by Wendy Delsol
Jack and I took seats at the bar. Matthew asked if we wanted anything, and I asked for a Coke. I spun my stool to watch the dancers when I heard Matthew behind me say, “What the hell?”
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked.
I turned back around.
“There was a bottle of vodka here earlier; it’s gone.” He held up an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “And this was full.”
The three of us looked at the dancers, as if expecting to see a bottle being passed around brazenly, or a big back-pocket bulge on one of the linebackers stomping to the music.
The song changed to a slow one, and couples, one of which was Pedro and Penny, paired off.
“I can’t believe this,” Matthew said.
Tina joined Matthew behind the bar, swinging her hips to the music and trying to tempt him into a dance. He wouldn’t budge; he wasn’t going to leave the rest of his parents’ liquor unattended. Tina, Jack, and I kept Matthew company in his vigil. He was concocting schemes to refill the bottle, at least temporarily: iced tea, watered-down coffee, and even flat root beer were thrown around as possibilities.
A few minutes before midnight, Jack slipped his hand into mine and pulled me away from the bar and out the sliding-glass door to a patio.
“Do you mind?” he asked, leading us to a garden bench. “I don’t want to share you at midnight.”
“When you put it that way,” I said, huddling into the warmth of his offered arm.
“Can’t think of a better way to welcome a new year.”
“Any resolutions?” I asked.
“Actually, there is one.”
I was certain this was a clever segue into a remark about us, something that would lead perfectly into a New Year’s kiss. “What is it?” I asked.
“To devote myself to Stanley’s climate-change studies.”
“You’re not serious?” Devote? It was an odd word choice.
“It’s interesting and important,” he said. “And of all people, I should know the science behind weather. Maybe it’s the key to understanding this thing I have.”
He said “thing” as if his abilities were a curse, not a gift.
“I guess that’s good,” I said, though probably without too much conviction. “To learn how to best control or use your abilities.”
“I don’t want to control my abilities,” Jack said. “I’m more interested in getting rid of them.”
“Get rid of them?”
“They’re dangerous. You know that better than anyone.”
I was speechless. The little boy’s death had me just as shaken as him. And the whole thing was more my fault than his. Still, I hadn’t seen denying or abandoning our gifts as the answer.
From the house burst out a raucous chorus: “Ten, nine, eight . . .”
“But Jack . . .”
“Five, four, three . . .”
“No buts,” he said.
“Happy New Year!”
Before I could argue further, Jack swept me into a kiss. A subject-changing, resolve-melting, backbone-buckling smooch.
We were interrupted by loud voices that sounded more angry than celebratory. We rushed into the house just in time to see one of the football players duck as a barstool whizzed past his head and slammed into the wall with a deafening thud and splintering of wood. Two guys charged each other, only to be pulled apart by Pedro and three others. Within minutes, the commotion had settled, and the two guys had been kicked out, but the damage had already been done.
Matthew held the broken leg of a stool in one hand as he rubbed a deep dent in the wall with the other. Penny stood glaring at Pedro with her hands on her hips.
“What?” Pedro asked. “I didn’t do anything. I was clear across the room.”
“The hell you didn’t,” Penny said, brushing past him.
Afi decided to open the store for a few hours the morning of New Year’s Day, and I was heading over to help out. He had received a new shipment of groceries delayed by the storm and figured the locals, many snowbound over the holidays, would appreciate a chance to stock up.
“Good morning and happy New Year.” A bespectacled woman looked up from one of the back aisles, where she was shelving cans of baked beans like she worked here or something.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
Afi came padding out of the back room. “Have you two met?”
The woman stood. “I was just about to introduce myself.” She held out her hand. “Ofelia Dagmundsdottir. And you must be Kat.”
I cocked my head to the side and shook her hand warily. “Dagmundsdottir” meant only one thing: Icelandic. No real surprise there. But what was she doing stacking cans? I gave her a quick once-over. Fifty-something, I’d guess. Light brown hair with gray leaching in at the roots pulled into a loose back knot. Blockish figure. Soft brown eyes.
“Ofelia responded to my help-wanted sign,” Afi said.
“What sign?” I asked.
“The one I was just about to put up when she walked in.”
“What an odd thing,” Ofelia said. “I came in, had a good feeling about the place, asked if he needed help, and next thing I knew I was hired.”
“To work when?” I asked, not enjoying being so out of the loop.
“When you can’t and I don’t want to,” Afi said.
“When will that be?” I asked.
“A lot,” Afi said, heading back to the storeroom.
“He says he’s been a little under the weather,” Ofelia said. “I’m new in town, so even if it’s just temporary — I’m grateful.”
I scrunched my mouth to the side. Starbucks was hiring; that was common knowledge. Jaelle, my good friend, had about another week waitressing at the Kountry Kettle, so that was another available position. Not to mention my dad’s factory was about to open; not that I could see her assembling wind turbines, but, still, hundreds had stood in line on a cold December day to interview with Dad’s foreman. We were practically a boomtown, so why would she want to work here? Besides, I knew what Afi paid.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“North Dakota.”
“What brings you here?”
“Paulina, the owner of the used bookstore, she’s my sister.”
“She doesn’t need any help?”
“I’m already staying with her. Besides, she doesn’t, but it sounds like your grandfather does.”
“Experience?” I knew I was out of line and being difficult, but Afi had to be about the sweetest, most trusting guy — ever.
She looked at me with a kind, but curious, expression. “Yes.”
Afi came out of the back room with a crate of eggs. “Your mother called a few minutes ago,” he said to me. “She’s been at my place cleaning and cooking, and now she’s gone and planned a party. Your dad arrives later, and she said you could call that boy of yours.”
“Let me get that for you.” Ofelia took the eggs from Afi and headed for the wall of glass-fronted coolers.
I followed her and watched, leaning against the wall as she stacked the eggs onto the shelf with the short end of the carton facing out, just how Afi liked them. Lucky guess? Afi was meticulous about the sell-by date being face-out. “Answer their questions before they think ’em” was his justification.
“Barbara’s Boutique in Devils Lake,” Ofelia said, startling me.
“I beg your pardon?”
“References. Should you need them.” Ofelia closed the cooler door. “Barbara’s Boutique was my last place of employment. I’ll leave their number with your grandfather.”
“Oh. Good. Yes. I’m sure he would have asked, anyway,” I said.
While Ofelia carried the empty crate to the storeroom, I scratched Devils Lake onto a notepad.
Later that day, we watched football. I could barely concentrate, waiting impatiently for my dad’s call. Finally, a little past six, I snapped my phone shut. “That was Dad,” I announced to the group. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.” I was so excited I bounce
d up and down, causing the floorboards in Afi’s living room to groan.
Jack rubbed my arm. “Do you want to meet him outside?”
“Can that California boy even drive in the snow?” Afi asked.
“He can surf, ski, snowboard, and water-ski. He can drive a jet ski, a snowmobile, and a Harley,” my mom said. “I think he’ll be fine in a rental car on a plowed road.”
“Sounds like quite a guy,” Stanley said. “I’m looking forward to finally meeting him.” The crazy thing about Stanley was that he was, in all likelihood, telling the truth. He seemingly felt no ill will, nor begrudged any of us our past with my dad — my mom included. Either he was the most clueless guy in the world, or the nicest. Today, given my all-around good mood, I allowed the latter.
Headlights, coasting toward Jack and me at our post in front of Afi’s, pierced the quiet street. I hadn’t seen my dad since Thanksgiving and was hopping up and down more from anticipation than cold. I could see that Jack found my excitement amusing.
As soon as my dad’s foot hit the driveway, I rushed him. He was ready for me and hoisted me in a hair-lifting, good old-fashioned merry-go-round of a twirl. Jack had to jump to get out of the way of my swinging legs.
“Finally,” I said as he set me down.
“I told you,” he said with a wink and a rub of my head. “I wasn’t coming till I had a home base for my Starbucks card.”
My dad was a serious, needed-rehab coffee addict, and not just any ol’ cup of joe — Starbucks double-shot soy latte.
“You’ll be glad to know they open tomorrow,” I said. “There’ll be all kinds of free stuff, but I’m sure they’ll be glad to take your money, too.”
Jack and my dad shook hands and wished each other a happy New Year. Seeing the two of them all buddy-buddy made me confident that “happy” was indeed in the cards for the next twelve months.
We joined my mom, Stanley, and Afi in the living room. Stanley jumped up and, after being formally introduced to my dad, insisted on giving him the comfy armchair while he dragged a stiff ladder-back out of the dining room for himself. My dad entertained the group with stories of his Christmas morning surfing and Christmas dinner of fish tacos and Coronas on some deck in Malibu.
Stanley’s phone rang, and he excused himself while my dad launched into the rest of the story about midnight Fatburgers with no less than two guys in Santa suits.
“Busy day at the airport,” Stanley said as he returned to his seat. “That was the researcher from Greenland, who also arrived today and is already checked into the hotel. And if we thought we were busy before . . .” This last part, I noticed, he directed at Jack.
“You can count on me,” Jack said.
For my dad’s benefit, my mom explained Stanley’s coup in getting such global acclaim for his studies. I’m sure my dad would have acted more interested if he hadn’t been so tired from a day of travel or had known of Jack’s recent involvement with the project. Or if Stanley, under my mom’s proud gaze, hadn’t puffed like a best-in-show pug.
We ate dinner and watched more football. After the game, my dad gave me my Christmas gift, which he insisted wasn’t late, just hand-delivered. As I was clawing the paper from one totally awesome iPhone, it hit me — hit my head, anyway.
No way. I checked my watch; it was eight-forty. Never before had the cap hit so late or so hard. We always had several hours’ warning before a council meeting; moreover, we had just met yesterday.
“I forgot the charger,” my dad said. “I’ll drop that off soon as I get a chance.”
I popped up off the couch, hugged my dad, thanked him big-time, clutched my new Internet-providing, GPS-capable phone to my chest, and raked my right hand deep into my scalp.
As I sat back down on the couch next to Jack, he gave me a look. I rolled my eyes at him and whispered, “I need an excuse.”
Jack got up and returned a few minutes later with the pot of decaf. He earned points with my mom for refilling both her and Afi’s cups and with me when his cell phone — the modern device he’d only recently caved in to — buzzed not thirty seconds later.
“Where are you?” Jack said into the phone. He listened for a moment. “Not a problem. I’ve got cables.” He snapped his phone shut and said to the group, “A buddy of mine has a dead battery. I’m gonna give him a hand. It shouldn’t take long.”
“I’ll come with you.” I had my coat and hat on, Jack had his keys in hand, and we were out the door before anyone could question us or comment in any way.
For all I knew, they were in there shaking their heads at the goofiness of puppy love. I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get my butt to council before my head launched like a rocket.
“Again?” Jack asked. “Didn’t you guys meet yesterday?”
“It’s weird. Something’s up.” That was already probably too much shared information. Anyway, Jack had enough to worry about without me dumping Stork business on him.
I reached under my earflapped, fur-lined cap and scratched. I wondered if our much-debated change of location was the reason for the unexpected meeting. After all, Starbucks opened tomorrow, and what would a shop full of cappuccino-sipping customers think of a gaggle of women who all piled into a single-stall restroom?
I had Jack park down the street. The last thing I needed was Grim accusing me of disclosing our whereabouts to my boyfriend, one known descendant of the ice-at-their-core Winter People, as Hulda had once described them. I could just hear the way Grim would pop the k ominously as she spat the word Veturfolk.
I turned my key in the lock and, though I bustled through quickly, was pleasantly surprised to see the shop so clean, well-stocked, and fully operational. My mood changed quickly as I descended the stairs, already hearing a commotion below.
Once inside our meeting room, I surveyed a scene of chaos. The place had been trashed: all the chairs were scattered, many broken; our candles and bowls of medicinal herbs were smashed on the flagstone floor; and someone had spray-painted in a large, streaky black scrawl across the wall, BEWARE!
“What has happened here?” Fru Svana asked in a frightened voice.
“My book!” Fru Birta cried. “My book. It’s missing.”
I bent down to examine the broken pieces of my seat, when I noticed a dark shape next to Hulda’s chair.
“Hulda!” I said, rushing to her side.
Within seconds, old Grim had muscled her way to Hulda’s other side. Like no paramedic I’d ever seen, Grim held a hand on Hulda’s forehead and spoke in what I could only describe as tongues. The way she hissed and sputtered, it sure as heck sounded like she had more than one.
Hulda stirred and groaned, but her face was gray, her entire body trembled, and she looked older than time itself. Suddenly, and with her eyes popping open, she croaked, “Enemy in our midst,” in a raspy voice. After which, she collapsed in Grim’s arms.
Above the ensuing pandemonium, Grim tended to Hulda with the same vigor and urgency she had that fateful night when it had been Jack lying unconscious. She then barked a single command: “Cortege!” Instantly, three Storks stepped forward and fell to their knees alongside Grim. Before I could react, the trio — obviously much stronger than they looked — had carried Hulda out of the room. Grim looked at me. “Her affliction is very alarming. Something I’ve never seen. And beyond my skills,” she said with a droop of her shoulders.
All-out panic was starting to take hold. Reports of missing or damaged items were shouted from one Stork to another, as were conjectures. “It had to have been Dorit,” one particularly hawkish voice called out. “She threatened Hulda, after all,” another agreed.
I could see that Grim was visibly shaken. Whatever had gotten to Hulda — it was serious. And though I myself was foaming with fear, I knew we needed direction.
“Let’s assemble what we can of the chairs,” I said over the hubbub. This would give the group a diversion and me a few minutes to think.
An inventory revealed that Dorit’s seat w
as missing; no surprise there. My chair had its two front legs snapped off. Several others were also unusable.
“We’ll stand,” I said. “I’ll keep it brief. Fru Grimilla, where have they taken Fru Hulda?”
“She has, of course, been taken to the Healers,” Grim said. Her “of course” implied my lack of basic knowledge, a shortcoming of which I needed no reminder.
“And how will we be updated on her condition?”
“The cortege will bring back a report,” Grim replied impatiently.
So. I was on my own then. “With Starbucks opening and now this”— I gestured to the BEWARE! graffitied on the wall —“I think we should immediately assign a new meeting place. I propose my afi’s shop.” Remembering their hand-signal voting procedure, I continued, “Raise one finger if you agree — two if you oppose.”
Everyone, except Grim, wagged a single digit at me.
“Norse Falls General Store it is,” I said. Afi’s shop was local, familiar, and had a back door. I’d have to rearrange a few things in the storage room, but at least it was a place of business and thus unremarkable as a gathering point. And it closed at nine, so in a perfect world I could send Afi home early, lock the front door, open the back — and convene our secret order of soul deliverers. I knew that perfect worlds didn’t exist, but it didn’t deter me.
“And we should schedule another meeting date,” I said, “when we can all be updated on Hulda’s condition. And report any suspicious activity.”
A rumbly sound came from Grim. “We do not preschedule meetings.”
“Forgive me, Fru Grimilla,” I said, walking toward Hulda’s Owl chair, the first chair, “but as second chair, I make decisions in Fru Hulda’s absence.”
Grim took one quick inhale, but said nothing.
I stepped onto the raised platform of Hulda’s seat. “And has the group ever been vandalized before?”
Grim’s throat activity had a gargly, pre-spit quality. “Of course not.”
“Then I think the rules are changing,” I said, seating myself on Hulda’s chair. Mine was broken, after all. “We meet, therefore, four days from now, usual time. There will be no cap.” This point gave me particular pleasure. Sure could do without that ridiculous means of communication.
