Gathering Frost (Once Upon A Curse Book 1) (11 page)

Then she meets my gaze, pleading. And I understand.

I speed through my thoughts, faces flashing before my eyes, but none matches with hers. I shake my head slightly. Maddy blinks once, holding her eyes closed just a second too long, before opening and shrugging it off.

But I grab her hand, suddenly anxious to make her feel better, to turn the fake smile into a real one, to bring this energetic girl back to life.

"There are tons of people in Kardenia, and I know barely any of them. I don't even think I could name all the members of the guard, just the few I work with. Your dad could still be there."

Hope glimmers in her irises, a caramel streak brightening to life.

And in that instant, I know why I'm here. Why the rebels allowed Asher to take me hostage. Clarity stills my mind, slows it, pushing all the questions aside until there is just truth.

The rebels are all desperate to know if the queen's curse can be lifted. Not so they can defeat her. Not to win this war. Not for glory.

For love.

I never once wondered about the families all the trapped rebels left behind once they were pulled under the queen's thrall. But all the old earthlings who now live in Kardenia came from somewhere else. I left my mother. The others, it seems, left families too.

The difference between our two sides has never been clearer.

While the rebels held on, hoped, fought to bring their families back together, we of Kardenia moved on, forgot, let go.

Suddenly my chest burns in pain, exploding down my stomach until I am ill. My eyes sting, they water. My hands tremble with my jaw, and I am heaving, gasping for air. The room is made of liquid and I am drowning, pulled under by the wave of conflicting emotions crashing through my helpless body.

"Jade?" Maddy asks as concern fills her eyes. Concern I bet she feels for her father. Concern I have never once bestowed upon my mother.

Where is she?

Is she alive?

Does she fight to find me?

Is she risking everything for a child who has abandoned her?

A hand rubs my arm as soothing words are whispered into my ear and an arm encircles my body.

I sob.

From hurt. From guilt. From confusion.

Maddy, with no explanation as to why my mood has so drastically shifted, comforts me.

And I am glad I'm not alone.

"Jade?"

It is Asher, but I do not move. I cannot move. My muscles reject my commands. They have lost all strength. It has flowed away in my tears, cries that are endless. I face the gray wall, eyes closed, still on the bed, curled into a ball.

When Maddy left, I dragged my lifeless body into this position, and it has not changed since then. Food has come, but it sits stale on the floor.

Now it seems Asher has been called in to break my mourning. But I do not want it to end—my mother deserved more from me, and now I will cry for her the way I should have done before. With a heart that has learned to feel.

"Jade, what's wrong?" His voice is heavy, filled with worry.

The bed dips below me, giving me enough warning that I do not flinch as his palm just barely touches my shoulder, caressing it one time before dropping away.

But my hand reacts, and my fingers grasp his, holding them against my arm, relishing the small comfort they provide. I tug, and without words, he understands.

Gentle, as though timid, the bed dips further under his full weight. The warm hand I hold adjusts, wrapping around my body, pulling me closer to him in a firm hug. My back brushes against his stomach. His chin rests against the nook of my neck. Even our toes touch. His other arm swoops underneath me, until I am surrounded by Asher, warmed by him.

My heart slows to match his pace. My breath does too.

We sit like that, silent, as tears continue to fall from my eyes. He does not pressure me to speak, does not push and prod to understand, just accepts that I need help and offers it willingly.

My body is at peace. My mind eventually follows. It is a deeper sense of calm than I've ever been able to achieve in my solitude. Asher keeps me grounded, allowing me to float away, to drift without fear that I won't be able to return, to get lost in my own mind.

I wonder if that's what crossing the line was all about. Does trusting each other mean needing each other too? Because that's how I feel, like I don't know where I'd be if he wasn't here holding me. I turn in his arms so I can see the soft smile on his lips, the hazy glow in his eyes.

"My mother," I say, wanting those words to convey so much but knowing how bare they sound. I want to make him understand, to show him a deeper truth inside me.

"What happened to her?" Asher whispers. His breath brushes my cheek, hot in the small space between our faces.

I shake my head as the muscles in my face constrict, tighten.

"Shh," Asher soothes, using his thumb to brush the tears from my wet cheeks.

"I..." My voice is scratchy. The words wobble from my lips, unsteady. Breathing deeply, I try again. "I don't know."

My last memory of my mother is hearing her screams. I had turned my back on her, running to the queen, believing her a princess from my storybooks come to save us in the aftermath of the earthquake. I ignored her plea to stop, to come back. I ripped free of her embrace, exchanging it for the touch of a woman who abused my naïve faith.

But that is not the worst part.

The worst part is that until now, I never stopped running, never once looked back and wondered what became of her.

"I don't know if she is alive or dead. I don't know if she still searches for me. And…"

I pause, feeling small.

"I never cared, Asher."

"You care now."

"Now it's too late."

Without warning, Asher sits up, yanking on my hand, forcing me to follow. His eyes have gone wide, energy sparks along his skin, blushing it to life.

"Come with me," he says.

I could tear my hand away and fall back to the bed, back to my solitude. But something in his voice, the steadfastness, the conviction, it urges me to give in. And I do, letting him pull me from the soft mattress as my muscles protest and my feet stumble to find their footing.

"My father died when I was only a few weeks old," he tells me as we continue down the halls. I am distracted by the warmth of his fingers, still holding onto my hand, not letting go but rather gripping tighter.

Asher keeps talking. "My mother poisoned him." I don't respond. The queen mentioned the story, dismissively, without an ounce of pain or concern. "I don't even remember him—not his face, or his voice, or anything. And I used to hate myself for that. I thought it made me just as cold as my mother. But as I grew up, I realized none of that was my fault. Just like none of what happened to you is your fault."

He squeezes my hand, and though we keep walking, I turn my eyes from the hall only to see that Asher is already watching me. What does he see?

As I gaze at him now, I see the sad little boy who grew up in a lonely household. No father. Just a mother who didn't care, who showed him no love, and stole away the love any other person might have given him. My mother was taken from me, but at least in my memories, I remember her warm smile and the words that effortlessly rolled from her lips, whispering that I meant everything to her.

I break contact, looking ahead, wanting to cry for him but forcing my will to be strong. How did a boy who grew up like that learn to show so much compassion?

"And I thought it was too late too. I knew he was dead. I understood that he was never coming back. But there were other ways I could honor him, just like there are other ways you can honor your mother."

"How?" I ask. Asher means well, but he ran away from the queen given the chance, and I let myself remain trapped. I never tried to escape, never tried to remember. Yet there is such faith in his voice, I cannot help but think he might be right. Maybe I can make amends.

"By helping other people find the loved ones they search for."

We turn a corner and I gasp.

A cavernous room rests before us, a large square space signifying a dead end. But that is not what enthralls me. It is what surrounds me. Everywhere I look, there are faces. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand, stare back at me. I drop Asher's hand, compelled, reeled in by the sight.

Photographs.

I have seen them before, in broken frames or tattered old books, glimpses of the past in the decaying city I've raided for years. But I've never had such a visceral reaction. It’s as though these people jump out from the walls, hands grabbing for me, tugging me closer and begging me to answer their prayers.

Each smiling face rests next to a torn up shred of paper holding a name written in fading ink. My hand brushes against the paper, ruffling it, as I find a face I recognize.

James Malhoon, his name reads. And I know him. I've worked beside him on the wall. I've beaten him with a sword, discarded him as inferior, never once caring where he came from or what his story was.

Next to him rests another familiar person—Tanya Reede. I never knew her name, but she lived next door to me. In the photo, she is only ten or eleven years old, but I recognize the curve of her nose and the shaggy wave of her hair. I used to watch her play outside my window, alone in her backyard surrounded by dolls. She's a few years older than me, but in another life we could have been friends. In any other city, we probably would have.

"What is this place?" I ask as my eyes continue to search, to land on familiar faces. I know some of these people. Not all of them. Very few of their names.

"The missing persons room," he says, stepping next to me, holding his hand just shy of the wall, as though it is too precious to touch. "Every rebel base has one, just in case. These are all the people we search for, all those we hope to find in Kardenia."

My eyes land on Maddy's father—there is no doubt in my mind. The full-teeth grin is exactly the same, the wide warm eyes, the excitement. There is also no doubt that I have never seen him before.

"Asher?" I ask, an idea taking hold over my mind. My pulse starts to speed. My mind whirls. "Asher, what if I'm on this wall? What if—"

He silences me with one glance. The sympathy darkening his eyes is enough to drop my spirits, to snuff any hope I might have had, however small. My mother is not with the rebels. She is not here.

"I'm sorry, Jade." He shakes his head. "I checked. As soon as we arrived, I checked, but I never found your name. It's why I wasn't going to show you this place, not ever—"

"I'm glad you did," I interrupt him. After I say the words, I realize I truly mean them. They were not empty, not voiced just to make him feel better. My heart feels lighter too. "Maddy asked me about her father, and I told her the truth—I do not know him. But there are some people here who I do remember. Some people I might be able to…" I pause, searching for the world as it catches on my tongue. "To help."

Asher's eyes land on me, sending a chill up my spine, but I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes locked on the walls around us, worried what might happen if I do meet his stare.

Every word I say and every action I take seems to draw us closer together. Even now, my hairs stand upright on my forearms, reaching for his body against my will, electric in the minute space between us. We are connected somehow, and even when I try to pull away, I end up pushing closer.

But it is not right. Not when my lie still burns secret in my chest. Yet as my brain shouts to stay still, to let the moment pass, my head shifts ever so slightly toward him.  

Closer.

Closer.

Until...

A shatter echoes against the walls. Glass breaks, cracking against stone, sending a shock wave up my body.

I jump, reaching for an invisible knife at my hip as I turn. Old habits die hard. But there is no need. No enemy waits, no soldier, no rebel with a gun.

Just an old woman.

Flowers circle her feet as water spreads, filling the cracks in the stone, funneling toward us. Shards are all that remain of the vase that rested in her hands, which now grasp empty space. I didn't notice the other bouquets before, but they line the base of the wall, some dried and brittle, others fresh and silky.

Asher speeds into action, flying toward the woman, crouching down to save her petals from wilting against the ground.

"Are you all right?" He asks while handing them back to her. The roses are dripping wet but safe.

She nods, taking them, and Asher begins to work on the glass, scooping it into a pile in the corner.

I don't move.

Her gaze has caught mine and we stand, opposite one another, just staring. I can't read her expression. I don't understand what she sees in my eyes.

"You’re the prisoner?" she asks, voice still like the wind, barely there.

I sway on my feet, anxious, as my hands wring behind my back. "Yes."

The woman steps closer, ignoring Asher as her feet carry her forward. In the light, shadows line her face, wrinkled grooves that reveal her age.

"But you're just a child," she says, barely a foot away. "No older than my grandson."

"Old enough to fight and get caught." I shrug, uncomfortable under her scrutiny, unused to being questioned about my age. 

The woman seems to accept that, though a frown flattens her lips, and she steps past me.

"My husband turns seventy-six today," she tells me, and I notice that she uses the present tense, unfalteringly loyal.

"Is his picture on the wall?"

"Here."

She points and I follow her slow steps to the left, until her finger lands on a photograph. Her movement is graceful as she bends down, arranging the flowers at the base of the wall, perfectly centered on his image as though she has done it before. And she has. For more than a decade.

The old man in the picture is not familiar to me, but I like his smile. He seems to be laughing, to be happy.

I remain silent. I don't want to dash her hopes.

"My daughter was a pilot." Her voice is soothing, like a lullaby, warm and gentle. "Her plane fell from the sky during the first attacks. She was trying to save her son. His grandpa had taken him into the city for the afternoon, to the zoo in Central Park, when the earthquake hit. I don't think she ever forgave herself for being with me when it happened, complaining about his father, worrying over their divorce."

A long sigh escapes her lips and her finger shifts a few inches to the side, to the photograph of a little boy.