Cold Spell

by Jackson Pearce

  Lucas is still asleep—did I sleep at all? I’m not sure. I rise, grimacing as my joints crack, and pull the blanket off my bed. Tightening it around my body, I open the sliding glass door a crack, pausing to see if Lucas stirs… he doesn’t. I step outside onto the balcony, the wood so cold it burns the soles of my feet. The air is still and mean, biting at any exposed skin, making it difficult to keep my eyes open.

  Our hotel is at the top of a small hill dotted by trees with fat trunks. Ice is perfectly balanced along the tops of branches, like an outline. Every now and then I hear a cracking sound that reminds me of a gunshot, a rumbling, and then see a quick burst of movement—branches giving way to the added weight of the ice and snow.

  I blink a few times, then stare across the lake. Is that the island? It’s far, a gray shadow on the horizon, and it takes me a long time to decide if it’s a cloud or land—it isn’t until the wind blows some of the mist away that I’m certain it’s Isle Royale. I wonder if Mora knows I’m still following her, or if she thinks I gave up after Nashville.

  I wonder if Kai knows that I haven’t given up yet. Surely. He knows me, better than anyone. I close my eyes and think for a moment about the way he’d pull me close when I said something funny. The way he’d laugh and kiss my forehead and tell me without saying a word that he loved me. I want that right now, so badly—not only to be reminded Kai loves me, but to laugh with him again. Just one more time.

  I start to lean on the balcony railing, but it’s caked in ice so clear it looks as if it’s wrapped in cellophane. The wind gusts again, blowing snow like dust down the embankment leading to the lake, across the lake’s surface—it’s frozen over. I look at it curiously; I’ve never seen something like that outside of movies. Leaves and brush are blowing across the surface, disappearing into the fog.

  Something stirs in the brush in the woods. Something alive and warm-looking, picking its way through the trees. I lean forward, squinting—a deer. It picks its legs up high, taking giant, exaggerated steps to move through the snow. I wonder how Flannery’s deer is doing, now that it’s free.

  The deer pauses; its ears prick forward—listening, waiting, watching. It moves again, to the ice, and takes several steps out on it. After a few cautious licks at the ground, the deer lifts its head and begins to slowly, surely, walk out toward the center of the lake. Toward the island.

  So that’s how Mora gets there.

  It must be. It’s her ice, it’s her world—of course it’s thick enough to hold her.

  I inch the sliding glass door open again, overwhelmed when the heated air hits me. I silently put on a pair of jeans, thick socks, shoes, gloves, and long sleeves. I pull Flannery’s knife from its sheath, inspect the blade, and tuck it into my coat pocket.

  Just see if the ice will hold you. Get an idea of things. I lie to myself over and over, ignoring the real reason I’m sneaking out: I’m afraid Kai has already changed, afraid Lucas is right. Afraid I’ll have to kill him.

  And I’m not sure I can do that in front of everyone. Like he told me once, in the end, it’s just us. Even if it means I’m outnumbered. Even if it means he kills me first.

  I grab a room key and let myself out, hurrying downstairs to the shop. It’s empty, though the cases are already packed with pastries and bagels.

  “Morning,” the clerk says. “Looking for breakfast?”

  “No, thanks,” I say, walking over to the counter. “I just need some sort of flashlight.”

  I stumble down the embankment with decidedly less grace than the deer, following her footprints, destroying them as I go. The hotel windows watch me—I keep looking back, certain I’ll see Lucas’s panicked face at ours. It doesn’t happen. The world is silent and peaceful. I pause at the edge of the lake, looking at the yellow glow behind the clouds, the sun’s desperate attempt to break through. It’s no match for Mora’s power.

  I put a foot out onto the lake, cringing, waiting to hear it crack.

  Nothing.

  I pull my other foot across, so that my weight is on the ice entirely. Still nothing. A step, another, another. I shine the flashlight down, hoping I’ll be able to tell if the ice is solid or thin, but it doesn’t help much. I can feel my heart shaking, begging me to turn around and go back to shore. No, not now. Another step, another. I turn and look at the hotel—still no signs of life. No one will be here to save me if it gives. The air is so cold already—the water must be like knives. It would kill me quickly, perhaps more kindly than whatever awaits me on the island, but I at least want a chance to fight….

  Another nervous step, but I begin to grow more confident. I move faster, always pausing as I bring my foot down. I move farther and farther onto the lake, toward the sun, the island. When I turn around to look at the hotel again, it’s in the distance, a football field or two away.

  There’s no point in looking back again.

  She’s not really a queen. She’s a girl, a lonely girl. She’s lost everything, and she’s just trying to make up for it now. I keep my flashlight trained on the ground in front of me even as the sky lightens. I think I can see the island now, a dark mass ahead. It’s huge, so big it almost looks as if I’ve crossed the lake entirely and am on a new shore. It’s getting colder; my eyes are watering, and my ears feel as if they’d break off my body if someone hit them too hard.

  I hear a clattering sound; I grab Flannery’s knife from its sheath and clench my fingers around it even though it’s so cold I can’t feel them. Something is running at me, coming from ahead. Something moving faster, faster, faster. I try to remember everything Flannery told me about knife fighting. Wait for your moment, don’t try to create it—

  The creature behind the noise finally breaks through the fog. I see its eyes first, the frenzied, panicked look in them, wide and trembling—

  It’s the deer. I duck down as she bolts toward me, skids on the ice, and nearly slams into me. Her legs are like sticks being thrown around, falling all the wrong ways as she rushes back the way we came. I turn and watch her go, then stare into the mist, waiting for whatever scared her to come charging through.

  If Kai is a wolf, will I recognize him?

  I imagine a monster with his eyes, fur the color of his hair. That’s what I’ll see next. That’s what will come at me. The fog is thick, a curtain that’s taking a moment too long to reveal its secrets. The sound of the deer running away fades, and the world is silent again, still.

  I’m shaking, but I take another step forward. Keep moving. The deer may be running from Mora, but Mora is running from me. I think about what Flannery told me, about fighting—before you start, know who is going to win. I know it will be me. I know it will be me.

  I’m lying. I don’t know anything. But it keeps me moving.

  I push through the fog—I can hear the sounds of branches on the island ahead breaking now. The ice beneath me grows uneven, the snow thicker. I’m several yards in before I realize I’m not walking on the lake anymore; I’m walking on the shore.

  I’m on Isle Royale.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “You know I’m in love with you, right, Ginny?” Kai said, looking at my knuckles, running his thumb across them. His eyes flickered to mine. It was the first time he’d said it aloud, or at least, aloud and meant it like that. “I’ve always been in love with you.”

  “I know,” I whispered, and he smiled, leaned forward, and kissed me. I lifted out of my chair and moved to him; he pulled me down into his lap and wrapped his arms around me. My fingertips curled at the nape of his neck, and when we broke away he found my eyes and was silent for a long time. He exhaled, reached up, and tucked my hair behind my ears, letting his palm linger by my cheek.

  I smiled and said, “I’ll always—”

  I didn’t get the chance to finish the phrase that feels so much more real now, so much more proven. I’ll always love you, too, Kai.

  I’ll always love you, no matter what I have to do.

  I trudge inward, tucking the flashli
ght inside my coat but keeping the knife out and ready. Every time I hear a snap or a rustle, I freeze, waiting for the wood to spring to life. But then nothing happens, and I have to take a breath and move on. I wonder if this was what Grandma Dalia’s life was like, after the red-haired boy was taken, after she learned that the world was full of hungry mouths. Waiting for the bottom to fall out, for them to come back for her.

  They did, in the end.

  Something cracks over to my right—something louder than the other noises I’ve heard, something that sounds like a foot coming down on a branch. I pause and turn toward it, but see nothing. I try to remember the map of the island on the brochure. How big is it? What if I’m stuck here overnight before I find Mora and Kai? I’ll never survive the cold. I lift my fingers to my mouth and try to warm them with my breath, but it’s barely warmer. I wish I could cross my arms, but I want to have the knife ready.

  A rustle to the left—again, something that sounds living. I hold my breath, listening, but the trees fall silent again. I keep going, another rustle—

  A growl, stifled and so low I almost miss it.

  They’re watching me.

  My body wants to cry, to drop to a ball and pretend it isn’t happening—all my resolve from the hotel room, from the ice, is gone. I didn’t want to be running again, didn’t want to be the prey. How many of them are there, watching me? Is Mora with them? Is Kai?

  I can’t be still too long; they’ll realize I’ve figured it out. Wait for your moment, Flannery’s voice reminds me. Let them lead; wait till you know where they are. How many of them there are. I fold my arms now, but only so I can swap the knife between hands every few moments, keeping them in the dark as to which hand it’s in.

  It’s hard to keep my pace—something alive and screaming in my chest begs me to run, but I keep moving steadily. The haze of sunlight that made it through the clouds earlier is being swallowed by the gray. I’m just over mourning its absence when it starts to snow. Lightly, compared with yesterday, but flakes are falling, spiraling down to my lashes, forcing me to blink them away, my heart stopping for the flicker of a moment that I can’t see.

  My feet hurt, my lungs hurt, and my fingers hurt. I feel that I might shatter like glass if I were to fall down. The noises in the trees grow louder, more frequent. Every now and then I can’t stop myself from whirling around, certain I’ll see glowing eyes, but they stay hidden as I start uphill, toward the center of the island.

  By the time the ground flattens out I feel beaten, exhausted—the high from my fear is wearing off, and raw emotion is brewing in my chest. I haven’t heard them in a little while; I stop, turn around, and listen carefully. Where are they? It’s snowing harder now, thick enough that I’m wary of the branches waving back and forth above me. I hug my arms to my chest, shiver, and spin around—

  And there they are.

  Four boys—men? Boys—standing in front of me. Their eyes and chins are sharp, and they’re wearing T-shirts but look comfortable in the cold.

  And they’re smiling.

  “Are you lost?” one asks. His voice is low, as if it’s coming from the back of his throat and rarely used. Over his right shoulder is a house, cottage-like and made of stone. I can’t tell if it looks abandoned or not—there’s nothing broken about it, but there are no lights. There’s no movement, either, and the flower boxes that line the windows are empty.

  “Miss,” another says, and the way he hisses the s makes my skin crawl. This one has blond hair, so blond it’s nearly white, and I realize I recognize him—the opera singer, Larson. If not for the hair, I wouldn’t know him. In the photo I saw, he looked happy. Here he looks hungry, eyes low, cheekbones jutting out as if they were carved.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I manage.

  “Here?” say the first boy, the one with dark hair. “There’s no one here.”

  “A boy,” I say. “I need to see him.”

  This seems to throw them a little—their eyes flicker to one another. They say something I don’t understand in the glance.

  “Why do you think he’s here?” another one asks. This one is older than the others, but still handsome; the silver in his hair matches the sky.

  “He came here with a woman,” I say. Swallow. “He came here with the Snow Queen.”

  “The Snow Queen?” Larson says, sounding amused. “She’ll like that title, won’t she, boys?” They rumble in agreement. “We can take you to her.”

  “Yes,” I say immediately.

  “But she’ll kill you.”

  They expect this to shock me, and when it doesn’t, they look at one another again, thrown. They wanted me afraid. I remember the beasts from the car with Lucas, how they licked their lips when I screamed.

  “Why is she here?” a new voice asks.

  I stop. My knees feel weak; my lungs are melting in my chest.

  He walks around the side of the cottage, hands slung in his pockets, and joins the other four. His skin is pale, his eyes black, and he moves with the same still, easy confidence that they do. I should keep my eye on the other four, but I can’t help it. I stare, unsure if the tangle of emotion in my chest is relief or horror.

  “Kai,” I finally say, the word slipping out as a whisper.

  He meets my eyes and narrows his own. “And who are you?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I was prepared for him to be a monster; I wasn’t prepared for him to look at me with such icy indifference. His expression is like the other four’s—he doesn’t know me, not the smallest bit. Somewhere, deep in my mind, I expected—no, not expected, wanted—him to see me and remember.

  But he’s gone. There’s nothing of my Kai in his eyes, no spark of recognition, much less love.

  Can he change into a wolf now? I need to know for sure; I have to know for sure. I need to see him change into a monster.

  One of the others is looking from me to Kai, seemingly bored with the entire exchange. That one takes a step closer to me; when I instinctively take one backward, he smiles again.

  “So, you’ll be coming with us to see her?” he asks, in a way that tells me the answer he’s hoping for is no. The answer he’s hoping for is pleading, is begging, is fear.

  If you don’t have the upper hand, create it.

  I take another step back. Their eyebrows lift ever so slightly, a way they don’t think I notice. Another step, and they lean forward, excited. Another, another—

  I turn and run.

  I hear them shouting, whooping behind me in excitement as I tear down the hill, following the path I came on. Faster, faster, keep moving—are they chasing me yet? I try to listen to know for sure. Yes, yes, they’re crashing along behind me. I can’t outrun them—they know that, and when I glance back, I see they’re hardly even trying. Still human, barely jogging, grinning in a way that makes Flannery’s smile look sweet.

  They don’t know, however, that I’m not trying to outrun them.

  I wait until I go over the hill, down the slope—just barely out of sight, where the trees are slightly smaller. I hold my breath and slam my body weight into a tree. The cold combined with the impact shoots pain through my bones, but I keep going—I hit another, another. Each time, snow crashes down; the shaking branches incite other branches to fall; powdery snow rises up like dust behind me. I can’t hear the boys anymore over crashing snow and tree limbs—but they can’t see me anymore, either.

  I just need one, one good one—yes. I leap for a low-hanging branch. It stirs the tree and sends snow falling to the ground like all the others, but this time I hold on tight, pulling myself up and off the trail. I release and slam forward, falling down a short ravine; I’m bleeding, I think, and my head is foggy, but I grimace and lie still, quiet.

  Snow is still falling, but it’s hard to hear the difference between the ruckus I created and five pairs of feet running after me. They’re moving faster now—they realize they’ve lost me. I squeeze my eyes shut as they near my hiding place; if just one l
ooks to the left, he’ll see my red shirt, I’m sure of it.

  But no. It works. They pass by the ravine without a second glance, following my old trail—the raccoon trick Lucas told me about. I raise up just in time to see the backs of their heads disappearing. Human heads—they didn’t change. Does that mean Kai can’t yet?

  I rise, find my own trail, and follow along behind them, crouching down low in the snow. When we’re back by the frozen lake, they stop and stare out over the ice. They’ve lost my trail; they don’t know what to do. They mill around, something of the wolf in the way they pace back and forth at the lake’s edge.

  They spread out along the shore, eyes on the rocky ground, scouring it for any sign of me—I could be circling back around to the shore. The older one in the center, at the mouth of my trail. Larson goes to his left, and Kai to his far left. I step into a thicket of snow, cringing when it comes all the way to my knees. When I look down, I see spots of blood in the white—my knee is bleeding from where I hit the ravine.

  I cut along sideways through the woods, slowly, slowly so I don’t make a sound. I finally make it over to the stretch of shore Kai is exploring, his shoulders hunched forward and his breathing slow and methodical. He stares out over the lake, as if he thinks he sees something. Larson, on his right, a few dozen yards back now, is walking a few feet out onto the ice.

  I grab a handful of snow and lob it as hard as I can in Kai’s direction. He pauses and turns; I see his eyes flicker to an area ahead of me. Kai takes a step forward. Yes, yes… though if he signals to the others, it’s over. I should have waited till they were more spread out, till he couldn’t reach them—

  Kai starts up the bank toward me. Larson is preoccupied with something on the lake and doesn’t see him going. I exhale in relief, tuck myself against a thick tree trunk, and rub my fingers gently, readying them to hold the knife, reminding myself that he might not be Kai anymore. That it might be too late, and this is what Kai—my Kai—would want. I stare at the knife blade as Kai’s footsteps quicken. He runs forward, runs past me—