Cold Spell

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

My voice grows hoarse from yelling, and it’s clear there’s not much point anyhow. I stumble along, feet cold in the deep snow, led by someone—I’m not sure who, though I suspect it’s Dreadlocks—into what I assume is the RV. It smells like pot smoke and incense, and I shake uncontrollably as I hear the engine start again. One turn, two turns, three, one more—I try to memorize them, just in case I get the chance to escape.

“What’s your name?” someone asks, not unkindly, but not comfortingly, either. Still, I don’t answer. “Calm down. We’re not gonna hurt you,” the voice says. “But you can’t follow us.”

I keep quiet.

“Seriously, what’s your name—”

“Stop talkin’ to her,” another voice barks—one of the older men. “Brigit’ll be pissed.” The man and the boy bicker for a moment in a language I don’t understand—something with soft vowels, a steady rhythm. I listen carefully but don’t speak.

I think about Lucas, about Ella, and feel stupid for leaving them. What was I thinking? I could handle this on my own? I lift an arm to wipe my nose through the thing over my head—a dark pillowcase, I think—and try not to whimper loudly. I don’t want them to know how scared I am. I don’t want them to know how to hurt me.

The RV comes to a stop; people are shifting around, moving, and then finally, someone puts a hand under my arm and helps me stand. They maneuver me down the steps, down to the ground; grass crunches under my bare feet, still iced over. I can hear generators banging, a chorus of them, and the rich scent of a campfire finds its way through the pillowcase, meat cooking and wood burning. More incense, cigarette smoke, and then I’m being pushed along. My feet burn in the cold as I take a step, another, another—

“Wait,” Bracelets says—I think it’s him, anyhow. I feel his hand on me, and for a moment the pillowcase flutters away from my arms and I can see his fingers, grimy and dark underneath the nails. He swoops a hand under my legs and carries me. I go stiff, like a rock, trying not to lean against him, trying not to inhale the scent of sweat and smoke from his skin.

I feel us duck into something, somewhere—not a door, exactly, but the sounds from outside are muted and it’s warmer here. I can feel a fire nearby, hear it crackling. Bracelets—it’s definitely him, I can feel the bracelets digging into my calves—stoops and lets my feet find the ground. It’s a rug, thick and shaggy, and I dig my toes into it.

Someone, a new someone, shorter than me, tosses a blanket over my shoulders, then takes my hand. It’s a woman; it must be a woman. She guides me across the room, someplace closer to the fire and then, in a fast motion, whisks the pillowcase off my head.

“Ah, lashool greerse,” she mutters, lifting a lock of my hair. I blink furiously, the air stinging my eyes. Look around, fast, where’s the door—it’s behind me. I’m in some sort of tent, one that’s clearly not meant to be moved often—more like a small version of the sort you’d see at a circus. I can see the flap where the door opens and closes, noting that there’s a loose knot tying it shut. There’s the rug beneath my feet, and a clay fireplace in the corner with a pipe leading out through a slit in the tent’s fabric. And then there’s the woman.

Her skin is freckled and darker than mine, her face wrinkled and her hair enormous, thick, and black—it makes her look so much bigger than she actually is. Her eyes are green, though I can only just discern that in the dim light, and she’s wearing a strange combination of clothes—a sundress over jeans, boots, and a sweatshirt that’s been cut into a deep V-necked coat. She’s probably my mother’s age, if not older, but her age is hard to discern exactly since she dresses so unlike any forty-something I’ve seen before.

“What’s your name, pet?” she asks, and there’s an accent—Irish, it’s definitely Irish—hinting around the edges of her voice.

Finally, I speak, though my words are low and nearly broken. “Ginny Andersen,” I say.

“And you followed my boys?”

“They took something that belongs to me,” I say.

“They tend to do that,” she says, as if their breaking into my car is a lesser issue. She walks behind me; I turn a little, still sick and woozy from fear. There’s a table back there, against the wall of the tent. She rifles around on it for a moment; when she shifts to one side, I see things from the station wagon are spilled out across the table. The cookbook, the red heels, the bag of dimes, Mora’s coat from the trunk, plus a few odds and ends like umbrellas and the owner’s manual. She lifts the fur coat, admiring it.

“Daresay we’ll need to take this,” she says, smiling. “Payment for us giving you a ride over here, of course.” She studies me for a reaction; when I don’t give one she tosses the coat over the back of a chair, then gathers up the shoes, cookbook, and bag of dimes. “Anyhow. My name is Brigit, and this is my camp. And I don’t care for strangers showing up, roughing things up for us.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Brigit’s eyes go sharp, silencing me. She stoops on the rug at my feet and lays out the items from the car one at a time. She looks at me, then at the objects.

“You can take one back. Choose it.”

I grab for the cookbook immediately, but she swoops in and whisks it away before my hands grasp it; I feel stupid that I fell for the trick. I groan, sit back in the chair, and close my eyes.

“This? I thought it’d be the money,” Brigit says. “What’s in here that’s got you all worked up?”

“It’s an heirloom,” I say. “A family heirloom.”

“That’s not a lie,” Brigit says confidently, without looking up at me, “but it’s not the whole truth, either.” She flips open the book, catching the clippings of Mora before they slide out and unceremoniously cramming them back in their spot. She scans a few pages, then looks up at me, eyebrow lifted.

“Who does this really belong to?”

“My boyfriend,” I say.

“And yet you’ll chase down a gang of robbers to get it back? Afraid he’ll beat you for losing it?”

“No!” I protest, a little louder than intended. “It’s just… I don’t want to lose it.”

Brigit rolls her eyes at me, then rises. She strides to the fireplace, opens the door, and holds the book in front of it. My eyes widen as I realize what she means to do. “All right, the whole story. Let’s hear it. I’ve got a clan to run, and you’re wasting my time.”

“My boyfriend,” I stumble over the words. “He’s missing. He’s with another woman—”

“A cheater, then? Fuckin’ men—”

“No, she stole him. She’s not a girl, she’s something else—she controls the snow. It sounds crazy, I know, but it’s in the book,” I finish, pointing. My finger is shaking.

Brigit frowns, pulls the book back from the fire, and then tosses it onto the floor beside my other things. She doesn’t look at me as she lowers herself into a chair across the rug, and I can’t tell if she believes me or not. I really don’t care, honestly—I just want to get the book and go. Actually, at this point, I might just settle for going.

“A girl who came with the snow?” Brigit asks. I nod, still unable to tell what she’s getting at. She parts her lips, about to speak again, when there’s a hissing sound, the knot on the door being pulled free. Two men walk inside, one gaunt and stringy, the other old and thick.

“Sreego,” one says. “How are things with the buffer?”

“They’re fine,” Brigit says. “They’re always fine. Out, both of you.”

“This ain’t the time to be dealing with buffers. Get rid of her so we can get back to the matter at hand,” the gaunt one says.

“Unless Flannery has a ring on, there’s no matter at hand yet,” Brigit hisses. “And unless you want your gas share cut, you’ll get out of my house.”

“Look, Brigit,” the other one says. “All we’re gettin’ at is Flannery is a bit hard to deal with without you, so rather than questioning this buffer, let’s get rid of her and move on.”

I swallow, not entirely sure what “get rid of her” means.

“I know how desperately you’d both like Flannery to marry your boy, and get my crown for your family,” Brigit says threateningly. “Believe me. Everyone knows, with the way you two whine. And should my daughter have a moment of complete stupidity and choose one of your rats, then perhaps I’ll want your opinion on matters like this buffer. But until then: You. Are in. My house.”

They glare, eyes hard and angry, an expression Brigit reflects with twice the intensity. Finally, they turn and leave; a blast of cold air wafts from the tent flaps over to me.

“Assholes,” Brigit mutters after them. “I give them the best twenty years this clan has ever seen, and they still can’t get over the fact that I’ve got tits. And Flannery wonders why I say she’s not strong enough to take them on alone…”

“What’s going to happen to me?” I ask meekly, my mouth cottony and my lungs broken.

“For starters,” Brigit says, rapping her fingers on the cookbook again, “you’re going to tell me more about this snow girl.”