Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1)

by Maria Alexander

We pull away from the site. Michael continues. “What can you tell us about Aidan?”

  “What?”

  “Your friend,” Leo says.

  “Is this why you texted me? Silly me. I thought maybe it was because you respected my thoughts about this or something.”

  Michael kicks a pinecone out of his path. “No, no! I totally respect your thoughts! But don’t you think it’s weird? Your friend shows up, sees you humiliated by Darren, and then said jock is ripped apart?”

  “How do you know he was ripped apart?”

  Leo holds up his phone to show me the news article online.

  The Oak County coroner reports the Oakwood High School student died of massive blood loss due to deep lacerations to his throat and torso.

  “Something is stalking the school,” I say as I take a hard look at the forest around us. Leaves quiver as the wind hisses through the branches.

  “I don’t trust these meatballs with badges,” Michael says. The others nod. “They had all weekend to scour the school and crime scene. If they didn’t find this, they won’t find anything.”

  “Agreed,” I say, thinking about Detective Bristow and the photo that’s haunting me. “Maybe we should hunt this thing. Before it hunts us down, one by one.”

  Michael stops. “Us? The four of us. Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe.”

  The branches wave in the wind as it picks up. I picture Darren’s ruined body and the eyes under the bleachers. It isn’t a person. Not even a sick person. It’s a thing. And some primitive, caveman instinct surges deep in my skull, hollering to preserve hearth and harvest against the predator. Is this what my father feels when he’s designing one of his war machines? I may never know. But right now, I want nothing more than to stop this thing before it gets another chance at me or my family.

  “We don’t have to confront it,” I continue. “Let’s just see if we can get more information about it.” That’s what my mouth says, as my brain screams: Kill it. Kill it with fire!

  “How do we do that?” Judy asks, pushing her hands deep in her coat pockets. The chill cuts my cheeks.

  “We monitor the local news. Listen in the hallways. Pick up anything we can. Dog injuries. Missing cats. Anything. It could be biding its time before it kills another student.” Turning to Michael, I continue. “And it’s not Aidan, okay? He’s sweet and kind and eats lasagna and spaghetti. Not possum. Even if he had wanted to for some reason, he didn’t have any opportunity to kill Darren. He was talking to Mr. Reilly after school. I know. I saw him.” A slight lie. Also, wouldn’t Aidan have had blood all over him? I don’t even want to go there…

  Michael looks rueful. “I’m sorry I cast suspicions on your friend. He’s your foster brother now, isn’t he? I had to ask, though.”

  “I know,” I reply.

  It’s quiet for a moment. Michael and Leo pull the shirts from their faces.

  “I predict tomorrow numerous kids are pulled out of school,” Leo says.

  “Would your parents pull you out?” Judy asks. “Mine might let me do online school, but I doubt it. There really aren’t any other schools to go to up here.”

  Michael shakes his head. “We’re trapped here, dear friends.” A drizzle passes through the branches onto us. “Maybe there’s a beast,” he quotes, “maybe it’s only us.”

  Lord of the Flies. Jesus, he’s scaring me more than I already was.

  Mrs. Hohlwein is not remotely happy that I’m late, but she grudgingly lets me in without a write-up when I whisper that I was in the restroom having “stomach problems.” She proceeds to grind away at the history of Columbia and how the story represents history repeating itself.

  That’s all I hear, thanks to the terrible images of death in the forest and Darren’s body. Eventually they give way to the crush rumbling in my head. A thought can’t cross from one side of my head to the other without bumping into Aidan. How does he know the things he seems to know? Maybe he’s a genius like Sherlock Holmes who can guess things about people based on subtle physical clues. He’s a lot nicer than Sherlock on TV. That’s for sure.

  My concerns melt away when I see him waiting to board the bus. He drops his backpack and peels off his heavy jacket.

  “So, how do you know so much about Constantine and Mithras?” I ask, sidling up to him in line.

  Aidan smiles enigmatically. “I’ll send you an email.”

  I feel lightheaded. It’s a crush, I tell myself. Nothing more. I always fall for the smartest guy in school. But I should know better. No one ever likes me back. He was just being nice to me when I was having a horrible day. And those emails. Just nice.

  No one gives us any trouble on the bus home. Everyone is too busy talking about the murder or texting with friends. I sneak peeks at Aidan as we ride, sitting across the aisle from one another. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I kind of like just being near him.

  The sun burns through the clouds, spilling golden light on the gravel road and soggy leaves that litter the surface. The whole world brightens, which almost makes me sad because I love the rain, despite what it does to my hair. The trees, mailboxes and house eaves still drip with dampness. The storm is merely napping. When the bus drops us off at the end of our road, I walk beside Aidan. “Why aren’t you wearing your jacket? It’s freezing!”

  “On the contrary, it’s unbearably hot! Remember, it’s much colder where I’m from.”

  “Which is?”

  “Nice try, Charity Jones.”

  “Well, maybe you’re sick. Stop. Hold still. I’ll take your temperature.”

  We stop at the roadside, cool breezes licking our noses. I reach up and put my hand on his forehead. His skin feels comfortably warm, not fevered. “Not bad. Not on death’s door, anyway.” I can’t take away my hand. Instead, my fingers brush his impossibly soft cheek. The black pinpricks of his pupils float in the ghostly blue of his irises as he watches me. He gently grasps my hand. I’ve gone too far.

  Aidan closes his eyes and continues to move my fingertips over his face, onto his neck and into his hair. He brings my fingertips at last to his lips and kisses them sweetly. He then turns over my hand to warm my cold palm with his moist mouth. I feel like I’m going to die, heart racing, breathing shallow. I have never felt anything this intense in my life. I raise my other hand to his face. He takes it, kissing that one as well. He releases my hands and I stroke his neck. His skin might be silky, but he is solid muscle underneath. About five thousand volts of pure bliss course through my body as he bends, hesitating, his lips finding mine. I have never been kissed before, not like this. In Woodland Hills, a boy in junior high liked me but I didn’t like him. Still, I’d wanted to know what making out was like. His slobbery lips smushed mine until my mouth ached. I hated it. After that, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to kiss anyone again.

  But this. He brushes his lips against mine, like he’s not sure where they should land. I’m not, either. All I know is to tilt my head. And I do. I bring my mouth to his, and time slows. All of my questions about him dissolve as I reach up and wrap my hands behind his neck, burying my fingers in his wavy hair. He slips his hands under my coat and caresses my back, pulling me against him.

  I have never felt anything so perfect as this.

  Chapter 11

  Dear Charity,

  Back home, all I had were books. No television or radio. Just Father’s library, which is set deep into the ice, endless shelves packed with yellowing tomes. Most are stolen. Many are beautiful. Surrounded by snow my whole life, I’ve had little contact with your world except through these books. Your friend Michael called me Sherlock today. While I’m not entirely sure why he did that, I was relieved to know who Sherlock even was. I’m confused whenever anyone speaks to me. But Sherlock… I’ve read those stories. They’re in my father’s library. (Michael called me something else. Benedict? Do you know what he’s talking about?) Sherlock Holmes is my hero. I love his mind.

  Constantine. Julius Caesar. The Gallic W
ars. Scholarly commentary about the Gospels. Colonialism and industrialism. The Phoenicians, ancient Carthage, the Saxons. I’ve read about these and much more. The great wars of Earth’s history rage in my memory as if I’d been there, these history books are so much a part of me. The occasional journal drifts in, often damaged by bad weather or temper. But I read everything. Unlike my brothers and sisters, I love to read. I might be the only one who can read besides father. I can thank my departed mother for that.

  I spent as much time as possible in the library. My refuge. Sometimes I’d hide from my father there, crouching behind the bookshelves as he hunted for me, lash in hand, howling my name until he gave up.

  After each vernal equinox, I’d sneak to the surface to bask in the ribbon of sunlight as it struck the bluish-white snow. Everything dazzles like diamonds, even the forest of wind-carved ice sculptures that surrounds our compound, dimpled by shadows as the sun emerges from its long hibernation. When I was little, I imagined these icy giants were guardians of our strange life, shielding us from the sight of the great red Russian ships cutting through the ice. Not that anyone would bother us. Everyone loves Father. Later, as Father’s abuses worsened—or did I simply become more aware of them?—I realized that the giants were our gaolers. I begged them every night to let me slip past their ranks to freedom. But no luck.

  And then one day they did. After the vernal equinox, I escaped, leaving behind the library. I found some Canadian scientists who were happy to bring me to the mainland.

  But thanks to your father, I now have a greater library than ever before. After I finished reading my textbooks a few days ago, I started reading online newspapers, government websites, scholarly journals, even articles about my father.

  The lies and misrepresentations are worse than I ever imagined. I try not to think about it.

  In fact, I try not to think about him or my family at all. Instead, I marvel at my new life. The raindrops beading on your eyelashes are far more beautiful than the glistening snow drifts. I have never met anyone like you, Charity Jones. And I never will again should The Fates separate us. Whatever you ask, whatever pleases you, anything it takes for us to be together, just tell me and I will do it.

  With great affection,

  Aidan

  Tuesday. Veterans Day.

  I forgot to turn off my alarm. I was up half the night either crazed over Aidan or struggling with what to do about the photo. But even as I close my eyes again and drift back to sleep, I have made up my mind.

  As I eat breakfast downstairs, I consider how to answer Aidan’s email. It’s bizarre. I don’t know how much of it is true, but how can I resist his final declaration? I want to rush to him this morning, but I can’t. Yesterday, Aidan wanted to kiss upstairs, but I cautioned him that my parents would be upset if they knew we liked each other. If they find out, they won’t let him live here anymore. This would have to be a secret. And we would have to be very careful of Charles. Aidan didn’t understand but said he would respect my wishes.

  Mercifully, Aidan is tucked in his room studying when I emerge this morning. Charles is doing god-knows-what, but at least he’s quiet. Even though Mom shouldn’t be working, she’s out on an emergency call. Dad’s at work. I go into the garage and, keeping my voice low, I call the Sheriff’s office. Detective Bristow isn’t in, so I leave a message.

  “I have something to tell you,” I say. “It might be nothing or it might be very important. But I don’t have a car or license. So, if you want to come by, that would be awesome.”

  And then I wait.

  I spend the afternoon in nervous distraction, expecting the detective to call me back right away, but he doesn’t. I’m counting on him coming by before my parents get home so that they won’t know about the photo.

  But he doesn’t.

  I have zero appetite. I mean, nothing. You could put a mushroom and pepperoni pizza in front of me and I wouldn’t eat it. I have never lost my appetite like this before. At dinner, Mom watches me poke at her soggy salad when Aidan makes a surprising announcement.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jones, I would like to get a job.”

  Charles chokes on his mashed potatoes. Mom drops her fork and pounds on Charles’ back. Dad is the only one who seems unfazed. “Do you think you can handle a job in addition to school? You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

  “Actually, Mr. Jones, I’m well ahead already. And I was thinking of asking to take more advanced maths and perhaps physics. I’m only slightly behind in chemistry. I was hoping perhaps you could help me with that tonight.”

  “Sure.” Dad gestures at me with his fork. “How many classes do you have with Aidan?”

  “Only American History. And I think he’s going to get pantsed. He’s worse than I am.” I grin conspiratorially.

  “Pantsed?” Aidan looks troubled.

  “Teased for being smart,” I say. “They call it pantsing because they pull down your pants to embarrass you when you embarrass them.”

  “But they were wrong. And Mr. Reilly wasn’t correcting them. If anyone should be pantsed it should be them or Mr. Reilly.”

  Dad laughs. “Evelyn, are you sure he isn’t really yours?” He isn’t just referring to Aidan’s pasty Celtic complexion. Although Mom is what the Brits would call “ginger” and Aidan is more black Irish, I do see a certain clan resemblance.

  Mom shakes her head, amused. “Like attracts like. We’re not the most diplomatic bunch, are we?”

  Dad sips his wine, thinking. “I’ll have a talk with your teachers about making sure you’re properly placed. If they think you can handle it, maybe you could work part-time at the Gold Country Christmas tree farm. It’s within biking distance.”

  Charles drops his silverware onto his plate, glowering. “Dad, I want to work at the Christmas tree farm.”

  “Your job is to ace your classes, and you’ve got a long way to go. Besides, you’re not old enough.”

  “I’m fifteen!”

  “And your grades aren’t good enough. If you get your grades up by the end of the semester, we’ll talk about a job next year.”

  Charles shoves his plate away, rocking the table. “Bullshit!” He stands up and glares at Aidan, but doesn’t say anything. I know that look. It’s a dire warning.

  “You! Settle down. Now!” Dad says. Charles stays, but looks like he’s about to morph into a tornado. Dad continues. “What do you think, Evelyn?”

  “I need to find out what the legal implications are. We don’t even know how old you are, Aidan, or if you’re from this country. Why do you want to work?”

  Aidan’s face saddens, but he remains polite. “I have always worked. It’s just proper. And I’d like to have my own money. To not be a burden to you.” Aidan’s eyes land on me. There is nothing in this world except those eyes, those lips and his delicate skin. My breath thickens. I can’t look away.

  Mom sighs. “That’s very thoughtful, sweetie, but you’re not a burden.”

  There’s a knock on the door. Everyone looks surprised but says nothing.

  Dad answers. It’s the detective. Dad invites him in.

  If Aidan is worried, he doesn’t look it.

  Dad and the detective enter the family room.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” Detective Bristow says. He looks exhausted.

  Charles yelps, “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Um, actually, I need to speak with Charity.”

  Crap.

  Mom raises her eyebrows at me. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

  Fingering the phone in my hoodie pocket, I reassure her. “It’s okay, Mom. I need to talk to Detective Bristow.” I look at the detective. “Alone.”

  “Are you sure? I’m right here, you know.”

  “Mom! It’s okay. And if it’s not, I know where to find you.” I force a smile.

  Dad drops his fork. “What on earth?”

  “It’s fine,” Mom tells him. “She’s not been Mirandized and s
he’s not a person of interest.” Mom looks tired. “Let me know if you need me, sweetheart.”

  Smelling of aftershave, coffee and sweat, the detective follows me out to the garage. “What are those?” he asks, pointing at the robots in the corner of the garage. I tell him about the robotics competitions, showing him the extensive electronics and equipment, but anxiety dampens my normal enthusiasm. He seems impressed nonetheless.

  He’s not a jerk, but he is a police officer. He could arrest me right now, just for wasting his time. “Detective Bristow, I just want to tell you first that I’m not sure what scares me more—the thought of what’s going to happen if anyone at school finds out that I found Darren’s body, or the thing I’m about to show you.”

  “Wait—you want to show me something? Does your mom know about this?”

  I shake my head. “It’ll only scare her more than she is already. Do I have to tell her?”

  He shrugs. “It’s up to you.” He points back inside the house. “Was that Aidan MacNichol, the runaway?” There’s something about the way he says the word “runaway” that makes me feel protective of Aidan. “Was he at the dinner table?”

  “Yeah. But he’s very nice. I mean, he’s a little weird, but he’s okay. And he’s doing really well at school.” He’s also intoxicating, but Detective Bristow doesn’t need to know about that, either.

  The detective grins. “I’m glad to hear it. So, what was it that you wanted to show me?”

  I take the phone out of my pocket. Detective Bristow’s face lights up.

  “I know this is super weird,” I say. “But when I found Darren’s body, I didn’t think anyone would believe me. My parents used to never believe me when I told them things happening with Charles, so I guess I have a complex about that. Anyway, even though it was gross, I took a picture. And then when I was looking at it later thinking I’d delete it, I discovered something odd about it.”

  The detective really looks interested now. I call up the photo from my photo stream and hand the phone to him.

  “There’s something in the background under the bleachers. Its eyes are reflective, I think. Do you see the blue? I don’t know anything with eyes like that. A cat? Aren’t they usually green? Maybe it’s an owl, but the eyes are too large. Do you see that hulking shape in the shadows? It’s more like a small person.”