Jackson Pearce - Cold Spell

Wind, sharp wind—wind I know. Wind I felt on the roof when it first started to snow three days ago, when Kai and I ran for the door. Wind that I felt as Grandma Dalia lay dying a few floors below. Ella meets my eyes—this is different from a normal cold. It’s oddly helpful to know I’m not the only one who feels the hate, the ice, the darkness in each gust. She shivers and, without speaking, we hurry forward.

It’s nearly impossible to run, and as we move the wind grows stronger. The snow turns sharp, little needles from the sky, and we’re forced to bow our heads to it. We find the alley Lucas vanished into, abandoning the desire to stay out of his sight. It wouldn’t matter, though; he’s gone. The alley is empty, the lids of trash cans being blown off and tossed around as the storm picks up. The snow thickens, and I glance back—we’re far from the car now, and most of the businesses we pass are either closed for the day or boarded up permanently.

Ella charges forward, and I see something in her eyes—panic. She runs, sliding, down the alley to the next cross street. I follow behind, my eyes darting to the roofs, the windows, behind the Dumpsters, certain that I’ll see Kai or…

“Lucas!” Ella shrieks, but it’s almost immediately lost in the air. I look up, but everything is white, as if our world is shrinking down to the size of an alley. She slides into the next cross street and stops so short I almost crash into her. I arrange my limbs, then follow her gaze to the storefront of an out-of-business deli.

It’s Lucas. His hair is slicked back by the wind, his eyes narrow and his back pressed against the plywood covering the deli’s door. And in the middle of the street, taking slow, deliberate steps, is a dark gray wolf.

It stares at him, ears pricked forward—there’s something less monster-like, more wolflike about it than the things I saw at the rest stop, and yet for that it’s all the more terrifying. The snow swirls around us as the wolf gets closer, closer—and I see someone is standing behind it.

It’s Mora.

There’s another wolf beside her, this one black, a total contrast to the way Mora herself looks. She’s wearing a sleek gown, silk and cornflower blue—I notice not only because she’s so beautiful, but because it doesn’t have sleeves; her skin, only a few shades pinker than the snow, is exposed. Yet Mora doesn’t seem fazed by the cold; her hair spirals in the wind, her eyes are hard like jewels, and for the first time, I’m completely, undeniably certain that Grandma Dalia got it right. That Mora is the Snow Queen.

A shot—a gunshot. I whirl around and see Ella holding a pink handgun in both hands, her head tilted to the side to aim. She’s not shaking; she’s angry. Mora spins to face us. Her face darkens when she sees me, and the wind grows even stronger as her mouth twists into a cruel sort of smile. I’m not sure what Ella was aiming at—one of the wolves or Mora?—but she missed, and a heavy stillness sweeps across all of us, a stall before chaos.

Ella fires again.

Everything happens at once. The gray wolf, the one nearest to Lucas, lifts up on its back legs and falls—Ella hit it. Mora roars, her fingers tightening into icy fists. Lucas is running; Ella is aiming at the black wolf, and something new, something dark is stumbling toward Mora. I don’t need to see his eyes to recognize the newcomer’s posture, the way he carries his hands, the way his head bows into the wind. I whisper his name. Kai’s chin lifts, and I see a sparkle of gold underneath his hooded sweatshirt as his eyes find mine.

Everything stops—at least, for me. Because for a moment, a small moment, he’s just Kai, and I’m just Ginny, and we’re in love forever. I know it with the kind of certainty that I know who my mother is, or where I live. I extend my hand toward him, certain love will break the spell, will draw him toward me.

He jolts backward. Mora—she’s beside him and has wrapped her fingers around his wrist. She’s yanking him away from me as if he’s a child, while the world grows colder. I lunge forward, but the wind is too strong—all I can do is bend over and march through the gale. I yell his name this time, scream it. My eyes are hot and my lungs feel as if they’re cracking with each breath, but he’s here, he’s alive, she—

The wind stops.

I fall forward, looking up just in time to see a silver car ease away down the street. Lucas is hacking, pounding against his chest as if he can’t breathe; Ella runs to him and falls into the snow beside him. I drop to my knees and bury my face in my gloved hands. He was here.

He was here, and I wasn’t strong enough to stop her.

“Ginny,” Ella says. I don’t look up. “Ginny,” Ella says, this time louder. “Ginny, go to the car and go back to our house. You know the way?”

“Yes, why—” I inhale sharply, stomach twisting. The gray wolf that Ella shot is dead, lying in the snow among an ever-growing plume of blood. But he’s also not a wolf anymore.

He’s a man.

Kai and I loved this book that we read in third grade, about a boy who befriended an Indian. One part in particular delighted us—when they became blood brothers. They cut themselves and touched the open wounds together so that their blood mingled, bonding them forever.

Of course, the idea of blood brothers was a lot more exciting before we were sitting in my bedroom, a pocketknife between us, looking equally green.

“Maybe you should cut my finger,” I said, “and I’ll cut yours.”

“I’m not sticking you with a knife!”

“How is it any different than me sticking myself with a knife?” I asked.

Kai didn’t answer but shifted uncomfortably. He looked from me to the knife and back again, then finally reached down and picked it up. “Maybe we shouldn’t do our palms,” he said. “Maybe something less… painful.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe…” He twisted his palm around, finally pointing to the soft spot on the back side of his hand between his thumb and forefinger. “What about there?”

I shrugged. “Okay. Wherever.”

Kai glared at me, held his breath, and then pushed the knife blade against his skin.

Six hours later, we finally left the emergency room. Kai had to get eight stitches, and I never got the chance to cut myself and complete the ceremony, since I was too busy screaming for Grandma Dalia. She blamed me, of course, and made Kai pudding for dinner.

The cut healed and turned into a thick scar with bumps along either side from the stitches. “All that,” Kai said, regarding it a few weeks later in the rose garden, “and we didn’t even finish the ceremony.”

“I should have cut myself,” I said, disappointed. “Before you went to the hospital.”

“No. Then we’d both have dumb scars,” he said, shrugging. But then his eyes met mine and sparkled, and I could tell we had the same idea.

Our blood never mingled, exactly, and we didn’t get to say “now we’re blood brothers for life” like the characters in the book. But I did drag a knife along my hand, cutting just enough to give me a scar that matched his—save the stitch marks. It hurt; when I cried, Kai ran home and got me a pudding cup.

“I’m so stupid,” I said when he got back. “Look.” I grabbed his hand and pulled it toward me—I’d cut my left hand; his scar was on his right. “They don’t match.”

“No,” he said quickly. “See?” He took my left hand with his right, interlacing our fingers. “They match perfectly.”

Kai was right—the line from his scar matched up to my cut, like a string wrapped around our hands, tying us together for life.