trampling mud echoes behind me.
Not the nauseating click of spider legs, yet terrifying… An army nips at my heels.
A trickle of anxiety engulfs me. I slip into the shade of a cedar hedge, my magic coalescing into a dark, protective bubble around me. I have to assume that whatever's following my trail wants me dead. That’s my lot in life.
Between rogue nightmares and psychotic ex-fiancées, unannounced visitors in these parts are rarely friendly. We’re not expecting any guests for my best friend’s wedding. It’s a very secret ceremony.
What if Morrigan—the evil witch who made the soul-sucking spiders in the first place—discovered that the wedding was tonight and sent another wave of monsters upon us?
My shadow daggers flicker to life in my hands, light and lethal, and I draw in a deep breath. The spider bite that almost killed me tickles my ribcage, a splash of venom still embedded in the bone, but I dig the balls of my feet into the ground, ready to strike.
Nell deserves all the happiness in the world, and I won’t let anyone ruin her big day. It’s my duty as her bridesmaid to kill whatever’s coming.
Wounded or not, I can still fight.
Goosebumps riddle my arms as I risk a glance around the corner of the cedar hedge.
A line of about twenty soldiers marches upon the Shadowlands in perfect unison, not one movement wasted. A well-oiled vision of doom. The men and women showcase the same hairstyle—half-buzzed heads that reveal the shape of their skulls. Silver zippers run down their form-fitting, sleeveless bodysuits, and white ski pants polish off the look.
Ice-blue tattoos have been carved rather than inked around their pointy ears, arms, and hands in intricate, swirly patterns peppered with snowflakes, and the subtle blue tint of their pale skins flips my stomach.
Grim reapers.
The only thing for certain in this life is that death comes to us all. When all is said and done, even immortals aren’t impervious to its grip. Fae age in a slower fashion than us mortals, but when they don’t have enough magic left to sustain themselves, they die. Or they get murdered by their enemies. Whichever comes first.
Are the reapers all here for me?Logic dictates one would have been enough, given my current state. I raise my arm to check on the spider bite in my side and hike up my jacket. An elongated M-shaped scar runs from the underside of my sports bra to my hip bone. My brown skin turned black and red and oozy over my bitten rib, but it’s exactly the same as last night. It doesn’t look like it festered, so why is a throng of reapers on my trail?
As if to answer my question, the reapers breeze past me, oblivious to my presence. Behind them, two men close the military march, and the bite of power rolling off the tallest one freezes the blood right in my veins.
By the spindle!
No matter how many gruesome nightmares I’ve hunted, or how many vicious Fae I’ve crossed paths with, nothing prepares you for the beauty of pure, unadulterated death.
The Winter King is tall and lean, but not one inch of him could be called skinny. Every single muscle looming under his white army uniform has been meticulously sharpened and toned into a weapon.
A long cape flows behind him, his blonde hair slicked back over his head, and a pure platinum mask—with no jewels or textures or irregularities at all—covers his eyes. The smooth surface reflects the gardens back to me as he angles his face to my hiding spot. A strange shimmer glides along the edges of the mask like it’s made of liquid instead of metal, but the pressure of his gaze never finds me.
