Bitter Frost Page 2

  “I don't want to be a slut like Elizabeth Macneal,” said Hannah.

  “Big Mac's only a slut because she's fat,” Clariss decided, as if this logic were entirely sound.

  I tried to shut out their voices – squeaky, high-pitched sounds.

  And then I saw the goblin again. It was smaller, this time, perched on the edge of Clariss and Hannah's bench, snarling at them like an angry dog. It stuck out a sharp talon and started sniffing.

  It was real this time. I blinked – and it was still there, opening its mouth and aiming precisely at Hannah's hand...

  “Stop it!” I cried, and tried to swat the goblin away. “Go away!”

  Before I could collide with it, the goblin vanished, and my hand instead hit Clariss square in the arm. The bottle of perfume she was holding dropped to the floor and shattered, the sticky-sweet smell of expensive scent flooding the locker room, combining with the smell of shampoo.

  “What are you doing?” shrieked Clariss. “Are you crazy?”

  “Yeah, what the hell, Tree?” Hannah echoed her.

  I felt a pair of hands shove me into the lockers. “That was Chanel No. 5, you dumb bitch!”

  “Crazy hippie,” said Hannah – as usual, her echoes only a few nanoseconds too late to be anything but pathetic imitation.

  I was surrounded by them – like a caged animal. Hannah and Clariss were joined by the rest of their coterie – Ali Walsh, Cassia Barraclough, and Jo Murphy, all of whom had decided that I had stepped out of line, and were to be punished.

  “Why don't you go draw some fairies,” Jo said, shaking out her auburn hair.

  “No wonder she always draws magical creatures,” said Cassi. “She doesn't have any real friends of her own.”

  “Maybe she can put a spell on someone,” Ali said, cackling as if she had achieved the height of wit, “make them be her friends.”

  They all started laughing, pointing, and joshing each other until at last I could stand it no longer. I pushed past them out into the hallway, my eyes stinging with the first hint of tears.

  “Enough,” I said to Logan at lunchtime. “I can't wait to graduate. If I get into art school, I'll be out of here – making my fortunes in Providence, Rhode Island.” My dream was to go to RISD – the Rhode Island School of Design and become an art director like my mother or a famous artist with my own art gallery.

  “Only a few more years,” said Logan. “Then you're free.”

  “Being a sophomore sucks,” I decided.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Not as bad as being a junior, though. College applications.”

  “Don't remind me,” I said. Logan was smart. He was already a junior although he was just a few months older than me. I had no doubt he would be accepted into any college he set his sights on.

  We caught sight of Clariss, Hannah, and the gang staring at us, passing around their whispers and their giggles.

  “What do you think they're saying?” Logan asked me.

  “The usual. Probably how hot you are, and wondering why you spend all your time with weirdoes like me instead of dating one of them.”

  “Don't be stupid,” said Logan. “They're probably talking about how gorgeous you are! It seems to me they’re just jealous of you.” He moved in closer as a student carrying a large tray nearly side-swept us. Our hands brushed. He glanced over at me for a second and said, “Bree, you’re perfect.”

  “Hah, that'd be the day,” I said. “Besides, what's this I hear about you asking Clariss?”

  “What?” Logan made a face. “Who told you that?”

  “I overheard Hannah telling Ali Walsh, Clariss was going with you. Somehow I figured I'd better do my fact-checking before jumping to conclusions.”

  “Check away,” said Logan. “The closest I've come to asking Clariss to the prom was when I was standing in front of her, listening to her talking about how much she wanted to go, but just couldn't find the right guy to go with...so I told her I wished her good luck, and walked away.”

  “Why didn't you go with her?” I was trying to sound nonchalant, but there was a bit of envy trickling into my voice. Clariss was, after all, the most beautiful girl in school. And Logan was the most gorgeous boy in school, although he was my best friend since whenever.

  “Because she didn't ask me,” said Logan. “I like a girl who isn't afraid to be herself, and ask me if she wants to go with me, instead of playing games.” He saw my face. “Besides, she's not my type.”

  “What is your type?”

  “Natural, down-to-earth,” he said, looking at me with a hint of a smile.

  Before I could respond, I hear a familiar lilt behind me. “Guys guys guys guys guys!” exclaimed Sandy, a tiny redhead with what seemed like a constellation of freckles dotting her nose. “Oh my God, guys!”

  “Yes, Sandy?”

  “They found Jared!”

  “Jared Dushev?” Logan stood up, looking concerned. Jared had been missing for about a week. We all assumed he'd been cutting class to go up to Portland for a Depeche Mode concert – it was the sort of thing Jared would do.

  “He was in the woods! Apparently they found him near the Love Shack, completely out of his mind – babbling so that nobody can understand him, covered in human bites!”

  “Oh my God – is he okay?”

  “Apparently he's lost a lot of blood. We don't know yet.”

  “Is it drugs?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Jared's into that sort of thing. But the bites...” Sandy shivered. “I don't like the woods; they're creepy. Ever since the wolf attack.”

  She dashed off, eager to check another name off her list of people to whom to gossip.

  “Things are sure strange around here,” I said to Logan. “First Jared – now, you know – I think I'm going crazy. Whatever I saw in the locker room...human bites...next thing I'll find out this whole town is haunted, like in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

  I tried to laugh off my worry, but Logan remained silent, his brow furrowed. He stared at me with quiet intensity, his dark brown eyes growing larger as they stared into mine. For a moment, I thought he looked frightening – as frightening as the morning's woods – even predatory.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “Nothing.” He smiled at last, and I could have sworn his teeth looked a hint sharper than was normal.

  I rubbed my head with my hands. I must be seeing things again, I thought. Time to get some sleep.

  Chapter 2

  But there was no sleep to be had for me. Instead, there was Algebra Class, followed at last by Art – the last class of the day, and a respite from the chaos and confusion the day had brought with it so far. Art was always my favorite class – I took such pleasure in losing myself on the canvas. There, I could bring out all the images I had seen in the most secret part of my soul, paint the moments and people and figures from my dreams, express myself more deeply and truly than I had ever been able to in any other medium. My paintings were filled with fairies and demons, pixies and goblins, satyrs. Even today, of all days, seemed somehow better, easier to deal with when I was painting. I painted the satyr that I thought I had seen – the goblin poised to take flight from the rooftop. Even if I was going crazy, I thought, at least it was improving my art. Plenty of artists were crazy, after all. Van Gogh had even cut off his own ear. I grimaced at the thought.

  After Algebra I met up with Logan again.

  “I've been thinking,” I said. “I think something's going on today – something big.”

  “Like your birthday,” he teased me. I smiled.

  “I mean – these things I've been seeing. First a satyr, then that goblin. Something's different about today. And I think we should find out what it all means.”

  “Your point being?”

  “Research, Logan.”

  “You want to research mythical beings? You're not going to find that in any library,” Logan laughed.

  “Actually,” I said. “I am. The library has a whole section of Greek my
ths, Egyptian myth, even English and Norse. Just because we're not going to find Pixie information in a natural history textbook doesn't mean they're not there somewhere.”

  “Myths aren't real,” said Logan. He did not meet my eyes.

  “Actually,” I said, acutely aware that I was putting on my nerd-voice (Logan rolled his eyes with a smile), “myths reflect centuries of oral tradition in non-literate as well as literate peoples – when it comes to the supernatural, there's no beating folklore.”

  “You sound like your mother,” Logan said with a grin. When it came to slightly pedantic discussions of myth, legend, and folklore, my mother could go on for hours. It was the reason my family had few friends in Gregory.

  So to the library we went, in search of information about the sort of creatures I had seen. There was little mention in the first book we tried, Bulfinch's Mythology, nor was there much help in any of the works about Norse mythology. We were ready to give up before I found relevant passages in Edward Causabon's The Great Book of Anglo-Saxon Folk and Legend: A Mythological Dictionary.

  “Wait, wait here,” I said. “Here's something.”

  Goblins. The book read. Mythical beings believed to have trickster powers – they are commonly cited as maintaining human form, albeit with minor exceptions (longer claws, pointed chins), and often used in mythology as a stand-in to represent minor demons. While goblins were widely understood as mischievous creatures, and somewhat malignant, they are rarely depicted as actively seeking to harm humans in the manner of, for example, the Pixie. For more, see PIXIES.

  “Hey, take a look at this,” I said. “Pixies...”

  Pixies. One of the most malevolent figures in English mythology, Pixies is understood as the counterparts of faeries. While the magic of the faeries is often cited as dangerous, even fatal for non-humans, faeries themselves are rarely understood as being evil or malicious in and of themselves; rather, they are depicted as belonging to an entirely separate world than that of human beings. Rather, Pixies – traditionally the enemies of either werewolves or vampires, depending on the source – are known for their malicious attacks on human beings, including but not limiting to severe bite marks that leave their victims with intense memory loss and a “touch of madness.” Pixies are depicted in a number of Old and Middle English sources, include “The Wyrd of the Wild,” “Skanner's Tale,” and several folk compendia from the early thirteenth century...

  “Whoa,” said Logan.

  “Severe bite marks that leave their victims with intense memory loss and a “touch of madness,” I repeated. “Sound familiar to you?” Then I stopped myself. “Wait,” I said. “This is stupid. Really stupid.”

  “You don't believe in Pixies, then?” asked Logan.

  “Of course not!” I said. “I'm not...I'm not Tree-na, okay? The stupid hippie who draws magical creatures out of Disney movies.”

  “I didn't say that,” Logan said softly.

  “It's just...” I sighed. “It's just those dreams I've been having. Every night. About fairyland – Feyland, they call it. And it's the most beautiful dream, every single night. And it feels so real. And if there are goblins, or satyrs, or pixies in the dream, well, they feel real, too. Look, I know it's stupid.”

  “I don't think it's stupid at all,” said Logan.

  “Maybe in another life,” I said. I groaned. “I should get home,” I said. “I have so much homework to finish.”

  “Not doing anything special for your birthday?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “My mother and I usually spend it at Baba Louie's – they've got the best ice cream in town. But she wasn't at home today when I got up, and she hasn't called me or texted me since.”

  “Your mother texts?” he snorted.

  “She likes to keep “modern,” I said. “But I haven't been able to reach her. Great,” I sighed. “Stood up by my own mother on my birthday. How pathetic is that?”

  “Not very,” he said. “I'm sure she'll be in touch. She probably had to rush to work or something.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said.

  “Let me tell you what,” said Logan. “Sweet sixteen is too special to celebrate alone. Let me come by and cook you some dinner. My childhood as a latchkey kid taught me some valuable cooking skills. And if your mom shows up, just text me and I'll cancel.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Logan; that's really sweet.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I like to cook. Especially for someone who can appreciate my culinary skills. And you, my dear, eat like a horse.”

  My voracious appetite was indeed the subject of many jokes on the part of my friends and family. (“Where does it all go?” my mother threw up her hands in despair).

  Feeling slightly better, I caught the late bus home – along with the kids who had stayed late for detention. I curled up against the window, glad that at least I had one friend with whom to celebrate the day. But I couldn't relax. Thoughts kept cropping up in my mind, images – the goblin, satyrs, Pixies...

  We passed by the Love Shack, the dilapidated old shack at the end of the woods that was, until the wolf attack on Francesca Kaminski six months ago, the most popular destination for young people to arrange beer-soaked trysts. I thought of Jared Dushev – babbling incoherently, covered in human bites...had a Pixie done this to him? Did Pixies even exist?

  And then I saw it, standing by the side of the road.

  I thought he was a hitchhiker at first, one of the backpackers that frequently hiked through Gregory on their way to Oregon. But then I got a closer look at him.

  He was tall – too tall, somehow, for his slender frame, so that he seemed to dangle down from his narrow, bony face. His cheekbones were high and pointy, triangulating down into a sharp, cruel chin. His hair was ashen blonde, and his eyes were green – a weird, neon color I had never seen before, too bright and strange to be natural. His hands – with long, snakish fingers, rested upon a sharp staff. Delano. The name came to me before I even had time to realize what I was seeing – and I recognized him, even as I had no idea who he was.

  The bus rolled on towards him.

  And then he turned to me. It seemed that the bus had stopped, or at least slowed – time itself was pouring out like molasses. I could see the nebulous color of his eyes twist and shift – first it had been green, now it morphed into yellow. He could see me. Through the foggy glass panel, through the bus, through the distance, he could see right into me. My heart started ricocheting around my ribcage.

  Breena.

  I heard a voice call my name, in a sound so high-pitched, so unearthly, that it could not have been human. The figure was ten yards off at least; I felt his call as a whisper in my ear.

  When I got off the bus I ran home, locking all the doors and windows behind me. I was out of breath, terrified. I tried to calm myself down – Pixies didn't exist, after all – Jared probably was experiencing the bad after-effects of an unfortunate drug trip. But how did he get those bite marks? The world of my dream seemed to be hovering parallel to reality, the tender fabric between the two fluttering aside – my dreams trickling into the world of day.

  “Hello!” I called out. Still nobody at home.

  I dialed my mother's office.

  “Raine Malloy's office?” the voice answered. It was my mother's secretary, Paula.

  “Hi, Paula; it's Bree. Do you know where my mother is?” She should have been home by now.

  “Oh, Bree, hi. Look, I'm really sorry, but your mother had to be called out of town on some really important business. I had to call her at six in the morning – she didn't want to wake you. Told me to tell you how sorry she is, and to wish you a very happy birthday. She'll be back soon. It was an emergency, trust me.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sure.” At least she had remembered. All the same, this didn't sound like her. Something was wrong.

  Worry knotted itself into my stomach.

  Suddenly I heard a loud rapping at the door. I jumped, thinking of the figure – the Pixie – I had see
n on the bus ride home. The Pixie that had seen me.

  The knocking came again. I couldn't breathe; panic seeped into me. Delano. The terror was instinctual, irrational – as if my soul understood somehow what my brain could not.

  The sound came again. Then the fumbling of the doorknob. I crept backwards, looking for something I can use as a weapon.

  Then I heard the voice.

  “Hey, Bree? Bree? Are you there? I've brought ice cream!”

  Relief flooded my veins. Logan. Of course.

  “Just a second!” I smoothed my hair, shaking all the worry out of me. How could I have been so stupid as to forget?

  “It's freezing out here!” Logan called. “Everything OK?”

  I went to answer the door.

  Chapter 3

  “I brought groceries,” said Logan, with a smile. “Your favorite tortilla bread, some chicken...” Before he could finish his sentence, however, I dragged him inside and locked the door.

  “What are you so paranoid about?” he asked me.

  “Nothing,” I said sharply. “It's stupid. Nothing.”

  “It doesn't sound like nothing.”

  “You'll think I'm stupid,” I said. I turned red. The rational, sensible, modern-day part of me could not believe that I was going into hysterics about perceived Pixies or theoretical fairies. Sixteen-year-old girls go into hysterics about math grades and prom dates, I thought (although that didn't seem like too enticing a prospect either), rather than hallucinate Pixies on the roadside.

  “I don't think you're stupid,” Logan said, taking my hands in his. “The only stupid thing is you getting upset and not talking to me about it.”

  “I think...” I sighed. “It's crazy, okay. But I think I saw the Pixie. On the road home – standing as the bus went by. I think he saw me.”

  Logan jerked up. “What did he look like?”

  “Pointy face – white skin, really white skin – and his eyes.”

  “What about his eyes?” He leaped to his feet.

  “Green, kind of. But yellow – sort of – you know glow-sticks that change color when you break them? Sort of like...”