Of Giants and Ice (Ever Afters, The)

by Bach, Shelby

  “Move!” Chase shoved me forward. We ran up a mound toward the back of the cave, because there wasn’t anywhere else to run.

  An orange fireball hit the coins right behind us. Steaming gold ran down the pile in rivulets and crept across the cave floor.

  “We are in a dragon’s lair,” Chase muttered, mostly to himself, sounding as nervous as Lena. “We are messing with its hoard. Do you have any idea how mad that makes them?”

  We reached the cavern wall. There wasn’t any more room to run. We turned around, breathing hard. We were trapped.

  The corners of the dragon’s muzzle curled like a dog’s grin, showing even more teeth. It stalked our way leisurely.

  “It’s not mad. It’s playing with us,” I said, annoyed.

  The dragon stopped, only twenty feet away. It raised its head on its long neck, like a snake getting ready to strike.

  I looked around for a shield, a spear, anything.

  “Does that make it any better?” Chase said, exasperated. A sword stuck out of the pile of coins he stood on, the wirework on the hilt just visible. “We’re about to become Chase and Rory flambé.”

  But the dragon didn’t breathe fire this time.

  Its head whipped toward us, jaws open, just as my hand closed around the hilt. I threw my body to the side and slashed wildly. The sword connected. The dragon screamed and reared.

  “Out! Now!” Chase grabbed me and hopped on a giant golden plate like it was a sled. We rode down the side of the mound. Chase hit the cavern floor running, dragging me along with him. We hopped over the scaled tail and raced out of the cave before the dragon’s feet reconnected with the ground.

  The dragon came after us so fast that it took out one of the stalagmites at the cave mouth.

  “Wow,” said a voice above us. “You weren’t kidding, Lena.”

  Chase and I twisted until we could see them—two figures standing on a ledge above the cavern. One was Lena. The other was an older boy who looked a lot like her.

  “I don’t joke around about dragons,” Lena said, her hands on her hips.

  “George!” Chase shouted, still running and pulling me along. “It’s blinded on its right side.”

  That didn’t mean anything to me, but George apparently understood. The dragon realized we were looking at something above it, and it started to raise its head.

  George jumped. A sword flashed once, and the dragon’s head tumbled from its neck, rolling straight past Chase and me.

  “Whoa,” Chase said, skidding to a stop.

  It was all over. We were out of danger.

  “Are you two all right?” The boy ran toward us.

  Well, almost.

  The dragon’s body crumpled and hit the ground with a heavy thump I felt through my shoes. I stepped toward it for a closer look, but the boy named George grabbed my shoulder.

  “No, back up. Fast.”

  It was a good thing we did. Flames erupted over the scaly hide so quickly that I whirled around, looking for another dragon spitting fireballs.

  Chase rolled his eyes. “There was only one. They don’t roam in packs.”

  “It’s the flammable gases in the stomach.” Lena hopped down from the rock ledge and jogged over to us. Her voice sounded tinny and distant, like she was reciting something. “The dragon’s body keeps them in a delicate balance, but only while it’s alive. The corpse bursts into flame between thirty seconds and ten minutes after death.”

  “Oh,” I said, still out of breath. My heart thumped so hard that I could hear the blood pounding in my ears.

  “I read about it this afternoon,” Lena added.

  “Who took out the dragon’s eye?” George asked Chase. “You?”

  Chase hesitated and glanced toward me, not looking exactly pleased, and then George noticed which one of us was holding the blood-smeared sword.

  He punched my shoulder lightly with a grin. “Not bad for a new kid.”

  I half-smiled, stunned, and watched the dragon burn.

  “Beginner’s luck.” Chase folded his arms. “Don’t forget which one of us was stupid enough to head straight into a dragon’s lair.”

  Something about running for my life made me a lot testier than usual. “And who was stupid enough to follow me?” I shot back.

  Chase didn’t have an answer for that.

  “Rory, this is my brother, George,” Lena said.

  George smiled and moved his sword from his right hand to his left before extending one for me to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Sorry to break up the celebration!” a voice yelled across the clearing.

  We all turned to look.

  Chase laughed. “I totally forgot about her.”

  Tangled in the pile of hot pink canvas, the girl who wasn’t from EAS was still struggling to stand. “But could one of you dragon-slayer kids cut me out of this stupid tent?”

  • • •

  By the time I took a shower and Amy started dinner, I was convinced that either Amy wasn’t very observant or I had completely lost my mind.

  I had spent the ride home terrified that Amy would notice the dragon blood on my clothes or smell the smoke in my hair. I was sure that she would force an explanation out of me, but she chattered on about her day and turned on the TV to watch while she cooked—as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

  Safe in our warm kitchen, I was leaning toward the insanity option. I didn’t really feel crazy, but crazy people probably never felt crazy either.

  Don’t get me wrong. I remembered everything that had happened in Yellowstone.

  The girl stuck in the tent was almost as old as Lena’s brother, and she was pretty nice after George cut her free. Her name was Miriam. Of course, she refused to shake hands with George and me, saying, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re covered in blood.”

  Then Lena told us that dragon’s blood mimics a mild acid and that it would slowly eat away at our skin. So George and I cleaned up as much as we could in a nearby stream.

  George sent up his flare, and we waited around together. Chase reexamined the dragon’s head, muttering to himself. While George and Miriam talked, the girl peeked at him curiously through a curtain of hair.

  Lena told me that she had run off to find help as soon as I went after the dragon. The first person she found was her brother. “It was my idea to position us on the rocks up there,” she added proudly.

  When the other kids from EAS arrived, I started to feel like I was dreaming again, and my legs began trembling. I’m pretty sure that’s a symptom of shock.

  The first guy to reach us was an older man with salt-and-pepper hair. He looked a lot like my science teacher from two schools back—except for the fact his shirt was made out of golden chain mail. He examined us and the blood on our clothes and then the dragon’s head. Then he stepped into the dragon’s lair and came out shaking his head. “Typical. The Fey report a dragon in their lands, they send us to do their dirty work, and then they get the hoard. We should at least get half.”

  When they arrived, the fifth graders swarmed around the head, and one of them shouted, “Look! It’s as big as I am!”

  On our way back, a bunch of people congratulated George, and a few complimented me too. “It would’ve sucked if you had died your first day,” one of the triplets said, which made me feel even more shaky.

  Then a girl rushed up and tackled Lena and George in a tight hug. As soon as she found out that they were okay, she started yelling at them for ruining their clothes with dragon blood. Lena bent toward me to whisper, “My sister, Jenny. She always knows best.”

  It was already dark in the courtyard by the time we returned. Ellie bustled me straight through the ruby door and down the dark hallway. Just before she pushed me outside, she handed over my backpack and plucked the sword out of my hand. I hadn’t noticed that I was still carrying it. “We’ll keep this for you here,” she said kindly. “See you tomorrow!”

  I definitely remembered all that.<
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  But something about pulling out your math textbook and looking up all the problems your teacher assigned makes you doubt that dragons exist. Even if one chased you into its lair an hour before.

  When the clock struck seven, the front door swung open, and a voice rang out, “Where’s my favorite daughter?”

  Mom was always home just in time for dinner. Some actors demand special kinds of mineral water in their trailers, but Mom makes sure that all her contracts have a clause about being home in time for dinner with me. (Well, not exactly. But they have to pay her triple overtime bonuses if she works past 6:45 p.m., which does pretty much the same thing.)

  “We’re in the kitchen, Maggie!” Amy called back.

  Two seconds later, my mom strode in, her honey-colored hair a little flat from the wigs she had to wear on set, her skin flawless under an invisible layer of makeup. She smiled when she saw me.

  “I’m your only daughter,” I reminded her.

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re my favorite,” Mom told me, which is what she always replied. She took my head in her hands and covered my face with kisses, which also happens a lot. It made me feel a little more like myself. “Sorry I’m late, sweetie,” she murmured, hugging me, and I hugged her back, pressing my face in her stomach.

  “Hey.” Concerned, Mom looked from me to Amy. “What happened?”

  Amy shrugged, looking pointedly at me.

  I hesitated. If I could tell anyone, it would be Mom. On the other hand, if I were going crazy, she would probably send me to see a child psychologist. The ones I visited after my parents’ divorce were really annoying. If anyone else asked me what I saw in an inkblot, I really would go nuts.

  “Nothing,” I said firmly.

  Mom didn’t believe me. “How was school?”

  “Fine.” Ms. White’s mirror flashed through my head, but I ignored it. “We played soccer during P.E. again. I scored two goals.”

  “Only two?” Mom teased. (I’d scored three yesterday.)

  “You haven’t been very chatty since I got you,” Amy said, eyeing me as she tossed the salad. “Did you not like the after-school thing? When Ms. White talked to your mom and me, they made it sound great. A cool place for older kids to hang out and do homework and take classes and stuff.”

  The first thing that popped in my head was, Well, a dragon in Yellowstone couldn’t decide if it wanted to eat me raw or flame-broiled. I didn’t know what to say, but it couldn’t be the truth.

  Luckily, the phone rang, which saved me from having to answer.

  Mom picked up. Her voice dropped an octave, like it always does when she’s on a business call. “Hello?” She listened for a second. “Oh,” she said, scowling, and I knew exactly who it was. She only used that flat, angry tone for one person.

  “Oh, no! Your dad’s shoot ended yesterday,” Amy said. “We were supposed to call him. I completely forgot.”

  “Yeah, she’s right here.” Mom looked at me, and I reached eagerly for the phone.

  “Hey, Dad!”

  “How’s my princess?” he said, and I winced.

  I wished he wouldn’t call me that. He didn’t before the divorce. Three years ago, during the custody hearing, a photographer had snapped a picture of me coming out of the courthouse with Mom and Dad. People had printed it with the headline: AMERICA’S PRINCESS TORN BETWEEN TWO KINGDOMS.

  It hadn’t even been a good picture—at least, not of me. Mom looked cool and competent in a black designer suit she had bought especially for the occasion. Dad’s dark hair stuck up in all directions—the only sign that he was stressed. Between them, I definitely looked like the Ugly Duckling. I was wiping my nose, my eyes red from crying. The kids in my class couldn’t stop talking about my parents after that article.

  Life started to suck even more when my best friend, Marta, moved away. At Christmas, her dad got transferred to Copenhagen—of all places. Then, a week or two later, the class bully pestered me one too many times, and I dumped a trash bin over his head. Which led to my first ever fistfight and a new round of headlines like WARRIOR PRINCESS: LANDON AND WRIGHT’S DAUGHTER BATTLES IN PLAYGROUND.

  Third grade, in general, wasn’t the best year.

  Mom immediately put me in counseling. Dad tried to make a joke out of the articles, saying “No press is bad press.” And he started calling me “Princess” at every opportunity.

  “Rory? Are you there?”

  “I’m here. You sound tired.”

  Production was always really tough on him. He was usually planning before everyone else got up, directing during the day, and reviewing takes after everyone went to bed.

  “I am. Your old man is getting old.”

  I rolled my eyes, smiling a little. He was only thirty-six. “Are you at home?”

  Across the kitchen, Mom and Amy exchanged glances. I kicked myself for choosing that word. They always felt guilty when I called L.A. “home,” but I hadn’t really thought of it that way for a while. It was where Dad lived, that’s all.

  I jumped off the chair and walked over to the couch to give myself a little privacy.

  “Nah. Still in Thailand. I’ve got a shoot in New Zealand in eight days. Anyway, it didn’t make sense to fly all the way home and all the way back and miss a few days of quality sleep. Hey, Rory. You’re done with school in June, aren’t you?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve got another shoot then. In Oxford. Did you want to come?”

  “Um. . .” Dad got three weeks of custody every summer, and I always looked forward to seeing him. But visiting during a shoot was never a good idea.

  “You love England! Remember? You were in second grade and I took you to Harrods. I said you could pick out one toy in the whole store, so you picked out the biggest teddy bear you could find. We had to ship it home because the airline wouldn’t check it.”

  “That was kindergarten, not second grade.” He was making me sound like a baby.

  Dad went on like I hadn’t said anything. That’s how he gets when he’s excited. And he actually thinks that I’ll love everything. “Listen, this shoot—you’ll love it! It’s a modern take on Narnia. There will be a bunch of other kids around, and the actress attached to the project, Brianna Catcher. You’ve heard of her, right? Redhead, real sweet and spunky? You’ll love her.”

  If I went to this shoot, it would be a disaster—just like the shoot I visited two spring breaks ago. I had spent most of it tucked in an empty corner of the studio, headphones in, a book in my lap.

  “I’d have to think about it.” That was what I usually said when I was really leaning toward no but didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

  “Okay, honey. Think it over.” Dad said, a little subdued. “Rory, really, you’ll love Oxford in June. All the gardens are in bloom. I’ll have my assistant schedule in a few days so we can explore together. We’ll rent bikes. You love bikes—”

  If Dad told me what I loved one more time, I would scream. I had to interrupt him before he got too carried away. “Dad, I haven’t said yes.”

  “Well, not yet, but—”

  Suddenly, Mom stood over me, thin-lipped. I knew what that look meant. “Let me talk to him.”

  “Uh, Dad. Mom wants to say something. I love you,” I said quickly, just a half second before she snatched the phone from my hand.

  As soon as I let go, I knew I had done the wrong thing.

  I half-reached for the phone, trying to grab it back, but Mom had already turned away. Then the fight began, just like I knew it would.

  “Don’t bully her.” Mom stalked down the hall toward her room, kicking off her shoes so violently that they thunked against the wall. “It’s not about visitation rights. It’s about whether or not she wants to go.”

  Wait. Let me talk to him again, I wanted to say, but the words were trapped in my mouth.

  “Don’t you dare call your lawyer, Eric. You’re just pitching a fit, because you may not get your way.” Then she closed the
door behind her, and I couldn’t hear her anymore.

  “At least this house has thicker walls than the last place we rented.” Amy pointed at my abandoned math textbook with a wooden spoon stained spaghetti-sauce red. “Don’t you have homework?”

  I slid off the couch and returned to the stool silently. What could I say? Amy already wasn’t Dad’s hugest fan. I wasn’t going to give her another reason to not like him.

  Besides, he didn’t mean to bully. He just gets so excited sometimes that he forgets to listen. “Don’t take no for an answer,” he often told me, back when we all still lived together. This was a great quality for a director to have, but not so much for a dad.

  I imagined going to Mom’s door. Demanding the phone back. Telling Dad no.

  But I couldn’t force myself off the stool. I just copied out the next math problem.

  I knew how easily I could make it worse. What if I asked and Mom wouldn’t even give me the phone? Even worse, what if she did give me the phone? And what if I lost my nerve the second Dad started talking? What if I still couldn’t tell him no? Then the whole thing would happen all over again—an even bigger mess than before.

  So, I just curled lower over my homework, trying to breathe normally around a dragon-size knot in my chest.

  “Hey,” Amy said softly.

  I looked up from the flames I was doodling in the margin of my notebook. When I met her eyes, I knew she had guessed exactly what I was thinking.

  “Read my mind.”

  “I know.” I sighed. She always told me the same thing. “It’s not my fault.”

  But even though I said it, I didn’t actually believe it. My parents wouldn’t argue half so much if I could just speak up.

  “That’s right,” Amy said, “and also, sometimes, parents need to grow up even more than kids do.”

  I forced a smile and nodded.

  Mom’s door swung open, and she came running out in her monkey pajamas. She hadn’t taken her makeup off, but her hair had weird lumps and tufts.

  Next came the hardest part of the whole disaster—the part where we pretend it didn’t happen.

  “Okay, how was Ever After School?” Mom hopped on the stool beside me, and even the fake smile dropped off my face.