by Gina LaManna
The photo that caught my eye in particular was one of my father back in his glory days. My mother said I’d gotten my sense of adventure from him. However, all I remember about his days as a Guardian was him being gone for weeks at a time depending on the assignment, then returning home with gifts and stories and awards. He had been my hero.
“Are you having a good birthday?” he asked, pulling me back. “You’re…”
He searched for the right age, his forehead creasing as he struggled through a few guesses in the twenties. I gently guided him to number twenty-three. In recent years, he’d started to become more and more forgetful. He had waves of brilliance now and again, but they were becoming fewer and farther between, while the black holes in his memory grew larger.
“I’m getting old!” He smacked a hand to his forehead. “Twenty-three years old? My goodness. How the time flies, pumpkin. Enjoy these younger years while you can still keep up with everything.” He winked at me, and I smiled back. “Shall we go get something to eat?”
“Frank, what are you working on?” My mother could always hear me arrive no matter how quietly I stuck my landing. Sneaking out of the house had never really been an option with her around. The one time I’d tried it, she’d fed me a Pimple Potion that had me wearing a tub of foundation for a month. “The cake’s not ready, dear. It flopped again. I’m running out to the store to grab some Twinkies.”
“Bummer.” My dad shook his head. “The recipe was wrong again, huh?”
“It’s always wrong! I just can’t figure out how to find the right recipe.” My mother shook her head as my dad walked over, swooped her into a sappy hug, and planted a kiss on her cheek. She blushed.
“Let me go get the Twinkies, Amalia,” my father said. “You relax, darling.”
“No, no, chat with your daughter, Frank. I’ll be right back. The walk will do me good, anyway.”
After my mother disappeared, my dad lowered his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with that recipe. It just bamboozles your mother to no end, you know.”
“I know,” I whispered back. “Our little secret.”
“Speaking of secrets, come with me. I want to show you something.”
Ever since his mind had started to go, my dad had suddenly fancied himself an inventor. Most of his inventions never quite worked, and usually involved projects like fly swatters made out of drinking straws and cups with holes in the bottom.
Once in a blue moon he got something that sort of made sense—placemats with napkins built into the side, for example—but nothing he’d get rich from. My mother had forbidden anyone to say anything about his experiments; she said it was good for his mind to concentrate on projects. Plus, he loved it.
“This one is a real winner,” he told me for the third time, taking me up one more level to the rooftop balcony. “I can feel it.”
I nodded along, hoping it would be better than Exploding Rocks. His last invention had been a twist on the candy Pop Rocks, except his version could set fire to a person’s entire head. I’d almost been a test candidate before one of the suckers had exploded prematurely, and my mom accidentally lost all pieces of the experiment.
“It’s a lie detector,” he said, pointing to an antenna that looked long enough to circle the world three times. “I just put this piece in your ear and ask you some questions. If you lie, it’ll turn red. If you tell the truth, it’ll turn blue.”
“Do I really have to test it?” I winced, covering my head like earmuffs. “I like my eardrums intact.”
“I heard about your latest adventure, pumpkin.”
“What?” I blinked at the change of subject. “Which adventure?”
My dad’s eyes turned clear, a sign he was grounded in reality. “What happened at the house?”
I shook my head. “Which house?”
My dad toyed with the antenna in his hand, a mischievous gleam in his eyes that meant he was definitely coherent. “Last night when I was working on this lie detector, I accidentally picked up frequencies from the police scanners.”
“Accidentally?” I bit my lip, suppressing a laugh. My dad’s second hobby was eavesdropping on the police. When he said he’d accidentally picked up signals, that was code for I programmed a police scanner and snooped until I heard some interesting information. “How’d you know I was there?”
My dad laughed. “You’re like me, Ains. If there’s action in this town, you’ve got a hand in it.”
I tried for a nonchalant shrug, but I was touched by his comparison. “Maybe I was there—so what?”
He leaned back, his excitement like that of a child’s on Christmas morning. “Tell me all about it.”
I leaned the other way, starting the story for the second or third time in as many days. I left out several parts about Beck because I didn’t care how cool my dad was, he still didn’t need to know about those glorious eyes.
“And this cop?” When I finished the story, Frank winked at me. I obviously hadn’t fooled him. “He’s a nice guy?”
I groaned. “Dad.”
“Fine, I’ll leave that piece for your mother.”
“Wonderful. What else did you hear from the scanners?”
“On the record or off?”
“Off,” I said. “I’m a free bird right now, no contract, so you can spill all your secrets to me.”
My dad nodded in approval. “The Lily Locke case was a big one—I’m proud of you, pumpkin. I’m surprised they didn’t immediately reassign you.”
I basked in his comments. At MAGIC, Inc., his picture sat on the wall of fame for top Guardians of all time. Even now, his praise didn’t come lightly.
“No word on the next mission yet.” I wished I could tell him the details of my boss’s phone call that morning but, of all people, he would understand. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Don’t fret, I’m sure they’re waiting for the next big thing to give my superstar.” My dad understood the ups and downs of Guardianship, unlike my mother who wished I’d have a normal career with regular hours. “In case you’re considering looking into the events at the castle, I did some digging. Called in a few favors from friends. What do you know about the Frost King?”
I blinked at the change of subject. “I know he rules the Iron Range, but that’s all. There are some treaties and whatnot in place that give him control over the northernmost corners of the state, but I can’t remember the details.”
“The most barren corners of Minnesota belong to him. What you need to understand, Ainsley, is that the Iron Range lives by different rules than the rest of the magical community. They’ve always been their own community up there. Once upon a time, we tried to centralize our government, but it was a failure, a massive undertaking that took time and money, and it resulted only in tension.”
“So you let the Frost Kingdom form their own government?”
“Instead of trying to control their people, MAGIC, Inc. decided to allow the community to rule themselves. In turn, they keep us apprised of the goings on—politically and otherwise—and we do the same. We’ve chosen to work together instead of overtake one another.”
“So if that police scanner of yours confirmed that Dimitrius Frost was at the castle last night, does that suggest he’s up to something?” I asked. “Breaking rules, or something more serious?”
“That’s the piece that doesn’t add up.” Frank shrugged. “My contacts at MAGIC, Inc. don’t know anything about it. The trip wasn’t scheduled; the house was slotted to remain empty through the winter, and he is not allowed in MAGIC territory without announcing his arrival. That is a piece of the treaty we have in place; comings and goings between our peoples are monitored, for safety.”
I knew most of this from Declan, but I nodded along to keep up the pretenses. “What does that mean for him? Will he be arrested for breaking the treaty?”
“It’s tricky.” My father spoke cautiously. “Dimitrius didn’t agree with his father’s policies. Since Dimitrius has taken the throne, com
munication between the Iron Range and MAGIC has been significantly reduced.”
“So, you knew Dimitrius Frost during your days at MAGIC?”
My father shook his head. “I met with his father, the Frost King at the time, during the treaty negotiations. When he passed away, his son Dimitrius took over the throne. That’s when relations became tense with the Frost Clan—it was after my time as a Guardian.” My father shifted however, as if he were hiding something.
I raised my eyebrow. We played this game, sometimes. He’d pretend he couldn’t tell me something in the gray areas of classified information, and then I’d ask, and he’d spill the beans. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“They say the death wasn’t natural.”
I blinked. “Dimitrius’s father was murdered?”
“Several years ago, shortly after I left MAGIC. He was found dead one morning. Frozen to death.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “No sign of murder, with the small exception that Frost citizens are known for surviving the cold. There is no way the King would’ve let himself get trapped in a whiteout blizzard on the coldest day of winter. There is just no way that would happen.”
“Accidents happen,” I said, unconvinced.
“We can’t prove anything, but what you need to understand about Frost citizens is that they are not known to be pleasant. They’re tough people. They have to be to survive the winters up north. They’re stubborn and resilient and sometimes…ahh, how to put it? Crass maybe, or blunt.”
The way my father was shaking his head and muttering to himself, I sensed there was more to the story.
“Was it your job to look into things?” I asked.
“Like I said, I’d already left MAGIC.”
“Since when does that stop you from looking into things?” I gave him a playful nudge to the shoulder. “Something bothered you about the case, and I’m trying to figure out what.”
“The Frost people are dangerous, pumpkin. They have different rules up there. It’s best not to get involved.”
“If they’re back in the cities, we might not have a choice. What if they’re getting involved with us? You never answered my question about his arrest.”
“MAGIC will not storm the castle and arrest the king,” my father said. “That would only worsen our already precarious relationship with their people. It’s likely they’ll approach him slowly, carefully, so as not to move too abruptly in case of a misunderstanding. Who knows? Maybe he is down here for a meeting with MAGIC, and I’m not privy to the information. You do realize, honey, that I’m no longer in the business. All of my information is hearsay.”
“Dad,” I said, pained by the note of longing in his voice. I struggled to find a way to reassure him that everyone had to retire, that he was still relevant in this world, that his life had meaning, but he interrupted me before the words came.
“It’s okay.” He reached over, squeezed my hand. “My time with the agency is over. Yours, however, is not, and you must remember that looking for trouble will never set you up for success.”
“I’m not snooping. I was brought into the situation without my consent. I didn’t ask to be knocked off my broomstick.”
“From one curious type to another, you can stop kidding yourself. You weren’t on that street by accident, and I’ll bet you stuck around afterward.”
I scrunched up my face. He’d caught me in a lie, and he knew it too. “Fine. I stayed,” I said grudgingly. “I was curious. I’m even more curious now, after what you told me.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he murmured, more to himself than me. “Your mother will kill me.”
“She doesn’t need to know,” I whispered.
He looked around. “She knows everything.”
“Tell me what you know, Dad.”
His fingers played with the bottom of his shirt, his eyes darting around as if my mom were about to pop out of the chimney at any second. “Only if you promise to use it as information, and not a way to get yourself into another scrape, because then your mom would really kill me.”
I nodded solemnly. “You have my word.”
“Then the place to start is in my lab. You need to hear a story, pumpkin.”
Chapter 6
The walls of my father’s lab were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and a sliding ladder hung from one end, a tool I’d used like a toy as a child. In reality, it was a study on the second floor of our home, but when my father had decided to become an inventor a few years back, he’d called it a lab and we’d all agreed.
“Here it is.” My father teetered atop the highest rung of the ladder, lugging a book the size of a small suitcase down from the topmost shelf. “The Storybook.”
“I haven’t seen this in a while.” I helped my father descend the ladder, relieving him of the heavy manuscript. Together, we walked to the table, and I dusted off the cover. “Last time we pulled this out was when you were trying to explain Egyptian History for my middle school project.”
Frank smiled fondly at the book. “Shame we don’t get to use it more often.”
The Storybook was a manuscript full of pages, yet empty of words. Very few of these books existed in the magical world, and they were extremely difficult to acquire. Ours had been passed down from one generation to the next for hundreds of years.
“You remember how it works?” he asked.
“Of course.” I ran my fingers over the cover, the familiar tingle of magic settling on my spine.
The Storybook contained hundreds and thousands of blank sheets. With the right spell, one could make stories appear on its pages—true stories, historical facts. The Storybook was the nickname we used around the house, but the real name for this piece of magic was The Book of Truth.
The only author of the book was history itself. All events were recorded within The Storybook’s pages. The tricky part was figuring out which questions to ask in order to access the content. The manuscript would only reveal its secrets under certain circumstances.
“Give me a minute.” My father was particularly skilled at drawing up the correct question. He opened the book, glanced quickly at the blank pages, and then closed it with a firm nod. “Scooch over next to me, pumpkin.”
I wasn’t as talented as my father at using The Storybook. I’d once asked it whether my mother had ever been arrested, and it didn’t work out so hot. I’d almost set the pages on fire and had been afraid to touch it ever since.
So, I moved right up next to him, our legs touching as we moved our chairs as close as possible so that when the story appeared, we’d both fall right into the pages. “Where and when are we headed today?”
“The Frost King history,” Frank said. “We’ll start there. A long, long time ago.”
I took a deep breath, grasped my father’s proffered hand in my own, and closed my eyes.
When my father spoke again, his voice took on a sing-song quality I’d never quite managed to perfect.
“Describe to me the King of Frost,
The history which has been lost.
The lore and myths, both known and true,
Bring forth the stories we once knew.”
The whoosh of pages turning sounded, the signal for us to open our eyes.
There, on the table before us, pages began to flip. Slowly at first, then fast, faster, as if invisible hands rifled through the pages like the wind.
A breeze brushed my dad’s hair, mussing the dark curls that were a little too long, a little too shaggy. His eyes lit on fire, and the former glory from his years as a Guardian shone through his fading memories.
“Here it is,” he whispered. “Watch, Ainsley.”
Colorful images started to appear on the pages as if someone had begun painting a watercolor in real time. Stroke by stroke, the first image appeared in all its sparkling glory. A white land filled with snow spanned from one page to the next, a small igloo sitting in the middle of fields and fields of glisten
ing white prairies.
Then the page turned, and the image zoomed back to include another structure, this one the polar opposite of the first. Instead of a small, humble igloo, the new, impressive structure appeared in all shades of white and blue and purple. It was made from ice and was so large it easily matched the size of the castle in the Cities. We were in the Iron Range.
That’s when the tug from inside my ribcage started, and I let myself go, slowly sinking into the story to watch history as it had been written.
Chapter 7
The world went black for a moment as I tumbled through nothingness, the feeling of weightlessness eerie. I knew, logically, that I was sitting in a chair, but still, we tumbled, head over heels until my father and I came to a crash landing in the same snowy area we’d been watching from a distance.
We must have fallen through the years too, since animals I’d never seen before lumbered in the distance. Something resembling a woolly mammoth trundled slowly into the trees as night fell, the last fingers of light slipping beneath the plains.
Judging by the temperature of the air—so low my breath came in ragged gulps and burned my throat on the way down—it was the middle of winter. Despite the oncoming night, it couldn’t have been later than midafternoon, but the long winter nights began early this far north.
A narrator’s voice sounded in our ears, a deep, timeless voice called The Author. It was only he who knew all of history’s truths, and it was said he’d never told a lie.
“The Kingdom of Frost.”
As we watched, a man dressed in enough fur robes to outweigh a polar bear trudged from inside the small igloo closest to us. The ice castle was but a distant image on the horizon; we were miles away, secluded and alone, save for the history unfolding before us.
A baby’s cry shrieked through the night as the man—presumably the king—sat against the wall of the igloo and held his head in his hands. Another moment later, a second cry pierced the air.
