Snow in Blood
The villagers called her Snow, though that wasn’t her real name.
No one remembered what it had been, and she preferred it that way.
They whispered about her manor, the house of red roses that never wilted, where candles burned even through blizzards, and mirrors were covered with silk cloths that sometimes breathed.
They said she was cursed.
They said she killed her stepmother and bathed in her blood.
They said a lot of things.
Snow liked to listen.
From her frosted window, she would sip from her crystal glass and smile at the gossip echoing through the mountains, faint as the wind.
They were wrong about many things, but right about one: she did like her drinks red.
*
The night Mira Shade arrived, the snowstorm had teeth.
She was a bounty hunter, or so she told the villagers, though her last “bounty” had been a runaway chicken. Still, she carried herself like someone who’d survived worse things than frostbite.
When she reached the manor gate, the roses were alive. They turned toward her, blooming redder at her scent.
Mira swallowed hard. “Charming,” she muttered, pushing through the iron archway. “Definitely not ominous.”
The door opened before she could knock.
Snow stood there in a long black gown, her lips painted crimson. Her hair fell like spilled ink across her shoulders. Her smile was wide and knowing that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Welcome,” Snow purred. “You must be cold. Come in before you freeze to death. I’d rather you die later.”
Mira blinked. “I… sorry, what?”
“Joke.” Snow’s tone was honeyed, but the gleam in her gaze said otherwise.
*
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roses and wax. Candles flickered in silver holders. Every mirror was veiled, but occasionally, something moved behind the silk, a faint shadow, a breath, a laugh.
Mira pretended not to notice.
“I was sent,” she began carefully, “to investigate some disappearances.”
“Ah,” Snow said, pouring herself another glass of red. “Always the same story. People wander too close, never come back. How terrible.”
Mira raised a brow. “You sound very torn up about it.”
“Oh, I am,” Snow said lightly. “I keep running out of servants.”
Mira almost choked on her words. Snow grinned, sharp and gleaming.
*
Dinner was strange… Snow didn’t eat. She only watched Mira, head tilted, as if memorising every heartbeat.
When Mira asked about the mirrors, Snow waved her hand. “Old habit. I used to look too often. It’s dangerous to fall in love with yourself.”
“And now?”
“Oh, I’ve found someone new to obsess over.”
Mira froze with her fork halfway up. Snow’s smile deepened. “Relax. I’m only teasing.”
But the mirrors whispered when Mira walked past, and once, just once… she saw her reflection blink when she hadn’t.
*
That night, Snow offered her a guest room.
“The manor has rules,” she said softly, standing in the doorway with her candlelight haloing her like a saint made of sin. “One… don’t touch the mirrors. Two… don’t open the cellar. And three…” Her smile sharpened. “Try not to bleed. It’s terribly distracting.”
Mira didn’t laugh.
“Goodnight,” she said, closing the door. Snow’s laughter followed her down the hall.
*
Sleep didn’t come easily. The mirror in her room breathed. When Mira threw a blanket over it, something giggled.
So she lit her lantern and crept through the halls, determined to find proof, a cellar, a trapdoor, a clue.
The manor groaned like it was alive. At the end of one corridor, she found a mirror uncovered.
Her reflection stared back, pale, drawn, and smiling.
Mira froze. “What the—”
The reflection pressed its palm against the glass. “She likes you,” it whispered in her own voice. “She hasn’t liked anyone since she died.”
Mira stumbled backward, knocking over the lantern. The flame caught on a tapestry, roses burning bright.
Snow appeared almost instantly, barefoot, gliding through smoke and candlelight. “Mira,” she breathed, pressing her hand to Mira’s cheek. “Oh, little hunter. You’re trembling.”
Mira backed away. “You’re not human.”
“Not anymore,” Snow murmured. “But neither are you… not yet.”
*
The mirrors began to laugh, dozens of voices, all hers.
Mira reached for her dagger. “Stay back.”
Snow tilted her head. “You came here hunting monsters. What if you found one you liked?”
Her tone was teasing, but her eyes, her eyes were starving.
Mira’s pulse thundered. “You killed them, didn’t you? The villagers.”
Snow’s smile faltered. “I tried to save them. They begged for warmth. I gave them mine. But warmth fades quickly, and hunger… stays.”
She stepped closer, the scent of roses and iron thick in the air. “You could end it, if you like. Drive your blade through my heart. It’s not beating anyway.”
Mira hesitated as Snow smiled sadly. “Or you could kiss me, and see which of us survives it.”
*
Later, the villagers saw the manor burning through the snowstorm… red and white swirling together like a dying rose.
When they found it days later, the mirrors were shattered, and the roses had turned pale.
Only one woman walked out alive. Her hair was darker now, her skin paler. Her lips were stained crimson.
When the villagers asked her name, she smiled faintly.
“Snow,” she said. “Just Snow.”
And when she passed by a window, her reflection smiled back, whispering,
“Finally, not alone.”
