CHENOO: The Man With the Heart of Ice by Rachael Lucas

Once, in the far north, there was a woman called Nadie. She had earned this name for her cleverness and quick thinking. Her husband was not only known as a great hunter and a wise man, but was also considered very handsome, so that he was known as Huritt. Their only child was a boy named Mingan.

The sky was a soft gray like the wings of a dove on the day they set out from the camp of their friends and family to go hunting in the woodlands to the north. A few flakes of soft, white snow drifted down, settling on Nadie’s hair. Ahead of her, beside the dog sled, Mingan stopped to stare up at the flakes. Then he let out a joyful cry and started jumping and hopping about, trying to catch the illusive crystals out of the air.

Nadie smiled softly to herself. It was only the boy’s fifth winter, and the magic of snow still enchanted him without the added weight of responsibility which comes with having to feed a family in winter. The People of the Dawn were used to dealing with the harsh cold, but it was still a weight on both of the parent’s minds to know that they had to provide for the little family in the coming months.

As they walked, Nadie kept an eye both on her son and the dog with its sled. This simple Travios was full of many of their most important supplies.

Ahead of the woman walked Huritt, a spear held at ready in his hands and a bow with its quiver slung across his back. His braid of dark hair bobbed back and forth across his bow, slowly becoming white from the snow. Nadie pulled her bearskin blanket tighter across her shoulders; it was becoming colder as night came on.

Soon the little family stopped to camp for the night, erecting a simple shelter of skins and bark which could be quickly taken down again in the morning. That night they slept huddled up together for warmth, as the snow continued to fall in the darkness. The next morning there was three inches on the frozen ground; not deep enough yet to wear snowshoes, but just deep enough to make the going harder.

All that day and for three more days afterwards they continued north. Then, on the afternoon of the fifth day, Huritt declared that they should stop and make a permanent camp. The snow had stopped coming down, leaving a crusty six inches behind, and there was a break in the clouds above. The ice-blue sky looked down through the break like a great eye, and as she began setting up a bark shelter, Nadie wondered if it was the eye of the Great Spirit, watching over them from above.

As she worked, Mingan played with his bows and arrows around the edges of the little clearing in the woods. Most likely, the woman reflected, he was pretending that it was a bear or some other fierce animal which he was hunting. The young ones always enjoyed playing at hunting something fierce.

Huritt was out hunting himself, though it was probably the timid deer he was after, and Nadie picked up her stone ax to go break apart some dry branches for firewood. Her man would be hungry when he came back from the cold hunt, and would want something warm to fill him.

She went over to a dying oak tree which stood beside a clump of bushes on the edge of the clearing and began chopping at its dead branches. Clump, crack, clump, crack.

She had already amassed a small pile of wood when she heard a rustling in the bushing beside her. Thinking that it would only be Mingan, playing his games, she turned to look at him with a smile on her face. But it froze like a teardrop in the snow as she stared, terrified at what she saw in the bushes.

It was not the playful face of a little boy looking out at her; It was the hideous face of a Chenoo. Lips gnawed from his never-ending hunger, face blue from the cold, he stared at her with ravenous eyes. His face was as thin as that of a starving wolf and his hair a tangled mess. One hand reached out of the bushes toward Nadie, fingernails like long purple claws.

Like all of the Dawn People, the woman knew the stories of the people called Chenoo. Once, they had been real, warm-hearted people like anyone else. But through greed, stinginess with food, or even cannibalism their hearts turned to ice, and they roamed the northlands looking for warm flesh to eat. Especially the flesh of humans.

Nadie was truly terrified, but she gathered her wits quickly together and did something so brave that she hardly recognized herself in doing it; she took a step closer to the frightening personage, and spoke as if glad to see him. “Father!” She cried, a smile stretched on her face “Where have you been? We have been looking for you!”

And with that, she hardened herself to reach out her hand and take his in it. Confused at such a warm welcoming, Chenoo did not jump on her and rend her to shreds. Instead, he blinked his starved-wolf eyes and allowed her to lead him out into the open. He was a truly pitiful sight, clothed in a few rags and blue all over from cold. His arms and legs were scratched from pushing through bushes, and his lower lip was bloody from being gnawed in his endless hunger.

Feeling true pity for him, Nadie lead him over to the shelter and dressed him in a spare suit of her husband’s clothes. Then she offered him something to eat; a bowl of cold meat stew. But he just pushed it away and slumped to the ground, sitting with a look of sullen bewilderment on his face. He did not understand kindness; everyone which he had met before had screamed and begged for mercy as soon as they had set eyes on him.

Nadie looked at him for a moment, trying to decide what to do next. Then, she heard the sound of Huritt coming back through the woods and ran out to explain to him what had happened. When he had heard the whole story, the man praised her for her resourcefulness and courage. He saw that treating the Chenoo kindly could be the best course of action, and entered the shelter with the words “Ah! Father-in-law, it is good to see you again! You are very welcome in my house.”

Chenoo just stared at him, not understanding.

That night the Chenoo slept in the lodge, having erected a small screen to protect himself from the heat of the fire. But the family did not sleep, being far too anxious that he might awake and decide to eat them in the night.

The next morning, the man had to go out hunting again, but cautioned his wife to be very careful while he was gone.

She agreed, and told Mingan to play outside today, but only where she could see him. Then she took up her ax and went out to chop some more fire wood. As she was working, Chenoo came out of the shelter and drifted over to stand beside her. She tensed, afraid that he had decided to eat her after all. But he simply watched for a moment before holding out his hand and speaking in a ghostly voice “Give me the ax.”

Trembling, she handed it to him, and then watched in amazement as he began hacking and flailing at the dead oak. Chips of wood flew as he broke it all to bits, and then moved on to chop at another tree. Finally, there was so much firewood on the ground that Nadie knew they could never burn it all, and she called out;

“Father! That is enough, you can stop now!”

Chenoo stopped, and walked back to her slowly. In his eyes there was beginning to kindle some warmth, and his skin was not quite so deathly cold in appearance. As he stood before her a mixture of anger and sorrow crossed his face.

Then, as if striving for mastery of himself, he thrust the ax into her hands “Quick!” He said in a voice more human then before “You must save me while I remember who I was before. Cut out my heart with a blow of your ax, and throw it in the fire. Then you must touch the wound with a bough of pine and repeat these words; Life is warm, life is Light. Give him life before tonight.And then I shall be healed.”

Now, on hearing these words, Nadie hesitated, being afraid of striking such a blow. But her husband had come back from hunting early today and just heard the words that the Chenoo spoke. So, snatching the ax from his wife, he struck a great blow on the chest of the Chenoo.

Then he took the monster’s heart, which was solid ice in the shape of a man, and threw it into the fire. It melted away into nothing, and Nadie quickly fetched a branch from a pine tree nearby. Then, touching the ax-wound gently, she chanted “Life is warm, life is light. Give him life before tonight!” as she had been instructed.

The figure on the ground stirred and slowly sat up. The color had come back to his face completely, and his eyes had become gentle “Thank you.” He said, bowing his head to Huritt and Nadie. “You have made me back into a man again, and I will be your friend and servant from now on.”

So the amazed couple raised him to his feet, and lead him into the lodge to eat the first good, cooked meal he had eaten in a long time.

Rachael Lucas is a mountain girl who loves to write, among other things, though she is still in the 'waiting to be published' line for most of her stories.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

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CLOAKED by Katherine Brown

I shivered. The firefly-sized lights I’d been walking towards for hours were finally growing larger, almost the size of watermelons now. A village beckoned over the next snow-laden rise. What I wouldn’t give for a hot meal rather than the tough rabbit jerky I’ve been chewing for days. I had been walking for at least eight sunsets.

It would be risky to stop, I argued with myself; if I delayed for too long I would lose his trail. I couldn’t let that happen! Not again, not when I was so close.

My belly grumbled loudly, weighing in on the argument in no uncertain terms. I would have to stop, I reasoned. It would do me no good if my treacherous body announced my presence before I had the opportunity to run my blade across his throat.

Just another step. And one more after that. Trudging over the snow banks, one slow step at a time, I was thankful for the freezing cold; at least the snow was hard-packed making it much easier to walk on. There was of course still the chance that I would be thrown out of this village just as I had been from the last two. The rumors about me were growing. I had told too many people who I was, and who I was looking for when I first set out. That was my mistake. I saw the furtive glances. Heard the whispered words.

In the last village of quivering idiots, they had even made a nursery rhyme to teach the children. The verse I heard went A cloak of white Little Red now dons; Beware the night, she’ll kill you dead and by the morn’ be gone.

When the village healer came to visit my grandmother seven years ago, she found me, a mere girl of ten, clutching an axe and surrounded by blood and carnage. She took one look and condemned me. I was catatonic for days, and by the time I tried to tell them who had killed my grandmother, it was too late. Not a soul believed me. Evil, they called me. Murderer, they yelled. I would have been put to death were it not for a trapper, traveling through our village. He saw my fear, my lostness, and he bought me from the village elder.

For seven years Trap, that’s the only name he ever told me, took care of me. He taught me to trap, to fish, to cook. He kept me clothed and fed. We moved constantly; he taught me to navigate, to mark a trail, and to track. He prepared me because he knew. He knew I was going to be a survivor from the moment he purchased my life. Each and every day after that, I promised him I would kill the murderer who took my family from me. And he knew I would do just that, so he gave me every skill he knew I would need.

On my seventeenth birthday, I awoke on the ground, staring up at a full moon. The restlessness gripped me harder than ever before. I had to leave, it was time.

Frost had settled in my hair, making the ends crunch when I tied it back with a leather strap. Trap was already awake, sitting silently by the dead fire, a wrapped bundle in his hands. He knew.

“I’m going to kill The Wolf,” I told him. It was my usual greeting, but it took on a new meaning today.

“Yes. And you will need this.” Slowly Trap handed me the package. He coughed, spitting blood. His sickness had been worsening for weeks. Rubbing sticks together with gnarled fingers, he gave new life to the fire.

With trembling fingers, I untied the rope around the bundle. Gently I unwrapped the tarp, spreading it on the ground to reveal the contents. A shock of white with shimmering silver strands reflected the firelight into my eyes. Holding it up I found it to be a thick, gorgeous, hooded cloak. Made of warm but sleek fur, it was lined on the inside with a deep, scarlet material for added protection from the weather. Still laying on the tarp was the last gift. A gift that set my heart racing. A gleaming dagger, sharpened so fine that a simple brush would draw blood, with a hand-carved bone handle. The scene on the handle was of a cloaked figure standing over a dead wolf.

I barely had time to thank Trap; his next fit of coughing didn’t cease until he drew his last breath. I sat with him awhile, until the firelight dimmed, and the frost tickled my nose. Then I put on the cloak, slipped the dagger in my clothes, and walked away.

As dawn’s timid sun peeked over the horizon, I reached the village. Hunger pains gripped me at the first tantalizing scent of baking bread. I slid the hood off of my head. Better to have cold ears than put the villagers’ backs up right away. Gliding into an alley, I joined a homeless man at a fire barrel to warm my hands as I took the lay of the land. Cobbler, blacksmith, stables, mercantile. It appeared I had made it to a town rather than another impoverished village like so many I had come across. Good. More people to question, and hopefully, less superstitions.

I spun and wrenched back the arm of the homeless man; he had been inching closer, reaching for my satchel thinking a young girl was going to be an easy target for a quick meal. Bad luck for him. Using his arm as leverage, I shoved him face first into the log wall of the butcher shop side where we stood, scraping splinters into his cheek purposefully before pulling him back up straight.

“Hello friend,” I whispered.

“Let me go wench,” he gasped, struggling to be free.

“Tut, tut, that is no way to speak to a friend,” I told him. “You want food. I want answers. I believe we can come to terms.”

He stilled. Food was a powerful motivator. “I’m looking for a wolf,” I told him casually.

“Go look in the woods. Now give me food.”

“Not just any wolf,” I continued, binding his arm just a bit tighter. “A wolf who walks on two legs and has a taste for flesh.”

The man froze. I waited.

Nothing.

“Well?” I growled impatiently.

“I’m not hungry,” he said as his head and shoulders slumped.

My mouth twisted up in a grin. That could only mean one thing. The Wolf had been here or was close. This poor wretch would rather go without eating than risk being eaten alive.

I reached into my satchel and grabbed two sticks of rabbit jerky for the man, tossing them in the snow at his feet as I set out for the bakery. I would need sustenance; it might prove to be a long day.

The baker, a jovial old woman, wouldn’t sell me day old bread. But she would give me a whole loaf if I would move on and not stir up trouble.

The cobbler wouldn’t repair my boots. However, for a promise to never see me again he would give me multiple strips of leather to use as I needed.

By the time I reached the stables, word of me had spread. The barn door was slammed in my face. Children in the hay loft sang the song of Little Red.

Turning to try my luck elsewhere, I caught a snowball square in the face. Reflexively my fingers curled around the bone hilt at my waist. Furiously blinking snow from my eyelashes, I glimpsed the next missile and ducked. My assailant, a blonde freckle-faced boy of about twelve, beckoned for me to follow him around the barn.

A steady grip on my dagger in case of a trap, I followed. The boy sat huddled by the smallest campfire I had ever seen, crying. I knelt in the snow, feeling the wet seep through my breeches, and asked, “What is it boy?”

“You, you are looking for a wolf?” he asked, voice quaking but meeting my eyes.

“I am,” I nodded.

He swallowed, “What will you do when you find him?”

“Kill him.” I raised an eyebrow, not mincing words.

“Good.” The boy clenched his jaw and stood up, surprising me with his vehemence.

Skirting through a copse of trees on the outskirts of the town, the boy Cade, told me his story as we walked. “Poppa tried to stop him. He ran his claws into his stomach and ripped it out. I saw from the bedroom. That’s when Momma shoved me out the window and told me to run. I looked back once and I saw the wolf’s head in the window. He howled and howled.”

“Cade, when was this?”

“Two nights ago. The town won’t help me.”

Two nights. I tried not to show my agitation. In two nights, The Wolf could have disappeared.

It wasn’t far, and soon Cade put a small finger to his lips, letting me know we were close. He pointed to an isolated shack, to an open but curtained window facing the trees we now hid in.

“Stay here,” I demanded.

Crouching, I made my way with small quick steps to the shack and flattened myself against the wall. Peering through the thin scraps of fabric on the window I saw the room was empty. Being still again, I closed my eyes and honed my ears in to the sounds, listening.

A whimper floated through the wall. The scrape of a chair. Then I heard him. The gravelly, cold voice of evil that I remembered from my childhood. “Get up woman, bring me coffee.”

I could only imagine why the wolf kept Cade’s mother alive. I shuddered for the poor woman. I was lucky I had hidden under the bed.

Eyeing the window, I decided it was my best option. Pulling myself up on the sill, I eased my head and shoulders through and came to a sitting position. Bringing first one leg and then the other over I dropped silently to the floor, landing in a squat.

Exercising every skill at sneaking that Trap ever taught me, I cut through the room and peered out the door. The Wolf was seated at a chair with his back to me. The woman searched the cabinet for coffee. I pulled on my hood and unsheathed my dagger.

Turning, she caught sight of me, and her eyes widened. I put a finger to my lips, mimicking Cade’s action earlier.

“What’s taking so long?” the man menaced. The wolf pelt that he typically wore on his head sat on the table in front of him.

“I’ve got to get extra coffee from the cupboard,” Cade’s mother said shakily, moving far away as I snuck closer. When she was clear, I leapt forward and kicked his chair over.

His head grazed the table and he fell to his back on the floor, right where I wanted him. He would see who killed him. Know his life was over. Taken by a woman, in recompense for all the women he preyed upon and families he destroyed.

I attacked before he recovered his senses, slicing both arms to the tendons so they lay uselessly beside him. He thought he still had a chance, pushing backward with his legs.

I sauntered closer, peering from beneath my hood. Slowly, I straddled him; confusion flooded his eyes, leaving him paralyzed as he tried to work out what was happening. Lowering my hood with one hand, I smiled and leaned forward. “The Wolf will hunt no more,” I whispered. The dagger sang as it opened a blood red smile across his throat.

Wiping the blade on his tunic, I sheathed it. Raising my hood, I slipped back outside, running to Cade. “Take care of your Momma.”

I smiled, warm; the frost couldn’t touch me now.

Katherine Brown is a lover of books and weaver of words. Her first official publication was of two children’s books in 2017, however she likes to think her career as a writer started when she sold her parents newsletters of her life for fifty cents per copy as a pre-teen.

Website: www.katherinebrownbooks.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Katherine-Brown-Katie-Author-1007999836006370/

Books on Amazon: Katherine Brown on Amazon

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

WINTER'S MAJESTY by Michael Mitchell Jr.

Once there was a tree named Majesty that displayed the most beautiful fall colors in the entire land. At the start of the season, Majesty’s Autumn Fairies woke from their slumber in her branches and began working. With great excitement the fairies dipped their brushes into their dazzling paints and decorated each of Majesty’s leaves with intricate detail. Gold swirled with the auburns and ambers, and bronze danced with burgundy. Each day, Majesty greeted the morning sun with a shining smile and glowed with wondrous light throughout the night.

Artists traveled from across the realm to visit Majesty. Musicians would sit under her massive arms and compose songs of love. Poets wrote lines of iambic pentameter. Painters filled their canvases. There was dancing, singing, and storytelling beneath Majesty’s marvelous canopy every dusk in the starlight.

One crisp evening, Jack Frost sat listening to the songs and admiring Majesty’s radiance. “You truly are the centerpiece of the season,” he praised. Majesty blushed, which only enhanced her vibrancy.

“Your rest will be much deserved, my friend,” Jack Frost said.

Majesty smiled, but Jack Frost’s words reminded her that she would eventually lose her magnificence and have to fall asleep. What if all beauty disappears from the realm when I sleep? She thought. The vision of a desolate landscape disturbed Majesty.

So Majesty refused to feel tired. She continued to inspire the artists, and those encounters brought her much happiness. Each day seemed more splendid than before, as the Autumn Fairies enhanced her leaves with fresh layers of yellows, oranges, and greens.

But the cool days were turning colder, and the crows squawked from Majesty’s branches that changes were looming. Jack Frost emerged again from the woodland, his blue scarf trailing behind him in the shadows.

“Many trees in the nearby forests have already lost their leaves to the gusts that whip through the countryside,” Jack Frost said to Majesty. “And I’ve begun to hear the echoes of the trees snoring in the pastures.” He paused. “But you are still wide awake.” With a smile, Jack Frost winked at her and disappeared into the twilight breeze.

“I will not fall asleep,” Majesty said to the Autumn Fairies. “My beauty will remain for all to enjoy.”

The fairies’ colors were running low, but they continued to paint Majesty’s leaves. Their tiny hands shivered as they mixed and applied more color to Majesty, while the surrounding woods grew brown and barren.

After several days, Jack Frost, humming his soft winter lullaby, came strolling through the woods. When Majesty heard his icy feet crunching the fallen leaves, she shut her eyes and pretended to sleep. The fairies continued to flit in and out of her many leaves with swipes of paint.

“Little ones, why aren’t you in your beds?” asked Jack Frost as he approached the tree. “You’re up very late this year, Majesty,” he said, ignoring Majesty’s feigned snores. “You’re usually asleep by now.”

“I refuse to let my beauty fade,” said Majesty. “What a dreadful time winter must be for everyone.”

Jack Frost chuckled and touched Majesty’s bark with his cold hand. “Glorious Majesty, the crown jewel of the forest and muse to the artists of the realm. You’ve yet to see my work.”

Jack Frost raised his hands. A lone flake fluttered down from the sky, and then another and another. The snowflakes each greeted Majesty with a frosted kiss as they fell, and she could hear their little voices joining a joyful chorus with the wind. Soon the field was covered in what looked to Majesty like a white quilt of sparkling diamonds. The sky cleared, and the first rays of the sunrise skated across the snow and right up to the roots of Majesty’s trunk.

Majesty shed a tear, for she had never seen anything like the brilliance of the snow in the dawn’s light. In her delight she released her leaves as a rainbow into the icy air. The Autumn Fairies yawned, collected their brushes and paints, and vanished into her many branches.

Jack Frost leaned against Majesty’s mighty trunk. They both smiled when two painters set up their easels in the chilly morning air to capture the snowy scene.

“Beauty never rests in this world. There is always more to see,” said Jack Frost.

Then Majesty fell asleep in the quiet peace of winter’s splendor.

Michael is a writer, artist, and musician living in beautiful Richmond, Virginia. He has been exploring imaginative worlds and developing characters for most of his life, and his passion for storytelling drives every aspect of his art and writing. Michael also enjoys reading, playing music, watching movies, and collecting way too many things.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

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SOLSTICE COUTURE by Laura Gregory

It’s the pinnacle of Winter Solstice Fashion Week. The city is yearning to slumber under the crystalline edges of ice outside, but in the Fashion Tent things are heating up. Each day has been a fabulous display of fey creativity and human endeavor. Support human-fey relations – remember, they’re people, not peasants. I am at the catwalk for the Solstice Court Duel! How did I, a lowly brownie, ever score a ticket? Because of you my darling readers! I may be the only fey fashion blogger but I have the biggest readership outside of the Sidhe Royal News. So please continue to share, like and link me!

The audience is filling up and I sense a lot of humans in the mix. This is a far cry from the old blood duels of yore between Seelie and Unseelie. No weapons and no magick: this is a glamour-only event. When the Dark Court turned the Light Court’s alligator-skin satchel into a massive reptile seven years ago, there was chaos. Three victims lost into its razor fine jaws. Most humans were caught and magicked to forget what they saw, but six escaped the tent and were turned to stone by the quick thinking Dark Court Prince Cian. Today, as I crossed the courtyard covered in snow and strung with Yuletide lights, I visited the statues – such a beautiful reminder of why human-fey relations need work. Pity their cries for help still echo from within.

Tonight’s stakes are high. If the Dark Court wins, they get to reclaim the Circlet of Siestra they lost twenty years ago. If they lose, they are offering up the Amulet of Eorth. Queen Aoife thought the amulet was lost forever until Cian discovered it under a pile of shoes in the back of his grandmother’s closet. We all know Queen Aoife has the largest collection of designer shoes in the world, but I’m dying to see the closet that’s big enough to lose a sacred power charm in.

The show is beginning! Switch over to follow me as I live capture the event. I will post pictures and fashion commentary later tonight.

It starts!

Dark Court begins: knit dresses accented in plush rabbit fur with tiny beads reflecting light. Incredible glamour! I see river tumbling over rock through a nighttime forest. I sense a chill on the back of my neck and dream of cups of cocoa clutched by roaring fires.

DC is famous for their leather and metalwork and tonight is no exception. Each bracelet twines beautifully around every limb. Wait - we have our first counter-glamour! The model in a bearskin hat and structured leather trousers looks to have aged dramatically. Even the leather has dried out! He leaves the stage to a susurrus of gasps from the crowd.

Models are still walking out. Outfits are channeling forests, earthen tones and metals in a nod to the Wild Hunt. It’s stunning, but haven’t we seen this before? Prince Cian just stepped into the role of creative director – was he not up to the challenge?

The final look gives me shivers! Fur cloak, svelte bodysuit, and rugged, buckled boots. She is a huntress! Fear and beauty are a powerful mix – the humans around me are awestruck. I suspect there may be a little adoration glamour mixed into the effects. We’ll see if there’s a judge’s ruling called. But they wouldn’t be the Dark Court if they always played fair!

DC lured us into nighttime forests full of mystery, now LC draws us up into the golden-light heavens. Everything is gauze and lace and indescribable sweetness! As unique and fleeting as a snowflake from the sky.

DC begins counter-glamour. The hand-stitched lace flapper gown starts to unravel and now the model is nude!

LC rallies: a sheer, diaphanous dress takes on invisible wind currents and billows out. I sense euphoria and exhilaration within its draft. There is an edge of danger: the latest look has stilettos as sharp as knife blades. Her gauzy sleeves ripple behind her like wings and she leaves a trail of frost in her wake.

Full on attack from DC! The gorgeous bird is down, her bladed talons twisted into claws beneath her. She cannot even hobble from the stage. Humans call a pause and help her away.

It seems like DC is desperate to keep the amulet. Rumors of its powers have been circling among fey kind. It promises to reveal hidden truths. Could it unearth other unknown charms?

LC resumes with the final look: Delicate filigree lace chasing every line, the sheerest, finest silk cascades over the model, and in every step she appears light enough to float. I sense the elaborate hand of Queen Murirn in this work – she won the Circlet of Siestra away from Queen Aoife twenty years ago. Has she come out of retirement to defend her claim?

A human next to me weeps at the magnificence. Indeed, even I’m nearly moved to tears. Every stitch of lace holds devotion, dreams and the echo of bittersweet love. It is elegant. It is unanimous. Fey in the audience are willing a protective glamour around it to keep it safe from DC’s tricks. Everyone has erupted in applause. A winner is decided!

Prince Cian is at the end of the catwalk, a fur-lined cape gracing his lithe body, awaiting Light Court’s creative director. The humans think this swapping of gifts is an adorable tradition of sportsmanship between the great couture houses. They have no clue these are not mere trinkets.

It is Queen Muirin! Oh she is a vision. She is beauty itself. Her three centuries weigh so lightly upon her. She is the splendor of sunrise and the majesty of windswept mountains!

Prince Cian has offered the Amulet of Eorth. He has bowed graciously. Has the Dark Court humbled in its ways at last?

No! Oh no!

The amulet cut through Queen Muirin’s own glamour! Oh it reveals her wrinkled skin, her sagging flesh, and a cruel calculation within her eyes.

Oh beauty has died this day! The true cost of fey blood has been revealed. The Queen fled the stage! Prince Cian is choking on laughter. What cruel vengeance!

Humans are perplexed. The exits are sealed. I magicked the ones closest to me to forget what they saw. Better my manipulation than the enduring encasement of stone.

But oh, dear fey, how I wish someone could glamour me to forget as well!

Laura Gregory is a genre fiction writer and graduate of Edinburgh Napier University's Creative Writing MA. Working as a police records clerk, she fights crime by day and writes villains at night. Follow her on Twitter @lagregorla

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

WINTER FIRE by Kelly Komm

The first time, Brenna is seven. She is alone in the forest as the air grows still and cool, and she stops. She first notices them on the leaves of the bush; the intricate lines are unlike anything she’s ever seen before, as though the leaves have sprouted spots of spiders silk. But a moment later, they are gone. They have melted into a drop of water, rolling to the ground. Transfixed, she blinks up at the gaps between the trees, watching the flakes fall toward her. She can see that the sky above the canopy of the forest has become an endless expanse of cloud. She holds her breath as one drifts down, almost hesitant on the wind, landing tenderly on the end of her nose. Brenna would never forget the sound of her flesh sizzling.

Branches whip her as she bursts through the trees, her frantic feet guiding her home. Mama Tala had known it was coming—she’d ordered Brenna to stay inside. As usual, Brenna hadn’t listened and had snuck out when the old woman nodded off after her tea. Mama Tala said it is the fire inside Brenna that made her do naughty things. Now that fire had led her outside, when she should be warm inside the cottage. And she was burning.

The old woman was right, of course, for the white-rain now fell with a vengeance. Brenna’s exposed face was scorching; dozens of flakes sear her skin. The collected flakes on the ground soak into her foot wrappings, practically dissolving the scraps. Running barefoot in the snow turns her dash home into a sprint across burning coals. Her vision blurs with tears, but she still runs toward the fuzzy image of her bark and thatched cottage on the hill beyond the forest.

“Mama Tala!” she cries as she bursts through the door.

The old woman starts as the child collapses onto her lap, her tiny hands, face, and feet covered in bubbling blisters. The woman shakes her head as she carefully lays Brenna on her cot; the child whimpers and drifts in and out of consciousness. Mama Tala boils rags and brings out the jar of salve she was given almost eight years earlier. She blows a fine film of dust off the lid before she lifts it. The shimmering mixture inside is bewitching. Whorls of cream glisten and shine like stars.

Carefully undressing the child, she applies balm to the now oozing wounds on Brenna’s face and hands before wrapping them in the rags. Thankfully the girl’s threadbare scarf has protected most of her head, for only parts at the front now lack hair. Her shawl and shift protected her arms and body, thank the Gods. Her feet are still twitching with the spurts of puss, and several of her toenails have already fallen off.

Brenna is now passed out, the pain likely too much for her. Mama Tala rubs the salve onto her wounds sparingly. This little bone jar is all she has. The creme does not spread well; the jar empties too quickly. Mama Tala is able to just cover the last of the girl’s blisters with the final smears of salve. The scent of eucalypti and pine and unknown herbs are finally beginning to dampen the scent of burning flesh. Mama Tala sets down the empty jar and stands to pull aside the scraps covering chinks in their walls. Hopefully a breeze will drive out the rest of the stench.

She hangs a kettle on the fire, and prepares tea leaves in hers and Brenna’s cups. The girl will need strength to recover, and she herself will need strength to keep the girl well. The old woman eases back into her chair, as she waits for the water to boil. Her eyes drift to the empty jar on the little table. All that glorious creme… gone. It is good that the girl has never snuck out into the snow before now, though it is surprising it has taken this long for her curiosity to get the better of her. Mama Tala glances at the girl, and sees that pain is still evident in the creases of her young forehead, despite her unconscious state. She watches a sheen work its way from the girl’s blistered hairline.

The fever rages and ebbs, and Mama Tala sometimes bundles the girl in furs, and other times airs her. The old woman dares not wipe the girl’s hands and feet, hoping the scraps of fabric still bind some salve to the wounds. Mama Tala constantly runs her bony fingers around the inside of the bone jar, seeking any last slip of cream to reapply to the girl’s poor face. Brenna does not wake for almost four days. When she does, her eyes open slowly without blinking, or wincing. “Mama Tala,” she whispers, her voice coarse. “I saw the white-rain. And you were right. It bit me.”

“I know, child.”

“Why does it do that?”

Mama Tala sighs, easing back in her rocker. “The white rain—the snow—does not bite everyone. Many encourage its fall, reveling in it like sunshine. Many celebrate its appearance with festivals and gatherings.”

Brenna frowned. “It was very pretty, until it started to hurt. But why does it bite people? And why only when it turns white?”

“I don’t rightly know, child. It does not bite all people. Only some.”

“What do you mean?” Brenna begins to rub the peeling blisters on her cheeks. “Who does it bite?”

Mama Tala takes a sip of her tea before answering. “I suppose it has really only ever been three. You are one. The others are your mother, and hers.”

Brenna’s eyes widen and her hand stills.

Swallowing another sip of tea, she begins. “The Gods cursed your family long ago. It began with your Great-Grandmother and Great-Grandfather.

“It was known throughout the land that your Great-Grandmother’s beauty was unparalleled. Boys and men all over the world traveled far and wide to win her heart. But deep down all sweet Asta wanted was the love of a boy in her village – Kjalarr. And she’d had it since they were children. Despite all the generous offers made to Asta’s father for her hand, your ancestor loved his daughter and indulged in her happiness instead, choosing to marry her off to Kjalarr for a meager exchange.

Soon, Asta became pregnant and prayed to the Goddess Freyja to give them a son – one who would grow strong to help his father with the work. It was then that the Goddess Skadi took notice of Kjalarr. Certain that he was the most beautiful being in our world, Skadi appeared to Kjalarr and invited him to her bed. When he refused, explaining his love for Asta and their unborn child, Skadi grew angry and jealous of Asta. She cursed the woman, and their child, and any children to come. To aid Her fellow Goddess, Freyja ensured Asta and her line would only ever have female children, and thus, the curse would never end.

The price for choosing true love, over the fleeting love of a winter Goddess, was a curse on his lovely bride, and on every female of her line to follow.”

“But there must be a way to break the curse!” Brenna exclaims, her eyes wide with fear. Mama Tala can see a spot where the snow had burned the white of the girl’s eye, for a furious red pulses from the dot.

Mama Tala smiles sadly. “Your ancestor’s have searched for two generations for such a thing. None has been found. Skadi was vicious in Her jealousy. And now that you are the last, there is no one to search with you, for I am too old and too busy taking care of you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Brenna crosses her arms, frowning.

“Oh, yes, I can see that!” Mama Tala tugs on the wrappings on Brenna’s feet.

“When I get bigger, Mama Tala, I will find a way to break the curse and free the women of my family!” Brenna announces, painfully shuffling herself upright. “Even if I must go to the Goddess Skadi Herself!”

“You have lofty ambitions to seek out the Gods Themselves,” Mama Tala grins, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“I do!” the girl crows. “I will go deep into Jotunheim! Right into Her mountains in Thrymheim!

Mama Tala’s rusty chuckle fills the tiny cottage on the hill, as the snowstorm rages on around them.

Kelly Komm is a Canadian writer who loves winter. She has published a couple of young adult fantasy novels, and even won an award for one. She also spent several years making book trailers, reviewing books, and generally haunting the local writing community. When she isn’t bundled in layers of blankets with a book or her laptop, she is usually up to no good with her husband and mischievous two children. She can (very) periodically be found at kellykomm.blogspot.com.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff