Cold Spell

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 flashlight 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?”