Page 2 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

In her I see all the ways she’s let this place harden her. All the ways I’ll undoubtedly do the same. But it’s that same hardness that’s kept us alive.

She presses her lips together tight, turning them from blue to white, before offering a single nod, and I head out into the blustering prison of ice to fetch another log.

Hours later, everyone’s mood is lighter. Vella hums softly in her favored corner, staring out the window, and Mother and I prepare the evening meal in peaceable silence, while the extra log crackles and spits in the wood stove.

"I think the morcunas look ripe," I say softly to Vella, not wanting to startle her from her reverie.

"It looks that way, but the flesh needs to darken a bit more lest it taste bitter," she says, without taking her eyes from the window.

Mother shrugs next to me. "The flavor mellows when cooked. Why not enjoy one now?"

Vella’s gaze slowly shifts to Mother, then to me, questioning, but it doesn’t take long for that glint to return and the corners to crease and crinkle. "Yes, I think one tonight would be nice. We’ve worked hard for it."

I shake my head. "You worked for it. Mother and I simply stayed out of your way."

Vella waves her hand and rises, reaching for the plant. The dark purple leaves shake when she wraps her slim fingers around the supple skin and tugs it from the vine.

She brings it to her nose, breathes deep. Her eyelids flutter closed, a soft smile ghosts across her face as the sweetness sinks in.

Then the bell tolls.

A deep, metallic cry that rattles the sky.

Vella jerks—just once—and the fruit slips from her fingers.

It hits the ground with a wet, viscous splatter , seeds and pulp exploding outward in a starburst of red.

Like something vital, broken open.

We all freeze, staring at the ruin.

Counting.

One ring.

Two.

I hold my breath .

Dama’s grace, please.

The third ring sends a spear of icy fear down my spine, and a wail rips from Vella’s lips. Not at the lost fruit, but at what three tolls of the town bell means.

"They found someone," Mother whispers as her paring knife clatters to the chopping board.

My breath hangs in the air, a white cloud against Tiriana’s gray sky and the spindly bare trees that surround the village. Vella squeezes my arm, clamping her eyes shut as she trembles next to me.

"What is your name, girl?" the demon with a black velvet hood covering his face hisses. His voice has a chilling weight, and dread crawls up my back, each syllable prickling my skin.

My stomach roils, mouth floods with saliva, as it does whenever demons twist their corrupted magic into their voices.

But I keep my wits about me, eyes darting from the executioner to my sister, then to my mother standing straight as an arrow beside her.

Unlike Vella, Mother doesn’t huddle inward against the frozen air.

She doesn’t blow into her bare hands like others.

Her arms hang loose at her side as if she feels nothing at all.

Her eyes are clear, focused only on the demon ahead.

An icy wind circles overhead, whipping my hair, stinging my cheeks and eyes. A black scarf dances and billows in the gust, and before my body can conjure more nausea, I double check the knotted scarf under Vella’s chin.

"NAME!" the demon commands, and both my and Vella’s knees buckle. She gags into her hand as I pull us upright .

"S-Sevigny," the poor girl stammers, and my stomach hollows out, plummeting straight to the frozen dirt.

Sweat breaks out along my hairline.

Being too focused on Vella, I failed to notice which of us the demon stole.

My heart races, breath staggers in my too-tight chest, but I will myself not to cry out. I cannot afford to draw his attention.

Dama’s mercy. Sevigny.

The demon pulls a red-tinged dagger from the scabbard at his hip, lifting it high for all to see. A muffled cry echoes through the village center, bouncing off the bare trees and thin-walled hovels.

Sevigny’s mother.

A hint of white in my periphery draws my attention, and vomit rises in the back of my throat. I quickly tuck the loose strand of hair back under Vella’s coat collar and hope the executioner didn’t see it. Hope he’s too focused on…

Sevigny, the neighbor girl three alleys over who shared several rashers of bacon with Vella and me when her brother caught a wild pig in the forest last turn.

Sevigny, the second child of Matilde and Jeram, born three weeks before Vella.

Sevigny, the girl who kicked a boy twice her size in the undercarriage for poking fun at Vella’s white hair.

As he lay rolling and groaning in the snow, she threatened to kick him so hard his prick wouldn’t grow if he ever mentioned Vella’s hair again.

Vella relayed that story to me when I’d been bedridden for two weeks with the coughing fever.

Sevigny would go to her grave to protect Vella’s secret. Just like I would. Just like Mother and all the other humans in our village.

But there’s one difference between us .

They think Vella is the key to undoing the Frozen King’s eternal winter. Vella is their only hope. Their salvation.

But I just want my sister to live.

My gaze finds Sevigny’s wild, tear-glazed eyes. She’s breathing too fast, still kicking at the demon’s boots, still twisting in his grip. It’s useless. We both know it. Her slight frame, her thin-soled shoes—she’ll never even dent his armor. But she doesn’t stop.

None of us would.

We’re not trying to win. We’re trying not to die quietly.

I lift my hand and press my knuckles to my mouth—hard.

Like I’m holding something in.

Like if I let go, I’ll scream.

Sevigny sees it. Her pupils blow wide, breath catching in her chest.

And then she slams her heel down again, harder this time. Her elbow jerks back toward his ribs. She’s still crying, but now she’s using it. Letting it carry her.

Her gaze finds mine, and her brow lowers. A flicker of something anchors her there. Not hope.

Defiance.

My throat closes, tightening painfully.

I pull Vella closer as a hot tear trails down my cheek.

Thank you , I mouth.

I can almost hear her low, grounded voice chiding me. Don’t you thank me. Keep her safe.

My mind races through all the ways I could stop this. First, I’d rally the village to overtake the demon. Then I’d hide Sevingy and Vella behind a wall of bodies while the strongest among us ripped the metal and weapons from the demon’s body .

I could see it so clearly.

But my feet stay rooted in place, tongue firmly glued to the roof of my mouth.

Because as clearly as I see the revolt, I also see what happens after. More demons. Less food. More women taken until our entire village is destroyed.

I ball my fists tight enough they ache, and I don’t know if it’s fear or the thwarted urge to fight that makes my legs quake beneath my skirts.

The red-tinged metal glints in the bleakness of perpetual gray skies, and a silent scream rages through my throat as the executioner’s arm swings downward. He draws it across Sevigny’s throat quickly, and I don’t look away.

I will witness her death.

I owe her at least that much.

Vella whimpers into my shoulder.

It never gets easier. Seeing so much blood. Watching the life drain from a woman’s eyes, the color leach from her cheeks.

It only gets harder.

Deep red blood arcs outward in a spray.

Only the smallest amount spills down her neck.

The last bit of warmth she’ll ever feel.

Sevigny’s body slumps against the demon, and her face slackens, erasing all the anger and hatred and fear.

"Come, Amara! We must hurry!" Vella tugs my gloved hand, pulling me through into the pine forest. It’s a half-day’s walk from the village that I only vaguely remember leaving this morning .

In fact, I hardly remember anything after Sevigny’s execution.

But that’s how it always is.

Some say it’s demon magic helping us through the grieving process. I try not to laugh in their faces when they do.

A demon would never willingly make human lives easier.

"Here," Vella says, pushing the basket into my arms. "Start over there, and I’ll start collecting here."

I shake my head, trying to clear the lingering fog from my thoughts. "Sorry. What are we doing here?"

Vella smiles. She’s never as affected as the rest of us. "We’re collecting pine straw for the holes in the walls, Amara."

"Right." Of course. Why else would we be here?

"And if we hurry, I have a surprise for you."

For me?

She nods, reading my face. "Yes, for you. Now let’s get going."

I trudge toward the trees she pointed to, worn boots flexing around the hard-packed snow.

They’re still warm enough that I can get most of a day’s wear before the chill gets bone deep, but the same isn’t true for my gloves, and I let my mind wander to keep from focusing on the stinging stiffening in my fingers.

What kind of surprise could Vella possibly have for me?

She doesn’t leave the hovel except with me or Mother, so she couldn’t have scrounged up something without one of us noticing.

I spy a dense pile of needles in a snowbank ahead and delve deeper into the forest off the well-packed path.

A sharp chunk of ice shatters under my weight, crunching and poking through the thinning boot soles .

"It’s not a new pair of boots, is it?" I ask.

Vella chuckles as she meets my eyes. "If I had a new pair for you, you’d already be wearing them. Anyway, hurry. I want to get finished with plenty of time for your surprise."

I do as she asks, and soon enough we’ve collected enough straw for now and enough fresh needles to let dry for later. Vella takes me behind a dense patch of trees and fishes something from her inner coat pocket. "Look." She opens her palm.

A dark-leafed cigarillo, half smoked and snubbed out sits in her hand.

"Where did you get that?" I hiss.

Vella shrugs. "It’s the one the demon guard put out by our window. I picked it up on our way out this morning."

I shake my head, not remembering.