Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1)

by Maria Alexander

  Darren groans. “Seriously?”

  “Say another word and go directly to the principal with possible suspension.” He directs his next comment to Aidan. “We’ll talk after class. Please hold your comments until then.”

  And he does. But as soon as class lets out, taunts and kissing noises fly through the room. I swear, you’d think it was junior high. As Mr. Reilly calls Aidan to his desk, I duck out. The eyes of the “Joan of Arc—Wanted for Heresy” poster seem to follow me out of the room under the thundering of the bell.

  As soon as I’m outside, Darren Jacobs grabs my rear end and yanks up my underwear. The fabric cuts into my crotch. I fall forward, sprawling on the pavement.

  A chorus of hoarse laughter follows.

  I struggle to sit up, palms and knees stinging.

  A hand extends to me. It’s Aidan. Those milky blue eyes are watery with concern. Can’t he see how it’s only going to get worse if we touch? I try to stand on my own.

  “Charity, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be!”

  I grab my bag and stomp off. I want Darren to die almost as much as I want to die myself.

  Chapter 5

  It started drizzling during Music Appreciation. The droplets cling to the waves of my doomed hair. I shrink into my jacket collar, lowering my head. The sky rumbles like sheets of metal dragged over asphalt. I search for Bus 83 in the chaos of the parking lot. It’s usually the last to show up.

  Why didn’t I take Drivers Ed this year? Oh, yeah. Stupid AP classes.

  Aidan the “boyfriend” is nowhere in sight. He probably got detention for being a weirdo in one of his classes. Mom would want me to find him and haul his butt to the bus, like a foster care bounty hunter. Maybe I should screw up once in a while like my brother. Then they wouldn’t expect so much of me.

  My heart races. I have to make a decision. Number 83 is heading up the street.

  Mom will kill me if I don’t take care of that guy.

  I break away, running around the band room building and straight up to the quad, which is peppered with stragglers. I scan the hallways for that bulky gray ski jacket. Rien, as we’d say in French class.

  Aidan!

  A whisper on the wind. Or is it a scream?

  Following the phantom noise, I walk out to the football field. Who knows where he could’ve gone? I call out his name again. Surrounding the empty field like a castle wall are the green and white bleachers. I approach them and step around the back of the stands.

  “Aidan?”

  Legs splay out from the bleacher underbelly. Someone’s lying on the ground. Are they drunk? For such a “godly” school, there’s lots of that.

  “Hey! Dude! Get up!”

  I draw closer. Dark fluid streaks the jean pant legs and Converse shoes. I crouch down to get a better look.

  It’s Darren Jacobs. His face is frozen in terror. A pool of blood seeps from his eviscerated body. One hand clutches the ground as the other protects his gored stomach. His face is slashed and bleeding.

  I turn away and retch, acid hot in my throat. Shaking and gasping. Knees wobbling.

  We’ve had some pretty major stuff happen with Charles. My parents often didn’t believe me whenever I would tell them something was happening. Would anyone believe this? I can’t stand the thought of being called a liar again. Not about something this serious.

  There’s one way to make sure I’ll be believed.

  I pull out my phone, hands trembling, and take a deep breath before I snap a photo.

  A sick shiver rushes over me.

  And then I run.

  Chapter 6

  I search frantically for a teacher, terrified that whatever attacked Darren is silently loping after me. Clubs of every description meet after school: drama, choir, jazz band, debate, and more. Mr. Reilly is the first teacher I find. He’s standing with Aidan in the quad. My heart pounds between my ears as I yell, “Mr. Reilly! It’s an emergency!”

  He withers as I describe what I found. Before I can show him the photo, he puts his arms around Aidan and me, rushing us to his classroom.

  “Get inside! It’s a lockdown!”

  Mr. Reilly shuts the door and locks us inside before sprinting toward the office. Within moments the school fire alarm goes off, followed by an announcement on the intercom system.

  “Attention all students and teachers. Emergency lockdown. Emergency lockdown. Immediately go to the nearest classroom and lock yourself inside. If you are already inside a classroom, lock the door. Avoid the windows. I repeat, avoid the windows. This is not a drill.”

  I grab Aidan’s sleeve and pull him to the far side of the classroom, hunkering down to the right of the windows, out of sight. We hear the screams of other students. Get inside! Quickly! It’s the most chaotic time of the day. At least some kids will be able to get away because they have cars. As I text Mom, a helicopter rumbles low overhead, louder than the thunder.

  Mom, we’re in lockdown! I found Darren’s body. He’s been killed. We’re at the school. Aidan and I are locked in Mr. Reilly’s room.

  I then text Dad and tell him the same.

  And finally Charles.

  Where are you?

  WHO WANTS TO KNOW

  School is in lockdown. Are you okay?

  YEAH. AT MIKE’S HOUSE

  Good

  DID YOU SHOOT SOMEONE?

  Shut up

  I KNEW IT!

  I click the phone screen to black, tears pouring down my face, and put the phone on vibrate. My head’s a jumble of shock and fear.

  “Are you all right?” Aidan whispers.

  The floor is freezing. I feel sick. I want to go home. I wished Darren to be dead and now he is. What I saw is going to keep me awake forever. Who could do something like that? Or was it an animal? What could overpower Darren unless it was a big person? He was one of the strongest boys in school. He must’ve been taken by surprise.

  Police sirens slice through the air and eventually officers flood the school. We don’t see them but we can hear the scraaaawwsh of their radios, footsteps pounding through the open halls. Unfamiliar voices and words.

  I bury my face in my arms as I pull my knees against my chest, tears soaking my coat sleeves. To my surprise, Aidan gently puts his arm around my shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asks. “Can I help?”

  Aidan’s warmth is hypnotic. The scents of cinnamon and rose and nutmeg waft from his collar. An unusual cologne, especially for a guy. Did Mom buy it for him? It suits him, whatever it is.

  “I don’t think anyone can help,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.” The fright of seeing Darren’s bloody body, the pain of fighting with Keiko, the terror of the bullies, the aggravation of being DNA-bonded to Charles. Everything feels dark and heavy.

  “I feel a little responsible. I hope you’ll forgive me for invading your home.”

  “It’s not your fault. Your timing isn’t great, I’ll admit, but it’s not like you could help that, either.”

  “Perhaps. But I could have chosen to be someone else’s problem. Not yours.”

  More helicopters now. Shouts in the distance.

  “Where are you from?”

  Aidan takes away his arm. I miss it immediately. “From up north.”

  “You mean, like Canada? Or somewhere closer, like Oregon?”

  “Like Canada, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Why does it matter, Charity Jones?”

  I suddenly feel cold inside. “It matters because I feel uncomfortable living with someone I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know anything about you, and yet I feel perfectly comfortable living with you.”

  “Really? Even after the terrible welcome we gave you?” I smile wryly. “You’re running from someone or something, aren’t you?” My chest tightens.

  Aidan sighs, turning toward me as he rests his head against the wall. Those eyes. They’re impossibly beautiful. They look into mine as he tal
ks. “My father is an evil, powerful man who seems to have terrible sway over his children, as well as many others. He’ll stop at nothing to find me, and I don’t want him to harm anyone in the process. Like your parents. Or you and your brother. I know you don’t like your brother. I don’t like my brothers and sisters, either. But I’d never forgive myself if my father hurt you or your family.”

  A lump in my throat. Could this be true? “Why didn’t you call the police on your dad? Don’t they have laws against child abuse in Canada?”

  “There are no police where I’m from. And besides, everyone loves my father. I even think some of my siblings love him despite who and what he is. When your heart is black as coal, you can love dark things. But I’m not like them. I don’t even look like them.”

  “Maybe you’re the milkman’s.” I wink.

  Aidan furrows his brow.

  “What I mean is, maybe he isn’t really your dad.”

  “Oh, he is. There’s no denying.”

  “Then you should keep running. You should never stop.” But I’m glad you’re here. Please don’t leave.

  “But then, like your mother said, more people will be after me than my father. Although, technically, he shouldn’t be able to find me.”

  “How come?”

  Aidan is silent for a moment. “I’m the only one not on the list.”

  “What list?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time. But he has a way of learning things and he has a lot of friends. I don’t like to take chances.”

  “But you must’ve come a long way without getting into trouble. How did you get caught?”

  “I was famished. I can go for a while without eating. I guess I attracted attention scavenging for food. And then the police picked me up. They seemed very nice at first, but when I refused to tell them who I was and I admitted I was sixteen, they called your mother. Or at least someone who knew her.”

  The images of Darren swim up unbidden into my mind. I shudder, squeezing my eyes shut. Aidan puts a hand on my arm.

  “You’ve had a terrible shock. Let me help to take your mind off things. Tell me, what’s your favorite class?”

  The honest answer is none of them. I like to build things. I tell him about the FIRST robotics competitions where we have to build a robot to certain specifications so that it can perform in a big contest against other robots. And the coolest part is that we are encouraged to cooperate with other teams. It’s not about winning as much as it is about learning how to exchange ideas with other people.

  More helicopter noise and police chatter. I huddle against the wall, nausea knuckling my stomach. Aidan holds me gently. “Go on. Tell me more about the robots.”

  “My dad works at Aerojet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an aerospace company. My dad builds rockets that go to space. And other things.”

  “To space.” He whispers to himself as if remembering something. “And other things? Like what?”

  My phone buzzes. Mom’s picture appears.

  “Mom!”

  “Honey, are you safe? We got the robocall from your school. I can’t reach you until the police release the lockdown. It might be awhile.”

  “I know. I’m okay. We’re locked in Mr. Reilly’s classroom.”

  “Where’s your brother and Aidan?”

  “Aidan’s with me. Charles says he’s at Mike’s.” That’s Mike “Pulp Fiction” Palmer, whose dad has an arsenal of guns that would embarrass an army base. The thought of Charles around guns terrifies me.

  “Okay. We’ll be waiting for you when they lift lockdown. Just be safe, okay? Keep your voices down and do whatever the police say.”

  “Will do. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  We sit quietly for a while, listening to the sounds of chaos outside. Then, the intercom makes a new announcement.

  “When your door is opened, put your hands on your head and exit slowly. You will be escorted out by police officers. Follow their instructions.”

  “That wasn’t very long,” Aidan says.

  “It only seems that way because we talked the whole time.”

  “Which was easy,” he replies. “You are far prettier than Mr. Reilly. And smarter, too.”

  “Everybody is prettier than Mr. Reilly.” No one except my parents and a boy named Rizwan in junior high has ever said I was pretty. Smart, yes. Pretty? Almost never. And I don’t realize how much I want that until Aidan says it. Or almost says it—he said prettier, not pretty. Aidan, who talks like an escapee from a Jane Austen novel. Of course only the oddest guy at school thinks I’m pretty.

  I take his hand and squeeze it. He winds his velvety soft fingers with mine. It’s the most delicious sensation I’ve ever felt. I never want to stop touching him. Ever.

  “I mean it. You are,” he says. “Pretty.”

  I wish I didn’t have barf breath. As I study his lips and hold his warm hand, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, the custodian keys rattle in the lock and someone throws open the door. Cold air blasts the stuffy room, bringing with it the smell of rain-soaked earth. Aidan and I stand, jostle our backpacks and, hands on head, we exit the room.

  Students stream from other rooms, dazed as the police corral us toward the parking lot, which is crowded with cop cars and news vans.

  As soon as students spill into the parking lot, reporters pull them aside and question them, the glassy Cyclops eye of a TV camera aimed at their faces.

  “Aidan! Put up your hood!”

  “What?”

  I grab his hood and yank it up onto his head. “You don’t want to be on TV. Your dad will see you.”

  Aidan looks confused but lets me cinch his hood in place. We lock eyes, the conspiracy sealed for no other reason than that I want to kiss him. And he looks at me like he might have if the situation were different. He gives the hood an extra tug forward.

  A policeman stops us as we wade through the crowd. “Are you Charity Jones? Come with me.”

  Chapter 7

  My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in my chest as the officer leads Aidan and me to the music building. The police have commandeered the band room for a temporary headquarters as they debrief school officials and get statements from other kids. Music stands have been shuffled aside and chairs clumped together wherever people talk.

  “You wait outside.” The officer indicates Aidan as we cross the threshold.

  “I’ll see you soon,” Aidan says, his eyes locking on me until the band door shuts.

  The chaos of police radios and uniforms scares me in a whole new way. The officer strides toward a clean-cut, brown-haired man in a suit and trench coat. He talks on his phone as he straddles a backwards chair in one of the practice rooms. We enter, his dark eyes fixed on me. To my surprise, the officer shuts the practice room door.

  “Charity Jones?” The trench coat man offers me his hand and clicks off his phone. “I’m Detective Jim Bristow. I’m a homicide investigator for the county. Can I ask you some questions?” He pulls a notepad and pen from one of his inner coat pockets. “Have a seat.”

  I awkwardly sit in the chair and shift so that I’m facing him, letting my backpack slide to the floor. He smells like coffee and cigarette smoke, his trench spotted with dampness from the rain.

  “Now, don’t be scared. You haven’t been arrested or anything like that. I’m just going to take your statement and ask you some questions, okay?” He asks for my age, address, parents’ names and phone numbers. I give him everything. “You found the body, correct? Can you tell me exactly how that came about? No detail is too small.”

  My mouth is dry as I recount finding Darren under the bleachers. He listens as he leans forward, taking notes, and then interrupts.

  “So, why were you out at the bleachers? Doesn’t seem like a place I’d find someone like you.” He studies me. “No offense if you like sports. My wife loves sports, and she’s a doctor.”

&nbs
p; “I was looking for Aidan.”

  “Aidan—?”

  “MacNichol.” My heart skips a beat as he writes down Aidan’s name. “He just came to live with us, and since today is his first day at our school, Mom said to make sure he didn’t miss the bus. I didn’t see him anywhere and Mom would have killed me—so to speak—if I didn’t get him on the bus. When I couldn’t find him, I became desperate, wondering if maybe he’d wandered off.” I don’t tell him about the whispers I heard. I’m not even sure anymore that I heard them.

  Detective Bristow stares at his notepad for a moment, rubbing his eyes. “And did you find Aidan?”

  I nod. “He was with Mr. Reilly, our history teacher.”

  “The teacher you reported the death to.”

  “Yeah.”

  His pen scratches his notepad some more.

  “Did you know Darren? What was your relationship like with him?”

  “He was a bully,” I say, voice low. “He harassed me. A lot of the jocks taunt me.” My voice cracks and then I add quickly, “I’m not the only one, though. They pick on my friend Keiko and the other honors students, too. Especially anyone who is overweight.” I hope Keiko and I are still friends.

  He kicks at some dust on the laminate floor. “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt him?”

  “Sure. But no one would want to kill him. Maybe just see him get a dose of his own medicine.” Okay, that’s not entirely true. There was a time I thought I’d love to see him dead, but when I actually did see him dead, it was a different story.

  “Fair enough,” the detective says. His mouth upturns at the corners, a dim smile. “Thanks, Charity. I might need to talk to you again at some point.” He hands me his card. “If you think of anything else I might need to know, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  As Dad drives, Mom grills me even more than Detective Bristow did. Aidan and I sit behind them. “Honey, why did you think Aidan would be in the football field?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I was frantic. And then I thought I heard something.”