Cold Spell fr-4

by Jackson Pearce

  And then my eyes fall on the spot.

  The spot where his violin is supposed to be. The spot where his violin always is. It’s a void, an empty space on the otherwise cluttered carpet. I stare at it, unsure what to think, what to feel, what to do, because I know that this means he’s gone. With her.

  I call the police. It’s the only thing I know to do.

  “So wait, the violin is worth how much?”

  “Thousands,” I explain, brandishing Mora’s fur coat at him, as if it’s evidence. “But it’s not that. If it’s gone, he’s gone.”

  “Is it insured?” he asks, ignoring the coat.

  “I’m not worried about the violin!” I shriek. “He didn’t steal it, it’s his!”

  “All right, all right, calm down,” the officer says. We’re standing in the courtyard, and I can see neighbors peeking out from their curtains to see what the noise is about. It’s late—the police were so inundated with snow-related calls that it took them hours to get here. My mom stands beside me, arms folded, irritated not only that I called the police, but that, as far as she can tell, I’m being immature. Upset over a fight with my boyfriend. Childish.

  She doesn’t understand that I’m afraid.

  “This, to me, looks like a kid freaking out over losing a relative,” the officer says to my mother, as if I’m not standing right beside her, shivering. “Has his aunt shown up?”

  “I don’t know—” my mom begins.

  “No. She isn’t here. I don’t even know if she’s coming,” I say dismissively. My tears have dried, but my voice is still stuffy and thick.

  “Well, he’s eighteen, so he’s not a runaway. I wager he’s taken the cello—”

  “Violin,” I hiss.

  “I wager he’s taken the violin,” the officer says, looking weary. “To hock. Fast cash to hold him over till the will gets executed.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Honey,” the officer says. “I have been driving through the snow for days now. Tomorrow it’s supposed to let up. I get that this boy broke your heart and ran off with some blonde, but he’s a legal adult and can make his own decisions. Most of downtown’s without power. Water pipes are frozen over. A few streets over, we’ve got a girl your age, murdered. Ripped to shreds. You really think I should be tracking down some boy instead of finding the monster who did that to her?”

  “The girl who took Kai, I think she’s done something to him,” I plea. “He didn’t just leave me. I think his grandmother—”

  “He’s a bum, Ginny—you’ll meet someone else,” the officer says firmly, and gives me a pointed stare. We’re silent for a moment, still, him daring me to say another word.

  “He’s not a bum,” I grumble, and spin around. I slip on the ice, a final indignity, before I stomp back inside. My bedroom is cold; I’m so tired of the cold. I turn the radiator on high, even though it fills my room with a sticky, plastic smell.

  This is crazy. This is crazy, crazy, crazy. The magazine clippings are still assembled on my bed. I stare at them, trying to see someone other than Mora, but it’s so clearly her. Her, on the Snow Queen page. Her, in Atlanta during a blizzard. Her, here the day Grandma Dalia died.

  Mind the beasts.

  I have to leave tonight.

  * * *

  The first week after taking a new boy was always the worst. The boys had questions, they clung to who they were, and they got scared. Mora looked over at Kai as she pulled the car under the awning of the hotel drive. She knew what they were going through, almost exactly, and she also knew it would pass. And when it did? Things would get so, so much easier.

  “Come on,” she called to Kai as the valets came to open their doors. Kai stepped out, looking dazed as Mora walked around the back of the car to meet him. She frowned—he’d need new clothes, and soon; he looked shabby next to the car, the hotel, and Mora’s silk dress. One of the doormen hurried to offer her his woolen coat—her shoulders were bare and exposed to the snow that was falling hard, clinging to the hotel windowsills like strips of icing. She waved the doorman off, pretending to shiver, and cursed herself again for leaving the white fur coat at Kai’s house. Another could be bought, of course, but it was the convenience of the thing. She nodded for Kai to follow her, and they pushed through the dark oak doors and into the lobby.

  Mora stopped, her knees locking as the memory hit her. Memories were strange for her now—just as she thought she had them all gathered up, under control, a new one would appear like a ghost from her former life. This time it was brought on by the smell of this particular hotel—like wine and floor wax and years of perfumes and cigars passing through. Kai stopped obediently beside her, waiting for her direction. He’s coming along nicely, she thought.

  “I stayed at this hotel when I was a teenager,” Mora told him as the memory took shape in her head. She looked across the lobby. It reminded her of vintage dresses, pearl jewelry—pale pinks and creams and golden accents. There were pillars every few yards along the wall, leading up to a coved ceiling with inlaid carvings and stained-glass skylights. Someone played a grand piano at the far end of the lobby, classic songs that cut over the hum of conversation, the people in suits shaking rocks glasses, women with dangly earrings laughing. “It was for a wedding, I think,” Mora continued, staring at a woman in a white cocktail dress. “Perhaps. Sometimes I can’t tell what I’ve imagined and what’s real.”

  “Why can’t you remember?” Kai asked. His voice was hard, and if Mora were being entirely honest with herself, she’d admit she preferred the softer version, the one he used with Ginny. She rolled her eyes for thinking that, then answered.

  “Because that life is long gone. It’s like trying to remember something that happened when you were a baby. I remember… I remember that they made me go to the wedding with one of my father’s friends. He was older than me, but he was rich. He was going to be a congressman, they said. I’m not sure if he became one or not—it was after I left. But oh, they wanted me to marry him so badly. I think my father would have paid him to give me a ring.”

  “But he didn’t?” Kai asked. Mora shook her head, regretting saying the memory aloud.

  “He knew I didn’t love him. There was another boy I wanted….” Mora’s eyes lingered on the piano player for a long time. “He played the piano.”

  “A musician,” Kai said a little coyly, mistaking the seriousness in her voice for teasing. “I see why I’m here now.”

  Mora laughed a little, the sound broken and cheap. “Yes. He was brilliant, though, better than this one.” She waved a dismissive hand at the pianist in the lobby as they passed him, moving toward the front desk. “But musicians aren’t stable. Musicians aren’t good choices. Musicians become poor drunks, whereas politicians become wealthy ones, according to my father. I loved him, though, loved him like he was air or water or the sun—”

  Mora swallowed. It was easier, back when she didn’t remember him. She stopped, turned to Kai, and ran her fingers along his cheekbone for a moment, a tender gesture that made a few people at nearby tables giggle in amusement. Kai was like the other boy, the one she loved. Talented. Beautiful. But the difference, the biggest difference, was that Kai would never stop being hers. The thought helped dull the ache of what happened with the other boy.

  The boy she loved. The boy who broke her heart.

  Kai turned his head to kiss Mora’s fingers, a scandalous look in his eyes. She withdrew her hand just before his lips touched her skin; the act made Kai follower even closer behind her as she continued walking, hungry for her attention.

  “My sister was here, too,” Mora said. The memories of her family were less paralyzing, easier to talk about. “We shared a room. She had her own date, with some other rich man. My sister liked it, honestly. She wanted a house and a baby and dinner parties and boats. Maybe that’s why she was the one who got killed. She hadn’t learned to fight like I had.” Mora shook her head and looked at Kai’s raised eyebrows. “That’s the way it work
s. Twins are two bodies with a shared soul. One of us had to die.”

  “Who killed her?” Kai asked, voice raspy—perhaps he was too new to hear this tale.

  Mora stopped by an enormous arrangement of red roses, tilting her head to the side. “Have you ever had nightmares, Kai? About men who are monsters? Monsters who are men?”

  He nodded faintly.

  “That’s what killed my sister. They’re called Fenris. They’re monsters, demons, creatures who eat girls—”

  “Beasts,” Kai said breathlessly—his voice was softer now. “My grandmother called them beasts.”

  “Ah,” Mora said, sounding impressed, though she wasn’t exactly shocked—every few years she ran into someone who knew about the Fenris. “Well, the Fenris killed my sister, so the single soul she and I shared was fractured. It’s easier to turn someone broken like that into something dark, like them.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet. “I could feel myself changing, forgetting my old life with my family. So I went to this beach we used to vacation at, because I was sure the ocean was the only thing big enough to make me remember. To make me feel again.” She shook her head and looked up at the stained-glass ceiling, imagining for a moment that the watercolor-like swirls of glass were waves above her. “That’s why all girls like me wound up there. We were ocean girls, adopted sisters, waiting to become as dark as they are. The Fenris waited until I was a shell, barely a living thing, then pulled me out of the water. They made me theirs.” She forced her eyes back to Kai, gritted her teeth, and pleaded with her head to make the memory stop. It didn’t work.

  “What did they do to you?” Kai asked in shock.

  “They kill their mortal lovers,” Mora explained delicately. “So they need girls like me. They make us monsters, like them. They make us theirs. But you have to understand, Kai—I thought it was a curse, what happened to me, but it was a blessing. I was freed. Just like I’m freeing you.”

  “From what?” Kai asked, rubbing his temples as if he was waking up. Mora glanced at his arms and noticed chill bumps rising, then followed his line of sight over her shoulder. The roses in the vase, bright red and fully bloomed. He was staring at them, squinting now. Mora reached forward, grasping his hand forcefully. It was hot and sticky to her, and it was all she could do not to grimace at the feeling.

  “From being mundane,” she whispered, standing on her toes to bring her lips close to his ear. “From being ordinary.”

  “From Ginny. Where’s Ginny?” Kai lifted his eyes to meet hers, and they were gold—too gold for comfort, too gold for Mora to overlook them. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Kai’s mouth was soft and gentle against hers; it felt as if she could crush him. She kissed him, licked at his lips, and slid her hand along his thigh until she finally felt his skin grow cold. When she pulled away, his eyes were dark, his skin fairer, a shade that matched her own.

  “Come on,” she said, motioning toward the front desk. “Michael and Larson have probably finished circling the building. I want to be in the room once they get here.” She’d asked them to check the area for signs that the Fenris were nearby, that they’d followed her. They were in Atlanta, closer to her than she would have liked—she was almost certain they were responsible for the body found by Kai’s building. If she hadn’t taken Kai when she did, they’d probably have smelled her, if not seen her….

  Mora swallowed the thought and took Kai’s hand and tried to pull him forward, but his feet were planted, a look of shock on his face.

  “Mora,” he gasped, squeezing her fingers. “I think I love you.”

  Mora smiled and wrapped her fingers underneath Kai’s chin tenderly. “Of course, darling.” She turned, pulling harder until he followed her. “You all do.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Think. Think this through.

  I leave a note for my mom saying I’m going to stay with Dad for a week or so, to get over Kai leaving. It’ll buy me a little time, at least—she won’t want to be the helicopter parent, telling me I can’t go, and she won’t want to call Dad to check that my story is true. Then I call the school, just in case the snow breaks sooner rather than later. I leave a voice mail with the attendance office in a voice that sounds like my mother’s: There’s been a family emergency. Ginny will be out for a week.

  It’s not a total lie.

  Odds are good someone will notice Grandma Dalia’s car is gone before they work out I’m gone, anyway, I think as I pull the station wagon out of the parking lot, opting not to consider what will happen if finding Kai takes more than a week. In the back seat, the dimes from the bowl rattle, now dumped in a grocery bag; I took them for luck. After all, if Grandma Dalia was right about the Snow Queen, she might be right about everything else, too.

  The Atlanta skyline fades quickly, blotted out by snow clouds. I hardly ever drive, and the weather isn’t making it any easier. The roads are slick and darkened by both the night and the power outages that dot my route. I can’t go anything close to the speed limit—at times, I’m going less than half. My eyes are trained on the white dashes on the asphalt, so focused I feel hypnotized. I play a game in my head, pretending I’m leaping over the dashes, running toward Kai, running to stop him from…

  From what?

  Just find him, first. They can’t have gotten that far ahead of me—a few hours, at most, and if they don’t know I’m behind them they’re bound to take their time. Plus, Mora doesn’t seem like a road trip kind of girl. She’ll probably want to stop in a hotel or something, and not a cheap one, either. It’ll have to be one along this interstate—it’s the only reasonable way to go north. Not that I really know she’s even headed in this direction, but before leaving I looked at the weather forecast. Snow north of Atlanta, headed for Nashville. If I’m right, if Mora is the Snow Queen—a theory that alternates between sounding like the absolute truth and complete lunacy in my head—then she’ll be where the snow is. I think. I hope. Please.

  Strange how stealing a car suddenly doesn’t feel like the craziest part of my plan.

  Night begins to give in to the slightest implication of morning. The black sky becomes a shade of steel gray, though every now and then hints of the sun slip through, fingers of orange in an otherwise monochrome world. The sight snaps me out of my hypnosis a little, making me aware of just where I am and what I’m doing. I’m in Tennessee, somewhere near Nashville, I think. The snow here isn’t deep, and cars are beginning to appear on the road, though the drivers look every bit as wary as me.

  I yawn; my eyes burn and my throat is suddenly dry. Has it really been five hours? I’ll have to stop and sleep soon, I’m certain—the very prospect feels like a betrayal, like my body is stubborn, defiant for needing rest. My headlights flash on a sign, indicating yes, Nashville is only fifteen miles out.

  I take the closest exit, to a small but functional rest area hidden from the interstate by a swatch of pine trees. I dash inside to use the bathroom and buy a cinnamon roll from a faded vending machine. The trees in the adjacent forest sway in the wind, trying to lose the last few clumps of snow clinging to their branches—it’s amazing how comforting seeing the greenery instead of stark whiteness is. I park the car, hug my coat around me, and climb into the backseat. I brought Mora’s coat along—I’m not sure why, exactly, but I suspect it’s to remind me that she’s real, that I’m not crazy. Even though it looks warm, I kick it onto the floorboards so I don’t have to look at it.

  One hour. That’s all, I think, yawning again. I curl into a ball on the wine-colored upholstery and let my eyes drift shut….

  My dreams include beasts with Grandma Dalia’s voice, warning me to stay away. Every now and then my eyes creak open, unable to discern the difference between the dream world and the waking one. But with time, my dreams become more solid, warming into ones about Kai. In an apartment somewhere, one with old wood floors and wide windows. We’re seated on either side of a coffee table, eating dinner with our hands and telling jokes and l
aughing and happy and together and home. Yet even in the dream, I remember what he said to me on the rooftop, all the cruel things. The memories taint our laughter, flooding out any comfort the dream might have brought me.

  He didn’t mean it. It was Mora; she’s the Snow Queen. He didn’t mean it.

  My eyelids spring open. It takes me a moment to be certain the dream is over, that I really am wide awake. It’s freezing, and snow is coming down, heavy and thick—so thick I can’t see the interstate through the bowed-down branches of trees anymore. My bones feel like blocks of ice under my skin, creaking as I unwind my curled body and sit up. I hear a snap behind the car and whirl around to see a limb breaking off a tree, crashing to the ground under the weight of snow.

  Then it’s silent again, as if I’m the only thing alive here. As if I’m the only thing alive anywhere.

  It’s silent in a way that reminds me of the moments before Grandma Dalia’s death. I scramble into the front seat despite how badly I want to curl back up and cling to whatever warmth I can find. I fumble with the keys, trying to look at the ignition and the forest at once—is it snowing harder, like it was on the rooftop? The trees are giants pushing toward me; the road ahead is almost entirely hidden by the snowfall. My heart is beating faster, faster, faster; finally my numb fingers slide the key into the ignition, turn it forward.

  The engine struggles to turn over, then fails. I lick my lips, realize I can see my breath. How cold is it out there? Air is raw and sharp in my lungs, I push the ignition forward again, again, try not to see Mora’s face in my mind.

  I push the key forward again, hold it this time as the engine sputters, struggles, and finally kicks to life. I crank the heat knobs to all the way on and all the way red, push the car into drive. The car doesn’t move, locked in by snow and ice. Damn it. The heat is kicking in, burning then thawing me as I glance in my rearview mirror—

  Eyes. Bright eyes staring at me from behind the car, a man’s shape in silhouette. My breath stops; I can’t look away, but I reach over, lock the door—