Winter Princess: A reverse harem novel (Daughter of Winter Book 1)

by Skye MacKinnon

  “Happy Birthday, Wyn,” I whisper to myself and switch off the light.

  And gasp in shock.

  My body convulses. Every muscle tightens and suddenly I’m in the foetal position, my limbs locked around my torso. White hot pains floods my mind, but I can’t open my mouth to scream. I can feel my fingernails burying themselves in my palms and I know that I’ve drawn blood. My chest hurts and I can’t breathe. I try to gulp up air, but my lungs refuse to obey. I’m locked into myself, screaming inside, the pain threatening to drown me. Am I dying? Is this the end?

  Without warning, my muscles relax, and with a rattling sound in my chest, I can breathe again. I take a deep breath, savouring the cool air flowing down into my lungs. My body hurts from the involuntary exertion. I lie on the bed, not moving, trying to calm down my breathing. What the hell was that? Was that some kind of physical illness or is it my magic going amok?

  My throat is parched and I feel a little dizzy. I slowly get up and make my way through the dark flat until I reach my kitchenette. Pouring myself a glass of water and downing it in one go, I lean against the counter. My heart is still beating too fast. My hand holding the glass is shaking slightly. I am scared. Should I wake my parents? But then, maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s nothing.

  Wrong.

  I collapse to the floor, my body going limp. I’m not fainting, my mind is fully aware, but my body refuses to move. At least this time there’s no pain. But I can’t feel anything. No warmth, no cold, no tingling. Nothing. It’s as if I’m completely separated from the body that’s lying crumpled on the kitchen floor.

  Then the clattering starts. It’s coming from the kitchen cupboards: rattling, knocking, shattering. One of the cupboard doors above me flies open and out float four wine glasses, trundling in the air, gently knocking against each other with the most beautiful chime. They’re followed by my mugs. Another cupboard opens. With a bang, a plate flies out and crashes against the wall opposite, breaking into a hundred pieces. More plates destroy themselves kamikaze style, and shards are raining down on me. I don’t even know if they’re cutting me; I still can’t feel anything. The banging in my drawers gets louder until they fly open, releasing my cutlery into the air. The knives are flying around in a swarm, while the forks seem to be line dancing. This must be a dream. Only in a dream forks can dance.

  There’s a loud knock on my door, and I can hear my father shouting, but I can’t respond. I’m trapped within my body, surrounded by flying crockery. The knocking turns into banging, and with a crash, the door flies open. A second later, my parents are standing at the kitchen door, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. It must be quite a sight.

  “Wyn?” my mother asks, her voice trembling. “Why aren’t you moving?”

  Suddenly, the knife-flock turns in the air and assembles in something that looks like an attack formation, directed at my parents. My large bread knife spearheads its brothers. They tremble, then the first one shoots forward, aiming for my father’s head.

  NOOOOOO! I shout inside my head, and with a gigantic crash, they stop in mid-flight and fall down to the floor, together with the rest of my crockery. A plate hits the ground next to my face and a shard buries itself in my cheek. It hurts like hell, but it’s a good pain, because I can finally feel again. I wiggle my fingers and slowly, they comply. But with movement comes the pain. I feel like I just survived a meteor shower. I am covered in scratches and my clothes are shredded by glass and porcelain shards. The one in my cheek seems to be the deepest wound though.

  My parents are still standing in the doorway, staring at the carnage that was once my kitchen.

  “Wyn?” my dad croaks. “What was that?”

  “Are you alright?” mum whispers.

  I just nod, not yet ready to speak. And I don’t have any answers anyway. Usually, my telekinetic magic allows me to lift one plate at a time. If I concentrate really hard, I can lift two, but only for a few seconds at a time. This is crazy.

  I slowly stumble to my feet, brushing the debris off my ruined clothes. My cupboards are empty, their contents now lying destroyed on the floor. The only thing left on the counter is the glass of water I drank from earlier.

  My eyes fill with tears as I look at the destruction I wrought. I’d always known magic could be dangerous, but not like this. What if the knives hadn’t stopped? What if my parents had been hurt, or worse?

  Tears are running down my face, mixing with the blood trickling from the cut on my cheek. I look down and see that my shirt is already drenched in blood, both from my cheek and from other, smaller wounds.

  A sob escapes me, and a second later, my mum takes me in her arms, holding me as I cry. She isn’t asking any questions, and for that, I am unbelievably grateful. For now, I just want to be sad. Maybe a little self-pity will make this better.

  But it’s not over yet.

  This time, it’s a headache. But not any kind of headache. A burning, splitting, all-destroying headache.

  I feel my knees wobble and just manage to whisper “Get away from me” to my parents. If another magic attack is happening, I don’t want them anywhere near me. I almost killed my dad once already, and the sun hasn’t even risen.

  They step back and I gently fall to the ground. This time, my body remains under my control, but with the aching pain in my head, that doesn’t matter. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep all light away from my senses. I’ve had migraines before, but never this bad. My head is being ripped apart and there is nothing I can do to make it better.

  “Wyn!” I hear from afar. “Wyn, you need to stop!”

  I don’t know what he means. I can’t look, I can’t hear anything, all I feel is the pain and the rushing of blood in my ears.

  “Wyn, please, look, you need to stop it!”

  Their voices are becoming more desperate but I’m lying on the ground, my entire being encased in agony. I can smell something, but my mind isn’t aware enough to figure out what it is. My parents’ voices are getting quieter until they disappear. I’m on my own, alone with the pain. A roaring has started all around me and the smell is getting more intense.

  Burning. I can smell burning. With all I’ve got, I manage to open my eyes a little. The light almost makes me pass out. It’s bright, too bright. It shouldn’t be this bright in my flat. It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing.

  Fire.

  Lots of fire.

  Without warning, the pain disappears and my eyes fly open, my senses fully aware again. I am surrounded by a circle of flames; so high they’re licking at the ceiling. Somehow the smoke of the fire is kept outside of the circle around me, otherwise I’d likely be unconscious already. I concentrate, the way I usually do when I try to make a flame appear. But all I can do is light a candle; I’ve never tried to extinguish it.

  Stop, please stop, I beg in my mind, but nothing changes. If anything, the flames are getting stronger. My kitchen is no more and I through the haze, I can see how the fire has spread through the rest of my flat. I am surrounded by a sea of flames. Even if I knew how to leave this circle, I’d never make it out alive. I just hope my parents got out in time.

  “Mum! Dad!” I shout, but the roaring of the flames swallows my cries. I step forward, hoping that the circle might follow me. Instead, I singe my fingers on the fire wall. Sucking on them, I try again to concentrate on the flames. Stop. Extinguish. End.

  It’s not working. The ceiling above me is creaking; soon it will collapse, burying me under it. At least fire moves upwards, so maybe it hasn’t spread to my parent’s flat below mine yet. Maybe the floor won’t collapse. Maybe they’ll still be able to live in this place once I’m gone, once I’ve burned it all and myself.

  Sooty tears are streaming down my face. How could everything get so out of control? Did my birth mother know? Why didn’t she warn me? Why didn’t anyone warn me my magic could do this? Had I known, I’d spent the night somewhere else, in some remote field where I couldn’t hurt anybody.

 
Even though I have no control over the fire, I can feel how it’s draining the energy out of me. It’s using my energy to fuel its hunger. My legs wobble but I stay standing. I don’t want to die on the floor, pitifully lying there, awaiting my end. I’d rather stand and look death into the eye.

  The circle around me is slowly becoming smaller. The fire walls are closing in on me. The heat is becoming unbearable and I can smell my hair burning.

  I guess this is the end.

  I prepare myself. Once, they burned witches at the stake. Now, I’m burning myself. My magic is killing me. Oh what irony.

  I feel faint, but if I fall now, I will fall into the flames. Need to stay strong.

  Voices in the distance.

  Then, figures, four dark silhouettes walking through the fire, unharmed. The flames are avoiding them - all except for the fire wall around me. When they stand close to my fiery prison, I can see that they are all young men, larger than average, but their features are hidden behind the smoke.

  One of them is saying something, but I can’t hear him through the flames. I try to raise my hand to my ears to show him that I cannot understand him, but the fire has crept closer again and I burn my hand, screaming. He shouts again, and then they’re walking around the fire column until they stand in a circle. Four men, in symmetry, like a compass.

  I feel something in the air, like a soft, gentle breeze that strokes my cheek. Then something is ripped from me, and I pass out.

  Darkness.

  It’s cold when I wake up. I don’t need to think long about what happened, it immediately rushes back into my mind. The fire, the flying cutlery, the heat, the fear, the pain. Everything out of control. Feeling helpless. Trapped. A tear runs down my face, too late to be of much significance.

  “Hey, easy,” a deep voice whispers. I look up, only to find four men staring down at me. And behind them, my parents. Through their legs, I recognise my street. The sky is filled with dark grey smoke and I can still smell burning. Apparently, the fire didn’t disappear when I passed out. It’s still devouring the house I grew up in.

  “How are you feeling?” the same guy asks and gently lays a hand on my forehead. He’s kneeling next to me, his bright blue eyes examining me closely. They’re ocean-blue with turquoise specks around the pupil. I’ve never seen eyes this vibrant before. Blond hair is a mess on his forehead; it looks like he just got out of bed, but this effect likely took him hours in front of the mirror. His face is perfectly symmetric, his skin flawless. I know immediately that he isn’t human. He’s not a mage either - mages look human on the outside, and even though some can change their looks with their magic, they’d never be able to look this perfect.

  His warm hand disappears from my forehead and I shiver. It’s strange how not long ago I was almost burned to death, and now I’m cold. My teeth are beginning to chatter and goose bumps are covering my skin.

  “Careful, she’s flaring again,” another man says, and four pairs of feet step away from me. It’s probably better that way. I hurt people. I almost killed my parents.

  The cold is taking over my body. My breath is coming out in a soft cloud. I’m shivering, unable to control it. Something touches my cheek, and when I look up, I can see snowflakes raining down on me. There’s a sort of milky bubble where they start, hiding the view of the sunny sky. It’s like I’m in my own little microclimate. Fighting against the shivers, I roll to one side and sit up. The semi-translucent dome is taller than me and about twice as wide.

  People are standing outside of it - the four men, my parents, and I can see some of our neighbours coming out of their houses. Sirens are ringing in the distance, but I am too cold to care. Ice flowers are forming on the bubble, slowly blocking out the view. It’s like someone is building an igloo around me. My jaw is hurting from all the teeth chattering. I have lost all feeling in my hands and feet. The snow falling down on me is getting thicker, and harder. It’s slowly turning into hail.

  Suddenly, something bumps against the dome. Another hit, this time from the other side. Hands are pressed against the milky substance, four pairs of them. Just like with the fire column earlier, there’s one in each direction. Four men, fighting against my magic.

  The dome is quivering and thick gashes are appearing on its surface. With a high pitched crack, it collapses, covering me in icy shards and a heap of snow.

  A burst of energy is drawn out of me and my legs buckle. Before my knees hit the ground, arms wrap around me and pull me up. They’re warm, hot almost, and pull me against an even warmer body. I’m still shivering and lean into the warmth, rubbing against it in an effort to dispel the cold that is clouding my mind.

  Someone clears his throat above me. I look up and jump back. I was pressed against a man I don’t know, and he’s laughing at me. Oops. But he was warm, that’s my excuse. He pulled me against him. It wasn’t my doing at all. I’m innocent.

  Then why do I feel so ashamed? I rub my arms, missing the warmth of his body. The cold air makes way to a warm breeze that gently hugs me. I sigh contentedly and close my eyes, ignoring the stares I’m most likely getting. The warmth is feeling so good. If it wasn’t air, I’d hug it back.

  “How many flares has she been through?” A man’s voice, unfamiliar.

  “Flares?” my father asks.

  “The ice was one, the fire another. Did anything else happen before that?”

  “Oh yes, she destroyed her kitchen. Made things fly.”

  “Air, fire, ice. Shouldn’t be many more then.”

  What? More of this stuff is going to happen to me? I can’t go through this, not again. I’m exhausted and fainting once was enough. I just want to go back to bed, forget about all this and be normal. Not human normal, I’ll never be that. Demi-god normal.

  When I’m all warm again, the mild air around me disappears. I open my eyes. The four men are standing in a row, watching me. One of them, with long black hair and a black cloak - yes, a wizard kind of cloak - is lowering his arms. He’s looking exhausted. Tendrils of magic are slowly pulling back into his hands, taking the warmth of the air with them.

  Not every mage can see magic; in fact, I only know of two others.

  I give him a small smile. “Thank you.”

  He nods and gives me a small bow. Not a smile though.

  “Storm. At your service.”

  “Storm? Is that your name?” I ask, a little confused.

  “Yes, is something wrong with that? Your name is Wynter, isn’t it?” He gives me an annoyed look. Oops, I upset the guy who just helped me.

  “Yeah,” I mutter. Don’t remind me. I know every Wynter-winter joke there is. “Sorry.”

  “He’s playing with you, lass,” the largest of them laughs. He must have giant blood in him. His hair is as ginger as it gets, and he is wearing - please believe me - a kilt. I mean, yes, I live in Scotland and people here wear kilts occasionally, but that’s at weddings or festivals, and not in everyday life. A beautiful white sporran is hanging right over where his - anyways, he looks like a Scottish caricature. Except better looking. A lot better looking.

  “I’m Arc. And over there are Frost and Crispin.” He points to the other two guys who’ve been quiet so far. One of them is the blond man with the blue eyes. The other, Frost, is the spitting image of Storm: black hair that falls to his shoulders, dark brown eyes, tall. Kudos to the parents who named their twin sons Storm and Frost.

  “Hello,” Frost says, smiling at me. While his brother is gorgeous and serious, he’s gorgeous and friendly. Dimples are adorning his cheeks. I shoot a quick glance at Storm. Nope, no dimples there. I guess this will be the way to tell them apart. And the fact that Frost is wearing normal clothes, not looking like someone straight out of Hogwarts.

  My mother rips me out of my men-admiring thoughts. “Are you alright, sweetie? What happened?” She pushes past the four men and wraps me in her arms. She’s a slender woman, but her grip is strong. “When Beira wrote that you were going to—”

  �
��What? She wrote to you?” I interrupt her.

  “Yes, a few weeks ago. She—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Anger is rising up in me and I clench my fists. She knew! She knew and she didn’t warn me. I could have prepared, I could have stayed away. I almost hurt her. I almost died. The house was burning. Anger is overtaking me, and suddenly I start shaking. And with me, the ground.

  I can see the people around me fighting to stay upright, but I have no such problems. The ground is holding me up, stabilising me, giving me strength, while I do its bidding. It has wanted to move for so long and now it has finally found an outlet. I can feel the pain of the earth where houses are burrowing deep into its skin. They shouldn’t be there. It’s not right.

  I raise my arms and gather as much of the earth’s power as I can hold. And then I let it free. The ground shakes violently and deep cuts open up in the tarmac. I only half notice the screaming around me. I am strong, and I need to make things right. I point to one house, and it crumbles like a giant just stepped on it. Its walls collapse and roof tiles cover the rubble like sprinkles on a cake. It feels good. I adjust my stance on the trembling ground and draw more energy into myself. There is so much magic in the earth, so much power. It’s been waiting for a long time for someone to use it. I point my arms to another house and it leans to one side, aching, shivering, until it collapses, burying half the garden under it. I laugh. It looks so pretty.

  Something touches me and with a simple flick of my wrist, I repel them. I’m busy, no one will get in my way. Another touch, this time from the other side. Again, I move my hand to make them fly away, but before I can do so, my arms are captured and pressed to my side. The magic I had ready to flow to one side bursts out of me into the ground. This time, I don’t stay on my feet. I fall, hitting my knees on the broken asphalt. Magic is still flowing out of me, shaking the earth. It hurts. The gentle embrace of magic turns into a white-hot stream that uses my body as its conduit. I’m just a tool for it. A channel. It betrayed me. I scream and beat my hands against the ground. With everything I’ve got, I expel all the magic within me.