Page 116 of A Bride for the Winter King
I bite my bottom lip, a headache pounding against my forehead. As much as my love for Elio drove her to say things she didn’t want to say earlier, I also share her bitterness and blinding hatred for the Winter King. I feel her emotions and hear her thoughts, and her crushed hopes for a new chance at life are debilitating.
“Should I be worried that you’re going to attack me?” Damian asks, his voice tinged with concern. “How much does she know about your powers or how to use them? Do you guys share memories in there?”
My tongue feels heavy in my mouth as I answer, “Yes and no. I don’t seem to be able to access hers unless I’m sleeping, but she’s persistent.”
“Then you’ll forgive me for my prudence.” The Shadow King tucks my mask in his jacket and hands me a scarf. “I’ll escort you through the sceawere myself. Whatever you do, don’t lie or play on words. The Old Queen can always tell when someone is lying.” He angles his mask to Elio, my husband keeping close to our rear. “Ready?”
“Yes,” Elio says, his voice faltering. The distance between us feels like an insurmountable chasm, and it breaks my heart to see him so broken and distant.
With my eyes closed and the scarf securely fastened around my head, I let Damian guide me inside the sceawere.
A soft, almost timid knock echoes in from our side of the glass, and I hold my breath. Damian never knocks. The Shadow King typically strides in—and rightly so—like he owns the sceawere and anything connected to it, never bothering with such formalities.
“Mabel? Are you home? We’re coming in,” he announces, his voice carrying a rare hint of uncertainty.
The space between worlds leaves a cool, tingling sensation on my neck, but the usual sting is absent thanks to my new magic. I adjust the scarf on my brow and look around. We've emerged from a round, wall-mounted mirror into a quiet living room. A plush purple corduroy couch sits in front of a sleek plasma screen TV, and a bowl of fresh wildflowers adds a splash of color to the serene space.
The scent of dried herbs soothes my raw nerves—lavender, sage, and thyme mingle with hints of patchouli and the subtle sweetness of rose petals. The bay window reveals the overgrown green bushes outside, framed by a tall rowan tree. The red, orange, and yellow leaves block the view of the street beyond the rusty iron gates. Inside, the multi-level Victorian house exudes old-world charm, with its wooden sash windows and grand high ceiling.
“And to what do I owe this…polite intrusion?” a woman's voice calls from behind us. We all turn to face our hostess, who stands poised and curious.
The elderly woman we came to visit is holding a dark wooden cane, though her grip wavers as her weathered gaze finds Elio. She pauses, both hands resting on the carved raven adorning the tip of the walking stick, her thin lips pressed together. “Surely, if you were here for my soul, you would have been enough of a gentleman not to bring guests into an old lady’s home?”
A dry grin curls Elio’s lips. “I have better manners than that.”
Mabel appears to be around seventy years old, but given that she’s Morrigan’s grandmother, she must be way older. Her bite of power is faint—almost imperceptible, really—but I suspect it’s a deliberate disguise. Despite its subtlety, it has a strangely comforting effect.
“I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Mabel Bloodsinger,”Iris chokes out, her inner voice laced with a mix of fear and awe.“She’s the most powerful witch to ever live.”
I dig the balls of my feet into the thick cream carpet, Iris’s panic prompting me to run. But as Mabel’s gaze crosses mine, the blazing impulse to flee dims into a warm haze.
A few gray streaks are peppered throughout Mabel’s white hair, and she squints at Damian with a careful, muted expression. “What has my granddaughter done now?” she asks, heading for the cupboard and retrieving a plate of biscuits covered in transparent wrap.
“For once, Rye isn’t to blame for my visit,” Damian says quickly.
“But she’s alive?”
“Yes. I have her in my custody,” Elio answers.
“Why is she alive, if you finally managed to catch her?” the witch muses, her wide hazelnut gaze fixed on Damian.
The Shadow King shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “She joined her fate to that of a Shadow seed who is precious to me.”
Mabel’s wrinkled hands still over the plastic wrap covering the biscuits. “Are you saying my granddaughter bound herself to a mortal?” She sets the plate down in the middle of the dining table and motions for us to sit.
“Yes.”
She licks her lips. “And where is this special girl?”
How did she know Cece was a girl?My eyes narrow, but I walk around the table to sit beside Elio. A glass curio cabinetset along the wall displays antique teacups with beautiful hand-painted patterns.
“She’s safe in my care.” Damian takes his seat at the end of the table. “This is the new Winter Queen and one of my Shadow huntresses. She’s been possessed by a dark spirit.”
“Come here, child.” Mabel reaches into her pocket and unfolds her glasses as I walk back around the table to join her in the kitchen. The deep lines creasing her mouth deepen as she examines me. “A spirit, you say? A dark worm is more like it.”
She grabs a tissue from the counter and slowly wipes down each of the long, narrow lenses in thoughtful silence. “Alright, I’ll help you. But in exchange, I want to meet this mortal my granddaughter entwined her fate with.”
The muscles in Damian’s jaw tick, but he offers the witch a small bow. “You have a deal.”
