Blood Winter

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Tory tossed her hair. Her face was rounded and sweet. Camouflage. Max was pretty sure that at nineteen, the girl could chew up most people and spit them out without breaking a sweat.

  “You know, the world doesn’t revolve around you,” Tory said.

  “Are you sure, Buttercup?” Max drawled, clamping down on her irritation. “You want to go into town, but you’re not going anywhere without me. That pretty much means I’m the center of your universe tonight, doesn’t it?”

  Tory’s cheeks flushed red, and her eyes snapped with fury. She dropped her hands to her sides, her fingers curling into fists. “Yeah? Well, you need my help, too—besides, once I talk Giselle into making me a Shadowblade, I’ll be able to do anything I want, whenever I want, just like you.”

  Max met her niece’s gaze for a long moment and then glanced at Tyler. His body was chiseled in stone. She could feel his emotions flaring hot and wild. It had been just over a month since Niko had died, adding to the too-long tally of Shadowblades and Sunspears Horngate had lost since the Change—when the Guardians had flooded the world with magic. Both Max and Tyler knew that those supernatural warriors needed to be replaced in order to protect the covenstead, but the reality was too much to handle right now. The grief was still too raw.

  Abruptly, Max swigged down the last of the Ugly Juice and stood. “Let’s go,” she said, and led Tory out of the dining commons. Spike trotted behind them.

  Tory kept abreast of Max despite her aunt’s fury. It was actually impressive. Most humans cowered around an aroused Blade, much less a full Prime like herself. But then again, Tory was a burning ball of anger and resentment. Fear was a foreign concept to her.

  Max slowed, reaching down to scratch Spike’s ears. “You ready to give up going out during the day?” she asked. “Because Shadowblades fry—literally—in the daylight. Poof! Burn to ash in a matter of seconds. Or Giselle could make you a Sunspear, but they have their own problems. The dark poisons them. Sometimes slowly, but within an hour or so if they don’t get inside.”

  “You just don’t want to give me the chance to be like you,” Tory said, stepping in front of Max with her hands on her hips. “You still hate Giselle for turning you, and you think just because you don’t want to be a Shadowblade, nobody else will, either.”

  Max considered the accusation. Six months ago, there might have been some truth to it. But things had changed. Max had changed. She no longer resented being turned. She liked what she was. It allowed her to protect the people she cared about.

  Except for Niko.

  A worm of grief wriggled through her heart. At least she could protect them better than if she were still human. And if Tory were turned, the girl could at least protect herself. Still, Max doubted she had the slightest clue what being a Shadowblade really entailed.

  “You won’t be able to have kids,” she said. “So you’ll want to think about having one before you’re turned. You have to eat a minimum of twenty thousand calories a day, more if you get into a battle or have to run thirty or forty miles or toss around a few cars. That’s not so easy with food getting scarcer. You’ll have healing spells, but you’ll need them. You’ll end up hurt a lot, and I’m not talking hangnails. Broken bones are easy, but you’ll get shot, knifed, burned, mauled, shredded—all in a day’s work. That will happen with depressing regularity for your entire life.

  “The healing spells won’t help with the pain. That’s all yours. Let’s hope you have a high tolerance. You won’t age, as you can tell.” Max gestured at herself. At fifty years old, she still looked the way she did when she was twenty-one. She looked more like Tory’s sister than her aunt. “That means you probably shouldn’t fall in love with any ordinary humans. They’ll age and die long before you do. Then there’s the binding. Most witches bind their Blades and Spears. There are some good reasons for that—Giselle will know when you’ve been hurt, she’ll be able to summon you when she needs you, and she can help you heal faster through the binding. On the other hand, you won’t be able to ever get away from her, and you’ll be stuck serving her unless she releases you. Or you die. That works, too.”

  “You’re trying to talk me out of it,” Tory said. “It’s not going to work.”

  Max shook her head. “That’s not it at all, Buttercup. Giselle got me drunk and asked if I wanted to be superstrong, never age, never get sick, all that sort of thing. I said sure—who wouldn’t say yes? But I thought it was all a joke. Next thing I knew, it was months later, and I was a Shadowblade, chained to serve her. I was a slave. Things might have been different if I’d really been willing. I just figure you ought to make an informed decision.”

  Tory sniffed and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Don’t call me Buttercup. I know what I’m doing. But Giselle says she’s not going to do it. I know why, too. It’s you. She doesn’t want to piss you off, for some reason.” Despite the defiant edge to Tory’s voice, Max could tell the girl was thinking about what she’d said.

  “I’m not going to stop you. Turns out I’m pretty happy being a Shadowblade.”

  “So you’ll talk to Giselle?” Tory’s expression suddenly glowed with passionate hope, the kind only the young and naive can really feel.

  “Sure. But don’t be in a hurry. You’ve got to wait until you’re twenty-one.”

  Tory’s joyous triumph collapsed. “What? Why?”

  Max shrugged. “It’s a magic number.”

  “But people don’t have to be exactly twenty-one, right? Alexander was twenty-five when he was made.”

  Max’s brows rose. How the hell did Tory know that? She swallowed her curiosity and the sharp jab of jealousy that accompanied it. It wasn’t like Alexander didn’t have a right to tell people about his life. “He was turned more than a hundred years ago by a flesh witch. Maybe she didn’t care about the numbers. Giselle does.”

  “Couldn’t Uncle Kyle do it if Giselle won’t?”

  “Only if he wanted to be banished from Horngate—or killed. Giselle won’t tolerate anyone stepping on her toes.”

  “Killed?” Tory repeated, her eyes widening.

  “Yep. Oh, that’s another thing about being a Shadowblade, Buttercup. You’ll be killing things. Maybe people, maybe creatures, but you’ll be spilling a lot of blood. Sometimes you’ll use weapons, sometimes you’ll kill bare-handed. Get used to the idea. That’s a major part of the job. If you want, I could take you out hunting to see how you do with that.”

  Tory swallowed and didn’t answer. Instead, she spun around and started up the corridor in silence. Max fell in beside her.

  The heart of the Horngate covenstead was a mountain fortress west of Missoula. Giselle and the coven witches had carved a warren of rooms and passages, enough to house hundreds of people, with room to expand if needed. Max and Tory headed for a newer chamber on the northeast side of the mountain.

  It was an expansive space with low ceilings. Vehicles were parked in rows. Max headed for a dark green Suburban. Kyle, Carrie Lydman, and Alexander were already waiting. Carrie was dressed much like Tory. Together, the two were stunning. Max had little doubt that men would certainly get diarrhea of the mouth upon seeing them.

  Kyle was bouncing on his toes like a five-year-old at Disneyland, and Alexander stood at the rear of the Suburban, the back doors open as he checked supplies. At six feet, he was just a few inches taller than she. His skin was the color of tea, like he spent all his time in the sun. His short hair was black. A close-cut goatee framed his mouth. He was lean and muscular, and it made Max drool just to look at him.

  He looked up as she and Tory entered, his dark gaze smoldering. Max shivered, resisting the urge to drag him off to a closet and have her way with him.

  She took hold of herself, suppressing her reaction, keeping her face from showing her hunger. She was Horngate’s Shadowblade Prime, which meant she was in charge of Alexander and the rest of the Blades. She needed to stay focused on her job. She didn’t need anybody else dying on her watch.

 
She crossed to glance inside the back of the Suburban, sidling away from his hand as he reached for her. He pulled back, his mouth flattening, his eyes flashing hurt annoyance. Max clenched her teeth. What the hell did he expect from her? But she knew the answer. He wanted public acknowledgment of their relationship. The trouble was, she was still trying to figure out exactly what their relationship was. She cared about him—loved him, she corrected herself acidly. She might as well admit it to herself, even if she was too much of a coward to tell him.

  She didn’t have much experience with long-term relationships. She’d only had one serious boyfriend before Giselle had turned her, and she’d fumbled that. She was like a child figuring out how to do calculus.

  With a silent sigh, she pushed aside her internal turmoil. She’d work on fixing her head later. Now she had to get everybody in and out of Missoula alive.

  Inside the back of the Suburban was a row of six shotguns upright in a rack. Beside them were six bandoliers with shells and grenades. The latter were witch-made. There was also a chest containing a variety of other weapons, including handguns, clips of bullets, knives, witch chain, canisters of salt, iron filings, mixes of herbs, tubs of healing salve, bandages, charms, light and dark sealed sacks, and duct tape, plus jerky, homemade high-calorie energy bars, and two jugs of Ugly Juice.

  She and Alexander were both already wearing tactical vests, the pockets bulging with a variety of supplies. Max’s .45 was holstered on her hip, and she had her two favorite flat-bladed knives strapped to her arms. Around her neck was a gold torque that could stretch itself into a garrote, a wire-thin rope, and other useful shapes. She had a Glock 9mm tucked into an ankle holster and a combat knife in her waistband.

  She glanced at her companions. “Ready? Remember, we’re going for the single purpose of intelligence collection. We’ll have to park away from the River Market and walk in. We don’t need anyone noticing that our vehicle runs on magic. Once there, try to blend in. The word is that the market stays lively late into the night, with a lot of buying and selling, not to mention gambling, whoring, drinking, and who knows what else. It can turn into a free-for-all pretty quick. Stick close to me and Alexander—and Kyle? Don’t do anything witchy unless you have to.”

  Her brother looked at her innocently. Kyle never planned to be stupid and reckless, he just followed his idiot impulses. Babies had more sense than he did sometimes.

  Max’s eyes narrowed. A smudge of the red dust streaked Kyle’s pale blond hair above his left ear. “What is that stuff?” she asked. “Do you know?”

  “What stuff?” he said, even as Alexander came around the front of the Suburban. Beyul, another massive Grim, padded at his side.

  “It’s on you, too,” she said, pointing at Alexander’s boot.

  He glanced down, his brow creasing.

  “What is it?” Max held up her forearm to show her splash of red.

  Tory and Carrie examined each other. “We don’t have any of that junk on us,” Carrie said with clear relief, no doubt relieved that she didn’t have to worry about it staining her clothes.

  “It doesn’t come off,” Max said. “Tyler had some on him, too.”

  Kyle ran a finger over her arm. Pale blue magic flickered along his fingertip, and Max’s skin tingled. He pulled away, looking intrigued. “Could be magic-related. I need to do some experiments . . .”

  “Not now,” Tory said, grabbing his arm and shoving him toward the door of the Suburban. “We’ll never get to town if you go off experimenting, Uncle Kyle. After all, it’s just a little color, right?”

  Max had to agree. The stuff didn’t seem to be dangerous, and if Kyle went off on a mad-witch-scientist tangent, they might not get to town for another week or two.

  “Load up,” she said as she slammed the two rear doors shut. The two girls pushed into the front seat beside Alexander, who was driving. Max let Spike and Beyul into the rear seats and then slid in beside Kyle.

  She was just shutting her door when a jolt shuddered through the air and a hail of needles ran along her nerves. The walls of the mountain fortress trembled and groaned. A split second later, the alarm chime vibrated through the air. It reverberated through Max’s skull, making the marrow in her bones ache. Something had crossed the covenstead’s outer ward line, something magical that didn’t belong.

  “What now?” Tory demanded. “Let’s just go.”

  Max hopped out. “Trip’s canceled,” she said, her Prime rising hard. Her humanity flattened beneath the predator, her senses sharpening. With that came blinding rage. No one—no one—was going to get away with attacking her home again. She didn’t care what she had to do to protect it and the people within. This was her home, her family. She’d kill anyone who threatened them.

  “Tory and Carrie, get to the Great Hall with everybody else,” she ordered hoarsely, her lips curling back from her lips in an animal snarl. “Kyle and Alexander, you’re with me.”

  “I want to come with you,” Tory said, her voice tense but resolute as she stepped in front of Max.

  “No chance, Buttercup,” Max replied, her fingers curling in an effort not to pick the teenager up and toss her out of the way.

  “I can handle myself. Give me a gun.”

  “When pigs fly. Get back to the Great Hall before you get yourself killed,” Max said. “That’s something else Shadowblades do—obey orders.” Max shoved past her, Spike loping at her side. Alexander and Beyul followed close on her heels, with Kyle bringing up the rear.

  She pushed out into the night air. She could feel the wrongness in the wards and smell Divine magic. It came from the south.

  She led the way around to the front entrance. The rest of her Blades had spilled out into the night, waiting for her, all armed to the teeth. A few Grims nosed around curiously.

  Max turned to Tyler. “Where’s Giselle?”

  “On her way with Gregory and Judith.”

  She looked over her Blades. She probably ought to wait for them. “Tyler, Alexander, Oak, Nami, and Simon, you’re with me. We’ll scout ahead. The rest of you follow with the witches.” She looked around at them all. She scowled as she realized that each one was smudged with some of the red dust. She’d have to ask Giselle about it later.

  “Whatever’s going on out there, watch one another’s back. Nobody dies tonight. Got it?”

  Sober nods went all around the group, and a minute later, Max and her companions were loping across the steep ridges south of Horngate, each one a messenger of death for whatever lay in wait.

  ALEXANDER WAS SPOILING FOR A FIGHT. ANYTHING to relieve the tension knotting tighter with every second he spent with Max. For weeks, she had been blowing hot and cold—one minute she was wrapped around him as if she would never let go, the next she was covered in steel spikes and driving him away on the end of a spear. It was getting old. Like being on a roller coaster that never stopped running. Something had to change and soon, or he was going to go insane.

  He had lost control of himself once. Doing it again would be his death sentence. He had managed to come back one time, but he was certain the next time he would have to be put down.

  The smell of Divine magic grew more dense as they ranged closer to whoever or whatever had penetrated the ward line circling the Horngate fortress at a circumference of about five miles. Uncanny creatures like Shadowblades and Sunspears were made of magic but had no ability to create spells or cast magic. Only Divine creatures could, such as witches and angels and a host of other beings.

  The group came up over the final ridge above where the ward line crossed the road into Horngate.

  “What the fuck?” Simon said, and was cuffed on the side of the head by Nami.

  “Shh!”

  The road below snaked through a narrow channel between tall, heavily treed ridges. A broad arch of elk, deer, and moose horns over the road gave Horngate its name. It was blackened, and an acrid smell of burned horn drifted upward.

  A line of people carrying torches and chanting
stretched out of sight along the road. They marched through the gate—something the wards should have refused to let them do—and poured into a flat, wide area just within. In the center was a small cleared space surrounding what appeared to be large crosses with people hanging from them, crucified in biblical fashion. The base of each cross was stacked with wood. Two of the victims were children.

  Alexander’s stomach clenched and rage made the edges of his vision cloud. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep his Prime under control.

  “Is that what it looks like?” Oak whispered in horror.

  “It looks to me like a good old-fashioned burning at the stake,” Max said, her voice cold as frosted iron. “With a dose of crucifixion to add that shine of historical glamor. Is that what it looks like to you?”

  “That’s fucking sick. They’re going to burn kids?”

  “No,” Alexander said.

  “You got that right, Slick,” Max said.

  Though she seemed to be taking the situation in stride, her Prime told another story. It had risen to the killing edge and the air crackled with her white-hot fury.

  “What are they doing here?” Nami asked.

  “Sending us a message,” Max said.

  “Like ‘Please come kick our asses’?” said Simon. His eyes had narrowed, and his hands flexed into claws, like a cat kneading the air.

  “I would say they want us to know that they do not like witches, except that they clearly have at least one down there,” Alexander mused, watching as more and more people crowded into the small clearing below. The string of lights coming up the road had not thinned. There had to be a couple hundred people gathered already. How many more could there be?

  “Wish we had the angels for a flyover,” Max muttered, and then she clamped her jaws together.

  But both Tutresiel and Xaphan lay unconscious in a stone vault inside Horngate, neither dead nor quite alive. No one knew how to wake them or if that was even possible. They had fallen when a Fury arose and unleashed her rage. Their loss, along with Niko’s, had wounded Max to her soul. She had nightmares from which she awoke in a killing mood and after which she and Alexander usually had mind-blowing sex. Alexander did not know if she slept afterward out of satiation or exhaustion. The question bothered him more than he liked to admit.