Cold Spell

CHAPTER SEVEN

Think. Think this through.

I leave a note for my mom saying I’m going to stay with Dad for a week or so, to get over Kai leaving. It’ll buy me a little time, at least—she won’t want to be the helicopter parent, telling me I can’t go, and she won’t want to call Dad to check that my story is true. Then I call the school, just in case the snow breaks sooner rather than later. I leave a voice mail with the attendance office in a voice that sounds like my mother’s: There’s been a family emergency. Ginny will be out for a week.

It’s not a total lie.

Odds are good someone will notice Grandma Dalia’s car is gone before they work out I’m gone, anyway, I think as I pull the station wagon out of the parking lot, opting not to consider what will happen if finding Kai takes more than a week. In the back seat, the dimes from the bowl rattle, now dumped in a grocery bag; I took them for luck. After all, if Grandma Dalia was right about the Snow Queen, she might be right about everything else, too.

The Atlanta skyline fades quickly, blotted out by snow clouds. I hardly ever drive, and the weather isn’t making it any easier. The roads are slick and darkened by both the night and the power outages that dot my route. I can’t go anything close to the speed limit—at times, I’m going less than half. My eyes are trained on the white dashes on the asphalt, so focused I feel hypnotized. I play a game in my head, pretending I’m leaping over the dashes, running toward Kai, running to stop him from…

From what?

Just find him, first. They can’t have gotten that far ahead of me—a few hours, at most, and if they don’t know I’m behind them they’re bound to take their time. Plus, Mora doesn’t seem like a road trip kind of girl. She’ll probably want to stop in a hotel or something, and not a cheap one, either. It’ll have to be one along this interstate—it’s the only reasonable way to go north. Not that I really know she’s even headed in this direction, but before leaving I looked at the weather forecast. Snow north of Atlanta, headed for Nashville. If I’m right, if Mora is the Snow Queen—a theory that alternates between sounding like the absolute truth and complete lunacy in my head—then she’ll be where the snow is. I think. I hope. Please.

Strange how stealing a car suddenly doesn’t feel like the craziest part of my plan.

Night begins to give in to the slightest implication of morning. The black sky becomes a shade of steel gray, though every now and then hints of the sun slip through, fingers of orange in an otherwise monochrome world. The sight snaps me out of my hypnosis a little, making me aware of just where I am and what I’m doing. I’m in Tennessee, somewhere near Nashville, I think. The snow here isn’t deep, and cars are beginning to appear on the road, though the drivers look every bit as wary as me.

I yawn; my eyes burn and my throat is suddenly dry. Has it really been five hours? I’ll have to stop and sleep soon, I’m certain—the very prospect feels like a betrayal, like my body is stubborn, defiant for needing rest. My headlights flash on a sign, indicating yes, Nashville is only fifteen miles out.

I take the closest exit, to a small but functional rest area hidden from the interstate by a swatch of pine trees. I dash inside to use the bathroom and buy a cinnamon roll from a faded vending machine. The trees in the adjacent forest sway in the wind, trying to lose the last few clumps of snow clinging to their branches—it’s amazing how comforting seeing the greenery instead of stark whiteness is. I park the car, hug my coat around me, and climb into the backseat. I brought Mora’s coat along—I’m not sure why, exactly, but I suspect it’s to remind me that she’s real, that I’m not crazy. Even though it looks warm, I kick it onto the floorboards so I don’t have to look at it.

One hour. That’s all, I think, yawning again. I curl into a ball on the wine-colored upholstery and let my eyes drift shut….

My dreams include beasts with Grandma Dalia’s voice, warning me to stay away. Every now and then my eyes creak open, unable to discern the difference between the dream world and the waking one. But with time, my dreams become more solid, warming into ones about Kai. In an apartment somewhere, one with old wood floors and wide windows. We’re seated on either side of a coffee table, eating dinner with our hands and telling jokes and laughing and happy and together and home. Yet even in the dream, I remember what he said to me on the rooftop, all the cruel things. The memories taint our laughter, flooding out any comfort the dream might have brought me.

He didn’t mean it. It was Mora; she’s the Snow Queen. He didn’t mean it.

My eyelids spring open. It takes me a moment to be certain the dream is over, that I really am wide awake. It’s freezing, and snow is coming down, heavy and thick—so thick I can’t see the interstate through the bowed-down branches of trees anymore. My bones feel like blocks of ice under my skin, creaking as I unwind my curled body and sit up. I hear a snap behind the car and whirl around to see a limb breaking off a tree, crashing to the ground under the weight of snow.

Then it’s silent again, as if I’m the only thing alive here. As if I’m the only thing alive anywhere.

It’s silent in a way that reminds me of the moments before Grandma Dalia’s death. I scramble into the front seat despite how badly I want to curl back up and cling to whatever warmth I can find. I fumble with the keys, trying to look at the ignition and the forest at once—is it snowing harder, like it was on the rooftop? The trees are giants pushing toward me; the road ahead is almost entirely hidden by the snowfall. My heart is beating faster, faster, faster; finally my numb fingers slide the key into the ignition, turn it forward.

The engine struggles to turn over, then fails. I lick my lips, realize I can see my breath. How cold is it out there? Air is raw and sharp in my lungs, I push the ignition forward again, again, try not to see Mora’s face in my mind.

I push the key forward again, hold it this time as the engine sputters, struggles, and finally kicks to life. I crank the heat knobs to all the way on and all the way red, push the car into drive. The car doesn’t move, locked in by snow and ice. Damn it. The heat is kicking in, burning then thawing me as I glance in my rearview mirror—

Eyes. Bright eyes staring at me from behind the car, a man’s shape in silhouette. My breath stops; I can’t look away, but I reach over, lock the door—

I scream, because there’s another man just outside my window. He has thick, wavy hair; a smooth face; and thick lips. The man at the window waves his fingers at me, and something about the motion isn’t right. Something about him isn’t right. I can’t look away—

A scratch at the passenger door. I wheel around instinctively. There’s another man there, then one by the front tire, two more behind me. They’re everywhere, surrounding me, and I can’t slow my heart down—

The man at my window smiles.

It isn’t a real man’s smile. It’s the smile of a man in a costume. A smile I’ve seen before, on another face. A smile that terrifies me. What’s worse is the recognition in the man’s eyes—he knows that I know what he is, and his face gleams over it. I see him look to the back of the car; his gaze falls on Mora’s coat. He frowns.

“You alone out here, miss?” the man says, his voice a hiss that somehow pours in through the closed window. I swallow. Go, go, go—I slam my foot down on the accelerator.

The tires spin uselessly, kicking up snow. I hear laughter from the men behind me, my lungs are shrinking, too small for my body. Every story Grandma Dalia ever told me about beasts is rushing through me, along with a feeling of certainty that this, this is how I’ll die. I swallow.

The man at the window chuckles under his breath, a dark and raspy sound.

And then I can’t stop screaming.

His eyes yellow, becoming smaller. His shoulders hunch over, and I hear a sound like celery stalks snapping—his bones are shifting, lengthening. With a resounding crack, his face juts out and becomes a muzzle. The noise is happening all around me—they’re all changing. Sticky and wet-looking fur bursts through their skin; their fingers bleed as nails thicken into claws. They breathe out long clouds in the cold, and they’re smiling—smiling—wickedly through mouths that are human, human lips, human skin breaking, tearing apart and bleeding.

My foot is pounding on the gas, the brake, anything, please, please, please, please. One of the beasts with a still-human arm reaches forward, punches at the back window of the car. It shatters, and the others howl hungrily.

Lights. Something moves; something flashes. I hear tires squealing on gravel, and then, before I can figure out what direction the noise is coming from, I’m jolted forward as the back of the car gets clipped. I bounce, hit the steering wheel. I recover, turn around, and see a sleek red car sliding on the ice just behind me. The beasts are huddled a few dozen yards ahead of it—it’s hit one of them.

I press my foot down on the accelerator again, and now that the car has been knocked around a little, it finds traction. I zip backward, unprepared for the speed; the rear of the station wagon crashes into the front end of the sports car. I cringe, throw it into drive, look in the rearview mirror.

Eyes meet mine—gray eyes, eyes that aren’t a costume. Eyes on a real man. He looks out the window, toward the beasts. Something is happening—the monster lying on the ground, the one he hit, twists to one side. Darkness starts to rush across its body, as if it’s being tied down by black ropes. More and more and more of them, and then suddenly the ropes are skittering away, shadows on the ground, and the monster is gone.

The others turn toward our cars.

The man in the sports car jumps out. I lunge over the passenger side, unlock the door as he jumps over his own hood, slides across mine, and grabs for the door handle. He yanks the door open, leaps inside, and slams it behind him.

The beasts run at us, grabbing for my car with claws and hands and something in between, broken nails and bloody fingertips. They slam against the already broken back window, clearing it of glass, hands are on my hair, my coat sleeve, pulling at me—

“Floor it!” the other driver roars. I bring my foot down, throw the car into drive, and skid around in a circle. They’re chasing us; one monster is still holding on to the back window, bracing himself as we fly away from the rest area toward the interstate. I slap the wheel to the right; it shakes the monster off and he falls away, his yellow eyes raging at me as we break out of the trees and onto the main road.

The other driver is panting, looking over his shoulder, shaken and sick-looking, though he doesn’t seem as close to screaming as I am. My knuckles are white on the wheel, my eyes wide. I’m going to throw up, but I’m afraid to stop—I grab the window knob, roll it down, and lean my head out to empty the contents of my stomach onto the moving road.

“Better?” the man asks.

“Not really,” I gasp, cringing at the taste in my mouth.

“You’ll be fine. We got away. What’s your name?” He extends a hand and, when I’m too flustered to take it, rests it on my shoulder for a moment in an exceedingly awkward way.

“Ginny,” I say. “Ginny Andersen.”

He nods, closes his eyes, and rests his head on the back of the seat. “Werewolf attacks aside, good to meet you. I’m Lucas Reynolds.”