Anna’s gone. The ice jars her knees as she lands. Anna for Romy. Tears drown her throat. Her stomach convulses, and trying not to retch, as heavy as the ground, Kira drags herself toward her sister. It’s obvious; perhaps it always should have been. Anneliese, wanted for her past, lured back to Whiteland for punishment. Brought down by love for her possessed, wandering daughter. And Mathew?
He was blackmail, then revenge. After all the time spent working it out, in the end, it’s simple. Simple and cruel.
Collapsing onto Romy’s shoulder, Kira clenches her fists and cries. Heaving, merciless sobs wrench through her, ripping her to strips; she wanted it over, but not like this. She’d rather be away with the dead than left with the pieces, the memories. After all of this, all this hell, all this shit, she’s alone.
A hot, sniffing nose burrows into her neck. Angling out of its reach, Kira curls into Romy. The wolves are wild; they’ll go away.
They don’t. A paw bats her arm, as impatient as a cat pining for food. Wrecked and blurry, Kira looks up.
The wolf who carried her across the ice stands close beside her head. Ears pricked, its nose nudges, even as the others lope off. Kira swallows. Her lips are swollen. ‘There’s nowhere,’ she croaks. Coughing, she returns to Romy’s shoulder, closing her bee-stung eyes. Please, just leave. ‘There’s nowhere to take me now. Go home.’
Her dark, deflated peace doesn’t last. Yipping, the wolf bats her again, snuffling its nose into her hair. You will move.
I will not. The ice crystals cool her cheeks. The painful ground is justified. Romy smells awful, of urine and blood. It’s all they both have left.
The wolf whines. Its hot breath billows across her face. Kira drags her hooded eyes open. Its human gaze on hers is golden.
She’s wrong, and it’s right. The realisation is gradual, reluctant: this isn’t all they have left. They have a home. They have a world. They need to move.
Step one. With a whole-body sigh, Kira slowly sits up. Her mind is numbing. Good. Dragging her cold, tired legs upright, she bends down. Even unconscious, Romy’s light enough to lift. Dully, Kira manoeuvres her onto the waiting wolf. Okay. Step two. Gripping Romy’s spectral arms, she casts a last look back.
Dimly, suffocated and cold, she pangs. Both her dad and Maja have disappeared, traceless in the white. How?
It doesn’t matter. Deadened, Kira turns back to the wolf. The thoughtless, wonderless feeling swaddles, and she lets it take her whole. If she starts to think, she’ll never get home.
Home. The outside. Go.
Using Romy as a teetering anchor, Kira clambers up behind her. One arm cinching her sister’s waist, she buries the other in bristling fur and squeezes with her thighs. Step three.
The wolf takes off across the ice.
The Whispers let them go.
Almost skipping, almost running. Her feet barely skim the ground, and she’s glad the night is still. A touch of wind, never mind a blizzard, and she wouldn’t have left the forest alive. The ground glints with frosted snow. It’s the coldest she’s ever been.
Her new form is blasphemy. Continuing her floating path down the road, Freya shakes her head. To live in such a body is a crude, cruel joke. It’s sluggish, ignorant, weak. Without the Kyo, she wouldn’t survive.
As she runs, she feels them. They watch, they spy, they sigh directions. They show her what to do.
Make them scream, and make them run. Make them try in vain to hide. Send them to the hellish veins of nowhere, and then…Freya smiles. Mathew steps out of the trees.
It’s time to find the sisters.
Acknowledgments seem simple until you come to write them. Where do you start? How do you choose? Writing is never one solitary person, hammering away in a caffeinated storm...although a lot of the time, that storm is life.
First, a massive thanks to all at BBC Blast, who supported me as an eager teenager bursting with lyrics and still support me now. Particularly gargantuan thanks go to Kimberly, Chantal, Molly, and Lisa. James, someday, Kathy Carlton will see the light.
The Fiction Café, you’re beauties. You put up with my endless questions about publishing, writing, and everything in between, as well as my sardonic despair about the writing process: Emma N, Kiltie, Wendy, Sue, and everyone who fills these groups with irreverence and banter. Jenny, your support everywhere is amazing. Madeline, I couldn’t have done without your advice on publishing. Antonio—you’re still learning from the best!
A huge, giant, colossal thanks to Becky Rawnsley for your LWA tutoring—you taught me about deep POV, and finally made it click! All the thanks and more to Margie Lawson, for creating the courses that turned my writing around. Rebecca Rue, what’s bigger than gargantuan? Leviathan? Leviathan thanks for being my editor, for clicking with Whiteland, for getting the irreverent British humour, for loving Callum as much as I do, and for leaving comments in the margins that make me grin and nearly make my mum cry—which is the gold standard of reactions.
Lana King, Easter-egg finder and discoverer of secrets—thank you!
Vern and Joni Firestone, my publishers at BHC Press, for offering a three-book deal to an awkward unknown author, thank you.
I joked about this on Twitter, but I genuinely need to thank my village. Lally, you’re cold, snowy, and snug on a mountaintop, and I love you. Your winter mists and eccentric villagers stopped this book from flailing. To everyone else who stopped this book from flailing—thank you. Emily, we were such imaginative kids that I’m sure it sparked my love of magic. The Harry Potter obsession, the caravan in the playground that we dowsed over with cardboards moons, the fox that we thought haunted a star...I reckon they led to this. Mr Hay—you’ll always be Mr Hay to me, no matter if I’m ten or twenty-six. Your expectations for me meant a lot, and still do. Anna, I love that we still keep in touch—you amazed me at how much amazement you showed at my year six stories about magic.
Last, but in absolutely, positively no way least, my family. You’ve read my stories since I started writing them, and hopefully seen an improvement since From Peace Into Peril, the Lord of the Rings meets Busted adventure from my nine-year-old self. Ben, your random comments inevitably end up in my books. Josh, your music does the same, and I’m throwing one out there for “Wintertide.” Also, your unflagging enthusiasm for Callum is exceptionally fab. Dad, for reading everything as soon as it was ready-ish, and adding your own paragraphs to every book in this trilogy. Several beautiful scenes, and one major writer’s block, have been turned on their heads this way. Mum—for the characters you created (Erik!), the tramps through snowy forests to take atmospheric pictures, the endless discussions about this trilogy, through every single draft...as well as the endless tea and wine, thank you.
Hugo, my old, wonky cat—you have a scene, and it doesn’t even make you look grumpy.
Rosie Cranie-Higgs is an English writer obsessed with folklore, wine, bullfinches, and the magical worlds inside her head. She pines for mountains and snow, loves true crime, and coffee. She likes to write about darkness and ghosts.
She plans to visit all major cities and try their food. She grew up across Europe, and now lives in Lally, Switzerland, the alpine village where her debut horror novel, Whiteland, is set. Other books in the series include Karliquai, releasing 2021 and Memento Mori, releasing 2022.
Whiteland Page 37