Cold Spell

by Jackson Pearce

  “Nah. No one else.” He exhales. “I should go.”

  “Yeah,” Flannery says. “There’s no point… I mean…”

  “Yeah. Enjoy the shoes.”

  The door shuts.

  Flannery walks over to the table, eyes cast down, hair wild and tangled around her face. She puts the heels on the table and sits down, staring at them, then looks up at me.

  “Do you know how to wear these?”

  “I know the basic idea,” I say.

  “They’re stupid. I mean, seriously—who the fuck designed these? You can’t run. You can’t even walk on anything but pavement. That heel’ll sink right into the dirt.”

  She’s quiet again, crossing her arms, but her eyes keep flirting to the shoes.

  “Do you want me to show you how to walk in them?” I ask quietly. Flannery scoffs and shrugs her shoulders, but then stands and takes her shoes off. She holds onto the table as she steps into the heels. They’re a little too big, but not horribly so. Once she’s in them and balanced, she looks up at me hopefully. I rise.

  “Try to take a step,” I say; Flannery obeys, almost immediately toppling to the floor. “No—don’t slide your foot. Just step and—yeah. Only instead of hitting heel first, kinda hit toe first. Sort of.” Flannery wobbles across the RV’s tiny kitchen and back. I’m glad Ardan can’t see her.

  “How do you keep from… damn it,” Flannery says when she wobbles to the side and has to grab onto the oven.

  “Pull up from your stomach,” I say, though I’m not sure I have a clue what I’m talking about. Flannery lifts up, and I raise my eyebrows—she looks regal, like Brigit. Less like a girl, more like a queen. She takes a few more wobbly steps, then a handful of confident ones before she grins and sits down, sliding her feet out and rubbing the arches.

  “They’re still ridiculous,” Flannery says, though it doesn’t wipe the smile off her face. She picks up the music box figurine and makes her spin between her fingers for a few moments.

  That evening, at the shoru, the Travellers cook dinner over the campfire, potatoes and meat—I’m not entirely sure what type—wrapped up together and left on the rocks surrounding the fire until cooked through. Declan plays guitar, songs that start out somber and pick up as the night wears on. There’s liquor, but also milk with honey stirred in, and cakes with hard shells but soft centers.

  “Not all our traditions are bad,” Flannery tells me under her breath as she stuffs a few cakes down her shirt for later.

  By sunset, most of the crowd is drunk and dancing, save Keelin’s parents; they sit beside Brigit at the head of the fray, eyes glistening with tears in the firelight but faces firm. Yet by the time Brigit and Flannery disappear together a few hours in, Keelin’s parents sink even farther down in their chairs, as if they’re hoping to melt into the ground like the snow.

  No more stalling. I’m going to have to run for it, and soon. I begin to consider when—are the wolves more likely to get me in the daylight, or at night?—when Callum walks over and sits down in the dirt beside me.

  “Wager I can’t talk you into another round of Widow’s Lover, can I?” he asks.

  “Not a chance,” I say. “You’ll forgive me for still being bitter that you won.”

  “Ah,” Callum says, grinning. “You might’ve had me. The secret to that game—to all games, really, if you ask me, is to always have the upper hand.”

  “In a game of chance, that’s easier said than done.”

  Callum nods a little. “Always have the upper hand, and if you should find yourself in a situation where you don’t… create a new upper hand. You had me there, at the end, till I reminded you it was your first time playing. Made you bolt. Got me my upper hand back.”

  I consider this. “Just as well,” I finally say. “Flannery likes the shoes more than I did anyhow.”

  Callum instantly goes red, staring at the fire. It’s a few moments before he speaks again. “So she… she did like them? Really?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I taught her how to walk in them.”

  “Good,” Callum says, looking relieved. I can’t decide who is more pathetic among us—me, kidnapped and desperately in need of a shower, or him, ridiculously in love with the Princess of Kentucky.

  “I wanted to find one for her,” Callum says, changing the subject. “Wanted to bring it to her alive.”

  “Has anyone ever caught one?”

  “Killed one, yes. Not often, but yes. Caught one? No one’s done it yet,” he says, running his fingers through the dirt. “Truth is, Flannery’s probably the only who’s got the skill and strength to catch one, even though she doesn’t believe that herself. She’s never allowed to go after them anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” He stops and smiles at me. “Did she tell you she’s waiting for a bear to wander into camp, so she can catch it?”

  “I heard,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And she doesn’t think she’s strong….” Callum laughs aloud.

  There’s a toast going on for Keelin’s parents; Callum and I lift our glasses, take obligatory sips, and then fall back to silence for a few moments.

  “Truth is,” he says, “nothing good can happen from going after monsters. They don’t live in our world; they don’t play by our rules. I don’t mean Traveller rules—human rules. You’re going after your boy, Ginny, but even if you find him… he’s not going to be the same boy. You can’t live with a monster and walk out a person.”

  “Maybe,” I say, nodding slowly. “But maybe it’s just no one’s done it yet.”

  Callum frowns, but before he gets a chance to respond, Flannery is behind me. I’m not sure if she says anything, or if it’s the daggers in her eyes that make me turn around and look at her.

  “You okay, Sherlock?” Callum asks. Her hands are in fists and her hair is even more of a knotted mess than usual. She stares at Callum for a moment; her hands relax and it looks as if she’s going to reach for him. Instead, she exhales and turns away.

  “I’m fine. Let’s go,” she says to me.

  “Where?”

  “To sleep. Does it matter, for fuck’s sake? Come on,” she snaps, and spins on her heel. I rise, slowly; Callum looks at me and raises his eyebrows, but I shrug.

  “All right. Night, Flannery,” he calls across the few yards between us. “See you tomorrow, Ginny.”

  I open my mouth to answer him, but he’s already turned back to the fire. I hurry to catch up to Flannery.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Don’t talk to me,” she says.

  “Okay—”

  “Don’t talk, period,” she says. “I just want to go to bed, all right?”

  I nod. We reach the RV door, which she flings open. She goes into the bathroom for a moment, leaving me in the kitchen. I absently open up Grandma Dalia’s cookbook, still on the table with my other things and Flannery-slash-Ella’s heels. My fingers drift along the pages—

  “Stop looking at that,” Flannery snarls, and I look up—she’s standing in the doorway, face red.

  “Why?” I ask.

  Her hands are shaking. I don’t understand why she’s so angry. “Because there’s no point. You’re not leaving. So you can stop acting like some lovesick little girl. Better to stop looking at it, and stop talking about him, and stop thinking about him. He left you, Ginny.”

  My eyes widen. “You think I don’t know that?” I snap. “But I don’t love him just because he loved me back, so I can’t hate him just because he’s stopped. And besides, she’s not a goddess, Flannery—the Fenris are chasing her down. She’s running from them, not leading them.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Ginny. Just because there’s a bigger monster chasing Grohkta-Nap doesn’t mean you’re like her. Doesn’t mean you can beat her. You think the fact that you love Kai means you’ll win?”

  “No,” I say slowly. “I think the fact that I love Kai means I’ll fight for him.”

  Flannery balls her hands into fists, and for a moment, I’m certain she’s going
to punch me. But no—she storms into her bedroom and flops down on her bed, pulling the mismatched flannel blankets up to her face even though it’s stuffy in here. I’m not tired, but I climb into my sleeping bag and stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore the spark that Flannery’s words caused to leap up within me. He left me. Our love wasn’t strong enough. What makes me think any part of me is?

  “You didn’t congratulate me,” Flannery says after a half hour, her voice flat.

  “On what?” I ask, spitting the words. I’m angry at her, even angrier with myself for letting her stir up doubt in my chest.

  She inhales, and I can practically see the eye roll in her words. “On my engagement.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Flannery and Callum are getting married.

  “There’s nothing at all wrong with him—besides, everyone knows you two want each other. Will you stop slouching like that? We’ll never get it fit,” Brigit says as Flannery stands in her tent, staring at herself in a mirror. Flannery is wearing a wedding gown, a big, sparkly sort of thing that looks like a high school prom dress on steroids. Other Traveller girls hover around Flannery, offering suggestions as to how she should wear her hair, or who among them should be her bridesmaids. They brag about the dresses they own, how they’re sparkly but “not so much that it’ll overwhelm yours, Flannery.”

  Flannery doesn’t seem to care. Not about them, or the dress, or the engagement, or anything. She won’t make eye contact with me, instead staring at her own reflection as if she loathes it. I pull my knees up on the loveseat, the same place I sat when I first arrived, and watch, mesmerized, horrified, next to the pile of her regular clothes that have been discarded in lieu of the gown. She’s wearing the red heels, standing stiff-legged in them.

  “Is Sal really gonna be able to take it in fast enough? It’s just that it’s about four sizes too big in the waist. Though it fits just right up top—god, Flannery, when did you grow these tits?”

  “I wonder what Callum’s doing right now.”

  “Probably getting drunk. All grooms get drunk before the wedding.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to switch and marry Ardan? I saw him naked once….”

  “I hope he cleans his house a little. I wouldn’t want to spend my wedding night in Callum’s place as is.”

  Flannery’s hair looks stupid in the weird updo one of the girls is tying it into. I want to say something, but I don’t. Besides, this’ll make it easier. If she has to stay with Callum tonight, I’ll be able to run for it since Flannery won’t be guarding me. Just as I’m thinking this, Flannery finds my eyes; she doesn’t say anything before looking away. I reach across the loveseat and slowly, carefully pull Flannery’s knife and Wallace’s key from her discarded jeans’ pocket. It takes me only seconds to tuck them into the back of my bra strap. It takes me even less time than that to be certain that if I need to use the knife—against a werewolf or a human—I will.

  Kai and I first heard the story of Emperor Nero from his third violin teacher. He went through them quickly, getting a new one each time he surpassed the previous’s skill. Kai was ambivalent, but I loved the story. A man, standing amid flames, playing the violin. Fearless, so enamored with his music that he didn’t care about the danger.

  Of course, then we were told that some suspect he set the fire. He let Rome burn so he could tear down the charred shells of homes to build a new palace. Nero lit the stadium where they held chariot races on fire first, but the rest of Rome was quick to follow. The fire burned for days. I wondered if Nero played the violin the entire time. I wondered if he played it because he didn’t care, of if he didn’t set the fire and played it because it was the only thing that kept him from going mad, watching his empire become ash.

  Kai didn’t wonder anything like that. To him, it was just a story—and a likely untrue one at that. He got hung up on the fact that violins weren’t even around in ancient Rome, so Nero couldn’t have played one. It was a detail that didn’t matter much to me, so while Kai practiced and I sat in Grandma Dalia’s mauve recliner, I thought about Nero. I thought about him as a villain, as a hero, but mostly as a man.

  Maybe all you can do, when your world is burning, is hold on to the thing you love the most.

  The bonfire is huge, the crowd feasting on fresh bread and a few whole chickens. Flannery and Callum sit in throne-like chairs a few dozen yards from the bonfire, where people run up to give them gifts and advice, or to make lewd jokes to Callum. His face looks as contorted and uncomfortable as hers; they clasp hands tightly, as if they’re afraid to let go. Callum is wearing a dress shirt, though the collar buttons are missing and he has the sleeves rolled up, and I have to admit, Flannery looks beautiful. Awkward, but beautiful.

  Brigit conducts the ceremony, speaking in Shelta, asking Flannery to repeat after her. She’s misty-eyed, happy, as if she doesn’t notice that her daughter appears to be dying a slow, chiffon-induced death. They exchange simple silver rings, and then Brigit binds Flannery’s and Callum’s hands with bits of scarf and declares their hearts and minds tied together like their wrists. And then it comes time to kiss, and Callum leans toward Flannery—

  She flinches, pulls back, and a ripple of dissatisfaction goes through the crowd. Callum watches Flannery for a moment, then leans forward and whispers something to her—not something sweet or poetic, I can tell by the lines of his face. He pulls back and I see him tap her hand with his thumb, counting down. One. Two.

  They kiss on “three,” short and quick, but it’s enough that the crowd cheers, stomps their feet, and throws artificial flower petals in the air. Brigit instructs the couple to sit back down and urges the musicians—a handful of guitar players—to play something snappy. Couples dance, liquor drinks are poured, and the revelry begins. I hang toward the back of the crowd, by Ardan and Declan, who are placing bets on how long it’ll be before Flannery gives Callum a black eye. I consider getting in on the wager.

  If it weren’t for the fact that the bride and groom look utterly miserable, the wedding would be pretty amazing—the sort of homegrown thing that those brides on the reality shows my classmates watched are always trying to emulate. The guests look happy and well-fed, the music hardly stops, and the sky above is clear and diamond-studded. A few hours in and the liquor is still flowing, encouraging the frenzy. Callum waves for someone to bring him a large cup of beer. Flannery eyes him, shakes her head, then slumps down in her chair. Her eyes narrow, as if she’s thinking very hard. She exhales, looks at me as if she wants to say something, and then—

  “Hey, boys?” she calls across the fire to the musicians. “How about ‘Winter’s Keep’?”

  I see Callum’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks at me and, for a moment, I think he’s going to call out for them to stop. But the Flannery somehow pulls his eyes to her, and there’s a silent conversation between them. Callum sits back in his chair as the musicians begin to play.

  Come along, my brothers,

  stay your drink and calm your words.

  It’s comin’ on the season,

  bring the ice and go the birds.

  And with it comes a lady,

  from the great wood, strong and bright.

  She tames the fangs and fur and claw,

  we honor her, tonight.

  She lives among the selchs and snow,

  she knows her magic well.

  She’ll call the very best to her,

  The rest she’ll send to hell.

  So climb into your beds, my friends,

  But think before you sleep, of

  the beauty and the terror

  of the Lady Winter’s Keep.

  I inhale, close my eyes, and replay the words in my head over and over until they’re memorized.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It’s late—three or four in the morning, and my breath forms bright white clouds as a group of Travellers escort Flannery and Callum back to his RV. It’s covered in Christmas lights, and someone has painted flowers
on the door frame. Flannery looks pale, and I want to follow her, but Brigit is watching me carefully. I swallow, turn my back on Flannery, and head back toward Brigit’s RV. I hear Brigit finish her conversation; I glance over my shoulder casually, looking just far enough to know she’s following me. When I reach the trailer I walk immediately to Flannery’s bedroom, pull on one of her hoodies to fight the temperature, and get in the bed on the floor. Brigit opens the trailer’s main door, and a series of sounds tell me she’s taking jewelry off, opening cabinets and drawers. I jump when she suddenly flings open the door to Flannery’s bedroom, her shape illuminated by the lamp in the kitchen.

  “You can sleep in her bed, you know. She lives with Callum now,” Brigit says, then shuts the door. The brusqueness of her words fully ignites the feelings that have been smoldering in me all day. I jump up and follow her out into the kitchen, letting Flannery’s door bang into the wall behind me. Brigit is steeping a cup of tea, rubbing her temples. When she sees my expression, she scowls.

  “Gonna come in here and go all buffer on me?” she says, motioning to me. She sounds as if she’s prepared for this argument. “Call me a monster, a bad mother? Save it—I see your news programs. I know what you think of traditions that aren’t like your own.”

  “She didn’t want to marry him,” I say, shaking my head. “That has nothing to do with tradition. She doesn’t want him; it’s simple.”

  “She loves him,” Brigit says. “You know how lucky she is, that she loves the man she’s marrying?”

  “But she didn’t want—”

  “Don’t think for a second you understand us after a few days,” Brigit snaps, sloshing the tea from her cup. “Most of these Traveller girls, they’re not going to be professors or lawyers or surgeons. They’re going to be housewives. Except for Flannery. She’s the one with a real future—she’s going to be queen. But there’s not a man in this camp that wouldn’t take it from her. They see a single woman as weak, while a married woman as strengthened by her husband. Trust me”—she points to herself—“I know. Flannery deserves better than the reign I’ve had. Isn’t that what every mother wants for her daughter—a better future than her own?”