“She s-said it was a trap . . . that they meant to kill you . . .”

“Who? Who told you someone was trying to kill me?” When she only sobbed and burrowed deeper against him, Wynter’s fingers brushed against her damp cheek. “Look at me, Khamsin.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to look at him.

Anger was her defense, the familiar wall of volatility and destruction she’d always used to keep the world at bay, to keep pain and tears at bay. Even as a child, when Tildy had rocked and soothed her over some wound or emotional hurt inflicted by King Verdan, a core of rebellious anger deep inside Khamsin had continued to smolder, giving her strength, shielding the most vulnerable part of her.

But how could she muster a protective shell of rebellion when Wynter gave her nothing to rebel against?

“Khamsin, look at me,” he repeated, and his tone was one of such calm, relentless implacability, she couldn’t deny him.

Her tear-spiked lashes fluttered. His face came into focus. His eyes so pale and piercing in the masculine, golden-skinned beauty of his face, regarded her with unblinking steadiness. Long, white hair blew about his head and shoulders like ribbons of snow.

“Reika,” she admitted. Her gaze dropped and her fingers plucked at fur of his vest. “I shouldn’t have believed her. It was stupid of me. But—but I . . . She said . . .” Kham’s voice trailed off.

“She said someone meant to kill me on the Hunt?” he concluded for her.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and nodded. “To keep Rorjak from returning.”

“And you came to warn me?”

She nodded again.

“Why?” His voice had gone husky.

She shivered. The question danced across her skin like the electric purple glow that came when she called the lightning.

Such a dangerous word, “why.” Because so often its answer led to places a person didn’t want to go. Vulnerable places.

“Wynter, I—” She risked another glance up at him. His features—normally so stern and severe—had softened into an expression that made her chest grow tight. Her gaze skittered away to a point over his shoulder.

The wind from her storm was still blowing. Drifts of snow shifted and moved, looking almost alive.

She frowned. Odd. One of the drifts seemed to be moving against the wind, rather than with it. Her mouth went dry as twin beads of glowing scarlet flashed against the stark white of the snow.

She grabbed Wynter’s shoulders. “Get down!”

With Khamsin still clutched in his arms, Wynter dropped and spun just as the garm sprang towards them. He pressed one of her ears tight to his chest and covered the other with his hand, curling his body protectively around her, as the garm’s paralyzing shriek rang out, followed by the blue-white cloud of freezing vapor.

The scream shivered through him like vibrations through glass, and frost prickled across his back. Another man would have been incapacitated, but Wynter had consumed the Ice Heart. Neither the garm’s scream nor its freezing breath could harm him.

As soon as the garm passed, he flung himself upright. The coating of ice on his back shattered as he stood.

“Khamsin, get back in the cave.” He set her down and shoved her behind him, keeping his body between hers and the garm’s.

“No, I—”

“Now!” He cut off her protest with a curt, barked command and yanked Gunterfys from its sheath. The garm had spun around and was coming back for a second pass. “I can’t fight the garm and defend you, too, without getting us both killed. Now get into the cave!” He cast one, quick glance over his shoulder. “Please, Summerlass.”

He didn’t dare watch to be certain she obeyed. The garm was already upon him. He spun and sliced as the garm leapt, claws outstretched. Burning cold raked his chest, and the beast howled.

The garm’s claws ripped through his leather armor like butter and dug deep, burning furrows across his chest. Wyn put a hand to his chest. It came away damp with blood.

Only his blood no longer ran red but violet, and it was cold to the touch. Colder than it had ever been before.

A furious snarl snapped him back to attention. Wyn saw with satisfaction that his was not the only wound struck. The garm was limping. Freezing deep blue droplets of the monster’s blood dripped down its left foreleg. It was snarling, its lips pulled back, the rows of dagger-sharp teeth gnashing together with audible clicks. Glowing red eyes fixed upon him with unmistakable malevolence as the creature paced around him on the icy lake, waiting for an opening to attack.

Strangely, the sight filled him with hope. He might have drunk the Ice Heart, might already be more than halfway to his doom, but he still remained mortal enough that the garm considered him prey.

He gripped Gunterfys more securely and crouched for the beast’s next attack.

“Wyn! To your left! Your left!” Khamsin shouted the alarm.

He had heard the scratch of claws on ice and was already spinning to meet the rush of a second garm.

Two garm? Two? Garm were solitary hunters. He’d never heard of a Winterman encountering two at once. Three, if you counted the one he’d already slain.

Wyn rolled to one side, swinging Gunterfys in a wide circle as he went in an effort to gut or at least wound both beasts as they passed overhead. The drops of freezing cold that landed on his skin told him he’d struck a blow.

The sound of crumbling rocks made him look up.

Wyrn save him! Yet another garm stood on the lip of the cliff. The fourth garm was snarling, fangs bared, claws digging into the ice as it prepared to spring.