The Winter Witch

by Karpov Kinrade

  Shrugging aside that problem for a later time when I have more energy, I continue pulling out items.

  My Grimoire is wrapped in leather treated with linseed oil to make it resistant to water damage. I set it aside and reach instead for my herbs and potions. I have strong healing remedies here, but if I heal myself too fast, I'll become a meal that much sooner. I need to stay injured as long as possible, but regain my strength quickly. It's quite the conundrum.

  I study my available ingredients and mentally inventory what I've learned over the years.

  An idea forms, and I finally pull out my Grimoire, unwrapping it from the leather and flipping through until I find the page I'm looking for. It's a spell for a tonic that will help me slowly build internal stamina, but shouldn't actually accelerate the healing of my skin and muscle. I take pinches of the necessary ingredients and drop them into my stone mortar, then use the matching pestle to grind it to fine granules. When it's ready, I crawl to the foot of the bed and grab the teapot sitting on the service table.

  This is when I notice that the fire has been stoked and fresh wood added to it. How? I look around, heart pounding, to check that I'm still alone, but no one has come in since my abductor left. And though I obviously haven't had a full tour, I get the distinct impression no one else lives here.

  I shake my head, confused, but too tired and in too much pain to think long on it. Instead, I check the water in the teapot. It's still hot, and though it already has a blend of tea mixed with the water, that shouldn't negatively impact this specific spell.

  I dump the herbs into my empty teacup and fill it with steaming liquid, then utter the incantation that will activate the spell. It fizzes, glows a soft golden light, then fades. I let it steep for five minutes before I drink it in one long gulp, gagging slightly on the bitter roots.

  As I knew it would, the potion settles into me, lulling me into a deep and regenerative sleep.

  When I wake the next morning, the beast is sitting by my bedside reading another book.

  My mouth feels full of cotton as I clear my throat.

  "You've awoken at last," the man says, handing me a glass of water.

  I drink deeply before replying. "How long was I asleep?"

  "Two nights," he says, and if I didn't know better, I'd swear he sounds worried.

  "Keeping an eye on your meal?" My comment is deliberate. I don't want either of us to forget why he's helping me, and he has the decency to look away.

  "Now that you're awake, I will draw you a bath. I've already changed the dressings on your wounds while you slept. You're healing nicely."

  At the promise of a bath, I smile, then frown. "I wash the chickens before I eat them, so I assume this is much the same," I say.

  "Think what you like," he says gruffly, as he heads to a door on the other side of my room. "I just thought you would like to clean yourself up after such a long journey."

  He is right, of course. I can smell myself, and that's never pleasant. And a soak in a hot tub would go a long way to easing the ache in my body and the cold I always feel in my bones. Damn him.

  "If I'm going to be your captive until I heal, which given the severity of my wounds could take a month or more, what should I call you?"

  He frowns. "I am Alaric, Crowned Prince of the Avondale Kingdom. Or at least I was, once upon a time."

  "Alaric," I say, testing his name out on my tongue.

  His eyes widen, and he sucks in his breath. "It has been too long since someone last spoke my name aloud. Say it again?"

  There's such vulnerability in his request that I can't help but feel compassion for him. He lives all alone atop a mountain of ice, banished from all contact save once a year when his meal comes begrudgingly to him. That would make anyone into a monster.

  "Alaric," I say again as I hold out my hand, palm up as is tradition. "I would say it's a pleasure making your acquaintance, but since you're planning on killing me, that might come across as disingenuous. I'm Adara Alexander."

  He looks down at my hand like he's never seen one before, then after a moment finally places his palm against mine, holding it there a moment as he locks his gaze with mine. "I wish we had met under different circumstances, Adara," he says.

  I yank my hand back as if he'd burned me with the coldest ice or the hottest fire, and I glance down, unable to tolerate bearing witness to the deep pain I see reflected in his eyes.

  I don't want to think about what has been done to him, or how he might feel. I'm not here to be his Tribal Mentor, I'm here to be his end. And I can't let anything distract me from that mission.

  But that doesn’t mean I can't take a bath.

  So I allow him to help me out of bed. My legs wobble under my weight, and a well-muscled arm slips around my waist as he lifts me as easily as a child.

  His face is so close to mine, my chest partially pressed against his. He's held me like this before, but I was bleeding and in so much pain I couldn't stay awake. Now, though, I am much more conscious of how he feels against me, how his arms feel around me.

  I don't like the feelings his nearness inspires in me.

  I don't like that I'm starting to see him as a person.

  "Do you fear me?" he asks, his voice a whisper against my skin.

  "Yes," I say, and it's the truth, but not the truth he thinks. I do not fear dying to him. I fear falling for him.

  But my answer sends a shadow across his face as he walks me into the bathroom and gently places me back on my feet.

  "You are right to. I cause only pain."

  Whatever response I might have had to him dies on my lips as I study the washroom before me. It's massive, larger than some houses in Willowdale, and in the center is a bath big enough for several adults, and tiled in intricate designs of blues and greens. The tub is full of steaming water, and oils, salts, and dried flower petals are sorted into glass jars on the edge.

  "When did you prepare this?" I ask. The water looks too hot to have been there long, but he's been with me this whole time.

  He looks away. "Your needs will always be met while you are a guest here," he says, avoiding my question entirely.

  I'm ready to sink into the water, but he's still standing there, staring. "Are you planning on watching?" I ask pointedly.

  His lips tighten. "Of course not, but you are too injured still to be left alone entirely. You could slip or… " he struggles to find the words, and I sigh.

  "It's fine, just turn your head a moment."

  To be honest, I'm not particularly modest. We have a community bathing house in Willowdale that I frequented. It was the only place anyone could be naked without freezing to death. Still, I don't want to be that exposed to the man I'm here to kill.

  When he averts his gaze, I tug at my slip, sliding it off with no small amount of discomfort, then I carefully climb into the bath.

  The moment my body sinks into the water I can't help but sigh in deep contentment. "You can turn around now," I say, as I sniff at the jars and pour a mixture of oils, salts, and flowers into the water.

  The room fills with a floral scent that is relaxing, and I close my eyes and breathe in the steam and gentle fragrance while Alaric sits near me.

  After a long moment of silence, he clears his throat. "Would you… like me to read to you?"

  His question surprises me, and I turn my head to look at him. "That would be… unexpectedly nice," I say, a war of emotions playing in my heart.

  He cracks open his book and begins, his voice deep and soothing.

  I don't know how long we go on like this for, but once the water cools, I fidget, ready to get out, but my body is a limp noodle and I know I'll need his help.

  He seems to grasp this intuitively and offers me a plush robe to cover myself as his strong arms lift me from the bath. I get water all over his shirt, but he doesn't seem to mind. He carries me to the bedroom and sets me in front of the fire, allowing me to dry myself off.

  There's already a pile of warm clothes at my side
when I'm done, though I didn't see him leave to retrieve them. The mystery of this castle deepens, but I stifle my questions and dress slowly while his head is turned.

  “Do you wish to go back to bed?” he asks, turning back to me once I'm properly clothed.

  “No,” I say, surprising myself. "I'm tired of being in bed, though I can't do much."

  "We could read in front of the fire," he offers. "I can show you my library and you could pick anything you'd like."

  The promise of a library makes my pulse race and I smile. "That sounds wonderful."

  He frowns. "It's a bit of a walk. Perhaps I could carry you. You are still quite weak from your wounds."

  A thrill of delight travels through me unbidden at the thought of being in his arms again, but I push it aside, burying it entirely. Still, I nod. I want the books more than I want to protect my heart, it would seem.

  He carries me down long halls, turning many corners, until we reach a tall double door made of a deep mahogany wood and stained glass. He uses one hand to push it open, then gently sets me down.

  I gasp as I look around.

  The library is three floors high, with tall ladders on wheels placed strategically and books covering every shelf and wall. There are more books here than I could ever read in ten lifetimes. When I can finally pull my gaze from the splendor of this room, I stare up at him. "Have you read all these?"

  He nods. "When you have lived as long as I in this prison of ice and solitude, books become your only companion."

  I can't help it; I reach for his hand. It is ice to my touch and he blinks in surprise, but I don't let go. Not right away. Because in this moment I realize the most awful truth.

  This man hasn't had loving human contact in probably thousands of years. He has relied on ink and paper for all of his emotional needs, and that is such a tragedy it brings tears to my eyes. If there's nothing else I can do for him, I can at least do this. I can at least give him a moment of kindness, whatever else might happen between us.

  I swallow my tears before I speak. "Thank you for this. I don't know how to pick. Will you choose a few for me?"

  And so he does, piling several well-worn leather treasures into a bag, then carrying both it and me back to my room.

  That night we stay up late reading in quiet companionship in front of the fire that never dies, and as I fall asleep, book in lap, my eyes too heavy to keep open, I feel him lift me gently and tuck me into bed. Before he leaves, I hear him whisper, "thank you."

  Chapter 5

  That proved to be the first of many nights we followed the same routine. We both slept all day. He was there in the evening when I woke, a bath magically ready for me. At first, he would leave me alone to bathe, sitting near enough in case I slipped or injured myself. Then he would dress my wounds and we would read in silence together in front of the fire. After a fortnight of such activity, it organically progressed to us discussing what we were reading, sharing favorite passages, having heated debates.

  He’s smart. Brilliant, in fact. And insightful, especially when it comes to the emotional turmoil of our favorite fictional characters. I enjoy our conversations more than I should and have tried my best to keep my own responses, and the feelings he stirs in me, to a minimum.

  But tonight, as I'm about to drop my robe and step into the steaming water, the custom tiles warm under my feet, I stop him before he leaves. "Alaric, don't go. I'm lonely for company. Once I'm in the water, could you come and sit with me? Maybe read to me again?"

  His back is to me, and he's frozen, his muscles stiffening, tension rolling off his shoulder. "You wish for my company?" he asks. "Here?"

  "Yes." I slide into the water, the rose petals and foam hiding my nakedness. "You can look now."

  He turns, his gaze clearly avoiding looking into the water as he takes a seat near the tub. He pulls out the book I knew he'd have in his housecoat and opens to a random page to read aloud.

  I close my eyes and lean back, letting the hot water and oils and salts work their magic. His voice lulls me into a calm relaxation, and in that dazed state nothing matters but this moment, the here and now.

  And then, a hot bucket of water is poured into my bath. I open my eyes, thinking it will be Alaric, but there is no body attached to the bucket. It is flying of its own accord.

  I gasp, and splash to standing position, unconcerned with modesty as the bucket sets itself back where it was.

  "What the snow-capped nightmare was that?" I ask.

  But Alaric isn't listening to me, his eyes are glued to my naked body, and I suddenly realize how exposed I am.

  I cover myself with one hand and hold out my other. "My robe please?"

  He blinks, pulling out of his stupor, and averts his gaze, doing as I asked.

  I shrug into it and tie the waistband as I step out of the water.

  Alaric still won't look at me as he leaves the bathroom and enters my bedroom. "Dress yourself with warmth in mind. There's something you should see."

  He doesn't look excited about the prospect of showing me whatever this secret is, but if he's asking me to dress warmly, it must mean we are going outside, and I am desperate for some fresh air. I've never spent this much time indoor in my entire life, even counting the month during the autumn equinox that my magic fully manifested and I became sick from it.

  He waits in the hall while I dress as quickly as my still-healing body will allow. My original clothes have been cleaned and hung in the wardrobe, which also holds a variety of styles and sizes of dresses, trousers, tops and cloaks. I run a finger over them, and the hairs on my arm stand on end. I feel dizzy for a moment, and then it passes, and I reach for my clothes and slam the door shut, anxious to rid myself of those feelings.

  I haven't forgotten about the floating bucket. He will answer me, one way or another. I have noticed a lot of strange things about this castle since I arrived. Fires stoking themselves, things moving when no one was in the room, footprints in the carpet in front of the fire when I was alone. I need answers.

  Once dressed, I meet him in the hall, and he offers his arm. I would refuse, but I still feel weak, and this is the longest I'll have walked since the attack. I don't want to risk falling.

  The potion I've been giving myself has helped me tremendously, but it's been a true lesson in self-discipline to not speed up my healing with my other spells. My right arm and neck still ooze and need regularly cleaning, and they hurt constantly. My left arm had the shallowest bites and is healing much faster, providing at least one semi-useful limb.

  We make our way through long hallways decorated in silver and white, with splashes of blue in paintings and crystals. There are no portraits of Alaric anywhere, I notice, but I don't ask him about it. He becomes quite melancholic when pressed about his own life, so I've learned to tread carefully.

  I find myself having to remind myself to stay focused on why I'm here. My dedication has been slipping the more he and I spend time together, but I can't allow that to happen. I've tried looking for opportunities to slip the poison to him, but he never eats or drinks in my presence. I asked him about it once and his cryptic reply was, "I do not have desirable table manners," and that was the end of the conversation.

  And since I haven't left my bedroom until now, I've had no chance to look for a knife, but now I scan every hall, every corner we turn to see if anything could be pocketed and used as a weapon later.

  Even as I consider this, I feel a twinge of guilt in my gut.

  Can I really do this? Can I truly kill someone in cold blood who has nursed me back to health and fed me and been kind to me? But I remind myself that as soon as I'm well enough, he will dine on my blood and leave me for dead. Just like he did my parents.

  It seems one of us must die in this relationship, and it needs to be him, to save everyone else.

  This hardens my resolve, and he must feel me tense, because he tilts his head to glance at me. "Are you feeling ill? Should we stop?" he asks with so much care I want to p
unch him.

  "I'm fine. Show me what's so important."

  He frowns at the ice in my voice and my clipped manner, but doesn’t comment on it, so I don't either. We walk in silence down the spiral stairs and through the foyer, a large sitting room, a formal living room and finally to a back door.

  The moment we step outside, I inhale the fresh cold air like my life depends on it. A witch without access to nature is a shell of herself.

  Alaric pauses and watches me take deep breaths as I tilt my face up to the moon.

  "You look beautiful under the moonlight," he says, so softly it takes my mind a moment to process his words.

  I don't know how to respond directly to his compliment, so I sidestep it and ignore the warm glow his words light in me. "I've always loved the moon. She is a mystery who holds her secrets close to her, and yet shares her magic and wisdom with all who step under her beams."

  "I have been apart from the sun for so long, I don't quite remember what it feels like. All I know now is the moon, and I think you are correct, she shares her magic, but never her secrets."

  We walk together down a cobbled path, ice crunching beneath our feet, until we reach a hidden garden enclosed behind a tall stone fence.

  Alaric approaches the door and uses a key from his pouch to unlock it, swinging the heavy wooden door inward.

  Apprehension weighs on me as I approach, and my senses are on alert.

  When I enter, I notice first the white vines growing over the walls, covered in tiny red flowers. Throughout the garden, everything is red or white. White barked trees with red leaves, red flowers with white stems, snow coating everything.

  And in the center, row after row of gravestones.

  I suck in my breath, my head spinning. "What is this place?" I ask through clenched teeth.

  "It is my tribute to my victims. It is where I bury the dead."

  My heart falters, and my legs grow weak.

  If this is where all of his victims have been buried, then that means my parents are here too.