Cold Spell

by Jackson Pearce

  Four in the afternoon, as it’s still light out—I haven’t been asleep as long as it feels like I have. The roads are more crowded now, piles of dirty slush forming in the triangles of intersections. The horizon is bright and pink, nothing like the thick, white haze from earlier. It’s warmer. The snow is melting, however slowly. Mora and Kai are getting farther away.

  I feel like I should spring from my bed, but instead I inhale. Relax. You’re no good to him without sleep, I say to myself in a voice with a cadence that reminds me of Grandma Dalia. I open my eyes, wrap the comforter around me, and step away from the window. The television is still on, muted; and the coffee I started earlier has gone cold. I reach in my bag for the cookbook, planning to flip through it absently while I work up enough hunger to warrant a trip to the McDonald’s across the street.

  It’s not there—right. Still in the car, in the front seat. I jump in the shower instead, planning to grab the cookbook on my way to dinner at McDonald’s. A half hour later, I regret not completely drying my hair as I step through the lobby doors and a gust of frozen air sweeps around me. I fumble for the keys while I walk to the car—

  The car.

  A group of boys my age stand around it, wearing beaten T-shirts and pants that don’t fit right, with beads threaded into their hair. They laugh with one another, talking loudly, but I don’t understand the words or what language it is they’re speaking. They have the passenger-side door open, and one is leaning in, slowly dumping the contents of the car into the hands of another.

  “Hey!” I shout, suddenly finding my voice. I don’t sound nearly as threatening as I’d like, but I run forward. They look up at me, like wild animals caught with a carcass. “That’s my car!” I snap. One of the boys—the one with woven bracelets up and down his arm—glances at the others.

  And then, laughing, they turn and flee. Bracelets slides over the station wagon’s hood, another jumps out of the backseat, and they spring away as if this is a well-rehearsed musical number. Bracelets, I realize, is carrying something I care more about than the car—the cookbook. It’s tucked under his arm, with one of my sweaters and the bag of Grandma Dalia’s dimes. I run forward, still yelling, stumbling in the red heels.

  I stoop and take them off, and when I look up I see the four jumping into a beaten and ugly RV. A boy with blond dreadlocks takes the driver’s seat, and, grinning, he starts the engine and moves the RV toward the McDonald’s exit. I yell again, and people are staring—not helping. I chuck the heels into the back of the car, slam the door shut, and then jump into the driver’s seat just as they run a red light and rumble out of sight.

  No, no, no. I’m tired of people taking things from me.

  I slam on the accelerator and squeal out of the parking lot. I feel blind, hot, as if someone else is living inside me. The light turns green again just in time for me to race after them—they’re ahead, far ahead, going slower than expected. I supposed getting pulled over is more trouble than it’s worth for them—probably for me, too, but that doesn’t stop me from squeezing through two yellow lights until I’m just behind them, passing feed stores and tractor dealerships as we leave town.

  They speed up as the town fades behind us, and I follow suit. The RV kicks out black exhaust, and we weave around minivans full of offended-looking families. Go, go, go—I see the boy with dreadlocks staring at me in the side mirrors, his expression growing more and more concerned as it becomes clear I’m not letting up. I hear a tiny voice in my head, begging to know what I plan to do when we stop—fight them? Not hardly. I squash the voice. I don’t care about the voice.

  The back of the RV is splashed with mud; two of the boys, Bracelets included, appear at the back window, staring at me as they relay information back to the driver. He cuts over suddenly, taking an exit. I almost miss it, but the station wagon handles better than the RV; I slide onto the exit ramp just in time, taking out a few of the bushes on the median in the process. Bracelets’s lips form a string of curse words in response.

  Right off the ramp, and we’re on a tiny road now, one that becomes smaller and smaller as we travel. There’s nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide, nothing to do but rumble along behind them. I’m low on gas, and the adrenaline is wearing off—I’m chasing total strangers through the middle of Kentucky. But the cookbook, I need it, there’s still so much I haven’t looked at—

  The road becomes even smaller, scarcely two lanes—the RV barely fits, and it skids on the ice, which is far more plentiful here. I see Bracelets on a cell phone, yelling at someone. He looks like a child suddenly, the cocky, arrogant look I saw when he was robbing my car gone, replaced by fear. It makes me feel strong, makes my eyes narrow. Trees are flying by, the setting sun bouncing off the snow, flashing at me—

  The RV slows, and for a minute, I think they’re stopping, that I’ve won. But no, they’re turning on a different road, a drive, almost—I follow, squeezing my eyes shut as the car slides a little; suddenly, the tires can’t find traction. I mash the accelerator. They’re getting away, hurry, back out, hurry—

  Faces in the rearview mirror—there are people behind me. Two men, wearing thick coats and strange hats, standing in my tire tracks. I cry out, remember the Fenris back in Nashville—this can’t be happening again. I try to veer to one side, overcorrecting in my frenzy. The car lurches and begins to tilt; the front corner tire lifts up off the ground. I flounder, locking my door as the men draw closer; in the distance, I see the boys stopping the RV, springing out, and running toward me. I thrust my body forward, as if my weight will right the car, but nothing, nothing. I leave my foot on the accelerator, listening to the back tires spin uselessly, mud and snow flinging up in a wave behind the car.

  Something clicks behind me—the back door, the one the boys broke in through; I forgot to lock it. I spin around and scream as one of the men reaches in; his teeth are yellowed, his face scraggly and bearded. I try to slink away from him, to avoid his grasp, but he isn’t reaching for me—he’s reaching for the door. He flips the lock on the driver’s side up, and then it’s open, it’s open and people are grabbing my arms, hauling me out.

  My teeth find someone’s skin, my nails rake across Bracelets’s face, people are yelling and shouting, and then something goes over my head, something dark that I can’t see through. My hands are behind by back, tears stream from my eyes, and every story, every horror I’ve ever heard is coursing through me. I scream.

  “Quiet down,” Bracelets says. “No one can hear you out here anyway.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My voice grows hoarse from yelling, and it’s clear there’s not much point anyhow. I stumble along, feet cold in the deep snow, led by someone—I’m not sure who, though I suspect it’s Dreadlocks—into what I assume is the RV. It smells like pot smoke and incense, and I shake uncontrollably as I hear the engine start again. One turn, two turns, three, one more—I try to memorize them, just in case I get the chance to escape.

  “What’s your name?” someone asks, not unkindly, but not comfortingly, either. Still, I don’t answer. “Calm down. We’re not gonna hurt you,” the voice says. “But you can’t follow us.”

  I keep quiet.

  “Seriously, what’s your name—”

  “Stop talkin’ to her,” another voice barks—one of the older men. “Brigit’ll be pissed.” The man and the boy bicker for a moment in a language I don’t understand—something with soft vowels, a steady rhythm. I listen carefully but don’t speak.

  I think about Lucas, about Ella, and feel stupid for leaving them. What was I thinking? I could handle this on my own? I lift an arm to wipe my nose through the thing over my head—a dark pillowcase, I think—and try not to whimper loudly. I don’t want them to know how scared I am. I don’t want them to know how to hurt me.

  The RV comes to a stop; people are shifting around, moving, and then finally, someone puts a hand under my arm and helps me stand. They maneuver me down the steps, down to the ground; grass crunches under my bare
feet, still iced over. I can hear generators banging, a chorus of them, and the rich scent of a campfire finds its way through the pillowcase, meat cooking and wood burning. More incense, cigarette smoke, and then I’m being pushed along. My feet burn in the cold as I take a step, another, another—

  “Wait,” Bracelets says—I think it’s him, anyhow. I feel his hand on me, and for a moment the pillowcase flutters away from my arms and I can see his fingers, grimy and dark underneath the nails. He swoops a hand under my legs and carries me. I go stiff, like a rock, trying not to lean against him, trying not to inhale the scent of sweat and smoke from his skin.

  I feel us duck into something, somewhere—not a door, exactly, but the sounds from outside are muted and it’s warmer here. I can feel a fire nearby, hear it crackling. Bracelets—it’s definitely him, I can feel the bracelets digging into my calves—stoops and lets my feet find the ground. It’s a rug, thick and shaggy, and I dig my toes into it.

  Someone, a new someone, shorter than me, tosses a blanket over my shoulders, then takes my hand. It’s a woman; it must be a woman. She guides me across the room, someplace closer to the fire and then, in a fast motion, whisks the pillowcase off my head.

  “Ah, lashool greerse,” she mutters, lifting a lock of my hair. I blink furiously, the air stinging my eyes. Look around, fast, where’s the door—it’s behind me. I’m in some sort of tent, one that’s clearly not meant to be moved often—more like a small version of the sort you’d see at a circus. I can see the flap where the door opens and closes, noting that there’s a loose knot tying it shut. There’s the rug beneath my feet, and a clay fireplace in the corner with a pipe leading out through a slit in the tent’s fabric. And then there’s the woman.

  Her skin is freckled and darker than mine, her face wrinkled and her hair enormous, thick, and black—it makes her look so much bigger than she actually is. Her eyes are green, though I can only just discern that in the dim light, and she’s wearing a strange combination of clothes—a sundress over jeans, boots, and a sweatshirt that’s been cut into a deep V-necked coat. She’s probably my mother’s age, if not older, but her age is hard to discern exactly since she dresses so unlike any forty-something I’ve seen before.

  “What’s your name, pet?” she asks, and there’s an accent—Irish, it’s definitely Irish—hinting around the edges of her voice.

  Finally, I speak, though my words are low and nearly broken. “Ginny Andersen,” I say.

  “And you followed my boys?”

  “They took something that belongs to me,” I say.

  “They tend to do that,” she says, as if their breaking into my car is a lesser issue. She walks behind me; I turn a little, still sick and woozy from fear. There’s a table back there, against the wall of the tent. She rifles around on it for a moment; when she shifts to one side, I see things from the station wagon are spilled out across the table. The cookbook, the red heels, the bag of dimes, Mora’s coat from the trunk, plus a few odds and ends like umbrellas and the owner’s manual. She lifts the fur coat, admiring it.

  “Daresay we’ll need to take this,” she says, smiling. “Payment for us giving you a ride over here, of course.” She studies me for a reaction; when I don’t give one she tosses the coat over the back of a chair, then gathers up the shoes, cookbook, and bag of dimes. “Anyhow. My name is Brigit, and this is my camp. And I don’t care for strangers showing up, roughing things up for us.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Brigit’s eyes go sharp, silencing me. She stoops on the rug at my feet and lays out the items from the car one at a time. She looks at me, then at the objects.

  “You can take one back. Choose it.”

  I grab for the cookbook immediately, but she swoops in and whisks it away before my hands grasp it; I feel stupid that I fell for the trick. I groan, sit back in the chair, and close my eyes.

  “This? I thought it’d be the money,” Brigit says. “What’s in here that’s got you all worked up?”

  “It’s an heirloom,” I say. “A family heirloom.”

  “That’s not a lie,” Brigit says confidently, without looking up at me, “but it’s not the whole truth, either.” She flips open the book, catching the clippings of Mora before they slide out and unceremoniously cramming them back in their spot. She scans a few pages, then looks up at me, eyebrow lifted.

  “Who does this really belong to?”

  “My boyfriend,” I say.

  “And yet you’ll chase down a gang of robbers to get it back? Afraid he’ll beat you for losing it?”

  “No!” I protest, a little louder than intended. “It’s just… I don’t want to lose it.”

  Brigit rolls her eyes at me, then rises. She strides to the fireplace, opens the door, and holds the book in front of it. My eyes widen as I realize what she means to do. “All right, the whole story. Let’s hear it. I’ve got a clan to run, and you’re wasting my time.”

  “My boyfriend,” I stumble over the words. “He’s missing. He’s with another woman—”

  “A cheater, then? Fuckin’ men—”

  “No, she stole him. She’s not a girl, she’s something else—she controls the snow. It sounds crazy, I know, but it’s in the book,” I finish, pointing. My finger is shaking.

  Brigit frowns, pulls the book back from the fire, and then tosses it onto the floor beside my other things. She doesn’t look at me as she lowers herself into a chair across the rug, and I can’t tell if she believes me or not. I really don’t care, honestly—I just want to get the book and go. Actually, at this point, I might just settle for going.

  “A girl who came with the snow?” Brigit asks. I nod, still unable to tell what she’s getting at. She parts her lips, about to speak again, when there’s a hissing sound, the knot on the door being pulled free. Two men walk inside, one gaunt and stringy, the other old and thick.

  “Sreego,” one says. “How are things with the buffer?”

  “They’re fine,” Brigit says. “They’re always fine. Out, both of you.”

  “This ain’t the time to be dealing with buffers. Get rid of her so we can get back to the matter at hand,” the gaunt one says.

  “Unless Flannery has a ring on, there’s no matter at hand yet,” Brigit hisses. “And unless you want your gas share cut, you’ll get out of my house.”

  “Look, Brigit,” the other one says. “All we’re gettin’ at is Flannery is a bit hard to deal with without you, so rather than questioning this buffer, let’s get rid of her and move on.”

  I swallow, not entirely sure what “get rid of her” means.

  “I know how desperately you’d both like Flannery to marry your boy, and get my crown for your family,” Brigit says threateningly. “Believe me. Everyone knows, with the way you two whine. And should my daughter have a moment of complete stupidity and choose one of your rats, then perhaps I’ll want your opinion on matters like this buffer. But until then: You. Are in. My house.”

  They glare, eyes hard and angry, an expression Brigit reflects with twice the intensity. Finally, they turn and leave; a blast of cold air wafts from the tent flaps over to me.

  “Assholes,” Brigit mutters after them. “I give them the best twenty years this clan has ever seen, and they still can’t get over the fact that I’ve got tits. And Flannery wonders why I say she’s not strong enough to take them on alone…”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” I ask meekly, my mouth cottony and my lungs broken.

  “For starters,” Brigit says, rapping her fingers on the cookbook again, “you’re going to tell me more about this snow girl.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I explain Mora as best I can to Brigit. I lay out the magazine clippings, tell her about Kai, tell her about Lucas and Ella—though I leave out the details there, to keep them safe. Brigit listens, barely moving, and when I’m finished she sits back on the loveseat across from me. I notice there are tattoos on her arms and on the interior of almost every finger, symbols and shapes an
d words I don’t recognize.

  “That’s everything,” I say when she goes an uncomfortably long time without speaking. “And it’s true. I swear.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Brigit answers. She reaches forward, flips around in the cookbook for another moment, and then speaks slowly. “I know about this girl. Your Snow Queen. Grohkta-Nap.”

  She pauses and closes the cookbook gently. “She took your boy. Kai.”

  “Yes. So you believe me?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Brigit says. “I can’t pretend I’m not angry. I thought she was only taking Traveller boys, lately. Didn’t know she wanted buffers.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Grohkta-Nap. I won’t question her choices, of course,” Brigit says, casting her eyes to the ceiling for a moment. “I just hoped she’d choose another of ours, when she needed a new guardsman.”

  “You… wanted?” I shake my head. “She steals boys. She turns them into wolves. She keeps them forever.”

  “No—she keeps them till she finds better ones. And she does far more than make them wolves. She makes them gods,” Brigit corrects. “Like her. Well, not like her, but more like her than we are, anyhow.”

  “Are you crazy? She’s the queen of beasts. She controls the other werewolves, the Fenris. They attacked me—”

  “She’s our only protection from the Fenris,” Brigit says, and now her eyes light up angrily, as if I’ve said something deeply insulting. “And with the way you talk about Grohkta-Nap, it’s no surprise she didn’t protect you from them. It’s by her grace they didn’t kill you.”

  I fall silent, though I can feel a thousand words at a thousand different volumes trying to rise from my lungs. Brigit stands and crosses her arms.

  “The question,” she says, “is whether you’ve come to us as a blessing. Grohkta-Nap took your boy, let you live, and led you here. That’s gotta be something. Or… are you a curse she’s bringing down on my people? Sent to tell us she chose a buffer instead of my boys, to warn us about the Fenris coming…”