Page 2 of The Vixen

My work station was center-tunnel, but I’m still one of the last to step into the frosted air. I squint against the sunlight even as it hides behind wintry clouds that pelt my face with snowflakes.

I cup my hands over my mouth and take slow exhales while curling my toes in my tattered socks. Snow bites the soles of my exposed feet where two giant holes have formed.

My parched throat nearly brings me to my knees, but I just watch the others at the water troughs as they fight to lap at the two solid bricks of ice like desperate pigs. The weak are thrown to the ground by the strong only to clamber their way back. Some give up and shovel snow into their mouths.

The four Keepers on duty watch with disinterest, canteens slung over their shoulders.

Cruel.

Intentional.

Potent.

Her.

Tipping my head back, I open my mouth and let snow collect on my tongue. My arms shake with stage five Parkinson’s, and for the first time since the first time—my first winter at Cambridge—I’m grateful for the icy flecks.

My bunkmate, Angel, and I were in the courtyard arguing over the origin of toast when the first flake kissed my nose.

A childish laugh rocked my chest as I’d held my hand up and marveled at the wintry miracle.Amazing.Magical. Until four hours later when my car wouldn’t start, and Angel and I had to trek three miles back to the dorm in a snowstorm.

I spent four winters at Cambridge bitching about the cold. Since university, I’ve mostly avoided it.

Until now.

Until her.

The sharp pitch of the whistle startles me from my thoughts. My hands slap over my ears while my brow furrows.

Breaks last exactly fifteen minutes. It hasn’t been more than five.

Dregs abandon the icy trough, but instead of going inside, I watch as one drops to the ground. Then another. Then four more, until all the dirty bodies are falling to the snow.

My lungs pause as I dart my eyes to the troughs:poison?

Closer look… No.

They’re not dying. They’re bowing, knees sunk into snow as their arms stretch wide, all facing the same direction.Herdirection, as the Ice Queen herself struts her black boots, black sweater, black heart toward the mine. As if the snow has summoned her—or she the snow.

Collective fear as icy as the sky laces through the air like crystals latching to Dregs’ throats—blocking airways, chilling bones. All except the Keepers. All except me.

I breathe like a bull and stand stock still while my blood heats, face flushing with sudden warmth. My trembling hands lower to my sides and ball into fists while she walks toward me like the ghost in the Dregs’ stories—an urban legend, a campfire tale.Daemonium, they sometimes call her. For the Keepers who mention her, it’sHer GraceorHead Keeper.

Her Grace commands this.

Head Keeper demands that.

Not a soul has spoken the name Luna. In moments where my memory of our last kiss burns like a vicious taunt, I sometimes pretendHer Graceis someone else entirely. Like the girl I risked my life for is still a captive of the compound and waits in the Keep for me to save her.

But the pale-faced creature walking toward me is no doubt the same one I pitied less than a month ago.

No hard feelings, she’d said to me the night I tried to escape with her, her cold, needy kiss still fresh on my lips.

Tell that to the lashes across my back, you fucking bitch.

I hear the buzz too late. A strip of searing pain whips between my shoulder blades, sharp as the glowing end of a fire poker pressed into my skin. The jolt steals my breath, muscles locking tight, and for a moment, all I hear is the crackle of electricity and the echo of my own strangled gasp.

I fall to my knees, and my blistered palms find relief in the snow. The Keeper doesn’t waste a second before shoving his boot against the fresh burn, forcing my cheek to numb against the frozen earth. I stretch my arms out with the silent command and take in hoarse, violent breaths while my body convulses.