Bitter Night by Diana Pharaoh Francis Page A

lumped there, a seed of winter in the increasing heat, unmelting and unchanging. At last Max drew it out, turning it in her fingers. It did not look like much of anything. A lump of white ice. But it smelled of Divine magic. Max closed her hand on it, slumping down so she could lean her head against the wall of the box.

    Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. It couldn’t be real. This chance. This hope. To finally get back at Giselle and be free.

    When the time is right, swallow it. Know what you want. You will have it. She sucked in a breath and it sounded like a sob. Her hands fisted on her bent knees as she knocked her head back against the steel wall of the box.

    Max’s mind ranged helplessly back over that night. Thirty years ago and she remembered it with crystal clarity. It was a warm Thursday night in September and she was writing a paper for her wildlife-biology class. Her friend and roommate Giselle teased her away from her homework. Just for a few hours. You’re almost done anyway. I’m bored. What followed was a bountiful mix of drinks’Thursdays were two for one at Mr. B’s, a local bar. Harvey Wallbanger. Tequila Sunrise. Singapore Sling. Colorado Bulldog. Long Island Iced Tea. And dancing. Wild and fierce. Then came the questions. Hypotheticals. Ridiculous. Make-believe. What if you didn’t have to die? What if you didn’t have to grow old and saggy and blotchy? What if you never got weak or sick? What if you could climb like a cat? What if you could run fast as a wolf? What if you could smell and hear like a bat? Would you want to? Would you say yes? Would you?

    Sure.

    And then ΓǪ

    Max woke up months later, no longer human.

    She was in a strange bed in a windowless room and she couldn’t remember anything about how she got there. The lights were too bright and her body was wasted. Giselle was there. Smiling. So pleased. Bouncing like an eight-year-old girl on her birthday. She made no sense. Did you know you have witch blood? Not much. But some. I thought so. It made it harder than I thought. Took longer. But I gave you all I promised and more.

    And more.

    Shackles of magic. A body and mind that weren’t right. Weren’t human. She’d been made a Shadowblade’a witch’s warrior powered by the elemental magic of the dark. She could never stand in the light of the sun again’even moonlight would hurt her. She tried to run away, but that meant pain. But she tried. Nearly four months the first time, ten the second, an entire year the third. Each time she crawled back, her body ravaged by the fight, reeled in by an invisible tether. Each time Giselle took her back to her altar of pain. To punish, to enhance, to wind the bindings tighter. When Max was weak, when she’d gone past the limits of herself, she could no longer resist. It made it too easy for Giselle. She stopped running.

    Giselle was puzzled by Max’s anger and betrayal. But you said yes. I asked.

    Max swiped away her tears, her mouth twisting bitterly. “I said yes to the impossible’a faery tale. Not slavery,” she muttered to herself in the hot silence of the steel box.

    But since becoming a Shadowblade, she’d made herself an expert in faery tales, poring over them, learning all she could. Because as it turned out, they were all too real. And the fact was, faery tales were full of na├»ve idiots doing stupid things because they didn’t know better. In faery tales, being stupid was a crime with a lifetime sentence.

    She opened her hand, turning the hailstone in her fingers. She knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to break the magical ties that bound her to Giselle’s will. And then she wanted to kill the witch. Slowly and painfully. Max wanted Giselle to suffer the way she had suffered over the years, knowing there would be no mercy. Eye for an eye. Justice.

    Could it happen? Was this chunk of ice enough to win her freedom after thirty years? She swallowed, ravenous hope