Carrie Jones - Entice

“Read the chapter again. It seems too easy,” he suggests.

I read it again. Then I read it another time. I read it as we go from barren trees to snow-covered ones. I read it as we go north and as the sun rises and the snow falls. It’s seven thirty a.m. and a whole new day has begun.

“This is all assuming that Bedford is the place that they speak of. The place where the end of the world will begin,” he says, then sighs. He brushes hair off his forehead.

“I think that’s safe to assume.” I laugh and my wound spasms. “Although, maybe not. Maybe there are multiple places where it can happen. I mean, the Vikings came over to the New World, but I think all the Poetic Edda was before that-or maybe not… I don’t know, but we should try Bedford first, because it’s the closest.”

I cringe again.

“Are you hurting?”

I lie and tell him no and then riff on how cold Bedford is, how there seems to be a ridiculously large concentration of pixies and weres there, how he himself suggested it a while ago.

I tell him all this stuff and then I fall quickly, promptly, soundly asleep. I dream of sitting in the middle of a road. Nick stands over me. Snowflakes dot his beautiful dark hair. He reaches down and hauls me up as if I weigh nothing, as if I am a body of air and feathers, which I’m not. I’m runner solid, small but muscled. Sort of. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he is in a dangerous place.

“What are you doing?” I demand. “You’re not here. You’re in Valhalla.”

I don’t move away, though. I don’t move away because his hands are solid against my hips, keeping me standing up. His hands stay there, but then he starts to fade… He’s fading… and I’m grabbing toward him, but there’s nothing to grab… just air.

“I could hear the danger coming.” His voice enters the night. “I can hear it now, Zara. It’s coming…”

I wake up to the deep, loud horn of a logging truck.

Astley glares at the tail end of the truck, the cutoff trunks of trees, all prone, helpless, and dead. “I could kill him for waking you.”

“It’s okay.” I wave his anger away. It seems too much, too intense. I swallow and attempt normalcy. “I should be keeping you company. Where are we?”

“Maine. Almost to Bangor.” He eyes me and swings into the passing lane. “How are you feeling?”

I lift up my hand from where it has been resting against my wound. There is blood on it. “Fine. Psyched about the book still, you know?”

There is a big pause, and then I fill it with, “It’s nice that your mother gave us the book.”

“You said you had to threaten her.”

“True,” I say. “But she could have tried to kill me and she didn’t, so that’s a bonus point for her.”

He doesn’t answer, just nods and drives. We sit there in a happy sort of silence all the way back to Betty’s house. I don’t think about my dream once, or about how crazy Astley was back in New York. Okay, that’s a lie. But I don’t obsess about it, which I think is a positive forward movement in my psychological development.

When we pull up into the driveway, there’s just my mom’s rental car and Betty’s truck waiting for us. I try to shore myself up with a deep breath, but it sends pain through my chest and actually makes me shakier.

Astley studies me before he opens the door. “Are you certain you are prepared for this?”

“Yep.”

“And you can face them?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll walk you to the porch.”

“You don’t have-”

He jumps out of the car and swings around to my side, opening the door for me before I can protest anymore. We walk across the snowy driveway, leaving a little gold glitter trail behind us. Each step I take is half excited and half worried. Pain ripples through my chest.

“They are going to be so mad at me,” I whisper as I slip a bit on the ice.

He grabs my elbow, steadying me. “Most likely.”

It’s my mother who throws open the door. She hasn’t put on her makeup or done her hair. She’s wearing one of Betty’s big green fleece jackets that zip up the middle. Her breath hauls in sharply and she shakes her head, tears in her eyes.

“Some days I think I might kill you, Zara White,” she sputters. But it’s not that much of a threat, because she’s crying.

“It’s been tried. I’m kind of hard to kill.” I gesture toward my gunshot wound.

She gasps/chokes/laughs. She almost hugs me and then stops herself. Something inside of me hitches and breaks.

She doesn’t notice. She just says, “Thank God… Thank God for that.”

Betty comes out of the kitchen carrying an armful of wood. She raises just one eyebrow and half smiles. No lectures from her. She knows that we headstrong types have to be left alone to do what we have to do. Instead she just says, “Well, well, well. How are you feeling, missy?”

“Okay,” I say. “Actually, good. Astley and I found out-”

“Zara!” Betty hustles over, dropping her wood on the floor. It bangs and clangs. My mother steps backward. Her hand shakes as she raises it up and covers her mouth.

“What?” I ask, panicked. No one answers. “What?”

I have no idea what’s going on. I glance behind me for Astley. He’s out on the porch still, looking clueless as well. Maybe I’m blue? Maybe there’s a bug on my face? I don’t know.

“You’re bleeding through,” Betty announces, ripping off my jacket. “Sit. Sit!”

I sit on the hardwood floor right by the stairs because she’s freaking out so much and I’m too stunned to argue. Cold air comes in. The stairs look high from this angle. The world actually seems a little tilted.

“Get gauze,” she orders my mother.

My mother stands there. Then she does a typical my-mother thing. She folds, just crumples to the floor, passing out. Her head hits the coffee table going down. The whack of it rings out.

“Mom!” I lurch toward her, scuttling along the floor.

“You. Stay. Still,” Betty orders. She cusses and says through the still-open door, “Pixie, come in! But if you try anything or ever try anything, I swear to whatever gods you cursed things believe in that I will rip you end to end.”

He starts but then stops himself just at the threshold. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, damn it, I’m certain. Get your fool self in here and help, but don’t make me kill you!”

Astley enters. He shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t react to Betty’s threat. I guess he is used to threats by now, used to death and pain and terror. He meets her eyes and says, “Where’s the gauze?”

“My med kit. By the door.” She almost smiles at me. “I’ll give him one thing. He moves fast. Calm in a crisis.”

“That’s two things,” I correct as she lifts my bloody shirt.

“Oh, I see you are still your witty self,” she says and then directs Astley. He gives her stitching thread and gauze and some sort of tool. He puts ice on my mother’s head. Betty explains she’ll be fine. It’s a slight concussion, not a subdural whatever that is.

“She used to pass out all the time when she was young,” Betty says as the needle pierces my skin, pulling my wound together by tension and force. “Can’t stand blood. Can’t believe she works in a hospital.”

I sometimes can’t believe that either, but she’s an administrator, not a nurse or a doctor or even an X-ray technician. My mother’s face is pale and drawn. Creases make homes beneath her eyes. Just seeing her feels bad to me, makes me ache for a life she could have had-a life without pixies or pain, without a dead husband or a turned daughter.

Astley lifts her up and puts her on the couch. She’s groggy but wakes enough so that she can still glare at him and mumble, “Don’t touch me, pixie. This is your fault. All of this.”