The Winter King (28 page)

“
Yes, she did,” said Poppy
suddenly.
Oh my gods, what the hell am I
doing?
Every Valkyrie in the clearing
turned to look at her. “She attacked
me
,” she continued. “That means
she’s
my
problem.” Her heart hammered. There was a ringing in her
ears. She could not believe what she was saying, especially since
she was saying it with an unwavering voice while standing in a
fighter’s stance. “Not yours.”

Kristopher glanced over at
her, eerily burning eyes and all.
He’s so
beautiful
, she thought as he speared her
through with that hellish gaze.

“
I’m the one she wants to
hurt,” he said simply.

“
Quite frankly then,” said
Poppy, “it’s unfortunate she doesn’t have better aim.”

Kris eyed her for a long, silent moment. No
one in the clearing spoke. Toril continued to choke. Then, ever so
slightly, the corners of Kristopher’s mouth turned upward. He
slowly lowered his arm until Toril’s booted feet frantically
touched the ground, kicking up clouds of dust as they found their
footing. The ring of Amazonian women backed up a little, and Kris
released his grip on Toril’s throat.

The Valkyrie instantly began choking,
doubled over to frantically inhale wheezing gulps of air. No one
touched her, and no one offered to help. It was as if interfering
in any capacity would have gone against some sort of rule or
law.

When Toril seemed to have finally caught her
breath, Poppy took a deep breath of her own and stepped forward.
“Toril Stalson, it’s time to finish this once and for all.”

Toril straightened and turned her light
hazel-colored eyes on Poppy. “How do you know me?” she asked. There
was malice in her tone, but there was also genuine curiosity.

“
Word gets around,” said
Poppy as she finished stepping to the center of the
clearing.

Toril’s gaze narrowed. She faced her
completely. “And you’re the new Winter Queen.”

“
I am,” said Poppy
confidently.

“
Really?” Toril asked. “I
sense otherwise. Your king
radiates
Winter. But you?” She snickered, smiling a smile
that was more of a snarl. “You radiate mortality.”

Poppy just shrugged. “Yeah well, the thing
about us mortals is we’re real scrappers.”

If growing up playing ice hockey in the
neighborhood lake with a bunch of hard-hitting boys had taught
Persephone Nix anything of any value, it was that when you were in
the game, it was the game that mattered. Everything else could be
dealt with later. If you weren’t going to play to win, don’t play.
Putting in less than your all was an injustice to everyone else
there.

Just as Poppy had known she would, Toril
chose that moment to strike. She lunged forward, going low with a
punch that she obviously assumed Poppy would attempt to duck under.
But this wasn’t Poppy’s first rodeo. She side-stepped, bringing her
elbow down square in the center of Toril’s back.

Toril let out a grunt of
pain, stumbled forward a few steps, and spun with a backhand. This
one, Poppy
did
duck under, and when she came back up, she made sure her
undercut struck Toril’s solar plexus.

Again, Toril grunted, this
time a little louder than before. She backpedalled, hand to chest,
before rushing forward again. But this time, she reached over her
own shoulder and pulled the sword from the scabbard at her back. It
made a
shhhick
sound as it came free and gleamed wickedly in the
sunlight.

Oh shit
, thought Poppy.

Chapter Forty-Two

The Valkyrie’s sword glinted in the
sunlight, and Toril’s smirk of a smile was firmly back in
place.

“
Fine,” said Poppy.
Two can play at that game
. She raised her arms and flooded her palms with waiting
magic. She’d been wondering whether she would have another chance
to use her warlock skills. She’d been secretly ecstatic to find
that when she’d cast the breaching spells and the stone to flesh
spell in the seed vault, they hadn’t somehow turned icy like all of
her other attempts at magic had lately. She wasn’t sure what to
make of it, but at the moment, it didn’t matter. If it was working
like it was supposed to, that was good enough for her.

Toril’s smirk turned to a snarl. She
couldn’t see the magic flooding Poppy’s palms, so she obviously
assumed Poppy was unarmed, and therefore rather helpless. She
ploughed forward, swinging her sword in a high arc.

Poppy lifted her right hand and spoke a few
fast words of a spell. It was meant to steal speed from an
opponent, slowing them down as if they were moving through sludge
or mud. However, when it struck Toril, rather than simply slow her
down, it covered her with an instant layer of frost. White-blue
rime coated her boots, her hands, and the killing edge of her
sword. Her skin bloomed with crystals of ice, and when she exhaled
in exertion against the slowing effects of the spell, her breath
was visible before her lips.

From the sidelines, the Valkyrie began to
murmur. “Bifrost…” they muttered, repeating the word amongst
themselves. Poppy also heard the words “winter” and “queen” amidst
the babble.

She tried to block out the
noise and focus on her enemy, who was glaring at her like mad at
the moment. “
Sorcery
,” the shield maiden hissed. “I should expect no
less.”

Poppy didn’t respond. There was no need.
She’d done what she’d had to do.

Toril growled, and that growl became a
scream, which became a roar. The spell around her shimmered and
wavered, and Poppy could feel it begin to go. In her mind’s eye,
she saw the magic shatter, splintering around her like the cracks
in an ancient Chinese vase before it just exploded. Useless shards
of magic rained down onto the ground around her.

Toril’s body lurched forward, freeing itself
from its frozen slowness. She staggered a few steps, regained her
footing, and wasted no time in attacking again.

This time, she swung the sword in a downward
but angled arc, giving Poppy nowhere to go. Poppy did the only
thing she could think to do. She acted instinctively rather than
intelligently, her right arm coming up, her hand opening to meet
the sword. Pain, sharp and true, spiked through her palm as she
literally caught the sword mid-air, and her fingers wrapped solidly
around it.

Everything came to an
immediate stand-still then. More murmurs rose up in the crowd,
which sounded bigger than before. Poppy stared at her bleeding hand
where it was wrapped so firmly around the Valkyrie’s blade. Red
lines dripped down her wrist and striped her forearm. But the pain
ebbed rapidly, and the second thing she noticed was the ice once
more spreading across Toril’s sword. It crackled from beneath
Poppy’s grip, racing across the metal of the blade like Kurt
Vonnegut’s
Ice Nine
.

She watched it rush straight to the hilt,
rapidly enshroud the pommel, and begin coating Toril’s gripping
fingers. The shield maiden gasped at the touch of the ice, and
Poppy knew her instinct was to let go of the sword. But she fought
the instinct and maintained her hold, all too aware that if she let
the weapon drop, the fight would be over.

The red streams that striped Poppy’s arm now
dripped from her elbow, and the slightest hint of queasiness
threatened her belly. She gritted her teeth, allowed her pain to
make her angrier, and forced the anger to turn into strength. She
gripped the sword blade harder.

At once, the ice that threatened Toril’s
fingers reacted to Poppy’s power, pushing forward to cocoon them
within seconds flat and move on to her wrist. The Valkyrie’s
gritted teeth parted as the woman began to keen in pain.

Poppy knew how much ice could hurt. She’d
hit the frozen lake at home in Canada enough times with her face,
elbows, knees, and butt to know that it was hard and unforgiving.
She’d had enough snow balls stuffed into her clothes to know that
it was bitter and biting. How long could a person place their hand
in a bank of snow before pulling it out again? Ice could cut you to
the bone. It could freeze you to the marrow.

Heat was deadlier. But cold hurt like
hell.

Toril’s entire arm was encased now, and the
woman had gone very, very pale. At last, she tilted her head back
and let out a terrible cry. Her frozen fingers crackled as they
stiffly and painfully released the grip of the sword, leaving its
entire weight in the tortured clasp of her opponent.

At once, a cheer went up through the crowd.
Poppy, again acting on instinct, raised the sword high over her
head. Before her, Toril Stalson fell to her knees and bent her head
in shame and surrender.

Poppy looked down at her. Slowly, she
lowered the sword, taking the grip in her other, non-injured hand.
“Toril,” she said.

The Valkyrie remained where she was, head
bent.

“
Look at me,” Poppy
commanded softly.

The Valkyrie finally looked up, slowly
raising her head until their eyes met. Hers were shining with
stubborn unshed tears.

“
I am sorry for what
happened with your brother,” said Poppy. “But he chose his wars.
His battles are no longer yours to fight.” She shook her head.
“They never were.”

Toril stared at her, and a sob escaped her
throat. She shook her head and lowered her gaze once more. Poppy
turned the sword around in her hands until the hilt was facing the
kneeling shield maiden. “Take it.”

“
I don’t deserve to wield
it.”

“
That’s just stupid. Of
course you do. Take the sword, Toril.” She shrugged. “The gods
know
I
can’t keep
it. Clearly I don’t even know which end to hold it
from.”

Toril’s head snapped up,
her expression shocked. Poppy smiled in amiable jest. It was the
instinctive thing for her to do. And wonder of wonders, it looked
like it was the
right
thing to do, too. Because Toril Stalson reached up, took the
sword from Poppy’s hand, and without looking away, she slid the
weapon into the scabbard at her back.

She was still kneeling. And though Poppy
knew she was destined to be the Winter Queen, the fact of the
matter was, she wasn’t quite ready to have people kneel before her
just yet. So she offered Toril her hand.

It was the injured hand, covered in fresh
red blood.

Toril looked down at it, her eyes taking in
the damage her blade had done. Then, resolutely and firmly, she
took the offered hand in her own firm grip and allowed Poppy to
pull her to her feet.

The group of onlookers around the two had
grown since the last time Poppy had seen it. To the side,
Kristopher still stood tall and broad, his arms crossed over his
chest, his presence radiating oodles of power. But his eyes were no
longer crackling with electric-blue heat. Instead, they’d settled
into a stunning aquamarine, impossible and gorgeous. And right now,
they were watching Poppy with a mixture of emotions that included a
very obvious amount of pride.

“
What do I call
you?”

Poppy turned back around to face Toril.

The Valkyrie made a helpless gesture. “I
don’t even know your name, my queen.”

My queen
…. “The name is Persephone,” said the queen. “Persephone
Glacia Nix.” Then she smiled, and may the Fates help her, she
actually felt like laughing. “But please call me Poppy.”

Chapter
Forty-
Three

The remainder of their time
in Valhalla had been spent tending to Poppy’s wound. The way this
was done in
Valhalla
, however, was by drinking. Heavily.

Valhalla was composed of two different and
separate sections. One was the gated home of the Valkyrie, the
shield maidens of Odin. The other was the rowdy, riotous,
impossibly large drinking and fighting hall that all Norse warriors
lived their lives hoping they would be fortunate enough to wind up
in when they died. It was the latter that Kristopher and Poppy had
to visit in order to heal Poppy’s wound. Because only the ale of
Valhalla could mend a wound dealt by a Valkyrie’s sword.

Fortunately for her, Poppy very much felt
like drinking at that point. To say that she was in pain would have
been a ridiculously gross understatement. Quite frankly, she wanted
to rip her arm off at the shoulder just so she wouldn’t have to
feel her hand any more.

But as soon as one of the fallen warriors
from the hall handed her a full mug of ale and the liquid passed
her lips, she understood why the warriors in Valhalla were said to
fight every day until their deaths and simply wake up the next
morning to do it all over again. The ale was a healing drought like
no other. As long as it was in your system your wounds would
rapidly heal, and apparently it lasted a good long while.

“
Too bad we can’t bottle
this stuff up and take it back with us,” Poppy murmured while she
watched the deep wound in her palm seal back up and smooth itself
out until it vanished altogether. “Think of the lives we could
save.”

“
Aye,” said Kristopher.
“But the moment you attempt to take the ale past the boundaries of
Valhalla, it vanishes. It cannot exist in any other realm or
dimension. This is it.”

Poppy nodded solemnly. She was happy that
she’d at least had the chance to use it herself.

While they drank, Toril assured Poppy that
she hadn’t managed to put any wards on her throne after all. She’d
barely managed to make it into the Winter Kingdom with some
transport spell magic she’d stolen from the Valkyrie Queen, who
kept it for emergencies. But after that, she was out of power and
could sense she was out of time, so she’d transported back to
Valhalla. Meridian had seen her by the throne, probably in those
last moments before Toril had turned back. Poppy thanked Toril for
telling her and shared a mug of ale with the shield maiden.