Frost

by Wendy Delsol

  I didn’t. I took two more steps in his direction. Though I wanted to appear calm, I teetered on my twitching-with-fear legs.

  I knew by the lines scoring his brow that I wasn’t getting through to him. “I was in the neighborhood,” I said, trying a new approach. “I thought maybe you could use some help.”

  “Help?” He laughed, but it was scoffing in nature.

  “That’s what friends do. They help each other.”

  I was trying to jog his memory. If he had a flashback, even just briefly, of our relationship, of what we shared, maybe I could reason with him.

  “We’re not friends,” he said.

  “Sure we are. Don’t you remember?”

  He looked at me with such hatred I flinched.

  “We were never friends,” he said in a voice I didn’t recognize.

  So, the friends angle hadn’t worked; I tried another avenue.

  “You say that because we were more than friends.” I walked the remaining steps that separated us and placed a hand on his arm. It was icy cold and, again, I noticed its bluish tint. I saw, too, the lines in his face and bags under his eyes. “We could be more than friends again, if you’d like.”

  I didn’t have much experience in the seduction department. I had hoped, with Jack at least, to tap an emotion or awaken a part of him that was frozen.

  “Don’t touch me,” he said, swatting my hand away.

  Ouch again. Not that I thought I was some kind of irresistible temptress. But Jack? He had once confessed to being drawn to me. I had held on to some sort of naive belief that I could get through to him — that I just needed to be close to him, to touch him, to look into his eyes. I was hurt — and more than a little angry.

  “Go,” he said. “I have to get back to work.”

  Figures. Even doing someone else’s evil bidding, the guy had a work ethic. Set him to a chore — even triggering a modern ice age and wiping out most of life as we know it, for instance — and he was good at it. I remembered how Penny had once said he was good at everything he tried. Except . . . My mind scurried back to an image of Jack awkwardly cradling a lacrosse stick.

  “I was watching you just now,” I said. “Seems you don’t quite have that flick of the wrist down, do you?”

  Jack whipped around to face me. “What?”

  “You’re too stiff-armed. There’s no fluidity, no form.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Suck much? Fail ever? Jeez, the guy really couldn’t handle criticism.

  “True. I’m no expert, but if even I can see your mistake, doesn’t that mean it’s all the more glaring?”

  He flexed his fingers in and out. “That’s a load of bull.”

  “Maybe.” I tried to sound casual, but in reality I’d never been so unstrung. “Except, Brigid’s not all that happy with you, is she? She thinks you can do better, right?”

  Doubts rolled across Jack’s face. I saw them snowball like . . . Hold everything! Snowball, as in gather mass, speed, and destructive force. OMG. This mountaintop of snow was a big stockpile, a snow warehouse. Until it was needed, anyway. And snjoflóð, the way it was pronounced in Icelandic, obscured the last letter. It sounded like snow float, but if it was spelled with a d — the way brauð was — it didn’t mean snow float; it meant snow flood. As in avalanche! And if one snowflake in Niflheim was like one hundred million on Midgard — Dear God, I had to stop this.

  “When will it be enough, anyway?” I asked, starting to panic. “She seems like the type who’ll never be satisfied. And if you don’t have it right yet”— I opened my arms wide —“when will you?”

  “She won’t like that I’ve stopped.”

  “So?”

  “So, she won’t be happy.”

  “And?”

  “And there will be hell to pay when she gets here.”

  Here? Crud. A consequence I hadn’t considered. I looked up at the suddenly clear blue sky. No blowing snow, no gray clouds, and no hiding the current work stoppage.

  “Maybe you should start back up again. At least a little. We wouldn’t want to anger her.” My mind was sputtering like a dud firecracker. So I had a pretty good idea of what she was up to; it didn’t mean I had a plan. Or any desire to cross paths with her right here and right now.

  Jack lifted his arms and flicked his wrist with some serious ’tude. Nothing.

  Uh-oh.

  “Try again,” I said, panic burning my throat.

  He did. Still nothing.

  “Like this.” I charaded the movement, because that’s all he needed: a top-of-the-world show-off.

  “That’s not right,” he said, attempting again, but spraying only a very small circle of rain over us.

  Yep, I’d pissed him off, frustrating him further. He never had been able to control his abilities around me.

  “Well, go back to what you were doing before,” I said.

  “It’s not working.” There were more clouds gathering in his flinty eyes than there were in the sky.

  “I think we should go,” I said.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Oh, for the love of . . . He was still under her spell. All I’d done is disarm and disable him; he sure didn’t trust me yet. It was like dealing with a petulant, contrary child. It reminded me of Jacob, which gave me an idea.

  “You’re too slow, anyway,” I said. “You couldn’t keep up. You’d be a liability to me at this point.”

  “You couldn’t keep up.” And for all the urgency and craziness of the moment, I could actually visualize the four-year-old Jack goading his parents or a friend. I almost wanted to cry, he was so cute.

  I ran. He followed me; I could hear him panting behind me. I sprinted until my legs cramped and ribbons of shooting pains snaked up and down my thighs. He was on my heels the whole way. Had this been a healthy Jack, during football season, I wouldn’t have stood a chance in a footrace against him. In his weakened condition, he couldn’t quite pass me. I soon spied Poro in the distance. He had cratered a fairly big hole around the scraggly bush. I stumbled into the depression made by his digging and had to brace myself against the bush. What the —? This was no bush. I’d never seen a bush with a flat leaf four times the size of my hand. So if it wasn’t a bush, and its foliage was so large, then it was a tree. The top of a tree, a tree buried under a lot of snow.

  “Poro!” I screamed, startling the poor creature. “Let’s go.”

  I grabbed Poro by the reins and clambered up over his back. It wasn’t my most graceful move ever, but I’d never claimed to be no cowgirl. Jack was still behind me. I turned and snapped at him, “Don’t even think about catching a ride.” I could see a defiant glint in his eye. Coldhearted Jack was not going to let me tell him what to do — or let me leave him behind. With a rather nimble move, he jammed one foot into the stirrup and swung up behind me. Gotta love that Y chromosome. What a handy little play toy.

  He reached around me and grabbed the reins. His family kept horses, after all. Having him behind me like that, his thighs clutching mine with every jarring bound of Poro’s full-out canter and his face pressed against the back of my right ear, I was a tangle of emotions. A part of me remembered our long, lingering kisses and the way the mention of his name sent a barrage of neurons firing like pop rockets; that part wanted to turn and bury my face in his chest. Its counterpart, the now-is-not-the-time voice of reason, had me staring straight ahead — but still totally undone by Jack’s labored breath in my ear. It was the best I had felt in days, even though he never once spoke to me or acknowledged me in any way.

  Though the skies had cleared, it was bitter cold. I longed for my pocket-stashed cape. It hurt to breathe, as if with each frigid gasp of air I was freezing from the inside out. The plunging temperatures only meant that Brigid’s plan was working.

  For a long time, Poro ran full out. In my head, our destination was the skyscraper tree at the bottom of the mountain, which I had worked out was another power place
. How many had I been to at this point? So many I could write a dang travel blog. Despite the subzero temp, an intensity fueled me. Adrenaline is one wicked-cool fifth gear that nature keeps in reserve. I thought we were home free after the spiraling mountain pass leveled out and I could see the outline of the stand of evergreens in front of us.

  I gloated internally that we’d evaded Brigid’s notice, that we actually stood a chance of getting out of the Snow Queen’s frigid land of ice, when — from behind the first line of trees — Brigid stepped forward. And, unfortunately, she had company. Grýla, snapping and snarling, pulled at a thick leash Brigid held in her hand. I saw, too, an ornate sled, harnessed to a team of huge dogs, just inside the line of trees.

  Shit. So much for a clean escape.

  Jack pulled on the reins, and Poro reared at the sight of the huge, growling cat.

  “Going somewhere?” Brigid called out in a voice so cold it hung in the air like icicles.

  Jack scrambled down, and I followed suit, not wanting to desert him. Something about Brigid’s presence compressed the air around us. Whereas Jack could throw storms, Brigid, it seemed, could vacuum the wind out of the atmosphere in an abyss-like gravitational pull. Even my heartbeat reversed; it went boom-ba.

  “I wouldn’t advise a departure,” Brigid continued. Grýla strained at the leash, her huge forepaws lifting off the ground and swiping angrily at the air. “See? Grýla wants you to stay.”

  “Let us go!” I yelled across the span that separated us. “Haven’t you abused Jack enough? Can’t you see you’re killing him?” I gestured to him, expecting him to cower or shrink from her. Instead, his eyes were wide and shining and fixated on Brigid.

  Brigid threw up a laugh that traveled like smoke up and away, mocking as it receded with an echo trail. “My kingdom has been reduced to a mere vestige of its ancient grandeur, and you think I care about his life, or yours, for that matter.”

  Grýla roared, a snarly release of frustration and anticipation. Her gaze never wandered from me. No mistaking who she had in mind as the first course.

  “Yes, yes, my pet,” Brigid said, running her hand over the onyx cat’s sleek fur. “She is my gift to you. The boy, however, is still mine. A day or two of work left in him, I hope.”

  Grýla, frenzied by the offering, raised up onto her hindquarters and took a practice swipe at some imaginary target — my head, for instance, and dropped back down to all fours. The impact shook the trees behind them, dusting snow over Grýla’s charcoal fur and Brigid’s dark hair. The confined snowfall reminded me, crazily, of my Christmas gift, the snow globe that had belonged to Jack’s grandmother.

  Brigid lowered her hand to the base of Grýla’s collar and fiddled with the clasp. Not that I’d ever given it much thought, but as I stared it down, death by mauling seemed one really awful way to go. Grýla was easily over eight feet long and three hundred pounds. Her huge round head housed canines that looked like ice picks, and her muscles rippled under her sleek fur. And I was her gift. What kind of sick, twisted mind makes a gift of . . . Gift? Wasn’t that the word Marik had used for my —

  “Attack!” Brigid yelled.

  It was a crazy, desperate measure, but it wasn’t like I had other options. From my pocket, I yanked out and snapped open the cape. Throwing it across my shoulder, I planted my feet in a boxer’s ready-set and held my arms out defensively. If the Snow Queen was real, why not the Yule Cat? Grýla, once released, arrowed through the snow, pushing off with long vaults of her lean muscles. She landed just a foot or two from me, and I threw my arm over my face and braced myself for the pounce. Nothing. I heard a growl and opened my eyes to the riled cat circling me and Jack.

  I lowered my hands, surprised and emboldened by the success of my idea. “A gift from Queen Safira,” I called out, straightening the cape over my shoulders.

  Again, Brigid’s shrill cackle pealed through the air. This was no joyous laughter; it was part shriek, part war cry. “You think you can outwit me?” she screamed, advancing toward us in a rage. “Jack is still mine. Mine to command. Mine to do with as I please. To prove it, I’ll drain the life out of him and make you watch. Come, Jack.” She clapped her hands.

  Man, did I hate it when she clapped her hands. And I especially didn’t like the way she said Jack was hers. He wasn’t: he was mine. And if anyone was going to do any draining or proving, it was going to be me.

  At her command, a slump-shouldered Jack trudged forward like some sort of scolded dog. A barrage of emotions hit me. I was scared out of my friggin’ wits. I was also so enraged by Brigid that I had to hold myself back from going at her like some kind of feral animal. And, on top of all that, zombie Jack was really starting to piss me off. As he passed, I grabbed him with my left hand, trying to hold him back. I looked up and saw Brigid flourish her crystalline blue dress and I remembered Hulda pointing out an ice-blue fabric that was perfect for the Snow Queen costume. All at once I was struck by the lack of vibrant colors in this world. Enough blues, sure, to fill the ocean and the occasional spruce or evergreen, but — other than that — nothing but grays, blacks, browns, and the endless panorama of white. Where was the marigold orange from the dreams I’d had of my unborn sister? Where was the chartreuse my pregnant mom was unwittingly drawn to? Where was the robin’s-breast, color-of-the-heart red of my amma’s dress that I wore to Homecoming? I was seized with a furious desire to enliven the anemic landscape. Fiery orange. Earthy chartreuse. Blood red. Blood red! I grasped the shelling knife from my pocket and, with a swift and wild movement, plunged it into Jack’s thumb, slicing from the tip to clear across the base of his palm. Ruby-red blood poured out like paint, splattering my cape and the milk-white snow. Jack gave me a withering, shocked look and fell to his knees, clutching the gushing wound to his chest. The skies opened up with a bolt of lightning as if the gods themselves had been summoned. Grýla bounded away with a yowl. And Brigid screamed like it had been her I’d slashed.

  “Get up!” I pulled at Jack’s good arm.

  I knew we had a very small window of escape. Brigid had been momentarily disabled. She was in some kind of catatonic state, writhing with fury. Twisting like a snake, she mouthed a single word: “Ragnarök. Ragnarök. Ragnarök.” Whether she was weakened by the blood itself or the mere burst of a vital red into her icy world, the moment she recovered, there would be hell to pay.

  Jack struggled to his feet, holding his injured hand. A crimson patch of blood soaked the front of his blue tunic.

  “Kat,” he said, “are you OK?” Shock and hurt trebled his voice. He opened his palm, and I saw something small glint there before it slipped away onto the blood-soaked snow.

  I looked into his eyes and almost collapsed in relief. Jack was back. My Jack was back. I’d just hacked his hand open like some kind of crazed slasher, yet he was asking if I was all right. God, I loved this guy.

  “I’m fine. You’ll be fine,” I said, my voice rolling through waves of both joy and panic, “but we have to get out of here.”

  Jack’s first few steps were faltering. His legs gave out, and he stumbled to his knees. He was now feeling the exhaustion of the frenetic pace at which Brigid had worked him. Surely the pain of a gashing wound was no help.

  A boom, a distant rumble of thunder, bowled over the winds. Though I suspected that the flash of lightning had been a release of Jack’s pent-up emotions, he seemed too weak to produce this reverberation. Whatever it was, I intended to outrun it, a flight over fight instinct kicking in.

  I practically dragged Jack across the path and into the woods. When Poro bounded up to meet us, I cried tears of gratitude. As if genuflecting, Poro lowered his swayed back, and I assisted Jack and then scrambled aboard. Poro, the massive beast that he was, ran agilely through the wooded and snowy path. He hurdled fallen trees and scrambled up rocky, snow-covered inclines. All the while, Jack slumped over my back and I could hear him grunting in pain.

  About halfway through the forest, I again heard a loud rumble. Was
it the groan of timbers? A shifting of the ice field? It was all I could manage to ride Poro and account for Jack behind me. Whatever their source, the cannonade splintering through the forest canopy was just one more thing to escape.

  The trees thinned out, and we charged onto the snowy tundra leading to the massive tree, my arrival point and — God willing — our escape hatch. What I saw, though, left me more distraught than relieved. What had once been a seascape of frigid, turgid waters was now rock-solid ice, an endless panorama of immovable stone. Hell had definitely frozen over. But this wasn’t the worst of it. Arriving en masse over this newly formed passageway were dark shadows: hulking, shambling figures as tall as trees. The Jötunn, Frost Giants. Their towering forms charged across the ice, growing closer to the shore with every thundering boom of their march.

  From behind us, I heard the careening screech of a sleigh. Brigid, seemingly fully recovered, lashed the dogs without mercy and skidded to a sideways, snow-throwing stop only a few feet from us. Her face was contorted with apoplexy, and her eyes sparked with rage.

  So not good.

  “You think you can outrun me?” Her shrill scream cracked through the air like her whip.

  I flung myself from Poro’s back. Jack, mustering strength, did the same. We pounded the short distance that still separated us from the tree.

  I could see that the first line of the hideous Frost Giants had reached the shore. From behind us, Brigid roared to them, “Snjoflóð, release the snjoflóð! Begin the reign of Ragnarök!”

  Just as we reached the tree, I heard an explosion and I was slammed, headfirst, against its hollow opening. It was the kind of quake that shifted tectonic plates, the kind of jolt that accompanied a sonic boom.

  My head dizzy with pain, I pushed Jack ahead of me into the cavity of that massive tree. If nothing else, it would at least temporarily shelter us from the avalanche I feared had been set in motion. My vision twisted before me, and I struggled to hold on to consciousness. I funneled my fragmenting thoughts as best I could. One snowflake on Niflheim was equal to one hundred million on earth. If the wedge kept the power place open, there was no stopping this cataclysm. Our only hope, Midgard’s only hope, lay in sealing the portal — hopefully, with us on the right side of it. Hopefully. Though I couldn’t help but think that our chances were also in that one-hundred-million-to-one range.