Wicked Lovely (Wicked Lovely 1)

She wasn’t far from her cottage when Beira’s guard found her. That didn’t take long.

She’d known Beira would be true to her word, known that her death wouldn’t be far past Aislinn’s ascension. Without the winter’s chill to defend herself, she was almost as helpless as a mortal in their hands.

The guards weren’t as rough as the dark fey, but not for lack of trying. When they tossed her at Beira’s feet, the Winter Queen said nothing. Instead she kicked Donia in the face, flipping her backward with the force of her attack.

“Beira, how nice to see you,” Donia said in a voice much weaker than she’d have liked.

Beira laughed. “I could almost like you, darling. A pity”—she lifted one blood-spattered hand, and manacles of ice formed around Donia’s wrists—“you aren’t reliable.”

Donia had thought the weight of Beira’s chill had ached before, but as she struggled against the freezing manacles, she realized she had no idea of how cold Beira’s ice could truly be.

As Donia turned to answer the Winter Queen, a coughing-choking sound distracted her.

Crouched in the corner was Seth, trying to get to his feet, legs buried under several feet of snow. His chest was half exposed, his shirt in tatters from something’s claws.

Beira bent down. Her icy breath brushed Donia’s face; her frost gathered in Donia’s hair. “You were to help me. Instead you were consorting with the enemy.”

“I did the right thing. Keenan is—”

With an ugly noise, Beira clamped her hand over Donia’s mouth. “You. Betrayed. Me.”

“Don’t make her angrier,” Seth called weakly as he struggled free of the snowdrift. His jeans were in the same condition as his shirt. Blood trickled onto the snow around him. One of the bars in his eyebrow had been ripped out, and a thin line of blood ran down his face.

“Pretty, isn’t he? He doesn’t scream like the wood-sprites, but he’s still entertaining. I’d almost forgotten how easily mortals break.” Beira licked her lips as she watched Seth try to stay upright. He shivered violently, but he kept trying.

Donia said nothing.

“But you, well, I know how much more pain you can take.” Beira cupped Donia’s face, driving already-bloody fingernails into Donia’s cheek and throat. “Shall I let the wolves have you when I’m done? They don’t mind if their toys are already a little used up.”

“No,” Seth said in a strangled voice, proof that he’d already met the lupine fey.

Beira turned toward him and blew. Razor sharp spikes of ice jutted up from the floor where he was now trying to crawl. Several sliced into his legs.

“Persistent, isn’t he?” Beira asked, laughing.

Donia didn’t speak, didn’t move. Instead she rolled her eyes.

For a heartbeat, Beira just stared at her. Then she smiled, as cold and cruel as the worst of the dark fey.

“Well. It would be more fun if you play. That’s what you want, right? As if you can trick me, so you can run”—Beira slapped her, knocking Donia’s head into the floor so hard that she felt nauseous—“but you won’t get to run.”

The manacles melted then, leaving frostbitten skin as the only proof they’d been there.

Donia scrambled over to Seth, ignoring the shards that drove into her feet, and helped him up. She couldn’t actually beat Beira, but she was still a faery—strong enough to lift a mortal, strong enough to withstand more pain than him.

“The door’s that way,” he muttered as she half carried him forward.

“How darling!” Beira gushed. “The tragic lovers of the damnable Summer Court working together. It’s just so sweet.”

For several minutes she watched them as they tried to cross the growing barrier of ice, cheering at each bit of progress and adding more obstacles as she cheered.

Donia didn’t speak, saving her energy to try—unsuccessfully—to reach the door with Seth.

Finally Beira motioned the hags closer. “Did the rowan-man finally manage to crawl to my foolish son?”

When the hags nodded, Beira clapped. “Lovely. So they’ll be here soon. What fun!”

Then she tilted her head inquiringly and asked Donia, “Do you think they’ll be more upset if you’re dead or still suffering?