Winter Princess E-Book

Skye MacKinnon

• Herausgeber: Peryton Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

One sassy demi-goddess. Four hot Guardians. And a few evil people.

As a demi-goddess, Wyn has always stood out from the human crowd. And now, on her 22nd birthday, her magic finally surfaces with a bang. A Big bang. She’ll need the help of not one, but four (sexy) guardians to control her destructive powers. If only they weren't so distracting...

Her mother, the Winter Queen, waits for Wyn in the Realms of Gods, but there are enemies who will try and prevent her from ever reaching the Realms, even if that means going to war.

Will Wyn be able to survive the journey? And if she does, can she resist falling for her Guardians?

A steamy fantasy reverse harem novel full of winged protectors, a strong heroine, Celtic mythology, kilts, Scottish accents, and nasty demons.
Start this completed series today!

Leseprobe

© 2017 Skye MacKinnon

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Cover by MiblArt

Formatting by Peryton Press

Published by Peryton Press

Skyemackinnon.com

Contents

Map of Scotland

Glossary

Before we get started

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Excerpt Winter Heiress

Excerpt Winter Heiress

About the Author

Also By

For my mum,

who made me fall in love with books in the first place.

Map of Scotland

Glossary

This book has been written by a Scottish author using British English.

Here’s a list of terms you may not be familiar with:

AA - people you call when your car breaks down (AAA in the US)

Aboot – about

Bonnet – engine hood

Calanais – also known as Callanish Standing Stones

Calling 999 – calling the emergency services (US: 911, Europe: 112)

Cannae (Scots) - can't

Cairn – a Celtic burial site/chamber

Dinnae ken (Scots) – don’t know

Dreich (Scots) – bad, miserable weather

Flat – apartment

Having a fag – smoking a cigarette

Homely - homey

Loch – lake

PS - horsepower (in a car)

RE - religious education (subject at school)

Tannoy - public announcement system (e.g. on a ferry)

Wee - small

Before we get started

This book is also available as audiobook, paperback and hardcover.

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ChapterOne

If I told people that my mother was the Queen of Winter, they’d probably lock me up. And if I told them that I can do magic, they’d run away screaming. Or laugh, which is more likely.

It’s not like I grew up in a palace or something. On the contrary, I grew up in a lacklustre semi-detached on the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland.

Nowadays, most people have never even heard of Beira, the Winter Queen. I’m not quite sure if I should feel offended about that on my mother’s behalf. In the olden days, everyone knew her. She was known as the Mother of Gods and Goddesses, the Veiled One, the Cailleach, and, not very flatteringly, the old hag with one eye. You can probably guess which version my mother prefers.

Despite the legends, she certainly doesn’t look like an old hag. Sure, she is old – and I mean, really old, even I don’t know her age – but she is as beautiful as you can imagine.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get those genes from her. I’m ordinary looking, nothing special. Dark hair, brown eyes and a few extra pounds around my hips that make me curse my jeans in the morning. I guess it makes it easier to blend in though. It’s hard enough to hide my magic, so it’s good that I don’t have to hide unnatural beauty as well. Thinking positive, that’s me.

My mum and dad are the only ones who know about my origins. They’re not my real parents, of course, but they are a lot more paternal than my birth mother ever was. I’ve seen her exactly four times in my life. Five, if you count the moment I was born.

I get two letters each year; one for my birthday, one for winter solstice. She doesn’t celebrate Christmas – Jesus and all that came long after she started her rule. I have 41 letters in my top drawer, every single one of them crumpled and stained from being read hundreds of times. Today, the forty-second arrived, in time for my twenty-second birthday tomorrow.

I’ve not opened it yet, but I’ve been holding it in my hands for the past hour, deciding whether it’s better to open it quickly and be disappointed again, or wait for a bit longer, in the comfort of not being rejected - yet. Every time I get a letter, I write a reply, long and detailed, telling her about my life. Maybe it’s because I want to make her feel guilty for having given me away. Now that I’m older, I understand her reasons, and I almost forgive her for it. Almost. If only she would allow me to visit her. In every letter, I ask. But I never get a reply. It hurts.

She doesn’t want you. You’re not worthy of being a goddess’s daughter.

But now, I’m turning twenty-two. In Pagan tradition, I am coming of age. Tomorrow is the day my magic will specialise.

At the moment, I can do basic stuff - light candles, levitate small things like books and cutlery (very handy when laying the table), open doors with my mind. Oh, and read emotions - not thoughts, although in most people I can deduce their thoughts from what they’re feeling. I make a pretty good lie detector. It made me a pain for my teachers back at school, when I would call them out on made-up answers to pupils’ difficult questions. Yes, I wasn’t popular among teachers and my fellow students alike. Being able to see every fake or planted rumour for a lie takes the fun out of high school.

I’m not sure what will happen to my magic tomorrow. Usually, it changes, increasing one particular power and getting rid of all the others. That’s why fire mages can’t control water and so on. I’ve been thinking about it a lot: what power could I live without? Which one is my favourite? What kind of mage would I like to be?

But then, I’m not an ordinary mage. After all, my mother is a goddess. Which makes me a demi-goddess. Although I prefer to keep that one quiet.

There aren’t many of us. To be honest, I don’t know any other living demi-gods. All I have to go on are old tales and legends. None of which are particularly reliable. In most of the stories, demi-gods have a major power, but in contrast to ordinary mages, they also retain some minor powers. I really hope that’s the case for me as well. I wouldn’t want to go without my telekinesis. I haven’t opened my curtains by hand in years.

I turn the letter in my hands. Already there are greasy spots on it. I should really get it over with. I’m used to her standard “PS. I’m afraid you won’t be able to visit me this year” sentence at the end of the letter. The rest of it will be the same old: Happy birthday, let me know if you need any money, say hello to your adoptive parents. If I’m lucky, she might write a few sentences about her life – her life as a queen that is, not her personal life. I know next to nothing about my mother. The last time I saw her was five years ago, and even then, she only stayed for a day.

I sigh. There’s no way around it. I slide my finger into the lash of the envelope and rip it open. The letter is folded several times and I open it apprehensively. The paper is thick and feels expensive. Guess as a queen you can afford nice stationary.

I scan the letter, skimming it for the all important words.

And there they are.

“Some of my most trusted guards will come and collect you on the evening of the 25th October. Please prepare to stay for a few weeks.”

Wow. I almost want to scream in surprise and happiness. Finally, finally I’ll get to see the Realms, see where my mother rules, find out more about – well, everything. Magic, gods, demons, and whatever other supernatural beings there are. I smile in relief. No rejection this time.

Then I read through it again. No further information. Besides a quick ‘happy birthday’ at the beginning of the letter, this is all. Typical. A few weeks... I’ll need to clear that with my university. I’m doing a PhD, so I don’t have classes I’d have to cancel, but I have assignments to mark for some of my professors. And after the autumn break I’ll have seminars to teach - and now I’ve got exactly one day to sort it all out. Thanks, mother. You couldn’t have told me before, could you.

I carefully put the letter back into the envelope and put it in my pocket. It’ll join its brothers and sisters in my drawer soon. First, I have to talk to my parents.

I climb down from my treehouse - yes, I’m almost 22 and I still spend time in the treehouse my dad built me when I was five - and knock on my parents’ front door. We live in the same house, but the upper floor has been converted into a small flat for me. It’s cheaper than renting my own place and I have privacy when I want it. Which is pretty much all the time.

My parents have always given me as much freedom as I wanted. Maybe that’s because they’re not my real parents, although they never made me feel like I wasn’t their daughter. They would have likely done the same to their own children, if they had any. As long as I followed their main rules and got good grades, I was pretty much free to do what I wanted. Which usually ended up me practicing magic in the fields a few minutes’ walk from the house (after I almost set fire to the living room once, this quickly became one of the unbreakable rules).

“Come in,” my mum yells and I join her in the kitchen. She’s making cupcakes - chocolate dough with chocolate filling and chocolate icing. Guess what my favourite food is.

I give her a kiss on the cheek. “They smell delicious.” I try to steal one but she slaps my hand away.

“No cupcakes until we’re all sitting down together.”

“Mum, it’s my birthday tomorrow.”

“Exactly. Tomorrow. Now shoosh, get your father while I put the kettle on.”

I find him in his office, staring at the computer screen. He looks tired and worn out. When did my dad get so old?

They were both in their forties when they adopted me. They wanted a child and when they were offered a baby girl, they accepted without hesitation. Even though they knew from the beginning that I was different. I love them for it.

I quietly knock against the doorframe. “Dad, tea is ready. Join us in the living room?”

“Aye, give me five minutes,” he sighs, and turns back to his computer.

In dad-language, this means I’ll have to come and get him in about ten minutes. At least by then the tea will be the temperature he likes: lukewarm, once you add milk.

I meet my mum in the living room and slump down on the sofa next to her. A large pot of tea is waiting on the little side table, as is a plate full of cupcakes. The next ten minutes are going to be torture. Can’t dad be on time for once in his life? But then, I should know the answer to that by now. He’s a bioethical researcher at the university, and when he gets started on reading a book or journal article, there’s no stopping him. My mum is an artist, one of the few who actually manage to make a living from their paintings. She uses the shed in the garden as her studio, and often spends half the night in there. She’s currently experimenting with fluorescent paints, which means it’s easier for her to paint when it’s dark rather than during the day. My bedroom looks out to the garden, and when I leave the window open in the summer, I can hear her hum from the distance. It’s like she’s singing me a lullaby without even knowing it.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” she asks me and puts an arm around my shoulders. She’s a very tactile person and gives the best hugs in the world. My dad is the opposite; he’s more of a handshake guy.

“I’m going to meet Gina for tea in the afternoon, and we might head to the pub after. I was planning to do my birthday party on Sunday, but now…”

I notice I haven’t told her yet. My birth mother is a bit of a sore topic in this house. I think my parents don’t like to be reminded that they’re not my biological parents. So I always make sure not to call her ‘mother’ in their presence.

“Beira has invited me to her place.” That sentence sounds so ordinary. Except that ‘her place’ isn’t on earth, and it’s more of a palace than a house. At least, that’s what she told me on her rare visits. I was five days old when I was brought to my parents, so I have no memory of the God Realms. I couldn’t even tell you how to get there. All I know of the magical world is what I’ve read in the books Beira brought me on her visits. They are very basic, but at least they taught me how to do a few magic tricks. Everything else I learned through experimenting. Which, after I discovered I could make things explode, my parents made me do outside. Far away from anything that could break. Although I broke a tree once. Oops. I never told them that.

“Are you planning to go?” my mother asks, her voice a little unsure.

“I guess so.” I try to appear more reluctant than I actually am. I don’t want to hurt her by saying that I can’t wait to explore the Realms, learn more about magic, find out which of the supernatural races human write about actually exist. (I was terribly disappointed when I discovered that werewolves aren’t real. I always fancied meeting a hot wolf shifter one day.)

“She’s sending some people to pick me up tomorrow. I might be gone for a few weeks.”

“Oh. That’s… sudden.” She takes a long sip from her tea cup, hiding her face.

“I’m going to try and call if I can. I don’t know if mobiles work over there, though. But I’m sure they have some way of communicating with this world, even if it’s through letters.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I know you’re an adult now, but with all this… magic stuff, I need to know you’re ok.”

“Everything will be fine, mum. Don’t worry.”

With a determined smile, she finishes her tea and gets up. “Come with me for a moment, there’s something I want to show you.”

I put down my own cup and follow her outside, through the garden and into her shed-studio. Large canvases line the walls and shelves packed with paints and other art supplies circle the room. This is the only chaotic room in my parents’ house. Everywhere else it’s tidy and spotless, but the studio is a manifestation of creative chaos.

My mum leads me to a cloth-covered easel. “I was planning to give you this tomorrow, but now… well, we don’t know when they’ll come and pick you up, so I thought I’d show you today.”

She carefully lifts the white cloth (I’m sure it was a bed sheet once) and reveals a big painting on canvas.

I gasp. Then laugh. Then smile. Then almost cry. Then hug her.

When my emotions subside a little, I turn to take another look. A painted Wyn stares back at me. When you ignore that she’s painted me in all colours of the rainbow, it’s almost like looking into a mirror. My mum is a genius. But what’s so special about the painting are the soft, intricate white lines that float around me. Magic. Even though she can’t see it herself, she’s painted them so realistic that they almost look like they’ll jump out of the canvas to bring life to something spectacular.

“You haven’t seen the best of it yet,” my mum laughs and turns off the light. We’re left in complete darkness – wait, not complete. As my eyes adjust, the painting transforms. My throat chokes up when I realise what she’s done. The painted me has turned into a simple white outline on black while the magic tendrils are bright and colourful, exploding out of myself while at the same time hugging me gently.

“How did you…?” I am lost for words, which is not something that happens very often. I’ll mark it in my calendar later on.

“Two years of experimenting,” she says proudly. I can hear her move towards the light switch, but I tell her to leave it off for another moment or two.

Finally, I am no longer the only one who can see the magic. It’s right there, on paper. It’s like proof that it exists, that it is almost… normal.

ChapterTwo

On birthdays, my parents usually wake me up together, with a cup of tea, a plate of pancakes and a candle.

It’s been tradition for so long that when I wake up by myself, alone in my dark bedroom, it feels very wrong. I switch on my nightlight and look around. Everything is as it should be. No scary monsters under the bed (I hope, I didn’t actually check). I look at my phone and sigh. It’s five in the morning. Time to go back to sleep again.

“Happy Birthday, Wyn,” I whisper to myself and switch off the light.

And gasp in shock.

My body convulses. Every muscle tightens and suddenly I’m in the foetal position, my limbs locked around my torso. White hot pains floods my mind, but I can’t open my mouth to scream. I can feel my fingernails burying themselves in my palms and I know that I’ve drawn blood. My chest hurts and I can’t breathe. I try to gulp up air, but my lungs refuse to obey. I’m locked into myself, screaming inside, the pain threatening to drown me. Am I dying? Is this the end?

Without warning, my muscles relax, and with a rattling sound in my chest, I can breathe again. I take a deep breath, savouring the cool air flowing down into my lungs. My body hurts from the involuntary exertion. I lie on the bed, not moving, trying to calm down my breathing. What the hell was that? Was that some kind of physical illness or is it my magic going amok?

My throat is parched and I feel a little dizzy. I slowly get up and make my way through the dark flat until I reach my kitchenette. Pouring myself a glass of water and downing it in one go, I lean against the counter. My heart is still beating too fast. My hand holding the glass is shaking slightly. I am scared. Should I wake my parents? But then, maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s nothing.

Wrong.

I collapse to the floor, my body going limp. I’m not fainting, my mind is fully aware, but my body refuses to move. At least this time there’s no pain. But I can’t feel anything. No warmth, no cold, no tingling. Nothing. It’s as if I’m completely separated from the body that’s lying crumpled on the kitchen floor.

Then the clattering starts. It’s coming from the kitchen cupboards: rattling, knocking, shattering. One of the cupboard doors above me flies open and out float four wine glasses, trundling in the air, gently knocking against each other with the most beautiful chime. They’re followed by my mugs. Another cupboard opens. With a bang, a plate flies out and crashes against the wall opposite, breaking into a hundred pieces. More plates destroy themselves kamikaze style, and shards are raining down on me. I don’t even know if they’re cutting me; I still can’t feel anything. The banging in my drawers gets louder until they fly open, releasing my cutlery into the air. The knives are flying around in a swarm, while the forks seem to be line dancing. This must be a dream. Only in a dream forks can dance.

There’s a loud knock on my door, and I can hear my father shouting, but I can’t respond. I’m trapped within my body, surrounded by flying crockery. The knocking turns into banging, and with a crash, the door flies open. A second later, my parents are standing at the kitchen door, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. It must be quite a sight.

“Wyn?” my mother asks, her voice trembling. “Why aren’t you moving?”

Suddenly, the knife-flock turns in the air and assembles in something that looks like an attack formation, directed at my parents. My large bread knife spearheads its brothers. They tremble, then the first one shoots forward, aiming for my father’s head.

NOOOOOO! I shout inside my head, and with a gigantic crash, they stop in mid-flight and fall down to the floor, together with the rest of my crockery. A plate hits the ground next to my face and a shard buries itself in my cheek. It hurts like hell, but it’s a good pain, because I can finally feel again. I wiggle my fingers and slowly, they comply. But with movement comes the pain. I feel like I just survived a meteor shower. I am covered in scratches and my clothes are shredded by glass and porcelain shards. The one in my cheek seems to be the deepest wound though.

My parents are still standing in the doorway, staring at the carnage that was once my kitchen.

“Wyn?” my dad croaks. “What was that?”

“Are you alright?” mum whispers.

I just nod, not yet ready to speak. And I don’t have any answers anyway. Usually, my telekinetic magic allows me to lift one plate at a time. If I concentrate really hard, I can lift two, but only for a few seconds at a time. This is crazy.

I slowly stumble to my feet, brushing the debris off my ruined clothes. My cupboards are empty, their contents now lying destroyed on the floor. The only thing left on the counter is the glass of water I drank from earlier.

My eyes fill with tears as I look at the destruction I wrought. I’d always known magic could be dangerous, but not like this. What if the knives hadn’t stopped? What if my parents had been hurt, or worse?

Tears are running down my face, mixing with the blood trickling from the cut on my cheek. I look down and see that my shirt is already drenched in blood, both from my cheek and from other, smaller wounds.

A sob escapes me, and a second later, my mum takes me in her arms, holding me as I cry. She isn’t asking any questions, and for that, I am unbelievably grateful. For now, I just want to be sad. Maybe a little self-pity will make this better.

But it’s not over yet.

This time, it’s a headache. But not any kind of headache. A burning, splitting, all-destroying headache.

I feel my knees wobble and just manage to whisper “Get away from me” to my parents. If another magic attack is happening, I don’t want them anywhere near me. I almost killed my dad once already, and the sun hasn’t even risen.

They step back and I gently fall to the ground. This time, my body remains under my control, but with the aching pain in my head, that doesn’t matter. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep all light away from my senses. I’ve had migraines before, but never this bad. My head is being ripped apart and there is nothing I can do to make it better.

“Wyn!” I hear from afar. “Wyn, you need to stop!”

I don’t know what he means. I can’t look, I can’t hear anything, all I feel is the pain and the rushing of blood in my ears.

“Wyn, please, look, you need to stop it!”

Their voices are becoming more desperate but I’m lying on the ground, my entire being encased in agony. I can smell something, but my mind isn’t aware enough to figure out what it is. My parents’ voices are getting quieter until they disappear. I’m on my own, alone with the pain. A roaring has started all around me and the smell is getting more intense.

Burning. I can smell burning. With all I’ve got, I manage to open my eyes a little. The light almost makes me pass out. It’s bright, too bright. It shouldn’t be this bright in my flat. It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing.

Fire.

Lots of fire.

Without warning, the pain disappears and my eyes fly open, my senses fully aware again. I am surrounded by a circle of flames; so high they’re licking at the ceiling. Somehow the smoke of the fire is kept outside of the circle around me, otherwise I’d likely be unconscious already. I concentrate, the way I usually do when I try to make a flame appear. But all I can do is light a candle; I’ve never tried to extinguish it.

Stop, please stop, I beg in my mind, but nothing changes. If anything, the flames are getting stronger. My kitchen is no more and I through the haze, I can see how the fire has spread through the rest of my flat. I am surrounded by a sea of flames. Even if I knew how to leave this circle, I’d never make it out alive. I just hope my parents got out in time.

“Mum! Dad!” I shout, but the roaring of the flames swallows my cries. I step forward, hoping that the circle might follow me. Instead, I singe my fingers on the fire wall. Sucking on them, I try again to concentrate on the flames. Stop. Extinguish. End.

It’s not working. The ceiling above me is creaking; soon it will collapse, burying me under it. At least fire moves upwards, so maybe it hasn’t spread to my parent’s flat below mine yet. Maybe the floor won’t collapse. Maybe they’ll still be able to live in this place once I’m gone, once I’ve burned it all and myself.

Sooty tears are streaming down my face. How could everything get so out of control? Did my birth mother know? Why didn’t she warn me? Why didn’t anyone warn me my magic could do this? Had I known, I’d spent the night somewhere else, in some remote field where I couldn’t hurt anybody.

Even though I have no control over the fire, I can feel how it’s draining the energy out of me. It’s using my energy to fuel its hunger. My legs wobble but I stay standing. I don’t want to die on the floor, pitifully lying there, awaiting my end. I’d rather stand and look death into the eye.

The circle around me is slowly becoming smaller. The fire walls are closing in on me. The heat is becoming unbearable and I can smell my hair burning.

I guess this is the end.

I prepare myself. Once, they burned witches at the stake. Now, I’m burning myself. My magic is killing me. Oh what irony.

I feel faint, but if I fall now, I will fall into the flames. Need to stay strong.

Voices in the distance.

Then, figures, four dark silhouettes walking through the fire, unharmed. The flames are avoiding them - all except for the fire wall around me. When they stand close to my fiery prison, I can see that they are all young men, larger than average, but their features are hidden behind the smoke.

One of them is saying something, but I can’t hear him through the flames. I try to raise my hand to my ears to show him that I cannot understand him, but the fire has crept closer again and I burn my hand, screaming. He shouts again, and then they’re walking around the fire column until they stand in a circle. Four men, in symmetry, like a compass.

I feel something in the air, like a soft, gentle breeze that strokes my cheek. Then something is ripped from me, and I pass out.

Darkness.

It’s cold when I wake up. I don’t need to think long about what happened, it immediately rushes back into my mind. The fire, the flying cutlery, the heat, the fear, the pain. Everything out of control. Feeling helpless. Trapped. A tear runs down my face, too late to be of much significance.

“Hey, easy,” a deep voice whispers. I look up, only to find four men staring down at me. And behind them, my parents. Through their legs, I recognise my street. The sky is filled with dark grey smoke and I can still smell burning. Apparently, the fire didn’t disappear when I passed out. It’s still devouring the house I grew up in.

“How are you feeling?” the same guy asks and gently lays a hand on my forehead. He’s kneeling next to me, his bright blue eyes examining me closely. They’re ocean-blue with turquoise specks around the pupil. I’ve never seen eyes this vibrant before. Blond hair is a mess on his forehead; it looks like he just got out of bed, but this effect likely took him hours in front of the mirror. His face is perfectly symmetric, his skin flawless. I know immediately that he isn’t human. He’s not a mage either - mages look human on the outside, and even though some can change their looks with their magic, they’d never be able to look this perfect.

His warm hand disappears from my forehead and I shiver. It’s strange how not long ago I was almost burned to death, and now I’m cold. My teeth are beginning to chatter and goose bumps are covering my skin.

“Careful, she’s flaring again,” another man says, and four pairs of feet step away from me. It’s probably better that way. I hurt people. I almost killed my parents.

The cold is taking over my body. My breath is coming out in a soft cloud. I’m shivering, unable to control it. Something touches my cheek, and when I look up, I can see snowflakes raining down on me. There’s a sort of milky bubble where they start, hiding the view of the sunny sky. It’s like I’m in my own little microclimate. Fighting against the shivers, I roll to one side and sit up. The semi-translucent dome is taller than me and about twice as wide.

People are standing outside of it - the four men, my parents, and I can see some of our neighbours coming out of their houses. Sirens are ringing in the distance, but I am too cold to care. Ice flowers are forming on the bubble, slowly blocking out the view. It’s like someone is building an igloo around me. My jaw is hurting from all the teeth chattering. I have lost all feeling in my hands and feet. The snow falling down on me is getting thicker, and harder. It’s slowly turning into hail.

Suddenly, something bumps against the dome. Another hit, this time from the other side. Hands are pressed against the milky substance, four pairs of them. Just like with the fire column earlier, there’s one in each direction. Four men, fighting against my magic.

The dome is quivering and thick gashes are appearing on its surface. With a high pitched crack, it collapses, covering me in icy shards and a heap of snow.

A burst of energy is drawn out of me and my legs buckle. Before my knees hit the ground, arms wrap around me and pull me up. They’re warm, hot almost, and pull me against an even warmer body. I’m still shivering and lean into the warmth, rubbing against it in an effort to dispel the cold that is clouding my mind.

Someone clears his throat above me. I look up and jump back. I was pressed against a man I don’t know, and he’s laughing at me. Oops. But he was warm, that’s my excuse. He pulled me against him. It wasn’t my doing at all. I’m innocent.

Then why do I feel so ashamed? I rub my arms, missing the warmth of his body. The cold air makes way to a warm breeze that gently hugs me. I sigh contentedly and close my eyes, ignoring the stares I’m most likely getting. The warmth is feeling so good. If it wasn’t air, I’d hug it back.

“How many flares has she been through?” A man’s voice, unfamiliar.

“Flares?” my father asks.

“The ice was one, the fire another. Did anything else happen before that?”

“Oh yes, she destroyed her kitchen. Made things fly.”

“Air, fire, ice. Shouldn’t be many more then.”

What? More of this stuff is going to happen to me? I can’t go through this, not again. I’m exhausted and fainting once was enough. I just want to go back to bed, forget about all this and be normal. Not human normal, I’ll never be that. Demi-god normal.

When I’m all warm again, the mild air around me disappears. I open my eyes. The four men are standing in a row, watching me. One of them, with long black hair and a black cloak - yes, a wizard kind of cloak - is lowering his arms. He’s looking exhausted. Tendrils of magic are slowly pulling back into his hands, taking the warmth of the air with them.

Not every mage can see magic; in fact, I only know of two others.

I give him a small smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and gives me a small bow. Not a smile though.

“Storm. At your service.”

“Storm? Is that your name?” I ask, a little confused.

“Yes, is something wrong with that? Your name is Wynter, isn’t it?” He gives me an annoyed look. Oops, I upset the guy who just helped me.

“Yeah,” I mutter. Don’t remind me. I know every Wynter-winter joke there is. “Sorry.”

“He’s playing with you, lass,” the largest of them laughs. He must have giant blood in him. His hair is as ginger as it gets, and he is wearing - please believe me - a kilt. I mean, yes, I live in Scotland and people here wear kilts occasionally, but that’s at weddings or festivals, and not in everyday life. A beautiful white sporran is hanging right over where his - anyways, he looks like a Scottish caricature. Except better looking. A lot better looking.

“I’m Arc. And over there are Frost and Crispin.” He points to the other two guys who’ve been quiet so far. One of them is the blond man with the blue eyes. The other, Frost, is the spitting image of Storm: black hair that falls to his shoulders, dark brown eyes, tall. Kudos to the parents who named their twin sons Storm and Frost.

“Hello,” Frost says, smiling at me. While his brother is gorgeous and serious, he’s gorgeous and friendly. Dimples are adorning his cheeks. I shoot a quick glance at Storm. Nope, no dimples there. I guess this will be the way to tell them apart. And the fact that Frost is wearing normal clothes, not looking like someone straight out of Hogwarts.

My mother rips me out of my men-admiring thoughts. “Are you alright, sweetie? What happened?” She pushes past the four men and wraps me in her arms. She’s a slender woman, but her grip is strong. “When Beira wrote that you were going to—”

“What? She wrote to you?” I interrupt her.

“Yes, a few weeks ago. She—”