Cold Spell

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Can I use your phone?” I ask our waitress, clutching the brochure in my fist.

“It’s out,” she says. “Gas station next door is probably working, though—newer building.”

“Thanks,” I say, and rise.

“Whoa,” Flannery hisses. “This is not how you dine and dash, telling the waitress where you’re headed.”

“I need to call this pilot!” I say. “We’ve got to go.”

“You go,” she says. “I’ll sit here and order more food.”

“Why?”

“Because if we keep ordering, we’re paying customers, not squatters,” she says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. She flags down a waitress and simultaneously waves me out the door. I bury my head to my chest and brace myself for the cold—

I didn’t brace hard enough. This is Mora’s weather, I know it. The sick kind of cold that makes my skin feel brittle and my bones feel bruised. I glance back at the restaurant and see our waitress delivering a cup of coffee to Flannery while customers seated close to the windows watch me in disbelief.

I pull my hands to my face to warm my nose and lips and stumble toward the gas station, lifting my feet up high. A foot of snow already, at least. The sky is dark gray above—what time is it? I can’t tell what’s night and what’s weather. The gas station shines bright ahead, cars parked under the awning. People are milling around inside, killing time. No one looks panicked—I suppose Minnesotans don’t freak out over snow the way Atlantans do. My theory is proven when I finally push open the gas station door and see someone’s purchased and opened a twenty-four pack of beer, which is being passed around to everyone inside.

“Er, no thanks,” I say when it’s offered to me on the way to the register. “I just wanted to use your phone?”

“No tow trucks,” the attendant says. “They’re all booked. Better off just to wait till they come along and plow it. They move pretty fast, typically.”

“I actually wanted to call a friend,” I lie. The attendant hands the phone across the counter. I huddle back in a corner and dial the number on the brochure.

“Hello?” a man on the other end says.

“Hi, I was calling about booking a plane to Isle Royale?”

Silence.

“Now?”

“Soon. I mean, not now, obviously. There’s a blizzard.”

The man laughs in relief. “Oh, all right, then. So, when were you thinking?”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

Silence again.

“Look, it’s not really tourist season. No good place to land when there’s ice on the water. Maybe we could look at April or so?”

“No, no, it has to be sooner than that,” I say. “Just two people.”

“Yeah, look, it’s not even worth the gas with just two people,” he says. “And definitely not worth the risk.”

“How much do you need to make it worth it?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m asking—whatever the amount is, it’s too much.

“Say you’ll pay it.”

The voice makes my breath catch in my throat. I lower the phone a little, turn around slowly, slowly, afraid and excited at once.

“Whatever it is, you’ll pay it—double it, even, if he can go tomorrow.”

“How’d you find me?” I ask, dumbstruck.

“Come on, Ginny,” Lucas says. “I told you. I can track anyone.”

Lucas is unshowered, his eyes red and full of sleep. He smiles at me, and then, before I can stop myself, I fling my arms around him. I’m embarrassed and start to pull away, only to find him hugging me back, chuckling under his breath.

“Why’d you come? I told you not to!” I say, torn between frustration and happiness.

“Well,” he says slowly, “two reasons. For starters, Ella gave me the silent treatment for three days. But secondly, well… like you said when you were leaving. Ella and I are a family. And we decided, now that we’ve tracked the Snow Queen, made breakfast, and essentially committed a murder together, that you’re family, too. Family sticks together.”

My lips part. I know I should laugh at some of what he’s said, but I’m too struck by the rest of it to speak. Lucas blushes, and instead of speaking I’m hugging him again.

A half hour later, we have a plane booked. Two days from now—that’s when the pilot thinks it’ll be warm enough that the lake isn’t frozen over. We’ll get only two hours on the island. I can’t decide if that’s too little time, more than enough, or simply too late for Kai. Next Lucas puts me on his cell phone with Ella, who yells at me for leaving before promising that she’s getting on a flight this evening—she’ll be here tomorrow.

“We’ll help you get him back, Ginny,” Ella says seriously. “Not just find him—get him back.” We hang up, and then Lucas takes the phone and shoves it back into his pocket. We sit on the floor in the back of the gas station, between the soda cooler and a display of pork rinds. The spot gives the illusion of privacy—the rest of the crowd is keeping vigil by the windows, growing every rowdier as they take bets on who will see the snowplow first.

“I lost you for a while, in Kentucky. Trail went cold,” Lucas says, shifting so that the pork rind bags crinkle behind him.

“I was lost for a while,” I admit. “This group of Travellers—”

“Travellers?”

“Gypsies, kind of?” I try to explain. “Anyhow, they sort of… kidnapped me.”

Lucas’s eyes go wide. “You got kidnapped by gypsies?”

“For a little while, but it’s fine now. The Princess of Kentucky is over in the restaurant, actually. We stole that VW van? The one in the front of the parking lot?”

Lucas’s face contorts to an even stranger expression.

“I guess when I put it that way, it sounds crazy,” I say under my breath. We’re silent a few moments, pretending to look at the rows of sodas in the cooler across the aisle. I rock my feet back and forth, wondering how Flannery is faring at the restaurant. I should go back soon.

“So this island,” Lucas says. “You have a plan, once you’re on it?”

“No,” I say simply. “I’ve got nothing. No more than I had when I left Atlanta, anyhow.”

“Except me and a VW bus.”

“And a Traveller,” I remind him. “And a cookbook. And I know a little more about Mora than when I started, I guess.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” I begin, staring at the cooler ahead. “For starters, she doesn’t rule the Fenris—she’s running from them.” I tell him about Keelin, about Mora’s coat.

Lucas’s face darkens. “What if the Fenris have beaten you to her?”

I cringe. “I’m trying not to think about that, actually. But the Fenris aren’t up in this area—the map in Grandma Dalia’s cookbook shows the packs stop farther south. It’s too cold for them here, I guess.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t throw on a coat,” Lucas says.

“Lucas…” I sigh. “I’m going after her either way.”

Lucas is quiet a long time, considering this, but then nods. He rises and offers me a hand. I accept it and stand up, just in time to hear cheering from the crowd by the window.

“Is that the plow?” I ask the other stranded customers.

“Yep,” a fat man says, hoisting his pants up a bit. “And a bunch of cops.”

“Doing what?”

“Got me, something at the restaurant.”

“Oh god,” I say, and dash for the door.

“What?” Lucas calls from behind me, but I don’t get a chance to answer before I’m out in the cold. I run as best I can, stumbling through the snow. Blue-and-red lights bounce off of it; even squinting, all I can see are silhouettes ahead. Lucas is shouting behind me, but I can’t take the time to turn around and explain—

“Get your fucking hands off me!” Flannery shrieks. “I’m the ex-Princess of Kentucky!”

“Enough,” a large female cop says, sighing under her breath. “Keep it up and we’ll charge you with resisting. That’s a lot more paperwork than I want to fill out. Don’t make me do it.”

“You bet your ass I’m res—”

“Shut up, Flannery!” I snap. She lifts her head, deflating a little when she sees me. The cops look over, raising their eyebrows.

“And you are?” the one leading Flannery asks.

“She’s my prisoner.” Flannery laughs. “I fought an army to win her.”

“Quiet,” I repeat. “I’m her friend. Sorry, she’s—”

“Under arrest,” a male officer finishes.

“For dining and dashing?” I ask in disbelief. “Can’t she do dishes or something?”

“For lifting the wallets off about twenty-three people in there,” the male officer corrects me.

“Oh, Flannery,” I groan.

“Easy pickings,” she says, lifting her chin at the cop defiantly.

“Seriously, shut up,” Lucas says firmly. Flannery opens her mouth to cuss at him, but I glare hard enough that it keeps her quiet. “Where are you taking her?”

“Wesley station. You can post bail for her there.”

“Got it,” Lucas says, then looks at Flannery. “Cooperate.”

“Who are you?” Flannery asks, sounding annoyed.

“He’s trying to help you. Just listen,” I say as they manhandle her toward the car. Something is sinking in me—they’ll book her, take her photo. Even if we get her out, her mother will know where to find her now, just like she was afraid of. I can see the fear in her eyes, a layer mostly hidden by anger.

The cop shuts the door, answers a radio call, and then climbs into the front seat. Lucas drops a hand on my shoulder as the car eases forward and turns down the road the snowplow just cleared.

“That’s your gypsy princess?”

I sigh. “That’s her.”