Black Frost

Chapter One

LIVA

I sit back against the cold, damp stone, picking at my nails, listening to the approaching footsteps.

The guard with the glass eye and braided beard stops in front of my cell. “Liva …”

My name on his lips makes my skin crawl. I consider him for a moment, listening for death’s call, waiting for the gods to tell me it’s my time today, but they no longer speak to me, and I feel nothing.

“Leave me alone and walk away,” I whisper, reaching for my gift, wincing with shame at my cowardice, wondering how long I’ll sit here and rot before I welcome an end to it all.

His expression falters, and he recoils, moving onto the next cell. My head spins with an intense ache, and I swipe my hand underneath my nose, wiping the blood on my frock. As the months pass, my power fades, but at least their minds are pliable and easily manipulated.

The girl in the neighboring cell scrambles toward the back wall with a sob that makes my heart sink. When they cry like this, I’m glad I haven’t learned any of their names. I close my eyes in foolish hopes that it will block out the sound of the guard dragging her across the dirt floor and past the iron bars I’ve called home for the better part of a year.

As they disappear into the darkness, I retrieve my stone shard and rise to my feet. Shuffling to the tally above the thin mattress, I raise the sharp rock alongside the previous week’s mark.

“I wish you’d stop doing that,” the girl with the broken tooth snaps from across the corridor.

I consider ignoring her, but sometimes the silence is mind-numbing. “Helps me keep track.” I shrug. “I’m surprised you’re not curious how long it’s been.”

“I’m surprised you’re not curious what they want us for.”

“No use in it.” I scrape a mark into the wall. “You’ll find out when it’s your turn.” I trace my fingers along the series of crude marks on the stone. One girl a week for forty-six weeks.

I walk to the bars at the front of the cell and press my face against the cold iron, threading my forearms through the narrow spaces and resting them on the crossbar. I examine my nails again, cringing at the bitten edges and bloodied, torn cuticles. In all my twenty-one years, they had never looked so ravaged.

I’d wager the rest of me is no better, but when the light occasionally filters through the tiny window on the back wall, a hint of fiery red still peeks through the dirt caked in my hair.

Shutting my eyes, I try to replace my sorry circumstances with the crisp breeze of the snow-covered mountain village I’d been hiding in. I’m not naïve enough to believe I could’ve stayed on the run forever. I knew they’d find me eventually.

But these assholes—them, I never saw coming. Who they are or what they want with us is still a mystery. Truth be told, I haven’t made an effort to find out. Or to escape. As long as I sit in this cage, the real monsters can’t find me.

With a sigh, I drag myself back to reality. The stench of urine burns my nostrils, but I no longer gag. It’s as familiar to me as the pine and salty ocean air I’d grown up with. Must be evening—the pots don’t get emptied until the morning.

A jingle of keys is my only warning when the same guard rounds the corner. There’s no time to yank my arms back through the slats before he grabs my wrists, his other hand quickly reaching in and gripping my hair. My temple collides with cold iron, and I slide to the ground, his braided, frizzy beard blurring as my consciousness fades.

The world bobs upside down as his shoulder jams into the bottom of my ribcage, preventing my lungs from expanding. I blink furiously, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. We’re moving through a corridor. When we turn a corner, a prone figure comes into view—matted hair and a dirty gray frock, a splotch of crimson spreading around the blade lodged in her back. She tried to run.

We finally reach a door. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, I’m tossed onto a metal table, my ankles and wrists shackled to its corners. The room has a small window, pale green walls, and two cabinets above a sink. Flickering light from a single bulb illuminates the streaks of gray against a woman’s dark hair when she sets a bucket beside the table and pulls a knife from a creaky drawer beside the sink.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a morsel of resignation blooms, and a small part of me finds relief in the end finally approaching. Any moment now, I expect her to slide the bucket beneath my wrists and bleed me dry. That has been, after all, my suspicion for some time—sacrifices to the gods.

Considering this week’s original offering bled out on a dirty floor, my time may finally be up. It’s not a bad way to go. Might be painless, even.

And yet, despite the fatigue ravaging my body and mind, the larger, more stubborn part of me refuses to succumb.

“Remove the chains.”

The woman doesn’t react, but searing pain shoots into my eye when I speak the words, the concussion punishing my attempt to pry into her mind. I surrender, dropping my head onto the cold table. A dousing of water takes me by surprise. I wince as some of the liquid she dumps on my hair splashes on my face. Why do I need to be clean to die?

A faint shred of hope dares to emerge when she works a faintly scented shampoo into my hair. Maybe this isn’t the end. When she’s done scrubbing my strands and painfully yanking on the knots, she takes the knife and slices through my frock. I lose track of time as she sets to work, cleaning every inch of me.

Confused anger fills my fractured thoughts when she roughly pushes a pin through my hair, the metal scraping the side of my skull. Then she applies rouge to my lips.

Bitch.

I spit in her face, but it doesn’t make a difference. She wipes her cheek on a sleeve and grips my chin with a callused hand, holding me in place until she’s done.

The guard jerks me off the table, releasing the restraints, and the woman pulls a long piece of black material over my head. I suppose it could pass for a dress. It’s cheap and thin, and there’s little of it. With an open back and low-cut neckline, it’s not much of an improvement from lying stark naked on the table. The wrist shackles come right back on, and the guard leads me down a couple of dim hallways covered in old wallpaper. I step on the dress, stumbling as he hauls me behind him. Why didn’t they give me shoes?

We near a large ornate door that seems out of place in this dingy hallway, and I can hear voices and music floating from the other side. A party? The sounds are foreign, so far removed from the dungeons that I briefly question if I’m hearing things. Before I can make sense of it all, he turns the knob and shoves me through the doorway.

His rough hands push me further into the room, and I squint against the harsh lights, staggering, uncertain where I’m stepping. My brain scrambles to make sense of my surroundings—a grand piano, plush armchairs, and people laughing amidst the music. It takes me a heartbeat to discern why they’re positioned below me. I’m on a stage. A sharp whistle cuts through the noise.

“The bidding will start at a hundred silvers,” a deep voice to my right announces. Murmurs fly through the crowd below me.

“Do I hear two hundred?”

A fucking auction.

Chapter Two

CHASE

Twelve minutes. That’s how long I have to get off this train, across town, and through the door that demands a different passphrase every week. The locomotive is still crawling through the outskirts of this town, so my odds are looking slim.

Wiping the condensation from the window, I glance at the low stucco buildings. I hate this part of the Bornean Empire—the humidity is suffocating. If it weren’t for tonight’s event, I would’ve stayed in the north a while longer, but after all the time and effort I’ve put into finding her, I’m not about to miss my weekly chance.

The sharp point of my snow tiger tooth presses into my thumb as I play with the white piece of bone I’ve carried in my pocket since I was eight, when I made my first kill. It’s a welcome distraction from the anxiety-ridden storm bouncing off the insides of my skull, the questions swirling as though circling the eye of a hurricane.

What if the redhead doesn’t come up for auction for weeks? Months? What if I don’t have enough money to purchase her after my impulse buy last week? What if I buy her, deliver her, and it doesn’t make a difference anyway?

Fuck.

Ten minutes. The train slows, finally approaching the station, so I shove the tooth back into my pocket and head toward the exit. Regret over blowing half my money on the thirteen-year-old last week won’t solve anything.

My jaw clenches at the memory of those terrified blue eyes. She cost me nine hundred silvers—the young ones always fetch higher bids. I figured I had enough time to make the two-day train ride back to Osorock, get her settled at the shelter, and still make it back in time.

Turns out predicting the northern weather is a risky business. I’d be on time for tonight’s auction if it hadn’t been for the damn ice storm delaying the train.

Five minutes. When we finally stop, I shove open the door, knock the attendant out of the way, and run across the platform. Regardless of how suspicious it may look, I sprint past the dirty, ripped canvas booths in the narrow streets and around the beggars sitting on the sidewalk. The reek of sewers and urine assaults my senses, making me gag, but I push through, forbidding my legs to slow.

One minute. I still have to cross Swordfish Square, climb the steps to the Grand Hotel, and descend the two floors to the basement. Although they never do, a small part of me hopes they might start a little late today.

I rush into the lobby, flinging the door open so hard it’s a wonder the glass doesn’t shatter when it hits the wall. The desk clerk is new and surveys me like I’m mad, disgust and apprehension fighting for command of her expression. I ignore it—her face is no concern of mine. Slamming a silver coin on the counter, I try to catch my breath.

“Spearfishing season’s almost over,” I utter between gasps.

A flicker of surprise widens her eyes, but her jaw quickly sets. She glances at my sweat-covered shirt. I’m sure my hair’s no better, and I haven’t shaved in weeks. Not exactly the clientele they’re used to.

“I’m afraid it’s already ended.” With a forced smile, she pushes the silver back toward me and turns away.

I grab her small, fragile wrist, pulling her to face me again. “Spearfishing season’s almost over,” I grit through my teeth, my gaze boring into her.

She yanks her hand away and stands taller, straightening the cuffs on her shirt. “I wish I could help you, Sir, but we do not allow interruptions once the event is underway.”

The flames of my anxiety ignite into a burning rage. I didn’t come all the way to this disgusting province to miss my ticket for revenge, and if today is the day the Compulsor comes up for sale, I’m damn well going to be in the room to buy her. Or steal her, if I have to.

Ignoring the clerk’s horrified expression, I step around the marble desk and shove open the door behind her labeled ‘Housekeeping.’ I burst through it, evading the manicured hands clutching at my jacket.

“Hey! How dare you? Stop!” Her shrill voice rings out behind me, but she doesn’t follow. Smart woman. I’m glad she’s not stupid enough to try to stop a man twice her size.

It’s not the most elegant strategy, but I’ve made my decision. I’m committed now, and likely have only minutes to get in and see the woman for sale this week before security comes looking for me.

I fly down the steps, where plain bulbs replace the soft light from fancy lobby chandeliers, and the clerk’s outrage gives way to sultry music floating from beyond the door at the bottom of the stairwell. I slow my pace and force my breath to steady as I approach the landing.

Unlike the desk attendant, the guard’s not a newbie. Recognizing his light-colored hair and close-cut beard, I coax my face into a pleasant smile. Not too eager, but friendly enough to give myself a chance to get past him.

His hand lifts to halt my approach. “Sir, the—”

“Just had to grab something from my room.” I pat the worn leather of my jacket pocket. “Can’t go shopping without silver.”

He shakes his head and reaches for his hip, but not fast enough. Before he can put a hand on his baton, the edge of my palm jams into the side of his neck, right above his collarbone, and he’s out like a light.

“Easy does it,” I mutter, lowering him to the ground and propping his back against the wall. His head lolls to the side, and his feet splay in front of him, toes out. I glance up the stairwell before reaching for the doorknob. Stepping over his feet, I slip into the darkness.