“What about when you fought for me?” I say accusingly.
“Surviving wasn’t the most important thing,” she says darkly. “And besides, that wasn’t a real fight. You think they’d have killed the Princess of Kentucky in front of her clan? Not that I couldn’t take them in a real fight, of course. Fuckers wouldn’t know what hit them—”
“What’s the little secret?” I cut her off.
Flannery cuts off another piece of the apple and studies it in her fingers for a moment. “Before you start, figure out who’s going to win.”
We make it to northern Illinois before we finally pull over in a shopping center parking lot for the night. We stop the car in the back, near a closed bookstore, and spread out on Wallace’s floor. Flannery is leaning against the rear doors, letting them press against her the same way the wall of her bedroom would have back at the camp. She’s eating from a drum of cheese puffs that she stole from a display outside a gas station.
“So, what happens when you find him? When this is all done?” Flannery asks, licking the cheese dust off her fingers.
“I… go home,” I say.
“What really happens?” Flannery says.
I look down, tucking my arms into my sweatshirt to get warmer. “I go home,” I repeat, and then continue, “but I don’t stay there. Not for long. I don’t think I could after all this.” Truthfully, it feels strange even calling Andern Street “home.” Kai was my home, him, not the building, but now even that seems strange. After all, I’ve made it this far. I’ve escaped monsters and kidnappers and been brave without him. Maybe he’s my old home, the childhood one I love, but not the one I live in anymore….
“Look how quickly we turned you into a proper Traveller.” Flannery laughs, cutting off my thoughts. “No place is your home, so every place is. So where will you go? What will you do?”
I pause for a long time. “I don’t know,” I say. “I adopted Kai’s dreams. I never really had my own.”
“And that made you happy?” Flannery asks warily.
I frown. “It did, but I’m not sure how. I guess it was enough for me, then. I still want Kai back, of course, but…” I swallow and can’t believe what I’m about to say. “I don’t think I’m afraid to be without him now.” I think I should feel guilty about thinking that, much less saying it aloud, but I just feel strangely free.
“Well,” Flannery says as she screws the lid back onto the cheese puff drum, “I for one think you’d make a stellar spy. Creeping around, car chases, hunting down monsters… if I were hiring spies, you’d get the job.”
“What about you?”
“That,” Flannery says, “is a mystery. You gotta understand, Ginny—you walk out on the Travellers, the way I’ve done, you walk out on them for good. I can never go back. But…”
“Callum.”
“Yes,” Flannery says, sighing. “And that’s my home. Those are my people. I’m supposed to lead them one day. I dunno. My mother thought I wasn’t tough enough to rule alone. I thought I’d feel free, running away. Happy. But instead I just feel like she’s right. Like I ran because I wasn’t strong enough, in the end. Forever the shit Princess of Kentucky…”
“I watched you take down a bunch of guys with your fists, Flannery. You’re plenty strong. Brigit is wrong.”
Flannery doesn’t answer, but her fingers move to a chain around her neck. It takes me a minute to realize what the necklace charm is—her wedding ring. She catches me looking and shrugs, tucking it back under her shirt. “I’ve got a question for you,” she says slowly. “You knew Wallace was a stick shift. Which means you knew you couldn’t drive it when you stole the keys.”
“That’s not a question—”
“Why’d you take the keys then?” she finishes, staring at me.
I laugh and darkly enjoy the fact that it irritates her. “Because,” I say, “I planned on making you come with me the moment you announced your engagement.”
Flannery is quiet for a long time, so long that I think she’s fallen asleep. But then she speaks, voice small. “Why?”
“Easy,” I say. “I’m going to fight werewolves, and you throw a mean punch.”
Flannery laughs. “True. And with the way you handle a knife, you’ll definitely need me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
We make it two more days before the snow gets so thick that we can barely drive. The roads aren’t becoming slick, necessarily—they’re just becoming impassable, as if they’ve been paved in pillows instead of asphalt. The trees on either side of the highway are covered in ice, as if they’ve been candied, and headlights bounce off the snow and blind us every mile or so.
“We have to pull over,” Flannery says. “We can’t drive in this. Not into the forest, anyway.”
“We can’t pull over, we’ll lose her,” I answer, shouting—the snow is so heavy on the windshield, it sounds like a thunderstorm.
“Don’t be so stupid, Ginny. We’re not going to find her if we’re dead in a ditch somewhere. This thing’s got practically bald tires as is. It can’t handle snow this deep.”
I grimace as Flannery takes the closest exit; Wallace struggles to make it up the off-ramp and to the main road. There’s little here—it’s the sort of stop that’s geared to truck drivers, I think. There’s a Flying J gas station that advertises hot showers, which is attached to a fish restaurant and… not much else. We pull Wallace into the parking lot, struggling to find a space—we weren’t the only ones who decided to stop, apparently.
Flannery turns the bus off and we sit for a moment, watching the snow rain down as if it wants to suffocate us. We creep to the back and sit; Wallace becomes colder, colder, and colder still. It’s a million times worse than Atlanta, than Nashville—I guess Mora has less to fight in Minnesota, given how cold it is up here even without her influence
“Let’s go inside,” Flannery finally says. “We’ll dine and dash. I’ll talk you through it. I’m a pro.”
“How are we supposed to dash when we can’t actually move the car?”
“You worry too much.”
I give her a tired look, but I have to admit the idea of real food instead of crackers sounds appealing. We bundle up as best we can, layer upon layer of thrift-store clothes. I grab the cookbook just before we step outside.
“You’re bringing that?” Flannery asks, perplexed.
“Last time I left it in a car, I ended up getting kidnapped,” I point out, and Flannery laughs.
Together we tromp through the parking lot to the fish restaurant. There’re a few inches of snow on the ground already, and at the rate it’s coming down there’ll be a foot before it gets dark. The bottom of my jeans are soaked, and my lungs ache from the temperature.
I reach for the restaurant door, fling it open, and am punched by a wall of sound and wave of heat. People are huddled over tables, nursing enormous plates of food and cheap beer. They cast wary looks out the windows every so often, shake their heads, and go back to it. A harried-looking waitress calls out to us as she sets a basket of bread down.
“Two?”
I nod. She bustles over, grabs some paper menus, and leads us to a seat by the back wall.
“Order something,” Flannery says, fiddling with a wood-and-golf-peg game in the center of the table. “Don’t think about it, just do it. They’ll never even notice when we slip out.” When a different waitress stops by I order a fish sandwich without hesitation. Flannery orders the most expensive thing on the menu, and smiles at the waitress so genuinely that I’m impressed.
“How much farther?” Flannery asks.
“Maybe two hours if the roads are clear.” I say. “If they’re ever cleared of all this.” I’m about to say more when something catches my eye. A photo near the top of the wall, wedged between an old pair of skis and a signed painting of basset hounds.
“Ginny? You listening?” Flannery asks.
I ignore her and rise, standing on my chair to get a better look. I reach up and pluck th
e frame from the wall. It’s a photograph, an old one.
A photograph of a pack of wolves.
I lower myself, setting the photo on the table. Flannery leans over me to look; the animals are a few dozen yards away from the photographer, and though they give the camera hard stares, it’s impossible to tell if anything in their eyes is human—if they’re just wolves or if they’re Mora’s guard. But something about the way they’re standing, the formation they’re in, the curve of their shoulders….
“This isn’t them, is it?” I say. “I think I’m just—”
“Desperate?” Flannery says, giving me a skeptical look. The waitress drops by our table and sets down two waters.
“Thanks,” Flannery tells her, grinning. “Hey—this photo. What do you know about it?”
“Uh, nothing,” the waitress says. “I mean, I’ve never really noticed it before now. Why?”
“Just wanna know where it was taken.”
“Well… I can ask the manager?” the waitress says, looking confused.
“That’d be swell,” Flannery answers sincerely.
“Swell?” I ask when the waitress walks away.
“Don’t buffers say swell?”
I shake my head, and Flannery looks crestfallen. She’s just recovering when the waitress walks back over with an old woman. Her eyes are tiny blue gems in a sea of wrinkles that only deepen when she smiles at us.
“This is the owner,” our waitress says. “Liz. They wanted to know about the picture?”
“This one!” Liz says, looking surprised. She leans over the table to get a closer look, though it doesn’t take much, given how short she is already. The scent of lotion and perfume temporarily overtakes the smell of cooked fish. “My husband took that. Years ago. The wolves on Isle Royale, I suspect.”
“Isle Royale?” I ask.
“It’s a park, just off the coast here. Middle of the lake.”
“Is there a way over by car?” I ask, and hear Flannery groan.
“Oh, no,” Liz says. “You’d have to rent a boat or catch the ferry. I think they start running again in April.”
“April?” I ask, my heart sinking.
“You don’t want to be going over there this time of year anyhow,” Liz says, looking at me as if I’m crazy.
“She just gets excited,” Flannery says.
“It’s a lovely island,” Liz says. “Huge population of wolves. Hang on, I’ll get you a brochure.”
Flannery scowls at me. “You’re not thinking right. Come on. I thought we were going into the forest.”
“I know.” I move the photo off the table as our food arrives. It’s hot and burns my tongue, but that makes me like it all the more. The shaky, vibrating feeling that was buzzing inside me dissipates as I eat, until finally I’m full and tired and relieved that Flannery insisted we stop here. She orders strawberry shortcake for dessert and is eating it greedily when Liz makes her way back to us, a few coloring books tucked under one arm and the promised brochure in the other.
“Here you go. If you want to book a trip, just call that number on the back to schedule a plane. They’re not cheap, though,” she adds, looking from Flannery to me. She walks away as I unfold the brochure.
“What are you expecting to see?” Flannery asks. “A werewolf theme park or something?”
I ignore her, studying the first flap. Nothing exciting—a national park, no permanent inhabitants, largely impassable terrain except for a few picnic areas. Wolves, moose, foxes, mink. There’s a picture of a wolf on the second panel, but it’s clearly an animal—eyes that are watery, intense, but not human. I flip to the back and see a map of the island, showing ferry and plane routes. It looks a little like a curled-up dog.
I inhale.
“What?” Flannery asks through a mouthful of strawberries.
“The island, the shape—” I grab for the cookbook, nearly knocking our drinks off the table as I slam it open. Flip, fast, fast, I know this shape. There. In pencil, on a page stuck between dozens of shorthand recipes. I squint in the dim light to be sure. Yes, yes. Grandma Dalia, you knew.
The pencil line. Just an odd shape, one I thought so little of. I press the map down beside it and follow the lines. Curled-up dogs. I look at Flannery.
“The island. Mora is on the island.”
Flannery’s eyes widen. “I guess we need to find a plane.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Can I use your phone?” I ask our waitress, clutching the brochure in my fist.
“It’s out,” she says. “Gas station next door is probably working, though—newer building.”
“Thanks,” I say, and rise.
“Whoa,” Flannery hisses. “This is not how you dine and dash, telling the waitress where you’re headed.”
“I need to call this pilot!” I say. “We’ve got to go.”
“You go,” she says. “I’ll sit here and order more food.”
“Why?”
“Because if we keep ordering, we’re paying customers, not squatters,” she says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. She flags down a waitress and simultaneously waves me out the door. I bury my head to my chest and brace myself for the cold—
I didn’t brace hard enough. This is Mora’s weather, I know it. The sick kind of cold that makes my skin feel brittle and my bones feel bruised. I glance back at the restaurant and see our waitress delivering a cup of coffee to Flannery while customers seated close to the windows watch me in disbelief.
I pull my hands to my face to warm my nose and lips and stumble toward the gas station, lifting my feet up high. A foot of snow already, at least. The sky is dark gray above—what time is it? I can’t tell what’s night and what’s weather. The gas station shines bright ahead, cars parked under the awning. People are milling around inside, killing time. No one looks panicked—I suppose Minnesotans don’t freak out over snow the way Atlantans do. My theory is proven when I finally push open the gas station door and see someone’s purchased and opened a twenty-four pack of beer, which is being passed around to everyone inside.
“Er, no thanks,” I say when it’s offered to me on the way to the register. “I just wanted to use your phone?”
“No tow trucks,” the attendant says. “They’re all booked. Better off just to wait till they come along and plow it. They move pretty fast, typically.”
“I actually wanted to call a friend,” I lie. The attendant hands the phone across the counter. I huddle back in a corner and dial the number on the brochure.
“Hello?” a man on the other end says.
“Hi, I was calling about booking a plane to Isle Royale?”
Silence.
“Now?”
“Soon. I mean, not now, obviously. There’s a blizzard.”
The man laughs in relief. “Oh, all right, then. So, when were you thinking?”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
Silence again.
“Look, it’s not really tourist season. No good place to land when there’s ice on the water. Maybe we could look at April or so?”
“No, no, it has to be sooner than that,” I say. “Just two people.”
“Yeah, look, it’s not even worth the gas with just two people,” he says. “And definitely not worth the risk.”
“How much do you need to make it worth it?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m asking—whatever the amount is, it’s too much.
“Say you’ll pay it.”
The voice makes my breath catch in my throat. I lower the phone a little, turn around slowly, slowly, afraid and excited at once.
“Whatever it is, you’ll pay it—double it, even, if he can go tomorrow.”
“How’d you find me?” I ask, dumbstruck.
“Come on, Ginny,” Lucas says. “I told you. I can track anyone.”
Lucas is unshowered, his eyes red and full of sleep. He smiles at me, and then, before I can stop myself, I fling my arms around him. I’m embarrassed and start to pull away, only to find h
im hugging me back, chuckling under his breath.
“Why’d you come? I told you not to!” I say, torn between frustration and happiness.
“Well,” he says slowly, “two reasons. For starters, Ella gave me the silent treatment for three days. But secondly, well… like you said when you were leaving. Ella and I are a family. And we decided, now that we’ve tracked the Snow Queen, made breakfast, and essentially committed a murder together, that you’re family, too. Family sticks together.”
My lips part. I know I should laugh at some of what he’s said, but I’m too struck by the rest of it to speak. Lucas blushes, and instead of speaking I’m hugging him again.
A half hour later, we have a plane booked. Two days from now—that’s when the pilot thinks it’ll be warm enough that the lake isn’t frozen over. We’ll get only two hours on the island. I can’t decide if that’s too little time, more than enough, or simply too late for Kai. Next Lucas puts me on his cell phone with Ella, who yells at me for leaving before promising that she’s getting on a flight this evening—she’ll be here tomorrow.
“We’ll help you get him back, Ginny,” Ella says seriously. “Not just find him—get him back.” We hang up, and then Lucas takes the phone and shoves it back into his pocket. We sit on the floor in the back of the gas station, between the soda cooler and a display of pork rinds. The spot gives the illusion of privacy—the rest of the crowd is keeping vigil by the windows, growing every rowdier as they take bets on who will see the snowplow first.
“I lost you for a while, in Kentucky. Trail went cold,” Lucas says, shifting so that the pork rind bags crinkle behind him.
“I was lost for a while,” I admit. “This group of Travellers—”
“Travellers?”
“Gypsies, kind of?” I try to explain. “Anyhow, they sort of… kidnapped me.”
Lucas’s eyes go wide. “You got kidnapped by gypsies?”
“For a little while, but it’s fine now. The Princess of Kentucky is over in the restaurant, actually. We stole that VW van? The one in the front of the parking lot?”
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