The clouds were threatening once again—a dark, mirror to the truth down here.
"You're not saying anything, Magnus," Father said. He was trying to bury his annoyance under layers of corporate poise, but the mask was slipping. I could read him like a book.
"What is there to say?" I drawled. I leaned back, letting the leather chair groan as I propped my mud-caked boots onto his mahogany desk. We sat at opposite ends of a five-hundred-thousand-dollar slab of wood, tucked inside a ten-million-dollar glass cage high above Manhattan.
My dirty soles were an uninvited guest. His eyes lingered on them, his irritation sharpening into anger. It was like watching a mountain on the verge of eruption. But he wouldn't blow; he couldn't afford to.
"So, let me get this straight," I said, spinning the chair in a slow, mocking circle. "You want me to play-act the doting boyfriend for Layla?"
"Yes," he snapped, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
A sly smirk played on my face. "And what's the commission for my soul? What's in it for me?"
Father looked up, his gaze searching mine. It was almost pathetic—him trying to understand how I could care so little for the legacy he worshipped.
"Do you truly not grasp the stakes?" He rose to his feet, his presence expanding to fill the room. "How vital this is to us? To our family?"
"If it's so vital, why the charade? Why not just tell them the truth?" I pushed. I was enjoying the torture, though his logic remained a blurred mess to me.
"You dimwitted fool!" he roared, the force of it sending a fine spray of spit across the desk.
"Jesus, Dad. Language."
"It's always a joke to you." He walked toward the reinforced glass wall to brood over the skyline. Outside, the clouds continued to darken. It was just my luck—getting caught in a storm, both inside and out.
"You told me the truth," I reminded him quietly.
"Only because you walked in on a call." His words were clipped, his delivery slow and heavy. "I had one tempting option and one bad one. You follow?"
"I'm curious," I said. "What were the options?"
"Kill you," he replied, his eyes still fixed on the horizon, "or tell you the truth."
My legs slid off the table. The humor in the room died a sudden, violent death. A chill swept through the office. My jaw began to rattle.
"Stop it," I whispered tensely.
"We need this, son." His voice was dreadfully low, vibrating with a terrifying sense of defeat.
"Stop it!"
The air turned into a thick mist the moment it left my lungs. Outside, a monstrous crack of thunder shook the skyscraper to its foundations.
"You know the story, boy," he whispered, finally turning to face me. His brown eyes had bleached into an icy, electric blue; his salt-and-pepper hair was now the color of fresh snow.
"You know why you're still alive. Why we've held this world in sway for a millennium." His voice dropped lower, gaining a , chilling weight. "We are winter, Magnus. The bringers of the storm."
"I never asked for the favor, Father." It wasn't easy coating words in sarcasm when my throat felt like it was lined with crushed glass.
"Why do you fight it?" He looked at my shaking hands with pure disgust. "You are a God of frost, yet you shiver like a whipped dog. It is pathetic."
"Maybe it's my way of protesting your bullshit," I spat back.
Despite the bravado, I felt the shift—that sickening, familiar surge of power. My vision sharpened; the blues of the room became vibrant and neon. I knew my hair was already turning white, my skin the color of moonlight. I watched in disgust as a smile returned to my father's face.
I was his masterpiece.
"I made you an immortal," he said, stepping toward me. "I gave my soul to make you a God."
"I'm sorry I didn't say thank you enough," I replied. The entire office looked like the heart of a blizzard. I forced my body to relax, fighting the urge to scream as the cold burned in my veins. My now-frozen boots found their way back onto the snow-covered table.
Father stared at me one final time, his eyes a mix of pride and loathing. "You will marry her. That is final."
He turned back to his desk. In the blink of an eye, the frost vanished. The air warmed, the ice evaporated, and the office returned to its ten-million-dollar perfection.Even my body felt human again, though the memory of the cold lingered.
***
The elevator ride down was thirty floors of silence, ears popping with the pressure. By the time the door slid open I felt more ghost than man.
The receptionist nodded politely but I saw her flinch-probably felt the air drop to minus zero as I walked past.
I stepped unto the sidewalk and the sudden contact with sunlight was shocking. The old man had sent the storm away. That was new, and terrifying. The humidity hit me like a wet blanket, but I embraced it, trying to drown out the memory of the meeting.
"What did he say to you?"
My eyes snapped open to see Joshua leaning against my car.
He was my younger brother—technically—with blonde hair that was a constant tussled mess and brown eyes twinkling with mischief.
A frustrated groan escaped my lips. "Why do I have the feeling you already know?"
Joshua just smiled and nodded. You wouldn't believe the idiot was over a thousand years old just by looking at him. Then again, you wouldn't believe anything about my family.
"He wants you to follow me," he said, his grin widening.
I groaned again. I couldn't get angry at my brother; that would just be wasted effort. He was the only thing in this family that didn't feel like it was made of ice.
"Follow you where, Josh? To another basement? Another 'mission' for THE GREAT WINTER."
"Not quite," he said, pushing off the car and tossing me a crumpled piece of paper.
"We're going to a party. Apparently, that's where the 'Spark' hangs out."
I looked at the address. It was a club in the Meatpacking District. The last place I wanted to be was a crowded, sweaty room full of people while my blood was still trying to decide if it was liquid or slush.
"Let's go, Mags," Joshua said, already heading for the driver's side.
I hated my life