Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1)

by Maria Alexander

  He focuses on the photo, zooming in, making it larger with each sweep of his fingers. Eyes widening. Sweat beading at his temple. Lips parting. Without taking his eyes off of the photo, he asks, “Have you told anyone about this?”

  I feel a wave of relief that he hasn’t dismissed the photo out of hand, but panic then surges through me. “No. Why?”

  He types on my phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Emailing myself a copy. It’s good to have on file a photo taken before everyone arrived.” The whites of his eyes remain wide.

  “What is it, Detective Bristow? I’m really scared.”

  “I don’t know yet.” He hands me back the phone. The phone makes the “sent mail” tone. “But, Charity, this photo is evidence in a homicide investigation. You can’t tell anyone about it. If you do, you could jeopardize our investigation. And if we find out, you’ll be in major trouble. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “Good. You’re a very smart young woman. Thanks so much for your help.”

  “Sure,” I squeak.

  He charges out of the garage. I follow him. In the house, the whole family stirs from the table as the detective rushes to the front door.

  “Thank you, everyone. Thanks, Charity. Good night,” is all he says coolly as he exits.

  I chase after him. He slips inside his gray Mustang, lights and engine jumping to life. “It’s what killed him, isn’t it?”

  The detective says nothing and drives off.

  I hold myself together just long enough to excuse myself from dinner. I feel the darkness at my back, snarling and snapping. Behind the closed door of my bedroom, my face cracks with fear. Whatever killed Darren was right there. It could have killed me, too.

  And it’s still out there.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning. Wednesday. In the kitchen, I cram a piece of toast with peanut butter and jelly in my mouth, trying to get out of the house. Aidan nibbles on buttered toast. Charles makes himself a sandwich. He’s probably grateful that he isn’t the target this morning.

  Mom is sulking because I won’t tell her whatever I told Detective Bristow. “You can tell me what’s going on, honey. It’s okay.”

  “I’m not in trouble, Mom. I just remembered something I’d forgotten to tell him on Friday. He told me not to discuss it with anyone, okay? Please.”

  “If that’s all, then okay. Don’t forget that I can help.”

  No, Mom. You can’t. No more than you can protect me from whatever is out there.

  Dad lays a hand on her arm and kisses her cheek hard. “Damn, you’re beautiful when you’re mad.” He winks at me. He knows how it is to have Mom the Lawyer barking at you. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Mom bristles, glaring at him for undermining her. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  I am dying to touch Aidan every moment in the car on the way to school today, as Dad insists on driving us three. I ride shotgun, with Aidan sitting behind me. Dying.

  School happens without me. I drift from classroom to classroom, my brain far off in Aidanland, dreaming of snow giants, a cavernous library, and Russian ice ships sailing to Greenland. If anyone is harassing me, I don’t notice.

  I feel a faint pang when I see Keiko. I miss her but not like I did. Not like I should. She snatches glances at me as I pass. I wonder if she ever got my texts. I feel a prick of regret as I realize I never want anyone to know I found Darren. Not even Keiko.

  “I want to show you something.”

  Aidan and I are in the driveway. We’ve spent the last half hour somewhere next door on the Burnetts’ wildly forested property, picking through the blackberry bushes, hopping over puddles and snogging. (I like that word. I got it watching Doc Martin with Mom. It’s the perfect word for kissing.) Maybe it would be safer to lock ourselves in my bedroom, but that feels ten times more dangerous.

  But now it’s time that he met my best friends.

  I tell him to put his hands over his eyes. “Do not peek!” I yell. It takes several minutes as I fly around my room and the garage looking for remotes, but I’m finally ready. “Okay,” I say at last, having arranged everything outside. “You can look now!”

  Aidan uncovers his eyes and looks confused at the two robots sitting before him on the gravel.

  I introduce them. “First, meet Mr. Spotty.” Using my remote, I make Mr. Spotty roll around Aidan in a figure-8 with the other robot. His collapsible, crane-like body extends upward to his full height of four feet; his boxy head is perched on a platform atop the extension bars. He stops in front of a wide-eyed Aidan.

  “Salutations!” Mr. Spotty says. His head turns slightly, as if looking over Aidan’s shoulder, and his body follows. “Danger! Danger!” The motor whirrs ominously as Mr. Spotty cranks back his loaded firing arm and fires a tennis ball into the air, smashing into a tree branch across the road.

  Aidan backs away quickly.

  “It’s okay. He’s completely under my control.” I collapse Mr. Spotty’s body about one-third and move him back in line.

  Miss Yoyodyne moves forward a few steps, her wide, articulated legs carrying her smoothly as she walks. Her head is a round black sphere with a white plastic hood. While I make some of my robot parts, most of them come from discarded toys and broken appliances. I sometimes beg Mom and Dad to buy me more sophisticated pieces. Rarely, Dad can even get a spare from work. But many parts for Miss Yoyodyne came from a movie studio through my friend and first teammate Mark Kabuto. Mark’s dad was a prop master for a couple of major science fiction movies. A lot of the material he gave us wasn’t strong enough, but some pieces worked very well. While Mr. Spotty looks vaguely like a retractable desk lamp, Miss Yoyodyne more closely resembles a robot in a Japanese sci-fi movie.

  “Pick up that rock at your feet,” I instruct Aidan. He does. “Now offer it to her.”

  Aidan watches the robot like a rattlesnake, but he does as I tell him. Miss Yoyodyne strolls up to him and takes the rock from his hand with her two fingers and opposable thumb. She then comes to me and drops the rock in my hand. Like Mr. Spotty, she’s a one trick pony, but very good at what she does. We had to master that particular motion in our last competition—picking up a small item. But Miss Yoyodyne’s dexterity is ten times better.

  “You make toys?”

  “They’re not toys,” I say, annoyed. “They’re robots. It’s what I do. Remember? I told you about it during the lockdown. And lots of times since.”

  I send Miss Yoyodyne back to Aidan. “Go ahead. Shake her hand.” The robot extends her hand and Aidan takes it. They shake like good comrades.

  “You did that?”

  “Not exactly. She has a program and a sensor to detect the handshake.”

  He looks deeply puzzled.

  “I have one more person for you to meet. She kind of has a split personality, so to speak.” I’m so excited, I nearly miss the switch on the console, which was a pain in the butt to hack, let me tell you. “Aidan, I’d like to meet Nikita. Nikita? Will you come out?”

  From the open garage door fly three quadcopters. They resemble small helicopters, but with four separate rotor blades. I control them with my motion-controlled game console, guiding them with my hands. There’s a way for them to fly indoors using GPS. I just haven’t figured out the algorithms yet. Aidan watches with awe. The Nikitas fly over him in formation, swooping and tumbling at my command. They weren’t hard to make, but they are hard to control. They should be autonomous, but I guess that’s what college is for, right? I’ve posted videos of each of them on YouTube. No one believes a sixteen-year-old girl made these. I had to turn off the video comments because they were so nasty. It makes me really mad.

  “I named her after that old French movie, La Femme Nikita, because Nikita lives different lives—although, that’s technically only two, I guess.”

  Aidan watches with awe as I land the Nikitas in front of me. “Is this your magic?” he asks. “I didn’t think anyone h
ad magic here.”

  “It’s not magic. It’s math.” I frown at him. “Magic isn’t real. Math is, and almost anyone can learn it. Math and physics.”

  Aidan’s face is a storm of silence. “You are magic,” he says at last, taking my hands. “You are the single most amazing person I have ever met. You’re not only beautiful and funny, but you’re a genius. How are you even possible?”

  “You’re amazing, too,” I say quietly. “More than I can say.”

  Aidan squeezes my hands. “Charity, I want to ask you something.”

  Oh, no. What now?

  “May I…can I take you…to the dance?”

  I squint at Aidan, not comprehending.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I did this incorrectly.” He looks pained. He lets go of my hands and starts pacing. “I’m so sorry, Charity. I’m a blithering idiot. I just thought that I could somehow pick up the nuances of custom and carry on as if—”

  “Stop already! You didn’t do anything wrong.” I pick up the Nikitas’ quadcopters and put them in the garage. Aidan won’t look at me. “It’s just that we can’t go to the dance together. I told you, my folks won’t let you live here if they think we’re into each other. And I can’t stand the idea of them taking you away. Besides, you might wind up in a foster home where really bad things happen. And believe me,” I said, guiding Miss Yoyodyne back to her perch, “you could wind up in some pretty horrible places. They could even send you to juvenile hall until you decide to cooperate with the police about your immigration status. You think you’ve got problems with customs?” I give the last word rabbit ears. “Just wait until you get thrown into a cell with some redneck kid who punches you to death for talking like a Jane Austen character. At least you’re safe here.”

  Aidan’s gaze falls to the ground. “What’s wrong with Jane Austen?”

  I sigh at him.

  “I’m the heir to a vast empire, and I can’t take someone I like to a dance.” He kicks the gravel, spraying rocks everywhere, and then seems to immediately regret it. “You’re right. I’m lucky. And I’m being childish. I can’t jeopardize what I have.”

  Suddenly, it occurs to me that I might be wrong. There might be a way. “Maybe we could spin it.”

  He looks up at me, questioning.

  “Maybe we could put it to Mom and Dad in such a way that it doesn’t sound like we’re going as boyfriend and girlfriend. You could be more of an escort. They might go for that. Of course, I’ve never been to a dance before and have always said that I hate them, so that might set off some alarms. But we could try it.”

  Aidan brightens.

  “However,” I continue, “only under one condition.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Only one? What is it, pray tell?”

  I run my hands over his ridiculous striped shirt. “Let me show you how to dress. You’ll fit in better. And the better you fit in, the less likely anyone is going to find you here.”

  The air is cooling, but my heart swells against my ribcage. Aidan has a fire in his eyes.

  “So, does this mean we might go to the dance? If we ‘spin’ things to your mother and father?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I allow you to renovate me?”

  I laugh. “You mean make over—”

  He embraces me with a fiery kiss.

  I talk through the smooches. “So, that means yes, right?”

  He nods, still kissing me.

  A car erupts from the road beyond, startling us. We jump apart. The car turns into our driveway and is about to run over Mr. Spotty…

  I cry out.

  Aidan thrusts out his hand in a “stop” gesture.

  The car crashes to a halt just two feet in front of Mr. Spotty. The sudden stop kills the engine. Inside, Charles and his friends shout, tumbling in their seats. The car grill is crumpled.

  The driver’s eyes widen with panic. It’s Zachary. He throws open the driver’s door, cursing. “Motherfucker! What did we hit?”

  I scoop up Mr. Spotty and carry him back to the garage. “It’s what you almost hit. You need to slow down.”

  Everyone piles out of the car. Charles throws an accusatory look at Aidan. “You did something! You made a motion with your hand. Like you were triggering something!” He searches the dirt and gravel for this alleged trigger.

  “I was signaling for you to stop,” Aidan says calmly. “That was all.”

  “But something pushed back, asshole!” Charles clenches his fists.

  Zachary examines the front of the car, head in hands. “It’s wrecked!” The damage extends across the front of the vehicle. “How is that possible? We didn’t hit anything. My old man is going to kill me! Fuck!” He kicks the wheel.

  Noah just shakes his head and repeats, “Fuuuuuuck!”

  “You probably crashed your car driving drunk and are just now noticing the damage,” I say, not fully accepting this explanation, either. Regardless, I hope they didn’t see us kissing. If I weren’t an atheist, I’d be praying.

  “You probably rigged some kind of barrier or something, techno-bitch,” Noah sneered. “It must’ve retracted into the ground, or some shit. We all felt it.” He kicks at the ground with the toe of his military boot, looking for the imaginary mechanism. I then remember that Charles is forbidden from seeing Noah. Fingering the phone in my pocket, I realize that, if by some chance they did see us kissing, I can blackmail them.

  “That’s insane!” I pull my phone out, hands shaking. “If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police. I’m pretty sure you have to report damage over five hundred dollars, and I’m also sure you don’t want anything to do with the cops. Correction: anything more to do with the cops.”

  “Have fun with Bitch Face,” Zachary says to Charles, climbing back in the driver’s seat. “And the freak.”

  Charles stalks off into the house as the car peels away. Before he goes inside, he turns back to Aidan. “I’m gonna find out what happened. And when I do, you’re gonna be sorry you ever stepped foot in this house.”

  Chapter 13

  Dear Aidan,

  Thanks for being cool about Charles. My brother has anger management and impulse control problems. He’s supposed to be taking medication but he doesn’t always. He was arrested for stealing last year. Despite being on probation, he hangs out with the school drug dealers. If Charles lands in jail again, Mom and Dad are going to lose it. What’s worse is that I always seem to make him mad. So far, he’s all bark and no bite, but I dread the day something pushes him over the edge.

  Your old life sounds so lonely and terrifying. I now understand why you ran so far to get away from your father. I mean, really far—it sounds like you lived in Greenland or Iceland. I won’t tell anyone, of course. It does explain a lot, however.

  I’m sorry we have to sneak around. Losing you would be pretty much the worst thing that could ever happen to me.

  Yours,

  Charity

  It’s Thursday. A week since Aidan first came to live with us. Keiko’s birthday is this weekend and I have a plan.

  With everything that’s been going on, I miss my best friend more than ever. I want to tell her how that first kiss felt, to gossip about his skin and hair and startling intelligence. I want to complain about calculus and Mrs. Stewart, to hear about her Driver’s Ed lesson. It’s only been a week, but I already miss hearing about her Golden Retriever, Jackson, and the crazy things she overhears from her room when her Mom’s bible study group meets downstairs. I have no one to complain to about my hair. It’s the exact opposite of Keiko’s, which is as smooth and flat as silk (which she hates). I could complain about it online to other mixed girls (and I do), but it’s not the same.

  Keiko isn’t a citizen. We don’t talk about it much, but I can tell she’s worried about her future. Even if she makes it to MIT and gets the degree she wants, unless she and her parents become citizens, she might not get hired. She might have to return t
o Japan to work.

  This morning, the administrative building swarms with parents trying to remove their children, lobbying for teachers to carry weapons, freaking out (legitimately) about Darren’s coroner report.

  In the swarm, I tie three foil balloons to Keiko’s school locker and attach a card.

  Happy birthday, Keiko!

  Love, CJ

  Okay, so, I’m not very creative. Sue me. (Actually, my hair is kind of creative this morning. I styled it in a crescent roll at the base of my neck. I like it a lot.) Dad and I bought the balloons last night, and he then brought us here early so that we could tie up the balloons before she arrives. Aidan buries his nose in his chemistry book as he waits around the corner. He’s wearing one of Dad’s old black sweaters. He absolutely hates it and almost refused, but I told him that his eyes are now so stunning in contrast that he’s irresistible. That convinced him to keep the sweater. That, and our deal.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Michael.

  Data for you techno-ninja!

  Cool. What?

  Two dogs killed last night. Maybe mountain lion or coyote. Got the kill addresses.

  Mountain lion? Again?

  Right? But not impossible. More likely to attack a pet than a human.

  Michael texts me the two addresses, and I map them. That area looks familiar.

  Both addresses are really close to Keiko’s house.

  “Isn’t there a helium shortage?” Aidan asks. “Should we be using it for fun?”

  “Keiko is worth it.”

  The sky drizzles on the school, but the foil balloon bouquet rises safely beneath the building overhang covering the lockers. They’re shrinking and sagging a bit because it’s cold, but when she brings them inside, they’ll return to normal. The foil should resist the rain pretty well.