Ghostly Snow: A Dark Fairy Tale Adaptation (Girl Among Wolves Book 3)

by Lena Mae Hill

  “I’m okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.” I don’t say more, but I hope he knows that I’m thanking him for more than his concern. That I’m thanking him for his forgiveness, for coming for me when the fire started.

  As he shifts back and I let him go, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. Because though I’ve done a horrible thing, a tiny part of me thrills at the idea of him being close again. If the wolves make this mountaintop their temporary home, we’ll be together again, even if we have to keep it a secret.

  Chapter 19

  Even when the fire is out, it is still with us. For days, the smoke lingers, coating the snow with grey. The smell of it clings to our clothes, our hair, our skin, until I can’t remember the smell of anything but burning trees. After a few days, when the last wisps of smoke drift over the far mountain, the other remnants linger. One mountainside is barren except for the twisted, charred remains of trees, now blackened skeletons.

  And there are ghosts. The angry spirits that once resided in the trees on that mountainside are free to torment their victims. Astrid, the girl from the tower, sets about putting them into unoccupied trees, but there are more than she can handle in a day. A few times, the ghosts play with us, trailing cold fingers down our backs or blowing into our ears. But mostly, they are silent to all but the ones they haunt. After one of the wolves almost goes mad and tries to off himself, Astrid establishes an order of importance for dealing with the ghosts. I want to confront her again, but right now, her other duties seem more pressing.

  The biggest change, though, is that the entire wolf pack makes camp on top of the mountain. Some set up further along the plateau of the mountaintop, where they can remain on their territory, but most camp on the witches’ territory, not far from our little encampment. When I ask Harmon why half the wolves didn’t stay back, since many of the houses suffered no damage at all, he says that Talia got suspicious when he offered to take the displaced wolves to live on the mountain.

  “I don’t know what she thinks I’ll get up to,” he says with a smile.

  “I can’t imagine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Surely a clandestine mating ceremony never crossed your mind.”

  “Surely not.”

  The witches come around more often, too, usually helping the wolves. Despite my hope that I might see Harmon more often, he’s almost always down in the valley with all the wolves, beginning to rebuild or repair the houses. After a couple days, I join them. I expect someone to protest, to tell me I should be locked in an attic or strung up by a noose as an example, but for the most part, everyone ignores me.

  On my third day in the valley, I end up pulling charred boards from the wall of one of the cabins. When I look over, I see that my sisters are working their way towards me from the other corner of the house. We don’t say anything as we draw closer, only continue pulling nails and dropping them into a discard bucket. At last, we’re nearly elbow to elbow.

  “At least I can tell you apart now,” Zora says, looking from Elidi to me. “Seriously, Stella, are their birds nesting in your hair?”

  “I think they’ve migrated for the winter,” I say. “But ask me again this spring and I might have a different answer.”

  “I thought Mother gave you her ivory comb,” Elidi says, darting a quick glance at me.

  “She did,” I say. “I just don’t have much reason to use it.”

  “Um, maybe so you won’t look like a crazy person?” Zora suggests.

  I shrug. “Not my number one concern.”

  “It should be,” Zora says. “If you want to be an Alpha’s mate.”

  I study her from the corner of my eye, wondering if that’s common knowledge. The way she threw it out there, so off-hand, makes me think it is.

  “Harmon doesn’t care what I look like,” I say after a bit. I remember what he looked like, when he was stuck between animal and human, a deformed beast. If I could love him like that, a few tangles in my hair won’t bother him. They better not.

  “Yeah, but the rest of the pack might,” Elidi says. “If you’re going to be an Alpha’s mate, you have to look the part.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, bristling.

  “You’re the pretty one,” Zora says. “Figure it out.”

  Elidi glances at her and then fixes her gaze on me. “No one’s saying you’re not pretty. But he’s the wolf representing the pack when outsiders come to talk to us. He’ll look the part. And you’ll be at his side. No one is saying you have to wear a ballgown and makeup. But you could at least comb your hair and not completely humiliate him.”

  Stung, I turn back to my work. But after refusing to acknowledge them for the next fifteen minutes, curiosity wins out and I give in first. “So…how have things been, anyway?” I ask. “Harmon and Mother have both come up to visit, but I’m not down here where the trouble is. Is it bad?”

  “It’s pretty tense,” Elidi admits. Some part of her still seems hesitant to talk to me. I can’t tell if it’s lingering guilt from all the times we had to sneak in a word or two to each other, when Mother kept me prisoner, or if she’s still under orders not to speak to me.

  “I’d ask who you’re supporting, but I’m guessing you’re not going to say it out loud,” I say. I remember how much they both admired Harmon, and yet…Mother is hard to defy, and they are her daughters. No matter what I think of her, she is their mother. She raised them, and they know a side of her I’ve never seen, a nurturing side. They must be at least a little torn in their loyalties.

  “She’d make a good Alpha, you know,” Zora says. “She’s very dominant, in case you couldn’t tell.”

  I snort out a laugh as I yank a nail free. “Oh, I can tell.”

  “And it isn’t really fair that only guys get to be Alpha,” Elidi says, her voice taking on a defensive edge.

  “But do you really think she has the pack’s best interests in mind?” I ask. “Or is she just taking advantage of the disharmony in the pack to stake her own claim to someone else’s position? Zechariah was your last Alpha, and he gave the position to Harmon.”

  “Harmon ran off after you when the battle broke out,” Zora points out. “Mother stayed and defended Zechariah.”

  “Not very well,” I mutter. “Since he died and all.”

  “Mother knows the pack, she knows the laws, she knows way more than Harmon,” Elidi says. “And to be honest, I think she wants it more. Harmon always knew it would be handed to him. Mother’s willing to fight for it.”

  “So is he,” I point out. “He’s been down here all winter, not off neglecting his duties to be with me, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  The whole conversation has irritated me, so I turn away.

  “She might seem strict to you, but she’s a normal wolf mother,” Elidi says at last. “She says she wants to make amends with you. Maybe if you let her, we could…be a family. Now that you don’t have Dad…”

  I wince at the mention of him, the pain still fresh and raw. After the fire, there was only one funeral. The wolves all got out in time. Only Dad didn’t make it. We had a quiet burial in a lot in the shifter valley, where I battled waves of déjà vous all night. After all, I’d already gone to one of his funerals, when he faked his death. It made me sad to see how few people showed up, even for their king. He wasn’t beloved and popular here. He was a bitter recluse, hated by his people and disinterested in ruling them.

  Apparently, not only were our lives better back in Oklahoma, but so were our deaths. His first funeral had tons of his colleagues and friends, people coming by to tell funny stories and bring food. This time, not even Yvonne showed up.

  Harmon came with me, and Dr. Golden slipped in a couple minutes after us, her usual long blonde braids hanging at her sides, her eyes red.

  A couple of Dad’s cousins showed up, along with their families. I couldn’t help staring at them, trying to memorize their faces. The family I never knew existed, still so far removed that I didn’t know what to say to them.
They kept to themselves, and I didn’t want to approach them at a funeral, anyway. But they are there, just over the mountain. I wonder what they’re like—savage like Efrain, or quietly malicious like Astrid? Am I like them, a shifty shifter? Are any of them good people?

  The last people to arrive were my mother and Elidi. Elidi hung back, looking pale and uncertain. My mother spent the entire time sobbing into a handkerchief.

  Now, as I finish pulling nails from the blackened boards, I find myself wondering about her. I haven’t seen her much—she’s been busy with the wolves like Harmon. This is a test, everyone watching to see how they’ll behave in a crisis.

  Harmon got the upper hand by finding a place for the wolves to stay and making peace with the witches, however tentative. But I’m sure Mother is cooking up a devious plan to change that.

  Chapter 20

  At the end of the day, I put down my tools with the rest of the wolves and witches. I trudge up the mountain, trying not to look at the blackened swath beside us. Behind me, someone says my name, but I don’t turn. She repeats it, this time closer, until I have to slow. “Hello, Mother,” I say, my voice flat.

  “I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk again,” she says, falling into step beside me. Today she’s wearing dark jeans, tall moccasins, and a slouchy burgundy sweater under a light jacket. Her hair is pulled back in two braids, and her skin has a glow to it that somehow irritates me. Leading half the pack should have made her go gray instead of making her look ten years younger. Harmon looks older, constantly stressed, while Mother looks like she belongs on the pages of a J. Crew catalog. My sisters’ words echo in my mind, but I push them away.

  “Oh, you mean since the last time, when you threw burning logs at me?” I ask.

  “Let’s not forget who threw the one that started this,” she hisses. “And don’t you forget that I know it.”

  “Thanks, Mother. It’s been great talking to you again.”

  She sighs. “I could tell Harmon, you know.”

  “Tell him,” I say, raising my chin. “You’ll find him less than surprised.”

  “I could tell the others, too,” she says, her eyes flashing their usual cruelty. “Once they found out that Harmon already knew, that he still insisted on sticking by his ‘Choice,’ that would be the end of him.”

  She sneers at the word “choice,” as if it’s a mockery. The others hold it so sacred, but I guess after her experience, she sees it as more of a curse than an unbreakable bond.

  “You were there that night, too,” I remind her. “You’re as much to blame as I am. You saw the tree burning, too. Did you stay to watch it spread? Maybe even help it along?”

  “But you’re the one who threw the flaming torch into the tree,” she says with a smirk.

  Rage claws its way up my throat, burning when I swallow it back. “You could have stopped it from spreading after I left,” I growl.

  “Not my responsibility,” she says lightly. “The point is, I didn’t tell anyone. I could have, and I didn’t.”

  I narrow my eyes at her, remembering what my little outcast group said. Now I’ll owe her again. “Thank you, I guess.”

  “There’s no need to thank me,” she says with an artificially sweet smile, as if being kind is a challenging endeavor. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to protect you, isn’t it?”

  I choke trying to hold back a laugh.

  Mother cuts her eyes at me. “I know I haven’t always done a good job,” she says. “I’ll do better, starting today. Starting with getting you cleaned up. You could really use a haircut, get rid of that damage. And those clothes, my god, you look like a bag lady.”

  “Great start,” I mutter, looking down at the black dress I’m wearing, something Haven apparently stole from the Victorian era. I don’t really pay attention to what I look like anymore. It’s freeing. I used to spend so much energy on it. Now, I wear anything that fits.

  “You’re right,” Mother says, probably for the first time in her life. “I just hate to see your beauty go to waste. It does get under my skin, but I’ll keep my irritation in check. Do you think you could work on that, too? We both have a temper, after all. It runs in the family.”

  I ignore her ironic smile. If she’d said anything else, I might have thrown in back in her face. But she’s right—I’m her daughter. Like it or not, she’s the only parent I have left. She and my sisters are still my family, no matter what they believe.

  “Here, take this,” Mother says, pulling a shiny red apple from the pocket of her belted khaki coat. She offers me a tentative smile. “It’s from the batch we picked last fall. I know it’s not much, but it’s a start, right?”

  I hesitate, something inside me recoiling when she reaches out.

  “Consider it a peace offering?” She takes my hand and places the apple in my palm, closing my fingers around it. For a moment, she holds my hand in both of hers, and a flash of something like hope flickers across her gaze before it disengages with mine. Quickly, she releases my hand and continues onwards, up the trail we are wearing in the mountainside, just off the burnt section. When we reach the top, I’m a little out of breath. One of the wolves hands me a jar of water, as if I’m just another one of them. As if I’m Elidi.

  I take it and drink before passing it along to my mother. Harmon smiles at me from across the circle, where he’s talking to one of the warlocks from the First Valley.

  “Walk with me to my tent,” Mother says. “I have something else for you.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the apple. “This is enough.” I start to lift it to my mouth, but Mother places a hand on my forearm.

  “Just wait until you see this,” she says, pulling me towards the camp she and her followers have set up, halfway between the lighthouse and the clearing. “I gave you the comb because I want you to think of yourself as part of the family. Yes, family fights sometimes. But they’re always there for you.”

  I cast a glance back at Harmon, wanting to slip over and spend a moment with him. We’ve all been so busy lately, I’ve hardly seen him since he came to live up here. But I don’t want to interrupt, so I turn and follow my mother.

  “I didn’t mean you couldn’t eat your apple,” she says, releasing my arm with an awkward laugh. “Go on, take a bite. They’re still crisp, even though it’s been months. They keep so well.”

  “I’m really not hungry,” I say, starting to put it into my pocket. But Mother grabs my arm.

  “Try it,” she says with a tremulous smile, almost begging. “I insist.”

  “Fine,” I say with an irritated sigh. I take a big bite of it and begin to chew. It really is crisp, and sweet, with not a hint of tartness. It’s almost too sweet, with a slight bitterness to the skin, a hint of something like almond. The juice slides down my throat, the sweetness burning. I start to choke, then catch sight of my mother. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and a huge grin spreads across her face, like she’s a kid delivering a surprise to her mom on Mother’s Day. Not that I know what that looks like.

  I try to swallow, to tell her it’s a bit much for me. But my voice feels caught, the syrupy juice sliding down my throat but the pulp refusing to follow. I try again, grasping at my throat.

  “It’s time,” Mother cries ecstatically at the sky.

  Still trying to cough out the offending bite, I bend forward. Blackness swims in my vision, and I sink to my knees. I can’t swallow the apple. I can’t cough it out.

  “I’ll push her out while she’s weak,” Mother says, her voice sounding different somehow, harsher, less southern. I tumble into the leaves. Bare branches swim against the deep blue of the evening sky. I focus on the one star visible.

  Someone else slips between the trees, a shadowy figure moving in the corner of my vision. Long auburn hair. Bare skin.

  “As soon as she leaves her body, I’ll take it over. You bind her into a tree before she can turn into one of those screaming wraiths and drive me mad.�
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  “Yes, Mother Dear,” Astrid says, her eyes cast down. She bends over me, as if checking for breath.

  Mother. Astrid called her mother.

  A shock wave of fury and betrayal rocks through my body. Astrid told me that Yvonne was her mother dear.

  Yvonne is her mother.

  Suddenly, all the strangeness of my mother’s visits flashes through my wavering mind. Her clothes. Her contradictions. That screechy laugh. Her rage when I wouldn’t project, even though it had killed her father. The odd mannerisms. Mannerisms that aren’t my mother’s at all. They are Yvonne’s, Mrs. Nguyen’s, the sorceress’s.

  It wasn’t my mother. My mother would never ask to be my friend. She’d never give me gifts. She hates projection. She’d never ask me to do that. She probably never told me because she hoped I’d never find out I could do it. How could I have been so blind? It was someone else all along. Someone who knows how to project.

  Doralice’s words whisper in my mind. Beware the mirror.

  I was warned. Mother warned me before she became the mirror. Why didn’t I listen?

  After checking my pulse, Astrid begins to sit back on her heels, but before she straightens, her eyes lock on mine. She mouths a single word, “Go.”

  I let my eyes fall closed as my consciousness threatens to leave me. And I remember all that I’ve learned about projecting—if someone is pushed from their body, or the stronger spirit refuses to relinquish its grasp on a body, the true owner of the body is killed. If she pushes me out, I won’t be able to come back. But if I go voluntarily, I can creep back in, can’t I? When she’s sleeping, or not acting as my mirror. When she abandons my body to go inhabit another. If I’m not dead, I won’t be a ghost, exactly, but a wandering spirit.

  But I’ve never projected in my life. I don’t know how.

  Do I?

  I think of what she told me. Of what Dad told me. Everything I know. The leaves crunch beside me as my mother’s body falls, empty and abandoned. Discarded.

  Something jerks at my consciousness. The feeling is abhorrent, repulsive. Everything in me screams at me to fight it, to push back as Yvonne tries to enter my body. But there is not much left in me. Already, I feel far away from my body. I picture myself shooting up, out of my body. I picture myself blazing through the cold twilight like a swimmer shooting up towards the surface of the water. A shooting star in a constellation, my namesake. Heading for the only other star in the sky, the evening star high above.