“You can find it,” I tell him stubbornly.
Surprise flickers across Ian’s face. It makes me wonder how long it’s been since anybody took a chance on him. A few more beats pass before he tosses me a bundle of dry clothes. “They’ll swallow you, but they’re all I’ve got.”
Grateful, I duck behind a rock to change. Charlie’s egg rolls out of my jacket pocket and into my palm. I grip it gently and pray that wherever they are, Charlie and Mom are safe from this storm.
When I step back out onto the riverbank, Ian is easing Becca into a fireman’s carry. Her hip brushes the back of his head. He sways on his feet and steadies himself against a rock as tremors run up his arms.
He hasn’t said a word about his concussion, so I just assumed it wasn’t bothering him.
I assumed wrong.
Ian bends at the waist. I think he’s going to be sick, when he pulls himself upright again.
“You said it was a mile or two to the campsite.” I try and fail to hide the hitch in my voice. “Can you make it that far?”
Ian’s hand drops from the tree. “I’m going to have to,” he says.
It starts to snow.
THIRTEEN
CHARLIE
I hear her first.
Little light, crying in the dark.
I follow the cries to an island in the Black Nothing.
“Is someone there?” asks the little light.
“Yes.”
More crying. Not sad now. Happy.
The little light glows brighter. “I see you,” it says. “Do you see me?”
“I see you.”
Starshine on my face.
“What happened to your eye?” asks the little light.
“I gave it to the Black Nothing so I could keep the lights burning. Why are you crying?”
“I thought I was all alone.”
“You are never alone. What’s your name?” I ask the little light. Not so little anymore.
“My name?”
“The song? The one inside of you? Do you hear it?”
A moment. “Yes.” Amazement. “Yes, I hear it.”
“What’s it singing?”
“Sarah.” The light grows brighter. “My name is Sarah, and I want to go home.”
“My name is Charlie, and I’m going to help you.”
“I’m scared, Charlie.”
“What are you afraid of, little light?”
“The dark,” she whispers. “I’m afraid of the dark.”
“You don’t have to be afraid. Here, I’ll show you.”
I take her hand. A silver thread shoots from mine to hers, connecting us. Solid. Bright.
The little light named Sarah gasps when she sees the things I see.
Two thousand two hundred thirteen stars shining in the Black Nothing. Snow globes of song. All the millions of threads connecting them.
“They’re so pretty.” She touches a thread. “Where do they come from?”
“They’ve always been there. You just couldn’t see them before.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Because they live in the places eyes can’t touch.”
“But yours can?”
“Not my eyes,” I tell her.
“What, then?”
“I’m going to teach you,” I say. “But first I have to do something.”
I touch the golden thread. The one running through me. I send some notes down the golden river to the one at the other end.
A reminder.
A gift.
The Black Nothing moves in around us. When it comes, I pay the price.
The Black Nothing steals the roll of the ocean.
The colors of a million leaves about to die.
Skies full of falling snow.
Pain explodes like fireworks.
Flashes of color.
Bursts of light.
Her face.
The last thing I see before the lights go out.
The Black Nothing takes my eye, and Sarah cries. When it leaves, I take her hand.
“It’s over now, little light. Time to go.”
“Where are we going?”
“To catch more stars.”
FOURTEEN
The outlines of a few cabins have solidified through the trees when it strikes.
A searing pain in my eye. Not the right one. The left one this time.
I stumble. The ground breaks my fall. Cold. Hard. It knocks the wind out of me. And then there is nothing but the pain.
Hands on my shoulders. Ian’s. His voice echoes in the vacuum of my head. I fold myself around my broken parts. This agony. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. It is going to kill me. I know it. And I’d be okay with that if it weren’t for one thing.
Charlie.
His name is the only word I can remember. His memory is the only thing sharp enough to cut through this pain. His image fills my head, and for a second, I can see him right there in front of me. Suspended behind a wall of darkness. That’s when I know that I’m really dying. And it’s okay. It’s okay so long as my brother’s face is the last thing I see.
I reach for him. My fingers dig into the snow between us. I can’t touch him, so I do the only thing I can. I make his face my focal point for however long this lasts. Only, Charlie’s face is different than I remember. His mouth is pressed thin. His brow is twisted in agony. And his eyes.
Charlie’s eyes are black holes in his beautiful face.
This is wrong. It’s the last thought I have before the shadows at the edges of my vision break toward me.
Consciousness returns with a slap. The first thing I’m aware of is the pain. It’s not as sharp as it was before. My entire body trembles with relief.
I press my face into the snow. Like that could somehow put out the blazing inferno in my left eye socket. I don’t know how long I lie like this before I hear it.
Glass shattering somewhere in the distance.
I crack my eyes open. It’s full-on night, but there’s a strange light filtering through the trees. It reflects off the snow, lending a soft glow to the forest. The silence is heavy. Peaceful. Like someone wrapped the world in a thick blanket.
Snow falls in big, fat flakes. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to fall asleep right here. The temptation lasts for less than a moment before the image of Charlie is there to drive it back. I picture him. Not the way he was the last time I saw him. The way he appeared to me just a moment ago. Surrounded by darkness. In torment.
Hallucination or not, it felt real. Charlie could be out there right now, alone and lost and waiting for me to find him. Which means that as tired as I am, I can’t just lie here.
I have to get up.
Stabbing pain cuts through my eye as I lift my head from the ground. There’s no sign of Ian. He must’ve left to get Becca to safety. I don’t blame him. In his place, I would’ve done the same.
The cabins are still visible up ahead, but the snow is getting heavier. If I’m going to move, it has to be now.
I grit my teeth and drag myself forward. After a few minutes, I manage to raise myself up onto all fours. I don’t know how long I’ve been crawling when a pair of strong hands wrap under my arms.
“I’ve got you, Rose. I’ve got you.” Ian lifts me to his side. Together we stumble to the closest cabin. Ian kicks the door open.
I collapse on the threshold. Behind me, the door slams shut on the wind.
Within seconds, Ian’s hands are on my shoulder, turning me over to face him. “Are you all right? Talk to me, Rose. Please.”
“My eye,” I manage.
Ian’s gaze moves to my hand, where it protectively cups the socket. “Let me see.” He says it gently, but the command is unmistakable. When I don’t comply, Ian’s palm moves so that it is hovering directly above mine. He doesn’t force my hand down. He doesn’t even touch me. He just asks me again for permission without words.
I let my hand drop. Ian leans in close enough that I can make out the unique sta
rbursts at the center of his eyes. He studies me for a few breaths before he gives me back my space.
“There’s no obvious injury.” Chest heaving, Ian collapses on the ground across from me. There’s a slight tremor in his hand as he rubs it over his face. “I’m sorry I left you. I couldn’t carry you both, and I thought you stood the better chance of making it until I got back.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. “I would’ve gotten to you sooner. You’d made it halfway to the cabin by the time I realized you weren’t where I left you.” The touch of admiration in his voice is quickly drowned out by something else. “What happened back there?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s happened to me before.” I tell Ian about the phantom pain. It’s easier to think now that the agony has been replaced by a low-grade ache. The whole experience this time around was a little more intense. I suppress a shiver at the thought of it happening again.
“Back in the woods. When you were trying to talk to me. Did you notice—? Were my eyes—”
“No.” Ian catches my drift right away. “They didn’t go dark like Becca’s did at the river.”
My shoulders relax. This isn’t Rowena’s dark force threatening to turn me into a psychopath. This is something else.
The thought is not as comforting as it could be.
Ian doesn’t give himself long to rest. As soon as he’s convinced I’m not dying, he starts grabbing anything flammable he can get his hands on. Within moments, he’s got a fire going in one of the two hearths. Gently, he places Becca on a pallet directly in front of the flames.
I scoot closer to her. My gaze sails out of the window. The blizzard is gaining strength outside. The wind is an angry monster, howling in the dark.
This is the worst storm I’ve ever seen. It’s not just the wind and the snow. Since we left the river, the temperature has taken a nosedive. Even next to the fire, I can feel the chill creeping in. It’s the kind of cold that mingles the air with the taste of metal on your tongue.
And it’s only getting colder.
Becca shivers beside me. I wrap another blanket around her.
Wood splits as Ian rips apart a bunk for more firewood. He’s using his bare hands to break the boards into pieces. The bloody splinters in his palms tell me everything I need to know about the danger we’re in.
Paper shreds, followed by the quick strike of a match. Ian lights a fire in the second hearth. He bends over the flame, shielding it from the air blasting through the window he broke to get in here. When he leans back, the skin around his lips is a glaring shade of white.
The temperature inside the cabin drops a few more degrees.
Ian glances around us, searching for some untapped source of warmth. There’s nothing. Only the storm outside trying to get in. The sound of cracking draws both our gazes to the windows. The glass. It’s splintering against the cold. As we watch, jagged lines of frost spider over the panes in deadly diamond webs.
I’ve never seen glass do that before.
Ian’s fires aren’t enough. The cabin walls are crappy insulation. We’re going to freeze to death in here if we can’t find a way to keep what little heat we have from escaping.
My gaze sweeps the cabin. A table sits in the center of the room, surrounded by two dozen bunks pressed up against the pine walls. There’s a closet, too. I toss the moldy blanket aside and approach the door. The handle doesn’t budge. Locked. Or frozen solid.
“You should come back to the fire.” Ian pulls Becca into his lap. He inches dangerously close to the flames, his broad shoulders visibly trembling.
“The fire isn’t going to cut it.” I force the words past chattering teeth. “We can’t survive much longer like this.”
“No. We can’t.” Ian doesn’t lie. Not even to spare me worry. A tinge of gratitude chisels itself through the ice in my bones.
“I have an idea,” I tell him. “But I need your muscle and some tools to make it happen.”
Ian studies me for a long moment. I’m asking him to give up what little warmth he’s got in order to help me carry out some vague plan. I think he’s going to blow me off, but instead, he puts Becca down.
One solid ram with his shoulder, and the closet door snaps open.
The space inside is a treasure trove of supplies. My heart leaps when I spot the metal toolbox on the top shelf.
Back in the main cabin, I grab a small handsaw with shaking hands and move down the line of bunks.
Ian speaks up behind me. “What are you thinking?”
“We can use one of these bunks to cover the broken window. Keep the wind out. If we pile the mattresses around us, it’ll give us a few layers of insulation. Maybe enough to get us through the night.” It’s getting harder and harder to talk. My lips have gone numb, and every breath sends a stabbing pain through my lungs.
“It’s a good idea.” Ian holds out a blue-fingered hand.
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s asking for.
“I know how to use a saw.” I tighten my grip so that the freezing handle burns my skin.
“I got that. But I’m taller.”
Under any other circumstances, I would never let this slide. But it’s already getting hard to move my fingers. Soon, my hands will be useless. We need to do this. Now.
I turn the saw over, and Ian hops up onto the top bunk.
He’s got good hands. Before long, one side of the bunk crashes down. Then the other. Together, we drag the wooden frame to the broken window.
“Hold up the mattress while I secure it with these.” My breath is a white stain in the air. I can’t feel my face anymore.
Ian glances dubiously at the spare bed slats in my arms. “Trust me,” I add, because I may not know jack about building a fire, but I’m Mark Montgomery’s daughter. I sure as hell know how to build a wall.
Ian nods, and then it becomes too cold for words. My frozen hands are clumsy. Luckily, the work requires more muscle than finesse. Within minutes, the window is covered. The difference is immediate. Without the wind sucking out all the heat, the warmth of the fires begins to build. Feeling returns to my fingers. I take my first full breath in minutes.
By the time we’re on the last window, the worst of the danger has passed. Our project becomes more about comfort than survival. In the stillness of the cabin, the rest of the world falls away like it always does when I work.
I’m almost finished when I notice Ian watching me.
“What?” I spit out a nail.
“You went someplace for a minute.” Ian grabs another slat. “Must be better than here if it makes you smile like that.”
My cheeks burn. “I like fixing things.” I switch up my grip so the hammer rests against my calluses.
Ian studies the wood under his hands. “You should do it more.”
“What? Manual labor?” I joke to cover up the fact that I suddenly have no idea what to do with my hands.
“Smile.”
His words send another blast of heat through my face.
Ian clears his throat and looks back at our improvised wall. “Where’d you learn to do this?”
Slowly, I fit another slat across the back of the mattress. “My dad. He could make anything.” I can’t remember the last time I talked about my father. The old ache of missing him opens up in my chest, but instead of burying it away like usual, this time I put it to words. “I used to watch him work for hours. It always made me feel safe.”
A pressure valve releases inside of me. It’s such a small thing, but for a second, it’s almost like I have part of him back.
“Lucky for us you take after him,” Ian says.
The pride I feel at his words evaporates when a sobering thought occurs to me.
Ian leans toward me. “What is it?”
“Charlie. He’s out there somewhere.” My palm squeezes the hammer in a death grip.
“Rose,” Ian says, forcing my gaze back to his. “If Charlie’s half a
s resourceful as you are, he’ll have figured out a way to ride this out.”
“He shouldn’t be alone.” I give voice to the ugly thoughts inside of me. The ones I’ve been carrying like a cross ever since the town disappeared. “I never should’ve left him.”
“You couldn’t have known this would happen.”
I shake my head. “Charlie tried to tell me.” Maybe it’s because I’m tired, and we nearly died, and the world is spinning completely out of control except for Ian, standing next to me so very solid and real. But I let myself admit part of the truth if only because the weight of it will crush me if I don’t.
“There’s a Hands for Hearths affiliate in Maple. That’s where I was when everything happened. I thought … that things could be different here. Better, you know?” Once the words start, they won’t stop. “I wanted Charlie to have a real bed to sleep in and a place to put his stuff that’s not a trash bag behind the pullout. I wanted a kitchen for Mom and a bedroom with an actual door for her to close when she needs to be alone.”
A few beats pass.
“And what did you want for you?” Ian asks quietly.
“I wanted—”
More than a word. More than a place. More than four walls and a roof meant to keep out the rain.
“Rest.” I don’t realize it’s the truth until I say it out loud. We’ve been on the move for so long, chasing ghosts and running from mistakes, and I just needed it to stop.
Not that any of that matters now.
“How old are you?” Ian asks. That frown is back between his brows. The one that makes me wonder what he sees when he looks at me that troubles him so much.
“Seventeen.”
He considers his words. “Seems like a lot to take on.”
“If I don’t, who will?”
Ian doesn’t say anything, but I have the strangest feeling he gets it. Whatever else he is, Ian Lawson isn’t a coward. If he was, he never would’ve come back to a town that had blackballed him. He wouldn’t have shown up at the diner, day after day, just to make a point.
“What happened to him?” Ian asks at last. “Your dad?”
I drive in one last nail. “He left one day and never came back. Technically he’s a ‘missing person,’ but that’s just a nice way for the cops to say he bailed on us.” It didn’t matter how many times we told them.
Before I Disappear Page 11
