Jackson Pearce - Cold Spell

Her eyes widen. “Whew, look at Kentucky,” Flannery says, clucking her tongue. “We’re infested.”

“No kidding,” I say, glancing down at the state. The thick marker lines that separate the different packs converge on the state into a blob of black that looks foreboding even just in ink. I look up, squinting to see if Grandma Dalia left any notations in pencil that I somehow missed.

“Remind me,” Flannery says, folding her arms, “to move to Montana.” I look over and see that Montana doesn’t have any marker drawn through it. Few of the northern states do, really, save the Northeast—as if the Fenris prefer the raw heat down south.

“Weird,” I say. “All that forest? Seems like paradise for a Fenris.”

“No point living in paradise if there’s no food,” Flannery answers, and Keelin’s face races to my mind so quickly it unsettles my stomach. I let my eyes wander toward the three places expecting snowstorms—Illinois, Minnesota, and Wisconsin.

“All right, there’s that line about forests earlier on, right? And with it comes a lady, from the great wood, strong and bright ,” I sing off-key. “The biggest forests out of the three are in Minnesota or Wisconsin. I don’t think there are forests in Illinois—not ‘great’ ones anyway. And Minnesota and Wisconsin probably have more snow, too.”

“ She lives among the selchs and snow ,” Flannery says. She runs her finger along the map, toward the Great Lakes and along the edge of Minnesota and upper Wisconsin. “Water. Gotta be here, somewhere.”

“Do I want to know what the selchs are?” I ask.

“It’s what she used to be—that’s the story, anyhow. She was a selch, a water girl, and rose out to become Grohkta-Nap. That’s why she can control the snow—she controlled water for so long,” Flannery explains. “Dunno if it’s true, but either way. If her power comes from water and if she ‘lives among the selchs,’ she lives near a lake or river or something.”

“She talks like she used to be human, though,” I say, shaking my head.

“Maybe she was both. Don’t ask me,” Flannery says.

I look back at the map. Water, trees, a snowstorm in both places. I narrow my eyes, trying to see past Grandma Dalia’s black lines, but it’s impossible.

And then it hits me. I sit back, laughing under my breath that it’s taken me this long.

“What?” Flannery asks.

“We’re going to Minnesota,” I say. “Up in the north. Near Canada.”

“How’d you work that out?” Flannery says, folding her arms.

“This,” I say, tracing my finger along one of the thick lines that slices through the top of Wisconsin, then divides Minnesota in two, indicating that much of the area below belongs to the Mirror pack. “Mora’s running from the Fenris, right? This little corner, here,” I say, pointing at the northeast corner of Minnesota, on Lake Superior. “It’s the only place she’ll be safe from them. That area doesn’t belong to a single pack.”

“She could go farther north and get even farther away from them,” Flannery says. “Into Canada.”

“She could,” I admit. “So we need to hurry. Maybe she can get across the border, somehow, but there’s no way two girls in a stolen VW bus are making it over. But this is a start, anyway. We can go up through here,” I say, drawing my finger up the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin.

“And then what?” Flannery asks.

“And then we’re there.”

“No,” she says. “Then we’re on the edge of a huge fucking forest looking for a goddess. And besides, that route takes us straight through a mess of cities.”

“It’s the fastest.”

“People will see us. All sorts of people.”

“Like who?”

“Like cops. Other buffers. Government.”

“They’re not going to arrest us for driving through a city. Go the speed limit, signal. Don’t steal anything else. We’ll keep a low profile, won’t give them a reason to look twice at us.”

“Yeah, thing is,” Flannery begins, “I’m not saying this for convenience’s sake. I can’t get arrested. For starters, I have a record. But second off, my mother will be looking out for me in the papers. Waiting to see my mug shot, to figure out where I am. She’ll drag me back kicking and screaming. Or dead.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “I promise.”

“All right,” Flannery says, looking doubtful.

Hotels are excellent places to pull over, not because we can afford a room, but because they’ve got massive parking lots. This hotel, in upper Indiana, has been repainted poorly—all around the fake shutters, you can see where the stucco was once avocado green instead of creamy white. Flannery and I sit in the back of Wallace, rear doors open, watching traffic on the interstate fly by.

“How much gas do we have left?” I ask, flipping through the last of our money.

“Half a tank,” Flannery says somberly. “Used to be able to steal it, easy. Not anymore. Had to go make everything complicated by making you pay first.”

“Wonder why they did that,” I say. When I go to tuck the money into the cookbook—we figured it’d be safest there—Flannery’s knife flips out of the sheath on my hip for the third or fourth time today.

“Stop it,” Flannery says. “You’re gonna break the blade.”

“Here,” I say, sighing. As much as I like the idea of having it, we’re probably safer if it’s with Flannery anyhow. I take the sheath off and go to hand it to her.

“Keep it,” Flannery says. “I’ve got my own.” She reaches down her shirt, between her breasts, and pulls out a knife exactly like the one I have. “Part of a set,” she says. “I don’t much care for having one in each hand, though. Makes it hard to throw a punch.”

“How long have you had that on you?”

“Never take it off,” she says, shrugging.

“So you let me break into Callum’s RV and threaten you when you were wearing a knife the whole time?” I ask, and Flannery grins.

“Aw, don’t be mad! You looked menacing!” she says when I fold my arms. “Come on. Let me show you how to use a knife, at least. It’ll help in case you need to kidnap me again.”

It takes some convincing on Flannery’s part, especially since my pride is a little wounded. But a few minutes later, we’re standing outside, shivering every time the wind gusts through. Flannery has me start a few feet away from her, my back toward the open rear doors. She removes her knife and motions for me to do the same.

“All right,” Flannery says, flipping the knife and catching it squarely in her palm. “What do you already know?”

“About knife fighting?” She nods. “Nothing.” Flannery sighs and rolls her eyes at me.

“What can you do? Run? Jump? Are you super flexible?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Christ, Ginny. All right, here.” She reaches over and grabs my wrist, shaking it until I tense my muscles. “Hold it tight. But don’t treat it like it’s your hand or anything. Remember that it isn’t stuck in one spot. Yeah. Hold it tight but loose.”

I nod, as if I understand.

“So, the trick,” she says, “is to cut the other guy.”

“So I gathered,” I say, and she gives me an irritated look. “What? I mean, that’s pretty obvious. Isn’t there something more to it?”

“I’m getting there,” she says. “So, here. Try to cut me.”

“What? Right here?”

“What’s wrong with right here?”

“You’re afraid of getting arrested, but you want me to try to stab you in a hotel parking lot,” I point out. “What if someone sees us?”