Kira bats at him again. He dodges.
‘Besides, I don’t kiss succubae.’ With a grin, he pivots, walking backwards. ‘They’ve never been my type.’
Kira tries for a beady, headmistress stare, but her cheeks are heating up. Thank God for the cold; with any luck, they were already a fetching red. ‘You’re not worried, then.’
Or thinking twice. A frisson flitters through her chest, down to her belly and beyond. If only this was more the time.
Callum regards her sardonically. ‘Are you worried I’m the male equivalent?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then case closed, and let’s speed up.’ He rotates again. ‘I’m getting sick of the sight of trees. As soon as we get out of here, I’m moving to Dubai.’
Kira huffs wryly. God, he’s stubborn; but then, so is she. At least he’s talking. ‘Why Dubai?’
Callum nods at a tree, thinner than its fellows and dripping low boughs. ‘Not sure.’ He nudges a pine cone along with his boot. ‘I guess I’ve never pictured it with trees.’
‘I’m pretty sure everywhere has trees.’ Kira nudges his woollen side. ‘You might want to rethink your criteria.’
‘“Oh, you might want to rethink your criteria.”’ Callum’s hands make a mockery in the air. ‘Look at me, I like words. I have the best words. Maybe you should be the one rethinking—Antarctica!’ His arm shoots out to point at her. ‘Antarctica can’t have trees. I’ll move there.’
Kira tilts her head. ‘I suppose that makes sense.’ She reins back a smirk. ‘It’ll be cold, and barren, and unpopulated…oh.’ She lets the smirk unfurl. ‘What do you know? It sounds like here. You may.’ She nudges him again, and again. Begrudgingly laughing, he jerks away up the steepening slope. ‘Have to rethink your criteria. Oh.’
She stops. The trunk of a tree has caught her eye, a metre off their path. ‘Callum.’
Etched into the bark is a tiny carving. A sketchy tree trunk, four thin branches, and a short line for the ground. Uneasily, it wallows in her mind. It never brings anything good.
She scoots up the slope after Callum. ‘That symbol’s back,’ she calls. ‘The one we should have asked Erik about. It’s on a—’
‘Bloody hell.’
At the top of the rise, Callum pulls up short. Kira slams into his shoulder. Deflating with an oof, she pinches his coat for balance. ‘Some warning would have been—oh.’
Her eyes widen. Her fingers tense. The trees slant down, petering to pebbles. Where the land breaks off, there’s blue.
That’s a bloody big river.’
Stretched to all directions as far as they can see, there’s no land on the horizon, and no horizon at all. It’s a deep blue endlessness blending with the sky, painful after days of sombre green and white. Kira shades her eyes. The sun still hides, but everything is light enough, bright enough, for its coyness not to matter. The cloudy mass above the forest ends with the trees, and the blue that carries on is blinding.
I bet you thought it was an ocean, didn’t you?
Romy’s mockery slips in. Kira brushes it away and scans the water’s edge. Now’s not the time to feel like a fool, to doubt herself and lose focus; they have a high fantasy quest to complete, and to do that…
‘We need a boat.’
She turns to Callum. Staring at the river like a man in love, he doesn’t respond. She taps his arm. ‘Callum? We need a boat.’
Unmoving, unblinking, watching the blue. Kira frowns.
I bet you thought it was an ocean, didn’t you?
It’s the water they saw from the cliff-top. The water that Romy knew they’d seen, burning her eyes, transfixing her thoughts, fuelling her rage to a furnace. Of course. Sighing through her nose, Kira tips her head back. After a whole twelve hours without mind games, one was more than due.
‘Callum.’ Bashing her frustration six feet under, she tugs him around to face her. ‘Hey. Callum. Stop it.’
Nothing. His body might have moved, but his eyes have not; they refuse to be shifted from the shining water, glowing, glittering, consuming. If it feels like it did for her, it wants him to look at it, needs him look at it, begs him to dedicate himself to it, whole.
Too bad. With a staccato sigh, she stamps on his foot.
The shock snaps his head around. Kira takes his cheeks in her hands. ‘Stop it,’ she orders. ‘You’re letting it get to you, the same as it got to me.’ She gives his head a short shake. ‘Look at me. Focus on me. All right?’
At another shake, Callum pulls away. ‘All right,’ he grumbles. Wriggling his foot, he rubs the river-facing cheek. ‘That wasn’t included in the memo.’
Kira eyes the water warily. It’s pulling her, too, prickling her scalp and knocking on her thoughts, but it’s lost its virgin cunning. ‘Maybe everyone else is used to it.’ She looks away. ‘And yes, it’s big, but it must be the river Erik meant. If it was the sea, there’d be waves.’ She waves in its direction. ‘But there aren’t, and the water’s flowing. I’d say see for yourself, but don’t.’
Callum lifts his forehead, brief and sarcastic. ‘Great.’ The strain in his face is evident. ‘Now I’m a victim to large bodies of water, as well as girls with tails. This is turning into a top-notch trip.’
‘At least you’re not the girl with the tail. Come on.’ Kira takes his hand, suddenly decisive. ‘Erik said we have to get across, and standing around being sarcastic won’t be how we work it out. If you haven’t already realised’—she nods down at the beach—‘we’re boatless.’
For what feels like the first time in years, her boots don’t sink into snow. It’s as destabilising as a raft, or a tightrope; thick summer grasses layer the ground, rising, swishing softly to brush against their thighs. Kira runs her fingers through the tips. If this top-notch trip is teaching her anything, it’s not to take things for granted.
Including wildlife. Bugs. A bee drones past. A small, squirrelly creature skitters in front of her away from a dusty molehill. A second molehill pools, volcanic, beside a sprinkle of overlarge poppies and a ring of forget-me-nots. By the time she steps from the grass to the pebbles, something unrolls that feels a lot like hope.
Hope: conspicuous by how it was lacking. She hadn’t realised how tightly she was wound.
With the forest at her back, she can finally unwind. The beach of sorts is alley-like, hemmed in on one side by lanky bushes and on the other by a jungle of breeze-blown reeds. It’s not the most welcoming beach she’s seen; it’s not her beach by a long chalk, but it’s a wonderful change of scene.
And it’s hot.
Oh, God, it’s hot. All at once, it’s stiflingly, agonisingly warm, like she’s walked into last week’s hammam. In a fumble, Kira shrugs big coat, little coat, gloves, scarf, and baggy purple jumper off onto the pebbles. At least the hammam smelt of eucalyptus and needed nothing but a bathing suit. If Callum wasn’t here, she’d strip to her knickers.
‘Whooof.’ Callum arrives beside her. Her vest and jeans will have to do. ‘Talk about extremes.’
‘I know.’ Consigning her beaten-up boots to the pile, Kira straightens to fan her face. Her skin is flushing red. ‘This is madness.’
Callum’s reply is lost, a mumble that may have been, ‘We’re all mad here.’ Pulling off his hoodie, he scrubs his heathen hair. ‘I just want…’
He turns back to the slope, scrabbling up the steep grass to the forest. Kira holds her hair above her head and fans her neck, her chest. She should paddle in the river; absolute bliss. With any luck, she’ll cool down.
‘Aha!’
Kira turns. At the top of the slope, Callum laughs. ‘Thought so.’ Extending his arms, he angles one hand into the forest and one toward the river. ‘You wanted madness, Kira.’ He shakes his head, caught between amusement, despair, and disbelief. ‘Come and feel it.’
Kira squints up the riverbank. She’d rather not scrabble in such dry heat, and especially not when it ends in snow. ‘Feel what?’
‘This.’ He sifts th
e air with his hands, intrigue puffing in hmms. Kira gives in. It’s not like there’s a boat just screaming to be sailed.
‘Feel.’ He grabs her the second she crests the bank, making her his mirror image. ‘See?’
His expectant expression is endearing, but the climb made her sweat rivulets, and she’d really rather paddle, even if she has to shut her eyes. He’s waiting, though. His face is brimming, and her mouth is half open, ready to say yes, that’s nice, but I feel like Big Bird, when she does.
She sees.
She feels. Her right arm, pointing to the river, is hot. Her left, shadowed by the forest, is cold, wrapped in a frost so deep that it’s already a wonder they survived. Her face breaks into a startled smile. She can almost see the difference: bleached curls of white and blue, and rippling, sunlit gold.
‘I told you.’ Callum grins. ‘Incredible.’
‘Impossible.’ Kira starts to laugh, slowly turning in a circle. The temperatures never change, split by the top of the riverbank in a strict slice through her spine. ‘Out of all the things we’ve experienced, it feels really, really strange’—she faces him—‘but I think it’s my favourite.’
Callum’s face crinkles into mischief. ‘You’re sure?’ Touching her cheeks, he kisses her. She squeaks. ‘Maybe not.’
Wickedly, he grins. Kira brushes her tingling lips. They’re just like his: half-hot and half-cold. ‘Nope.’ She holds up her hands in surrender. ‘Nope, nope, nope. Before, it was a curiosity. Now, it’s downright weird. Knockturn Alley weird. Back to the beach we go.’ She takes Callum’s frozen hand and pulls him away, down the wistful grass to the pebbles. ‘Try that again when my body’s all the—God.’
She jerks to a halt on the edge of the beach. Standing with her back to the reeds is Romy.
Chapping lips, hollow cheeks. Her straggling hair falls in matted knots. The black clothes she lives in hang loose, butchered and dirty on wasting limbs. Kira clenches her fists by her sides. It’s not really Romy. It’s not. If it was, she’d run up, hug her, and cry with relief and love and shock. The ghost inside her is ripping her to shreds.
‘Romy?’ she calls, her voice uneven. Her sister is haunting. Kira’s insides chill. She’s haunting…and alone. ‘Where’s Dad?’
Romy tilts her head and contemplates. ‘I am not Romy.’
Kira falters. It’s a stilted version of her sister’s voice, as undefined as if she’s trying it on. Different to the hotel, and different to the hospital; both times, she sounded raw, a harsher version of herself. This voice is thick and ill-fitting. Kira steps forward, more bewildered than afraid.
‘Kira,’ Callum warns.
‘I know it’s not Romy speaking.’ She nudges his warning hand from her shoulder. ‘But she’s there. It’s her body, even if you took it over.’
She pauses. Did the figure just flicker? Blur along the edges, lose a little focus? ‘I…’ She falters again, less sure. Was that another flicker? ‘What have…’
The figure shakes her head. ‘I am not Romy,’ she repeats. The flicker comes a third time, as if Romy’s an image, a mirage, unreal. ‘But neither am I what possesses Romy.’ A droll smile curls her mouth. ‘I am not anyone.’
‘Okay.’ Callum grips her shoulder. ‘We should definitely leave.’ He drops his voice to a hiss. ‘If that’s not your sister, in any of her forms, then I’d wager that talking is a terrible plan. We have a history with crazy women.’
Again, Kira shrugs him off. ‘Who are you, if you’re not Romy?’ she asks. Callum may be right, but leaving means the forest, and the crazy women have been the ones to give them answers. ‘Why do you look like her?’
The figure thinks. It’s an obvious process, muscles working, as ill-fitting in her face as the voice. ‘It is difficult to explain,’ she says, lifting a lock of hair to appraise. Her mouth wrinkles. She lets the tangle return to her ribs. ‘I am a helper; when someone needs my help, I appear in the guise of the one I saw last. The rest of the time, I am nothing.’
She smiles again, a contented curve. ‘I join with the air and lie in the shallows. Sometimes I bask on the stones, or swim underwater to watch the fish.’ She regards them inquisitively. ‘Normally, I am rarely needed, but in two days, there have been five. Do you know why?’ Her smile widens. It softens Romy’s wilted face. ‘And although I am nobody, I am also Sofia.’
‘This is definitely a terrible plan,’ Callum urges beneath his breath.
Kira steps away from him. ‘Who were the others?’
Callum sighs loudly. She shoots him a look that could wither an ox. Sofia hasn’t shown them so much as suspicion, and she won’t look a gift apparition in the mouth. ‘When did you see them?’ she continues. The words are a hiccup, a stumble. ‘The others? You said there’ve been five in two days.’
Sofia tilts her head at the water. ‘Yesterday,’ she replies. ‘The man and the girl after the storm, and the woman—’
‘The man and the girl?’ Kira’s fists contract. ‘My dad? Is he okay?’
‘And the woman’—Sofia eyes her—‘in the morning.’
Kira tries not to feel chastened. ‘Sorry.’
‘I had never thought to meet that particular soul.’ Surprise blinks airy in Sofia’s eyes. ‘She didn’t think I recognised her, but I knew.’
Callum’s voice is suspicion. ‘Knew what?’
Sofia turns her gaze on him. ‘Anneliese has a presence that is hard to forget.’
Callum’s eyes widen. Kira stops breathing. The name leaves her winded, struck in the stomach and the head and the mind. It’s the nail in a coffin she didn’t want to close. ‘Anneliese?’ she whispers, barely there. ‘That was the woman? Anneliese?’
Black with the spirit of Romy-not-Romy, Sofia’s eyes spark. ‘Yes.’ Her curiosity looks Kira up and down. ‘She didn’t say, but she’s going to the northern ice.’
‘How do you know?’ Kira finds her mouth asking. Her lips don’t feel like hers. ‘If she didn’t say.’
Sofia cocks her head, smiling. ‘I take payment in a glimmer of a thought. I admit, when Romy arrived, the resemblance surprised me, but she looked too dreadful to be sure. Now you’re here, however’—her eyes shimmer in amusement, mischievously benign—‘would I be wrong to presume you’re all related?’
Behind her own eyes, Kira is spinning.
‘Do you care?’ Callum steps forward, resting his hand on the small of her back.
Unperturbed, Sofia shrugs. ‘No,’ she says lightly. ‘I am a helper; who I help does not matter. I would advise you to be more discerning about what you reveal to strangers, but’—she turns her attention to Kira—‘even if you weren’t so similar, your presence is almost identical. Oh!’
She claps her hands. Kira starts. ‘I apologise. You asked about your father. He was being unceremoniously dragged, but he was very much alive. Speaking of which’—she squints at the sky—‘if you want to catch any of them, you should be going.’ She fixes her happy-child eyes on Kira. ‘May I take a thought?’
She lifts a hand.
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa.’ Callum holds up his own. ‘What are you—’
‘It’s already done.’ A broad smile breaks across Sofia’s face. She presses Romy’s bony hands together. They smudge around the edges. ‘I have never seen inside the Kyo, and Callum, that brother of yours is unique.’ She flicks her fingers at the river. The tips blur and merge. ‘Thank you. Your air-drawn carriage awaits.’
‘What?’ Callum exclaims. ‘My brother—what?’
Sofia nods behind them. Distant, reeling, Kira turns. A small, reeded rowboat bobs in the shallows.
‘There are no oars.’ Callum’s exasperation bursts. He lifts the words from her mind. ‘How can we sail it if there are no oars? And even if there were oars’—he cuts the sifting water a glare—‘how would we row against the current? Do we look that stupid?’
‘No,’ Sofia says, in a tone that suggests a bit. ‘But you do not need oars. You do not need anything; it will protect you from the
river’s allure and take you straight across. You need only watch out for the bishop-fish.’
Kira stares. Callum stares.
‘Oh!’ Sofia laughs. Coming from Romy’s face, it’s odd, the brightness of wind chimes, or panpipes. ‘I love springing that on people. They very rarely know of him, and why would they? He’s mad.’
Callum looks at Kira. Kira looks at him. Her temples are throbbing. She’s having us on, Callum’s look says. Kira twists her mouth: she’s all we have.
Sofia eyes them pointedly. ‘I really wouldn’t mock. The bishop-fish is ridiculous, and extraordinarily transparent, but still, he draws people in.’ Dreamily, she sighs. ‘A shame. He sits on an island in the middle of the river and tries to persuade my travellers to stop and hear him speak. Don’t.’ Her black eyes sober up with warning. ‘I am not entirely sure what will happen if you do, but I advise not finding out. And you.’
She directs this straight to Callum. The warning in her eyes grows deeper, steeper. ‘You need to watch for the Havsrå. You know of the Huldra?’
Callum sounds incredibly sceptical. ‘Yes?’
‘They are the Huldra of the river.’ Sofia’s gaze flits over Kira. ‘Should you see or hear any sign of them, close your eyes and shut your ears. The boat will pass on without issue.’ She weaves her fingers together, drifting back to lightness. ‘At this point, you must go.’
She nods again, to the river and the merry, bobbing boat. Callum hesitates.
Kira does not. Gingerly stepping from the pebbles to the boat, she sits at one end and tries to have faith. It’s hard to see how an oar-less boat on an endless river will help them, but they don’t have much of a choice. Two vague mentions of an ice plain does not a direction give.
And this shadow of Romy hurts. It hurts, and it’s unnerving, and it’s making it hard to breathe. There’s so much they don’t know.
‘Remember,’ Sofia says, once Callum and their extraneous clothes have clambered into the boat. ‘You are dealing with the Kyo. If you catch up to Anneliese, you’ll be dealing with the ghosts of the ice plains, too. If you wish to stay alive’—she steps back from the shore—‘stay paranoid. Now go.’
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