9. Fear the Reaper

Chapter 9

Fear the Reaper

ELIO

" R eady to serve, my king," Kiro, my best lieutenant, salutes me. He's in full uniform for the soldiers' send off. The golden zipper of his sleeveless white bodysuit grazes his thick chin and marks him as a leader of the Ice City. The runes I carved into his skull burn a vibrant shade of blue on one side of his head, while long white hair covers the other.

"At ease, Kiro."

"The new recruits are all packed and ready to leave for the Ice City," he announces.

I walk through the ranks and offer a gracious nod to each of my new reapers. They all stand taller as I greet them, their chins held high.

"Congratulations. When you started this process, there were hundreds of candidates. Be proud of yourselves. You've proved your worth and taken your vows, and it's time to start your new life," I declare loudly so that the entire platoon hears. "Take a good look at your comrades, because from now on, you are family."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," a man replies. Snowflakes brand his neck, and he's got more poise than his peers. A leader in the making, perhaps.

Hands braced behind my back, I return to the front of the platoon. "Kiro will accompany you to your new home. The frost mountains are beautiful, and the Ice City is a place like no other. You will need of nothing there—but forever be set apart. The worlds need you, my reapers. You will be hated by most and cursed to the seven hells for doing people a favor. You've chosen a hard but rewarding life. Trust me, no one appreciates your sacrifice more than I do."

My reapers are my pride and joy, and yet, they don't know me. They can't. Once they move to the Ice City and get deployed throughout the worlds, they can't ever return.

They collect souls and serve the realm until they die. They don't marry or have children.

I pat Kiro's shoulder. "Help them settle in."

The bulky man clears his throat, signaling that he has something else to discuss with me.

"Yes?"

"I've received word from the Ice City, my king. The grueling haze storm on top of Frost Peaks is back, twice as big as last year. It's blocking access to the Blueridge mines."

I catch a wince from surfacing. The weather turbulence that keeps popping up all over Wintermere weighs on my mind quite a bit. "Advise the soldiers to stay outside the storm for the time being. I'll be in Frost Peaks soon enough."

"As you wish, my king." Kiro stands straight in a show of respect and obedience before turning back to his recruits. "Soldiers, put on your masks. On my command."

I leave them to their travels and return to the castle. A huge part of me wishes I could go with them. If I wasn't king… I wouldn't have to pretend to be better than them.

Sara is hyperventilating by the time I join her in the main hall, but she's earned every bit of that panicked grimace after the stupid blind date twist.

"Almost an hour late! How am I supposed to occupy fifty, half-excited, half-terrified mortals while you sulk? The entire kingdom has been looking forward to the Yule ball, as you well know. They're waiting for the results of the first round to start the music, and Paul has run out of things to say." She raises a shaky hand to her brows. "I don't think that's ever happened before."

"Settle down, Sara. I'm here."

She points her index finger at me, looking more feral than ever. "Get that jaded look off your face, or else?—"

She's the only Fae that can speak to me like this, the only one allowed to act so familiar—and only when we're alone. We're the same, Sara and me. She's broken beyond repair, too.

"Here." She crams the bride list into my hands.

I force myself not to flinch, dying to ball the piece of parchment and stomp on it.

"It's only seven days, Elio. You'll get through it." She rests a hand on my arm and gives it a soft squeeze. "And the first one is almost over."

Seven days and one night…she keeps glossing over that part, but there's no use pretending with Sara. She knows I'd rather be anywhere but here.

My distaste for the whole new way she decided to torture me sharpens into anger. "But fifty brides? Was it really necessary? How can I hope to keep track of them all, sight unseen?"

Fifty women. Fifty pointless conversations. My brain is about to implode.

She holds my reproachful gaze. "It's the fiftieth Yule pageant in that many years. The people craved something different, flashy, and a little more modern, so we're emulating the new mortal trends."

Thick make-up covers the dark circles under her blue eyes, and her white turtleneck is meant to cover the snow flaking off her skin. Rouge brings a shade of color to her cheeks, but it's all for the cameras. Sara's blood runs about as cold as mine. And she hasn't been sleeping, either, so she tried to conceal her real mood with a little more makeup than usual.

She offers me a restless smile. "We've all grown tired of the same old routine."

Routine is safe. It allows me to go through the motions without too much hassle.

"And I'm grateful for your efforts, as always." I hand her back the list, stowing my moody thoughts and grievances away. "Whatever you decide. Keep a handful from each court not to disappoint anyone in particular. And get rid of all the Spring seeds, per usual."

She pries a new piece of parchment from her planner—a list she already prepared. "You don't even want to see their names?"

My eyes narrow. "Is that judgment in your voice?"

"You should take this process more seriously. Most of these girls have waited their whole lives to come here," she pleads. "Spring seeds included."

Sara acts as a replacement for my frozen soul. She's my moral compass—the annoying little angel standing on my shoulder.

"Fine." I scan the page quickly and skim the names. "Here. I looked. Get rid of them."

"None of them managed to grab your attention?"

A familiar name, written in a peculiar fashion, catches my eye, and I pause, surprised to see her on the list of Spring seeds. Spring brides are usually cheerful and cliché. I never would have thought that a woman as brutally honest and refreshingly sarcastic could belong to Freya.

"One stood out," I finally admit.

The thick American accent and sultry voice were certainly memorable amid a series of wide-eyed, romantic fools.

"Who?"

I tap her name. "Lori."

"Oh… How did she manage that?"

Lori made me smile, but I'm not going to freak Sara out by mentioning it. I grab an apple from the bowl on the high table and bite into the crisp red fruit. "Don't worry, Sara. I'd never marry a dandelion fluff again."

She keeps the list right under my nose and lowers her voice. "Freya herself will attend the Yule brunch this year. It would be a bad look to eliminate all her candidates before the real challenge even starts. You can't turn your back on Spring forever."

Why not? Spring has certainly turned its back on me, and the sweetness of the apple isn't enough to erase the sour taste in my mouth.

"Keep a handful, then, not to single anyone out. As long as Seth isn't the one presenting them at the Yule brunch, we can keep a few of his fuck friends around for a few days," I say.

"So…Lori. In or out?" Sara acts aloof, but I haven't been on a first-name basis with a bride from the speed round in ages, and we both know this.

I should really eliminate any possible distraction sooner rather than later.

"In," I say instead, my brain not quite right today.

"Are you sure?"

I toss the apple core into the trash. "Yes. For now." The strange warmth at the pit of my belly doubles, and I think back to Lori's brazen comment about my dead wives.

No contestant has ever been so honest with me—not from the start. In spite of myself, I think I'm going to like her.

Paul runs in, panting, and dabs his flushed face with a handkerchief. "Are you ready? Even I can't go on speaking forever," he jokes with a big, nervous smile.

Sara quickly slips the list of Spring seeds back inside her planner. "Yes. All done."

My oldest advisor turns to me. "How did you manage to keep track of them all?"

"I didn't," I answer.

His raucous laugh creeps under my skin, and I fight off the urge to roll my eyes. He doesn't think I'm serious.

Paul's part of the old guard. When I became king, I kept him around to ensure a smooth transition from my predecessor's reign and out of friendship for his daughter, but he actually loves to host these pointless games. His obsession for the sanctity of the pageant has begun to rub off on Sara, which irks my nerves more with each passing year.

He catches his breath, even more red-faced than when he entered. "Ha, Elio. One day, when you're old and gray like me, you'll miss the way these beautiful, young women look at you."

I'm already old, but youth sticks to Fae kings longer than happiness. Paul is almost three hundred years old, and way past his prime, so I'm still a child in his mind. He's relied on his cleverness and immense knowledge to keep his job. His magic is as tepid as magic comes, and I bet my predecessor chose him for his mediocrity, paranoid as he was that someone would steal his crown.

Now that I possess the Winter crown and understand all the indelible heartache that comes with it, I'd gladly give it away, but that's not possible.

"I don't think I could miss any of this," I breathe, looking straight ahead to dodge their reactions.

"The kingdom needs this, Elio. We need this," Paul says.

My teeth grit together at the futile reminder. "I know."

Paul Snow is a shrewd politician. Without his love for the Yule pageant, his exhaustive knowledge of history, and the immense respect he's earned through his centuries of service to the crown, I would have to hunt a woman down and force her to marry me each year.

Me and my endless string of dead wives have made it hard for my soldiers to quell the sparks of rebellion that have been spreading year after year around Wintermere. Enough sparks make a flame and a strong flame brings war.

Sara clears her throat and motions for Paul to lead the way to the balcony. "It's time to shepherd the brides into the ballroom. We'll announce the names of the losers first, but you better go and change before we enter. I put your clothes in the study."

"I'll see you in there." Pretending not to notice the worried curve of Sara's mouth, I speed toward the stairs leading down to the ballroom and the adjoining study. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, in dire need of some mind-erasing, numbness-inducing Nether cider.

Paul's thunderous voice reaches my ears as he steps out on the balcony, "Fantastic news! The results are in."

I skip the stairs two at a time to distance myself from the cold, miserable pressure in my gut, but alas, I carry it with me.

The Yule pageant is an age-old tradition. It keeps me from becoming a fairytale monster in the eyes of my subjects and reels in the discontented High Fae who might back a formal challenge.

Everyone loves a bittersweet exhibition of chaos, beauty, and greed, and the life-and-death stakes have only amplified the grim fascination viewers cater for my nuptials.

Sara and Paul's antics make the queen-selection process appear transparent and exciting, when it's nothing more than a sacrifice. The large rewards we offer keep the women coming, but I'm the one who has to endure the wedding night. The one who sees the fear in their eyes when death comes for them.

Keeping the kingdom safe and thriving makes all this morbid showmanship worth the hassle. In theory.