She raised her hand to the falling snow, letting the flakes pile up on her bare skin. It had been years since she had been cold. The sensation startled her, novel in its discomfort, a welcome distraction from the emptiness that filled each waking moment and stalked her dreams.

She had been content here, once.

Now she saw Rowan each time she closed her eyes. At night she lay beside her ghost, and the ache inside her grew until she gave up on sleep and watched the clouds chase the moon.

The cold crept in further.

Death was mercy in the mountains, and cold the gentlest way to die. Was this what the witch had meant by freedom? She would die here, alone at the top of the world, and the curse would end with her life.

All this, for nothing.

No.

Not nothing.

The Huntress closed her fist around the snow, remembering a laugh, a touch, the taste of happiness. Not even a lifetime would have been enough.

The snow melted, running down her wrist, and with it immortality.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

The setting sun cast my shadow before me as I followed the dirt track into the village and up to the Locklands’ door. I heard the whispers following me, and the sound of shutters and doors opening as I put one foot in front of the other, meeting my shadow with every step. The wolf stayed close. I had wanted to lock her in the cottage, but my hand had hesitated on the latch and she had bolted out, baring her teeth.

Let them see, I decided. I was thankful for that decision, now that the entire village had turned out to stare. If I had felt out of place here before the Huntress had taken me, it was nothing to how I felt today.

The Lockland lodge was a huge, sprawling house that had been added on to over the years as the family grew. At one point, I guessed, there had been real wealth here, but that day was long gone. What was left was carefully maintained, but rough, just like the rest of the village. I raised the stag’s head knocker on the broad doors and let it fall, once, twice, three times. The sound echoed in the stillness of twilight.

A young woman opened it a few heartbeats later, her cheeks flushed and her lips still wearing a lingering laugh that died when she saw the wolf. The smells of sweat and ale washed over me, and I felt my own hackles rise in response.

“I need to talk to Aspen,” I said, not bothering with courtesies.

The girl’s face paled, and she glanced over her shoulder.

“Who is it?” A male voice asked. The woman wet her lips, fear radiating from her pores, and didn’t answer.

“Aspen,” I said to her again, keeping my voice low. “Now.”