Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1)

by Maria Alexander

  “Like what?” Mom asks.

  “I’m not sure. A voice maybe? I thought I heard it behind the bleachers, so I went to check and that’s where I found him.”

  Mom’s phone rings. “Hello? Speaking.” I can hear a man’s voice on the other end. “We’ve been trying to get ahold of him, Officer Polk.” She shoots an angry look at Dad. “He told Charity that he was at his friend Mike Palmer’s house. No, I don’t have that address.”

  Something is seriously wrong.

  “You’re welcome, officer. Thank you.” She hangs up.

  “So?” Dad says.

  Mom’s voice is shaky. “The police need to talk to Charles. He was one of the last people in contact with the boy before he died.”

  “Shit!” Dad strikes the steering wheel with his fist. “He better not be mixed up in this!”

  Aidan seems to want to say something, but instead he closes his mouth and gazes out the window.

  “Mom,” I say, “if he doesn’t already know, Charles can’t know I’m the one who found the body, okay? He’ll tell the kids at school and my life will be even more over.” I wonder if anyone saw me talking to Mr. Reilly.

  Mom’s eyes wrinkle with sadness. “He won’t know, baby.” She reaches back and caresses my hand. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  As soon as we get home, Mom attempts to establish normalcy. I’m not hungry at all, but she heats up dinner for everyone else. Dad breaks out his tablet and iPhone in the living room, trying to find where Mike Palmer lives. He intermittently calls Charles, leaving increasingly angrier voicemail messages.

  Aidan’s presence is comforting. I help him set the table, smoothing a fresh green tablecloth over the surface. When he puts all the silverware on the right, I explain that the knife and spoon go on the right on top of the napkin and the fork goes on the left. He pays close attention, like someone studying for a test. I’m careful not to touch him, but I want to more than anything. I stand close to him as he rearranges the silverware and I inhale that strange, sweet smell. The knots in my stomach start to relax.

  Then we hear it: Charles’ hooligan friends peeling out in the driveway, his footsteps crunching up to the front door.

  Dad lurches to his feet when the door opens. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t give you to the police forever!”

  Mom rushes past us, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “You’re in serious trouble. I’ve had enough of your tough guy bullshit.”

  “Get off my back! What the hell is your problem, anyway?”

  “Listen, you’re going to cut that shit talk right now because I am not saving your ass this time. The sheriff wants to talk to you about the murder at your school,” Mom says. “And since you didn’t have the decency to return our calls, I can only conclude that you are mixed up in this somehow.”

  I move slowly into a position where I can see into the living room. Charles looks aghast.

  “Me? Why would they want to talk to me? I didn’t do anything!”

  Mom grabs his arm, her eyes searing his face. “Do you think we’re idiots? You know Darren Jacobs was killed today at school. What do you know about this? Tell me now before I drive you to the station.”

  Charles shakes, his mouth open, eyes wide. He notices me watching from the dining room. His look hardens and he points at me. “If anyone had a reason to kill him, it was her.”

  “Don’t change the subject!” Dad barks.

  “I’m not! Darren totally humiliated her today. She probably went Columbine on him.”

  Both Mom and Dad turn to look at me expectantly. I tremble. “He’s lying. It was no big deal.”

  Charles is undaunted. “Darren was also leading the torch and pitchfork brigade on her club.”

  Mom explodes. “Your sister did not kill anybody. And you have set off my bullshit meter.” She pulls the phone from her pocket and starts dialing.

  “Okay! Okay, I’ll tell you what I know. I just don’t want to get into more trouble.”

  “You are already in more trouble,” Mom says, phone to her ear.

  Charles slumps, his expression helpless. “We were supposed to meet Darren after school.”

  Mom pulls the phone away from her ear and pushes the end call button. She focuses on him like a laser beam.

  “We were supposed to meet him behind the bleachers so that Noah could sell him some molly. But then Zachary was all, ‘Dude is a narc,’ so we bailed. We were going to text him to cancel but we got distracted.”

  Mom’s face is flushed with rage. “You’re hanging out with drug dealers?” She’s coming totally unglued. “You are not only talking to the cops but you are busted forever.”

  Dad grabs him, mad as hell. “You think you’re a tough guy? Let’s go. Your Mom will take you.”

  “I can’t narc out my friends!” Charles protests.

  “You tell the truth,” Mom yells. “No more. No less.”

  Charles’ gaze drops to the floor.

  Dad wraps his arms around me. I shed my stoicism, tears soaking his sweater.

  I barely hear the front door open and shut as she and Charles leave.

  Looking stricken, Aidan turns and stares out the window as if searching for something. Or someone.

  After dinner, I spend the rest of the night in my room trying not to think about the blood. I wonder how long I can keep the secret. It feels impossibly heavy. It would help to tell a friend.

  Maybe I could tell Michael?

  I’m not nearly as close to Michael as I am—was—with Keiko. We’re friends. Heck, his mom is friends with my mom. But there’s this wall of mystery between us. He turns every serious question into a joke and never gives a straight answer. I just don’t know how he’d react. And maybe that makes me hesitate. I don’t think he’d betray me, but he’s enough of a question mark that I’ll have to find some other way to deal with the secret for now.

  Mom and Charles eventually come home. They confer with Dad. The cops say Charles needs to stick around. For the first time in a long time I feel sorry for my brother. I can’t believe he would have anything the do with this. I check online for news reports and find only one, but they don’t say it was Darren. Everyone will figure it out soon, though, if they haven’t already. They must have. Someone would notice immediately if he was missing, and they’d put it together.

  Before I go to sleep, I wander to Mom and Dad’s room, and knock on the door.

  “Mom? Dad? Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, my Power Puff. Come in.” That’s my dad. Did I mention he’s a dork? “Are you okay?”

  I close the door behind me. “Yeah. I’m okay,” I lie. “I had the weirdest conversation with Aidan.”

  “Weird? What do you mean, weird?” Mom asks.

  “Well, Aidan was telling me today about his dad. I wasn’t sure I should believe him.”

  Mom and Dad both lean forward, hungry for any information about Aidan’s family.

  “I think his dad might be somebody important, even respected, but really dangerous. I’m worried about him. If we give him up, something terrible will happen to him. We can’t let that happen. Can we?”

  “Come here, sweetheart.” Mom makes room for me on the bed. Dad reaches for a glass of water on the nightstand and swallows his medication for the night. He doesn’t seem to be healing from that back surgery very well. They think I don’t know, but I see how he moves and I Googled the names of the medicines he takes. He’s in a lot of pain. “Sometimes when kids are severely abused, they make up stories to make their life seem more interesting than it really is. Aidan might be telling the truth about his dad being an important or powerful person. But he might be making his family sound better in some way to cover his pain. Are you okay? You’ve had a terrible shock today. I’ll arrange for a counseling session, okay?”

  I shake my head. “Do I have to? I just want to forget it. Aidan helped today, by the way. He’s kind of strange, but he’s really nice.”

>   “He seems like such a sweet boy. If his family turns up, I’d love to throttle them. We think he’s very far away from home because of his accent. He might have hitched a ride or two as far away as Vancouver. Or maybe he ran away from his family while they were visiting the States on vacation. We’re not sure. Just don’t get too attached, okay?”

  “Mom, I’m not getting attached.”

  Dad lies back on his pillows, blinking.

  I should leave them alone. I wrap my arms around her. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

  Mom hugs me and kisses me on the forehead. For some reason, when she hugs me my chest feels like it’s full of hot coals. The sadness floods back. “Good night.” I kiss Dad and leave.

  I tiptoe back to my room—not because I don’t want to disturb anyone, but because I’m trying to hear my brother in his room. He’s quiet. Maybe he’s already asleep. Or he’s sneaked out.

  The sewing room door is open a crack. The light is on. I hear Aidan humming again. It’s that Christmas carol. It’s hypnotic. I’m drawn to the door opening. My feet take me there even though I don’t want to go. I want to go back to my room and climb into bed. It’s cool. And dark. I’ve forgotten about Charles. All I can think about is how Aidan’s hand felt in mine. That silkiness. I can’t resist peeking into his room.

  Aidan’s back is to the door. His hands are in front of his chest. He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off.

  His pale, muscular back is carved up with long, angry scars. Like he’s been brutally whipped.

  I clamp my hands over my mouth to keep from gasping out loud and dive into my room.

  Chapter 8

  Remember that disabled girl who recorded her sheriff father on a webcam as he beat her viciously for downloading video games? When I watched that viral video, I felt sick. My own father is so sweet. I think the angriest I’ve ever seen him was the night Charles was arrested for shoplifting. His face was sweating, his teeth clenched as we waited in the lobby of the jail. Once we got Charles home, he raised his voice and threatened to leave Charles in jail next time, but he never totally lost it like that dad in the video.

  He tends to give in to my mother, who usually has the strongest opinions. But even she isn’t explosive or violent. If I’m afraid of anything, it’s the moment when she transforms from super-nice social worker into soulless, hyper-rational Terminator. Her mind is terrifying. I’ve had some smart teachers, but my mother is brilliant.

  So, it’s hard to believe a parent would be so cruel, but Mom has told me stories from work and I’ve heard whispers at school about it happening to other kids. It’s real. But I have never seen anything up close and personal like what I saw last night on Aidan’s back. Between Darren’s eviscerated body and those scars, I had the worst nightmares I’ve ever had. I dreamed about goblins clawing at my window. I dreamed about cobwebs falling on me from the sky. I dreamed about so many horrible, painful things.

  I can only imagine what Aidan must dream at night. No wonder he won’t tell anyone where he’s from.

  And now Darren doesn’t dream at all.

  I wonder if my mom saw those scars. Maybe that’s why she took him in. That and because he was so polite.

  Now I can’t look at Aidan without thinking about the ruined flesh snaking up his back.

  It’s the weekend. When Aidan isn’t eagerly helping mom or dad with something like one of the servants on Downton Abbey, he sits in his room reading and humming Christmas carols.

  He also watches TV, his jaw slack. Dad tries to show him episodes of the original The Twilight Zone, but Aidan asks only to watch things made in the last sixteen years. Dad keeps it light. The Simpsons, Friends, Big Bang Theory. As the laugh tracks trickle up the staircase, I wonder what he thinks.

  Dad sets up a spare computer in Aidan’s room Saturday night. I overhear him explaining what a computer is and how to use it for his schoolwork. Despite Aidan’s complete ignorance, he rapidly picks up the technology, especially email. Nobody at school uses email unless it’s for school or parents. I only find the message that Aidan sent me Saturday night because I had to pick up some homework for Economics.

  His email is just one line: You have the best father in the world.

  I do. Because now we can talk without anyone knowing.

  I wrote back. He is, isn’t he? Too bad he didn’t give you a phone.

  Aidan replies almost immediately.

  Dear Charity,

  It doesn’t matter to me what device I use. I was wishing I could write you a letter, and here we are. You’re the only person to whom I wish to speak. I know you’ve been through trauma, but when you’re feeling better, I’d like to know more about you. Where you were born. What you like to eat. Your favorite books. These “shows” I was watching. Do you like them? If so, which ones? Can you recommend something? This is all very new to me, I’m afraid.

  I hope you do not see this as an inquisition. Please tell me and I shall cease asking. You are kind, beautiful and intelligent. The last thing I wish to do is offend you.

  With admiration,

  Aidan

  Okay, he’s still weird. And so is email. But does he like me? Is he trying to decide if he does? I’m so excited that I quickly reply.

  Dear Aidan,

  I’m not offended! Not at all. I was born in San Diego. My parents moved to Los Angeles after Charles was born. I really miss L.A. I had more friends and everything was easier. My favorite food, no question, is pepperoni and mushroom pizza. LOVE IT. And chocolate, especially peanut M&Ms, but anything chocolate is good. My favorite TV show is Doctor Who. I’m sure if you ask my dad to show it to you, he will. Both he and Mom love it, too. But, like, new Who, not old Who. Old Doctor Who is kind of cheesy.

  I agonize how to sign off. Yours? (Too forward.) Sincerely? (Too formal.) Squealing Silently with Excitement Because You Might Like Me? (Too honest.) I decide to mirror his signoff.

  Also with admiration,

  Charity Jones

  Aidan’s reply is simple and elegant. The only other email I receive from him that Sunday afternoon.

  Dear Charity Jones,

  Your candor is delightful. Thank you so much. I shall sleep better this evening knowing I have even a shred of your admiration. It means so much to me.

  As ever,

  Aidan

  I check online for updates on Darren’s case. The story has spread to national news. If the police have any leads, they aren’t saying anything.

  Slain student’s body was discovered by another Oakwood High School student… The bloodied body of an Oakwood High School student… Police have been questioning students, but so far there are no suspects… Investigators are baffled by the brutal slaying of an Oakwood High School student.

  They aren’t releasing any details yet. I find the latest news article, and at last they identify the body as Darren Jacobs. I then check Twitter and discover I was right: Charles told his friends who it was, and they spread the news over social media before the authorities even confirmed it with Darren’s family. His poor parents.

  That ghastly photo both haunts me and calls to me. I need to see it.

  Connecting my iPhone to my computer, I turn it on and tap through the latest harassing text notifications, hoping against hope to see something from Keiko. (Nothing.) I then download my recent photos. Once I find the folder, I open the photo in an image viewer. It’s somewhat murkier than the scene actually looked, shadows layering Darren’s body. One hand clutches the ground as the other protects his gored stomach, his pants soiled with blood and mud.

  Those once-mocking eyes are glazed with horror.

  And then I see something I didn’t see before. Hating myself, I zoom in until I can see the grisly details: Two bright blue orbs of light glimmer beyond Darren’s body.

  Watching me.

  I must not have noticed when I took the picture because I was fixated on Darren’s corpse. Could it be the animal that hurt him?

  If so, why didn’t it hurt me?<
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  I’m probably experiencing a form of pareidolia. That’s when people see significant forms in random images. Like the man in the moon. Or “the face” on Mars. Yet my skin crawls.

  As if the eyes still watch me.

  A thorough search online of Oak County’s fauna turns up nothing with reflective blue eyes. If it hadn’t been the middle of the day, I would guess it was an owl or a cat. Or maybe it was a possum, but the eyes are too large, too far apart. Now that I think about it, I wasn’t shining a flashlight under the bleachers and it wasn’t sunny. My phone camera didn’t use a flash. So, maybe the eyes weren’t reflecting light at all, but rather glowing…

  Should I tell the police? But then I would have to explain this photo. I can barely explain this photo to myself, much less someone who might think I had something to do with the murder. They might think it’s some kind of trophy or something.

  Shivering with horror, I fall asleep with the light on, imagining a swarm of deadly insects pelting my bedroom window until their bodies crust over the glass.

  Chapter 9

  Monday morning.

  The bus wheels grind up the wet gravel, the smell of last night’s rain blossoming from the asphalt. My stomach tightens as I step on board, Aidan climbing up behind me. He eyes the vehicle like Mr. Spock assessing some new alien species. Dad’s old ski jacket consumes him, hiding the goofy new shirt that Mom bought him when she dragged him to Ross. Mom has no fashion sense, and apparently neither does Aidan. They came back with ugly green sweaters, hideous striped dress shirts, long johns, and baggy jeans. I think socks and underwear were in the equation, but thankfully she didn’t parade those out.

  They came back laughing. Mom looked smitten with his archaic jargon.

  I have a feeling that the ride will be worse than usual.

  I’m not wrong.

  As I approach a seat with just a chunky, freckled freshman and his gym bag, he puts his arm over the bag as if it was a girlfriend. “No way,” the boy says. “You can’t sit here, Satan Claus.” Someone snickers. “Your boyfriend can’t sit here either.”