13

The fairy was gone, but her taint remained, like a frozen fetid blanket over my sanctuary. I tried to help the natural currents of energy wash away her lingering presence, but I was too distracted to be of much help. The Eye of Winter was high fae. She couldn’t outright lie. If she said that she had whispered the story of my true love to me, then she had. She might have mixed in other things as well, but then she might not have. I didn’t think she had. She had told me about my love life, past, present, and future, and it had two effects on me. First, the defense mechanisms in my brain were valiantly trying to wipe every memory of every syllable from my synapses. The second reaction was to tear me between killing myself or making those responsible for such tragedy suffer horrific torments.

“Given your past loves, suicide and revenge probably amount to the same thing.”

“There you are, I was starting to hope you were gone.”

“You wish. I just didn’t like playing around with the Oracle of the Unseelie Court.”

“You could have warned me,” I pointed out.

“I didn’t know who Duchess was related to until after. And…wait a sec, where’s the Necronomicon?”

“The hotel, remember?”

“Why am I awake then? I wasn’t going to wake up, unless…oh shit.”

“What?”

“Colin, how long has it been this cold?”

“The Eye of Winter brought it with her.”

“Are you sure?”

I sniffed at the air. The foul sewage smell of her breath was almost gone. A glance at the half-burned candles showed they were back to a normal orange flame. But the cold was still as strong as when she was…I jumped to my feet, grabbing my athame and the nearest candle.

What happened next was a frantic blur, more reaction that thought. Even as I rose, a whitish gray mass like a giant snowball crashed down from the top of the rock. I flailed an arm, backpedaling. Something solid, cold, hit my forearm. The dagger ripped out of my grip. The whirling mass of snow and fur yelped and spun. My brain suggested teeth like sharp icicles were lunging at me, but the foe was as formless as a blizzard. I swung hard with my other arm.

Candle and hot wax collided with something. Fire sizzled out on contact. The wendigo screamed, a howling storm wind. It sprinted away, trying to escape. It should have kept coming. My weapons were gone, but the fire must have scared it. I tapped into my mental sanctuary. With a thought, weeds and branches on the upslope lashed together, blocking its flight.

Frustrated, it turned back to fight. This was my game now; its surprise advantage was spent. Three candles sat between me and its charge path. I shoved all the energy I could into tiny flames, willing them to life. I couldn’t throw a fireball, but amping up existing fire was different. The triplet of candles belched out a curtain of fire. The wendigo’s momentum hurdled it through the blast. What came out on the other side looked more hairless Saint Bernard than ice demon. Without its veil of winter, it was reduced to an oversize dog. I softened the mud under its paws, sinking it up to its belly. Its body temperature quickly froze the ground into a prison.

While it struggled, I ran to my duffel bag. I had to finish this now. An ancient evil might underestimate me once, but if it escaped, it would never enter the sanctuary again, no matter how well baited. I snatched out the mall-bought katana, yanked it from its sheath, and charged. I stabbed with it, silly me, and for one dread moment, I thought the sword would snap in two. But steel was steel and, under my weight, it plunged into the wendigo’s flesh halfway to the hilt. The wendigo yelped, then sank prone. Its black blood poured out on the ground in a sheet.

I collapsed to the ground. My left arm was numb, half-frozen from where the wendigo had landed on me. My right shoulder was complaining about the sword thrust and I suspected its complaints would only get louder. But my heart was still connected to the rest of my body and the wendigo was dead.

“Are you sure?”

I started to object, but I had seen my fair share of horror movies.

I groped around for my dagger, but didn’t find it. I grabbed my staff instead and forced myself back to my feet. I smashed the wood against its head. When I tried to lift it for a second swing, my shoulder firmly declared that was enough of that. My legs were relatively fine, so I gave it a solid kick. The third such steel-toe kiss knocked the beast free of the frozen Earth. With its belly exposed, I solved one of the mysteries of the evening: The hilt of my vanished athame barely poked out from its chest. I understood then why it had been so eager to retreat: its initial pounce had impaled it. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.