Page 3 of Of Rime and Ruin (Sirens of Adria #2)

Chapter two

Aethan

I’m naked, but not in a good way. Naked in the where are my pants and how the fuck did I get here kind of way. And dripping wet to boot.

It’s the dead of night. The sconces in the hallway flicker with uninterrupted rhythm, casting long shadows across the stone floor of my castle’s lowest reaches.

I stand in front of a heavy wooden door—inches from my nose.

Its iron knocker smells of damp rust. My hand is raised, fingers curled tight as if to knock.

Dark blue scales cover my knuckles where my skin is usually snow white.

Veins thread across my fist, frosted like silkmite string before dawn.

The only sound is the soft splattering of water as it drips from my hair, pooling at my bare feet.

How I got to the servant quarters remains a mystery.

The last thing I remember is the warm weight of the furs on my bed upstairs.

Here, the air is brisk and sharp, waking my senses—and it reeks of blood.

Fuck.

I know the signs. And this isn’t the first time I’ve woken from a trance, blue and bleeding. The blood is mine, oozing and warm on my ribs. A gash cuts across my abdomen, skin splitting over angry, aching flesh. I shake my head, but I can’t force my memory to focus. I can’t remember what I’ve done.

In the lamplight, I twist my hand and the scales crawl beneath my flesh like a thousand hurried legs. My skin fades from dark blue to white, the color and energy recoiling into my stomach, where it twists into an icy knot.

Before I can knock, the door opens, and light splits the darkness. I flinch and strain my eyes to adjust as the healer’s hollow face appears. “Your Majesty, I’ve been expecting you.” Lucas tips his head.

Has he?

He leads me through the doorway, pinching the wicks of candles with his long fingers to extinguish all but the lone stem on his squat, orderly desk. Smoke curls like ribbons, acrid in my nose.

His office is tidy, as usual. A small fireplace sits in the far corner, framed by bookshelves that reach the ceiling.

Cabinets are lined with trinkets and vials.

Old tomes are stacked on the desk, their chipped stone faces reflecting candlelight.

Above the mantel, a taxidermied head of a frostcat hangs, surveying the room with glazed, black eyes and a permanent snarl.

“Here.” Lucas hands me a fur cloak, and I drape it over my shoulders to cut the chill.

He sets a pot to boil on the hearth, the lid clanking. With an iron rod, he arranges two stones on the coals and pokes the embers until they flare red. “What do you remember?”

I don’t answer. He already knows what I’ll say—it’s the same every time. The past few hours of my life are muddied. Like I tripped through time and landed here.

My memory comes in pieces: rocky shore. Waves lapping bare feet. Audrina’s full-moon face, with the lights of the aethersky rippling around her. That ice-hot feeling in my stomach, burning, edging me forward. Taking a step. Then another.

Another midnight swim.

Fuck. I pinch my nose until it hurts—a punishment or an effort to focus, I can no longer tell. I’ll break the habit as soon as I get the rest of my shit under control.

Lucas approaches, preparing his healing spell.

With the soft lilt of his Voice, he coaxes a thread of golden light from his fingertips.

The magic prods my skin with warm tendrils, slipping beneath the fibers and knitting the flesh together with a few quick passes.

With a flick of his tune, he knots the spell, leaving nothing but a pink line behind.

The scar joins the collection that decorates my skin. A web of secrets.

As the pain eases, I pull the cloak tighter. “How many casualties?”

“Nothing yet.”

Yet.

He removes the stones from the coals, tossing them between his calloused palms to cool them.

He swipes them over my chest, shoulders, and temples.

The stones are hot on my skin. Near burning.

I grit my teeth. Rage flares with a burst of ice in my stomach, but it’s no match for the heat, and it quenches with a hiss, releasing its grip on my lungs.

“Begone,” he murmurs as he moves the stones in small, rhythmic circles. “Spirit, be still within this mortal husk. With flame and stone, I expel the darkness. Begone with you, dark spirit! You are not welcome here!”

The heat nears unbearable, and I close my eyes, pushing through. Pushing it all away. The anger. The fear. Until nothing is left but shame.

What have I done?

“We’ll get you right again,” he says.

The kettle screams. Hinges creak and the door swings open, followed by pattering feet and hissing skirts.

“Oh, deary me.” It’s Deirdre, my housekeeper, carrying a tray of porridge.

She rushes to the hearth and retrieves the whistling pot. My temple throbs as silence resettles.

“I thought I heard someone rustling about in the middle of the night. Thought it might be a frostcat.” She eyes the mount above the hearth, shivering at its snarl.

Lucas stiffens in the female’s presence, and the stones press into my skin. “So you brought it porridge?”

Her eyes twinkle. “Naturally.” Deirdre’s room abuts the healer’s office, and she has the sharp hearing of a glosswhale. No doubt she heard us through the wall.

“Bah,” says Lucas.

Deirdre ignores him. “How are you feeling, Sire?”

She makes quick work of the tea, pouring and steeping. One sugar cube.

“I’ve been better,” I say, accepting the mug. The liquid singes my tongue. With every cell of my body aflame, the knot in my stomach finally dissolves.

She watches me, those attentive eyes missing nothing. “Midnight swim?”

The healer grunts as he passes the stones over my shoulders. “Don’t rile him, Deirdre. Unless you want to be on the receiving end of that icy wrath.”

The mug creaks in my grip.

“Shush now,” the housekeeper hisses, swatting Lucas away. “I’ll take it from here.”

His stones leave my skin with a hiss of pain. “This is my office.”

“Go sit in the corner, then. He needs a gentle touch, and you’re in no mood for this, Lucas. Look, you’ve burned him again.”

“Spirits never respond to gentle ,” Lucas grumbles, stepping back. “Might as well thaw the Rime by blowing on it.”

Her gaze pins me. “Sit,” she says. I sink into the chair. She hefts the bowl of porridge, fishes out a lump with her spoon, and lifts it steaming to my mouth.

“I’m not a mewling guppy, Deirdre,” I complain. “I’m the fucking Frost King.”

“Watch your language, love.”

We both know the routine. These are the instructions my mother left behind—heat to quench the anger, bran to stave the hunger, darkness to calm the fight.

Deirdre smiles, and I open my mouth for the spoon. With a swoop of her hand, she catches a drip of milk on my lips and dips the spoon into the bowl.

“Your mother would have wanted me to take care of you, Your Majesty. Goddess rest her scales. This is the oldest trick in your book, and if it works, why change it?”

My mother left other instructions, too. Locks on the doors and bars on my window. Keep everyone else far away from me. But we don’t mention those. They’ve never worked.

Deirdre is no easier to sway than a frostcat. Beneath that motherly expression is a will of steel. Either way, this will end in porridge.

So I accept her coddling. With each swallow, I resettle in my skin. Rooted once more in time and place.

“Best trick in the book, bah!” mutters the healer. “Unless the king requires more drastic measures than porridge on a silver spoon.” He squats next to the fire, poking the embers. When he looks at me, his eyes reflect the flame. “It could be arranged.”

A chill crawls over my skin as the corner of his mouth lifts.

“No,” I say.

He shrugs, turning to the fire. “Whatever His Majesty requires.”

“Come now.” Deirdre moves to disrupt my line of view. “Off to bed with you, Sire.”

She walks with me, steadying my elbow. Panic twists in my throat. There were no casualties tonight. But what about the next time I lose control?

The air grows colder as we enter the West Wing.

Icicles cling to the ceiling, growing larger and more frequent the closer we get to my chambers.

At the end of the hallway, my guard stands watch before a massive iron door.

Hoarfrost forms webs across the iron surface, coating the seams and screws with an eerie blue tinge.

Ten locks and two deadbolts hold it fast—not a latch out of place.

The guard startles when he sees me, and he glances about, searching for the answer to the mystery. How the fuck did I get out? Wouldn’t we all like to know?

Deirdre pats the guard’s shoulder softly and fishes her keys out of her apron pouch. She turns each lock, filling the night with the rhythm of grinding gears.

“In you go, love,” she says. The ice groans as the door opens.

I pass into the darkened chamber, inhaling the iron scent of the room.

The walls are made of solid metal. There’s a door to my washroom, but no means of escape. No windows. It’s a cage of my making, and I step inside with a sigh of relief. My breath fogs in the chilly air.

“I’ll fetch you for breakfast,” Deirdre whispers.

“This will not happen again, Deirdre. Make sure of it.” It’s a fool’s request. We both know she’s as powerless to stop me as I am. We’re doing the best we can.

“As you wish, Sire.”

The door closes, and the locks turn. I lean against the door and release a whoosh ing breath.