by Carrie Jones
Nick smiles at me. He’s leaning against a big gray radiator. His thick black sweater rubs against the wall. For a second I want to be the wall. Okay, it’s longer than a second.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” I smile back. “I thought you were blowing off lunch to go out patrolling with Issie.”
“I lied.” He squats down and picks up a small black backpack that I don’t recognize. He pulls out a beach towel and starts laying it on the floor.
“Here, let me help.” I grab at a bright blue towel that has a wave design on it. Our fingers meet. We get a shock but neither of us twitches away.
“Static electricity,” he murmurs. His mouth moves when he says it. It moves slowly, like he’s kissing me. I lean forward. He holds up a finger. “One second. Sit on the towel, baby.”
“Bossy.” But I sit down anyway.
“You are just as bossy.”
“True,” I concede.
He laughs and pulls out a big Ziploc bag of something dark and round. Cookies!
I lunge forward. “Are these—?”
“Chocolate with peanut butter chips,” he finishes for me.
I keep staring at his lips, but I slide open the baggie. “I love these! My mom always made these.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“You told me once.”
He sits down with me and before I can get too heart fluttery he pulls out a cookie and lifts it toward my mouth, teasing me. “Do you want it?”
I open my lips. He slides the cookie in a little bit. I chomp down. It melts on my tongue. “It is sooo good.”
He laughs and leans back. He whispers, “You know we’re not supposed to eat back here.”
I swallow. “We are totally naughty.”
“Absolutely.” He bites into my cookie. “So there’s this annual dance in a couple of weeks.”
“The Winter Ball,” I interrupt. “There have been signs up everywhere.”
“You want to go?”
I think about it for a half second. “Will you dress up?”
He nods.
I move forward so my hands are flat on the towel and my face is much closer to his face. Something inside my chest warms up like a nice kind of heartburn and I say, “And will we slow dance?”
He nods again. His bottom lip turns in toward his mouth for a second, just disappears and then comes back.
Stretching out my spine so my lips are nearly touching his I say, “And will you press yourself against me and we’ll move really close together and then your hand will stretch out across the back of my head and your fingers will wrap into my hair and then . . .”
He doesn’t nod. He just tilts his head down, moves his fingers into my hair, and his lips touch mine in a forever kiss. His lips are soft and hard all at once. His breath mixes with my breath. Everything inside of me whooshes out. It’s just him and me and books and cookies.
“Is that what you want?” he asks when we finally break away.
I breathe in deep and then lift my lips to his ear. “That’s what I want.”
“And if I promise you that will happen, you’ll go to the dance with me?”
I sit back on my heels. “That and if you promise not to go patrolling alone.”
For a second he freezes, then he smiles and crosses his arms in front of him. “You are a pain, a royal pain in the—”
“But that’s why you love me, right?”
He tosses another cookie at me. “That and because you give me an excuse to make cookies.”
I catch the cookie in my left hand. “Good reasons. And do you want to know why I love you?”
“Because I am a fantastic cookie maker?” He breaks his cookie in half and puts it in his mouth.
“That’s part of it,” I admit. I nibble on my own cookie. I swallow. “But not all of it.”
A crumb falls onto his jeans. I brush it off for him as he says, “You’re making me wait for it, aren’t you?”
“Okay. I won’t torment you.” I cross my legs and smile at him. “I love you for the way you care about everyone, for how stubborn you are, for how you love Issie and Devyn.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead and then each of my eyelids. They are tender, these kisses. They are light and true. “I love you too, Zara.”
“I am so, so glad,” I sigh out. And I am.
The rest of the day is pretty uneventful. Nick works at the hospital after school and Issie and Devyn are at French Club, so I go running by myself. We’re allowed to run outside again because boys are no longer going missing. The school had stopped outdoor track practice for a while because Jay Dahlberg and the Beardsley boy were abducted by pixies. Nobody knew that it was pixies, they just knew boys were disappearing from the woods. Even now, only a few of us know what actually happened; everyone else thinks it was a serial killer.
Each time my foot hits the ground I hear my stepdad’s laugh. But running on snow, even hard-packed Maine snow that’s been flattened by snowmobiles, is just not as cool as running the streets of Charleston, my hometown, where it’s warm and smells like flowers, even in the winter.
Bedford is nothing like Charleston. My mom sent me up here because I couldn’t deal with my stepdad’s death. It was hard to get adjusted. There are about six thousand year-round residents here and the ocean is a cold menace that roars beyond the peninsula. Everything is trees and dirt and cold, at least in winter. I’ve never seen it in spring. Right now the bare branches of trees look like drowning arms reaching up for help. I stare and stare at the bark and see the shapes of spirits there. The dark knots where limbs used to be remind me of screaming mouths.
Still, I zip past the trees that line the track, swerve up the hill behind Bedford Building Supply, and keep following the trail. I’m thinking about how Devyn better not like Cassidy because he and Issie are so meant to be together. I’m thinking about how everyone in the universe seems to know this except Devyn. And that’s when I hear it. The sound is muffled but it’s definitely human.
Mrphh . . .
Little spider feelings prickle along my skin.
“Crud.”
I stop. I listen. I pull out my cell phone, punch in 9-1-1 but don’t hit Send. Because, seriously? What would I say?
Hi, operator/dispatcher person. This is Zara. I’m by the railroad tracks just past BBS and I think I hear something and I’ve got this prickly skin feeling. It’s like, um, well . . . I think it means the pixie king is nearby.
But that can’t be true. Because the pixie king is trapped in a house on the other side of town, which means . . .
“I’m imagining things,” I announce.
Mmrph. Mrupph.
The sound is off to the left. My head jerks up. I scan the wood for tracks. There are no tracks. No footprints at least, but something catches my eye. I squat down and touch the snow. There’s dust, just a tiny bit of it. It glitters.
Okay. Not imagining things.
Pixie kings leave gold glitter in their wake. Regular pixies? Not so much.
The wind blows through the naked tree branches. One of them creaks like the pressure is just too much and it wants to break right off and plummet to the earth. I know that feeling.
Mrmph!
The sound is urgent and I know what it is. It’s a voice. It’s a muffled voice, which means that someone is probably in trouble. I press my speed dial for Nick. He’s at work so he doesn’t pick up. Cell phones aren’t allowed at the hospital. Right. Duh. His voice mail comes on.
“Hey, Nick. It’s me,” I whisper, turning slowly in a circle, looking for predators. “I’m near BBS by the tracks, running. I think . . . I hear something. Okay. Yeah. I’m going to check it out. If I don’t call again, I’m probably dead or something. Yeah. Right. Bye.”
Mrmph.
I slink forward across the crunchy whiteness, cautious, looking up into the branches of the trees to make sure nothing is waiting to jump down and attack. I’m being paranoid, I know, but
a lack of paranoia can be hazardous to your health. I start thinking about phobias. It’s my thing. I chant them to make me less nervous.
Albuminurophobia, fear of kidney disease.
Philemaphobia or philematophobia, fear of kissing.
Genuphobia, fear of knees.
It’s not helping. I’m in about twenty feet when I spot the source of the noise. It’s a guy. He’s tied up to a big spruce tree. He’s blond. There’s duct tape over his mouth, and barbed wire wrapped around his body. The only thing that’s keeping him upright is the wire and what’s left of his will, I guess. The pixies have almost killed him.
Unless he’s the pixie. Maybe he’s the one Nick had the run-in with, but Nick wouldn’t just tie him up and leave him here, would he?
The answer: maybe.
My stomach falls. The guy’s eyes plead with me. He looks like he’s about to die. Pixie or not, I run toward him. I rip off my gloves. They flop on the ground near his feet, a puddle of blackness by his leather boots. It starts snowing down on us, big heavy waterfilled flakes the size of my thumb. I work on the wire, but it’s so cold that it stings my skin. I jump back. My fingers curl up, protecting themselves.
“Mrrphh . . . Mrr . . . ” His voice is desperate and matches the look in his green eyes. Somehow I know what he wants me to do.
I uncurl my fingers and reach up. “This might hurt.”
I feel bad ripping the tape off him, but I do it. I get my nail around an edge and yank. It comes off in a big sticky rush.
“Put your gloves on and then untie me.” His voice is low and has a slight accent that I don’t recognize. Almost Irish. Almost not. “Please. She is coming for—”
“Was it pixies? Did they do this to you? I saw the glitter. Or are you the pixie? I need to know.” Guilt rushes into me. I know they are evil but to see one so hurt, if he is one—okay, he probably is one, but it doesn’t matter. “I need to know if you’re still in danger.”
Every word he speaks seems to take incredible effort. His lips move so slowly. “What? She is . . . I am not prepared to die.”
“You won’t die.” I grab my gloves off the snow, shoving them on again. He’s a pixie, I know it, but I can’t just let him die. Something in my heart twinges for him. It would be awful to be here, tied to a tree, waiting to die. “If you promise not to hurt me, I promise I won’t let you die.”
“I am attempting not to, but if she comes, then—”
I’m yanking at the wire when his voice breaks off.
“Watch out!” he manages to yell.
I whirl around. A glove drops. The other is barely halfway on. A woman stands in front of me. She’s tiny but beautiful, with long, flowing black hair and dark skin. I think I gasp.
“Please, do not let her take me,” he whispers as I back up.
“I won’t.” I’m not sure how I’m going to keep that promise. There’s something menacing about her. And yes, it might be because she has this armored breastplate thing over her dark green velvety dress, but it might be something else, like the scary-intense look in her eyes.
“You know I have to take you with me, warrior.” Her voice is strong. Her eyes flash. She steps forward. Her hands are slender and delicate but they somehow look absolutely deadly.
I put up my own somewhat wimpy arms. “Hold on a second. Time-out. Okay?”
She smirks. “Are you attempting to stop me, little one?”
“Excuse me? Did you just call me ‘little one’? What are you? Like, four feet tall?” I ask. My temper comes through, turning my voice a little bitter.
The guy behind me gasps. “Do not.”
The woman just smiles and takes another step forward. “It is my sacred duty to take the fallen warriors with me.”
“With you where?” I scoop up the glove and step back so I can start working on his wire again. I do it like I’m so casual, like my heart isn’t beating eighteen hundred beats a minute or anything, like this woman doesn’t have tiny little fangs sticking out on her lip.
“Valhalla.”
I search my brain. Devyn’s been telling me about myths, and I think he mentioned that word before. The data doesn’t totally compute and I go, “Valhalla? As in all that Norse myth stuff? It is Norse, right? The god Odin? Is that the one?”
She rushes forward. Claws form where fingers should be. One tips into the flesh of my cheek. It cuts my skin. Her eyes stare into mine, cold and harsh. Snowflakes land on her eyelashes.
“Do you dare speak his name, human?” she says, with all this confidence and menace. “You are puny and helpless against one such as he.”
The prick of her claw seems to resonate all the way through me. It feels like something fundamental inside has shifted. Dizziness threatens but I struggle to keep it down and look away from her and stare instead at the captive guy. I keep working at the wire. It’s a knot. I’m good with knots, though. I don’t move my cheek away. I won’t show fear. “Whose name? Odin?”
Finally the knot comes undone. I yank at the wire and the pixie guy falls forward. I leap and catch him. He struggles to stay upright, leaning into my side. Both my arms wrap around his chest. The snow crunches beneath us. The trees around us sway with the wind.
The woman hisses, then sniffs the air. The world is chill and gray and without color. She looks at me accusingly. “You are not human.”
I struggle to keep the guy steady. “Of course I’m human.”
Her eyes narrow a little bit. “No . . . not all.” Her features form into a mask of disgust. “You are a halfling.”
The guy gets a little bit rigid and starts to shake. Our feet shuffle in the snow as I try to keep him upright. I lean him a little against the hard, rumpled bark of the tree.
“Whatever.” I pull in a deep breath, try to ignore the claws and the fangs, and think about the knife tucked into my sock. I’d have to drop the guy to get it out. My mind is working overtime trying to figure out how to be casual about it. I keep talking. “My point is that you can’t take him.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “And why not?”
A pine cone tumbles onto the snow. It looks so strange with all its rough brown edges surrounded by bland whiteness. I try to think up an answer.
The guy speaks. “Because I am not fallen. I am still alive.”
“Not for long.” A wicked smile creeps over her features. Her tongue leaps out to capture a snowflake. The wind whistles through the tree limbs. We are so alone out here.
“Yes, for long.” I glare at her. “I am going to get him proper medical care and he will be just fine.”
“Proper medical care?” She snorts. “Do you know what he is, halfling? Gaze upon him.”
“Do not call me halfling.”
“You have no strength.” She gets a look on her face that would rival a haughty supermodel who just landed a five-million-dollar contract. “You can barely support his weight.”
She’s right. The world waits in silence. An unbearable whiteness covers us as snow falls from a cloudy sky. I sniff. My nose is running. The pixie guy moans softly. The sound is filled with sadness and pain and despair. He is vulnerable. Pixie or not, he needs me.
I steel myself. “I’m not giving him up.”
She lifts an eyebrow, as if she’s pondering what the heck is going on. I’d like to ponder what the heck is going on too, but I’m busy trying to just keep standing. The cold sinks into my feet, into my bones.
She says, “There is a possibility that he may live now because you have interfered.”
I wait.
“What we offer him is a reward, not a punishment,” she soothes. “I swear this. After his death he will fight by Odin’s side in the greatest battle of all.”
His words stiffen out between his teeth, hard and fierce. “I am not ready to die. I have work here. I. Can. Not. Die.”
Another pine cone lets go of a tree branch and falls from the sky. It hits me in the shoulder and then tumbles the rest of the way to the ground. Tiny ridges of
it break off and stick to the snow, left behind. The wind blows hard and wicked against all of us. It is hard for me to hold us up, but the woman does not sway.
“I see.” Feathers sprout from her back. Menace turns her eyes red. Her hair spirals out behind her, lifting in the wind. Instead of being beautiful, it’s terrifying.
I stagger away a little. The guy’s arm comes up around my waist, and even though he’s barely capable of standing up it’s pretty obvious he’s trying to protect me from her. The wind ruffles his blond hair.
“I shall not hurt the little halfling,” she says. That’s when I realize that the feathers on her back are wings, graceful and glistening like a swan’s, but jet black.
I don’t know what to think of her. I don’t know what to say or do. I just stand there shivering, from cold or fear or both.
“Your mouth hangs open,” she says, almost smiling. “I shall let you keep this one because he may survive now that you are here. You will have to decide if that is a good thing or not, halfling.”
I start to protest.
She holds out her hand. “Also, there will be other warriors soon. Death is coming. It is on the wind. Can you feel it?”
As she says it I think I can—a low menace, a waiting storm. The snow swirls around us. She nods her head at me and lifts up. Her swan wings spread out and she soars up into the air to meet the whiteness of the sky.
I stagger sideways and fall. The guy lands on top of me. He starts laughing, a soft, crazy, exhausted laugh. “Sorry. Sorry. Wow . . . wow . . . that was close. I thought—” He interrupts himself and starts laughing again. The movement makes him wince, then moan.
I pull myself out from underneath him, worried that he’s totally insane. “Are you going to be okay?”
He shakes his head. Then he nods. A trembling hand, square and scratched, reaches up to rub where his hair touches his forehead. His eyes meet my eyes. His lips move. “Thank you.”
Then he passes out.
Great.
Pixie Tip
Pixies are not good. They are evil. Not bad-hair-day evil, but scary-movie-that-still-freaks-you-out-when-you-go-to-bed evil. Actually? Way worse.
