Gathering Frost (Once Upon A Curse Book 1)

by Davis, Kaitlyn

  "Freedom," she whispers.

  Freedom.

  The idea flashes before my eyes, a signal that blinds, just out of reach.

  Her fingers shift, landing gently on top of mine, which now clutch the railing. Power surges up my arm, stinging, bringing pain-filled tears to my eyes as it travels up to encase my heart.

  But it is not cold, it is warm, like lava that burns my skin, melts my insides away. For a moment, I see the stars, moving, twinkling, dancing all along the ground. I feel everyone and everything in Kardenia.

  There are children playing in the street, and I bubble with their laughter. A guard on the wall is drunk, passed out while still in uniform. The slow beat of his heart thrums in my head. The commander waits out of sight, but his insides are knotted tight in curiosity. And far off in the distance, people are walking and talking, muffled so that I cannot hear, but their pulses swell in my veins.

  My heart expands, stretching wider than this kingdom, growing with my awareness. The world is at my fingertips, at my command, as though I can just reach out and take it, control it, experience it.

  The queen releases me and the awareness vanishes.

  Gone.

  My eyes are left blind, spotted. My senses are dull. I feel nothing, empty without the souls of a thousand people funneling through my body.

  "You can have your freedom, Jade, I promise. But first, you must let my son capture you. You must travel with him to the rebel camp. You must teach him to trust you. And then you must bring him here, to me, unharmed."

  I understand what she is asking. It would be easier to send a team to capture the prince. It would be simpler to wait for him to return with the rebels at his back. But the queen knows that, and it is not what she wants.

  When I was a child, the queen stole my heart. But now she wants me to let it go willingly, to forget I ever had one in the first place.

  One betrayal and I can have my freedom.

  Is she testing me?

  Is she testing her son?

  I do not know, and though I should, I cannot bring myself to care. There is more going on here than I realize, more to this game than I can see with my limited perspective. How do I compare to a queen who has the eyes of a million people? How can I beat her?

  The answer is simple.

  I cannot.

  The picture of freedom dances before my eyes, like the paintings decorating my bedroom, framing the far off horizon. I see the world I have studied in books, the cities I yearn to explore, and it is within my reach. Finally.

  "I will do what you ask, Your Majesty." I turn to meet her calculating gaze, her wide smile.

  "I know."

  With those two words, my prayer of freedom disappears and in its place, imaginary shackles bind my wrists, chain me to the queen, ensnare me.

  The key disappears into the silver highlights of her eyes.

  My throat closes as the single emotion I am allowed to feel burns my chest.

  Fear.

  Dread.

  And my thoughts whisper one question into my ear.

  What have I done?

  "Jade, where are you going?" Brock calls. I ignore him, glancing over my shoulder to the dusty gray building that has caught my eye.

  The library.

  My fingers itch to explore all of the pages I have left untouched, to run along the smooth paper edges, to lose myself in those halls.

  The six of us are on a scavenging mission beyond the wall, in the old city. Brock and the others believe we have been sent to look for medical supplies—pills, sterilizing wipes, Band-Aids—all things that we have lost the ability to produce but can still find out here. Most of the pharmacies and hospitals have been emptied, but sometimes we strike gold in apartment buildings that were left in a hurry.

  The truth?

  This is my mission and mine alone. I am to separate myself from the group, lure the prince out, and allow him to capture me.

  Now seems as good a time as any.

  "I'll find you guys in a little while," I yell to the boys, who have all stopped walking to stare back at me. The black uniforms almost look funny in the daylight, so stark against the debris, which is coated in a fine layer of powder, muting all the colors around us. Brock rolls his eyes, leading the other boys back around to continue the way they were going. They visibly slacken, losing their formal stances, smiling, slapping one another on the back as they walk away with jokes on their lips.

  No protest or shout of safekeeping filters back to me, but I'm not surprised. We always leave the city as a group, and once safely beyond the sight of the wall, I always split off. Nothing unusual. In fact, I bet they wonder why I took so long today.

  I ask myself the same question.

  Delay is not something I'm used to. I prefer to charge, racing forward without a second thought, despite overwhelming odds or orders to the contrary. But today, my mind is in knots. From the outside, my demeanor looks calm and stoic, but inside my thoughts are in turmoil.

  Everything starts today. And though I will do anything for my freedom, I wonder if this is a mission I can truly pull off. My heart is hard. It does not weaken in empathy for the prince I will deceive. It does not ache with the morality of my actions. No, my heart is not the problem.

  Failure.

  That is the squirmy idea wriggling around my insides, pausing my movement. I had never failed at anything until I met this prince, and I do not want to experience that again. Especially not when my freedom is truly on the line, when it is so close, closer really than I ever dreamed.

  I cannot fail if I never try.

  But that in itself would be a failure.

  I sigh and step onward, toward the building that before caught my attention, finally moving me into action. The New York Public Library. It is a short building, buried among skyscrapers, but somehow imposing, built with stone and not metal, more lasting. The entrance is framed by unbending columns and is guarded by two stone lions—ones I used to dream would come alive and whisk me away.

  I have no such notions now. Magic is not my friend. Magic will never come and save me.

  I make my way slowly up the steps, leading to the archway sheltering the front doors. Once inside, I notice familiar footsteps along the ground, unsettling the dirt. Boot shaped grooves cut into the dust, revealing the hidden beauty of the floor below. They are my own prints, from the last time I visited.

  To the guard, a library is useless. It houses no clothes for the people. No medicines. No food supplies. None of our former comforts.

  But it houses something else—knowledge. A tool I have found more useful than all the others.

  I follow the familiar path of my steps, putting a new layer of prints onto the ground, a trail for the prince to pursue.

  There are rooms here that I have not visited, filled with pages of fake lives and make-believe stories, worlds imagined and conceived on paper. Works that hope to reveal the true nature of human struggle, the motivations of passion, the joy of love, the sting of hatred, the ache of loneliness. I find it all useless, beyond the scope of my mind, beyond the reach of my cold heart.

  Perhaps in a different life, I would have been able to lose myself in all of those emotionally taut words, but in this life, I crave facts, information. And I make my way to my favorite room, where encyclopedias line the walls and textbooks rest waiting for students to turn their pages, settling on me instead.

  The stone hallways are quiet and my steps echo from wall to wall, until I stop in a doorway, breathing for a moment, wondering if this will be the last time my eyes behold this scene.

  The reading room, my favorite room. It was grand once, I imagine, clean and sparkling, illuminated by the stained-glass windows lining the walls. Now it is muted. The windows are shattered, letting a breeze stir stale air. The once majestic chandeliers lay mostly broken on the floor, bulbs in shards. A few still hang, pulsing eerily from the touch of invisible hands. Desks line the floor. Chairs are turned over. Surfaces rest covered in gray
ash. And the ceiling, made of carved wood and painted with clouds, actually has a hole, broken by the steel beam impaled in the floor.

  But the books still rest peacefully. Most of the shelves survived the earthquake because they were nailed to the walls. The books crashed to the ground, but as I read them, I place them back in their spots. Most have a home now. They gently rest against one another, old friends happy to be back where they belong.

  Warped pages, wet from rain, dried in the summer heat, have made the books thicker. Tougher. And I like to think, more resilient.

  Gently I remove my crossbow from my back, leaving it to rest on a tabletop. My vest goes next. But I leave the gun strapped to my thigh, and the sword resting at my hip. I want the prince to catch me unaware, but I can't be too obvious.

  I am not even sure he was looking as I left my group, but there was a sensation, a tingling around my spine whispering that I was being watched. The prickle is still there, pinching my neck, making my hairs stand on end. If he is not here, he is coming. I'm sure of it.

  Casually, without any sign of worry, I walk along the edges of the room, letting my fingers bump along the shelves, running over the leather-bound covers. After I discovered the museum and stole those paintings for my bedroom, I came to the library. I knew that the gardens, the cities, the architecture depicted within those frames were based on someplace real. And I discovered a series of books all about the history of art from around the world. I found my paintings, my places, my dreams, and countless other destinations I promise to one day explore.

  As my fingers land on a deep maroon spine highlighted with gold lettering, I stop. But the sound of feet still rings in my ears, soft, growing louder. They should have removed their shoes, I smirk, socks are much more conducive to sneaking.

  Pulling on the book, I drop it loudly on the tabletop next to me, sitting so my back is facing the door, and I cannot see the entrance. That is the last gift I will give them. From here, my fight becomes real.

  I slowly open it, letting ridged pages crackle against one another, but I am not paying attention to my books any longer. They are lost to me as the boots stop clicking. And then a soft, one, two, one, two. The prince is coming alone to greet me.

  I shake my head, gritting my teeth in annoyance.

  That was not part of the plan.

  The walking stops.

  I pause.

  The air thickens, and I force my muscles to stay still, not to turn, not to move. I will give nothing away. I wait as the silence stretches, wondering what he thinks, wondering why he does not take the advantage.

  "I'll admit, I didn't take you for a scholar," a deep voice calls from behind me. Not overly loud, but in this cavernous room, the volume grows, bouncing from ceiling to floor.

  I sit tall, as though shocked free from my reverie, and stand, hand immediately gripping my gun. My head whips around until my eyes land on his relaxed pose, arms folded over one another, knee bent. A smile dances across his lips.

  "I'll admit, I didn’t take you for an idiot," I reply, releasing my weapon and adopting my own relaxed stance, hip cocked to the side, hands on my waist. "Well, that's not entirely true. But I did warn you what would happen if I saw you again."

  The prince only shrugs, stepping forward. His gaze slips behind me, to the desk at my back. "What are you reading?"

  "The encyclopedia," I answer. There is no need to lie. But still, I ask myself if this is why he followed me around? Friendly banter?

  "Fascinating." He lets out a breath, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows, clearly trying not to laugh. One of his cheeks is bruised a deep blue from my fist. I can easily make the other one match, in fact, my fingers clench, ready to remove the smirk on his lips.

  "Do you have a better suggestion?"

  "Than the encyclopedia?" He looks around, eyes wandering the walls before settling back on me. "Maybe not in this room, but definitely yes."

  "What?"

  "I'll tell you someday," he teases, and I realize how close I've allowed him to walk. The prince is within a few feet of my body, close enough that our swords could dance, maybe even close enough that our fingers could touch.

  In the light of day, he looks different. The angles on his face are not as harsh as the queen's. They are softer, subtler. Cheekbones that roll into his jaw, lips that are full, a nose that rounds just slightly at the tip. Skin still pale, hair still blonde, but his eyes look newer, brighter, deeper still.

  Indigo.

  But I know that can’t be right. Yet, as I meet his gaze, his irises shine back, dark as midnight, sparkling with stars, streaked with plum highlights. An entire galaxy seems alive in his eyes.

  "Why are you here?" I try to step back, but my thigh hits the table, unable to move any farther.

  "Because you're such a brilliant conversationalist, obviously." One corner of his lip lifts and his eyes twinkle, waiting for my reply.

  But I've had enough.

  My foot reacts first, rising into a kick, slamming into his stomach. The prince doubles over, stepping backward, and I continue to charge, shoving against his shoulders so he falls fully to the floor, knocking into a table on the way down.

  I land on his chest, pressing the end of my gun against his head.

  "I know you won't kill me," he challenges.

  "Try me," I hiss, leaning forward, leaving my side open for an attack. But he doesn't punch, he doesn’t move, just keeps staring into my eyes as though searching for something.

  "You don't have it in you."

  I press the metal further into his forehead, causing an indent. "I've killed a man before."

  It's a lie, but not by much, and my voice does not falter as I speak it. A year ago, a rebel attacked my group while we were scavenging for medical supplies. I shot him. The bullet landed on his shoulder, narrowly missing his heart, but he lived. He works as a baker now. Barely even bats an eyelash when I buy my bread. I don't think he even remembers who I am.

  The prince's brows twitch, confused, and I know instantly that the queen was right, that her plan will work. He believed me to be soft, a kindred spirit since I let him go free. Now he is unsure, but still curious—interest still lightens his eyes.

  Then the fist I've been waiting for nails my gut, flipping me from his chest and across the floor. I release the gun, letting it skid over the tiles, hoping it doesn't look like I dropped it on purpose.

  We both stand, and he edges to where the gun slowed to a stop, cutting off my resource like I hoped he would. I spring the opposite way, sprinting to the center of the room, away from the desks to an open area, and I pull out my sword.

  He follows, slow, eyeing me warily as he slides his own sword free.

  I move left.

  He follows.

  Right. Right. Left. Left. Over and over as we circle each other, neither gaining the advantage, neither attacking. But I grow tired of this game quickly, and I strike, swinging my blade in a wide arc that should be easy enough to block.

  He does. A ring echoes across the room, metal on metal, the scrape of sharp edges testing one another. Our swords meet again, singing as we clash over and over, contorting our bodies to escape and parry. The dance makes my muscles burn with life. I find myself grinning, breathing heavy, stretching body parts that I haven't used in a while, finally facing a foe who is my match.

  But not quite my match. I am more skilled. He is stronger. With every minute, my arms lose a little fight, my blocks grow a little softer, my attacks a little slower. His remain steady, unflinching.

  So I play dirty, dropping to the ground while his sword swings overhead, using my leg to swipe at his feet, knocking him over once more. As he falls, I roll over his sword arm, placing my blade across his throat.

  Our chests heave together, pressing and pulling against one another. Pink flushes his cheeks, enlivening his features, making his eyes seem darker, fuller. The distance between our faces is small, but time seems to stretch between it, expansive, vast.

 
"You're right," I say, relaxing my arm, "I don't have it in me."

  I don't know if that's true or if I say it as a ploy to gain his trust. But I'm not sure I want to know. So I stand, rolling free from his chest while I drop my blade, breathing easier with the distance, letting the breeze cool the sweat from my brow.

  He doesn't move from the floor, but his gaze shifts.

  My eyes wander to the doorway.

  We have visitors.

  Four men watch on. They are older, not as fit, bulging slightly at the waist. Amusement is clear on their faces, as though the prince and I were putting on a show.

  Well, we'll see how they like this.

  In one leap, I am standing on top of a table. Before they can react, I am running, jumping from desk to desk toward the back of the room. Their feet pound in pursuit, but I have the advantage. I know this room inside and out.

  As I reach the end of the row, I jump, hands gripping for the iron bars of the railing a few feet above my head. There is a second-floor balcony lining the edge of the room, and it would mean my escape.

  My hands fasten around metal and I hang on, two choices flashing before my eyes.

  I've made this jump before, practicing, leaping for fun just to see if I could—and I can. The men would never make it, too old and out of shape, but the prince might. Either way, I would have time on him, and I know where the exits lead, which halls to travel. I would lose him in the maze of this building, and then I would return to the queen, defiant, letting her know that she did not own me. But in that defiance, I would be stuck, trapped forever in her thrall. The places in my paintings would melt away, disappearing even from my dreams.

  Or I can hang here, let their hands pull me to the ground, let them capture me and hold me prisoner, following the queen's plans perfectly. In the end, I would gain my liberty, but she would still own me forever. Though I would be free to wander the world, I would never fully be free from her or the choice she forced me to make.

  Indecision stills me. Stalls me.

  Hands grip my ankles, and I know it is too late.