Bitter Frost Page 3

  “Stay right here.” Logan began marching, one by one, to the windows, checking that they were locked, closing the curtains. “Don't move – don't answer the door, no matter what.”

  I had expected him to tell me to stop worrying, that Pixies and fairies and magical creatures were only figments of my imagination. If anything, I had expected him at his most open-minded to cock his head and consider the possibility of supernatural fauna. I had not expected this.

  He came to me and held me closely, so closely I could smell that reassuring, familiar smell of musk and wood lingering on his neck. He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Feel safer?” he asked me. He had calmed down now, and felt more like the Logan I knew. My Logan.

  Of course, I thought to myself. He was just making me feel safe – making sure I knew he was protecting me. There was nothing to worry about at all.

  “Come on, let me make you some dinner,” said Logan. “Enough with the stress for one day.” He smiled. “I've got lots of options for you. Mexican tortillas with fajita chicken, Italian pasta with meatballs, or Chinese noodles with shrimp. I think we should eat them all. But save room for dessert – I've got a surprise for you.”

  “You're amazing.”

  “I'm average.” Logan shrugged. “Besides, it's your birthday. If I'd brought my guitar, I could have even sung you a song. And,” he added, “I believe you mentioned you'd finished your latest painting?”

  “You remembered!”

  “I don't suppose you're going to let me go without seeing it.”

  I blushed. “It's not that good...”

  “I'm sure it's excellent,” said Logan. “Come on – show it to me.”

  I brought the canvas down from the art studio upstairs. “See,” I said. “Mediocrity at its finest.” I was embarrassed, showing my pictures to Logan. His confidence in me, his faith and his trust, had the effect of making me want to live up to his expectations, no matter what. He thought I was a great artist – I wanted my paintings to be as great as he thought they were. I hoped whatever Logan saw in me was really there.

  “Bree Malloy,” said Logan, examining the canvas. “You are a genius.” It was a painting from the dream. They were always paintings from my dreams. Whenever I woke up from a particularly vivid evening in Feyland, whenever the lilting music of the fairy waltz had played too long and loud in my ears, I woke up with a desire, a craving to paint. The unreleased energy would haunt me all day – through school, through lunch, through the afternoons – until at last I would be unable to bear it a moment longer and would dash to my studio, feverishly painting from memory the images in my brain – the bared teeth of a Minotaur, the turrets and spires and minarets of the golden Summer Palace, the face, preternaturally beautiful, of a fairy prince with winter eyes...

  This one was of Kian. I had painted it a few nights ago – when the dreams had started getting stronger. He was a young man in this painting, strong and powerful, with cheekbones that glimmered like ivory and eyes fringed by dark lashes, that seemed to shine out of the painting, shine with a light that no oil on canvas could ever have rendered naturally. He was standing in a garden, ripe with orange-flowers and yellow blossoms, the tropical colors of the garden contrasting sharply with his cool, unblinking stare.

  “It's so realistic,” Logan added. I noticed that he was looking at the background – the landscape in which I had painted Kian – almost willing himself to ignore the details of the prince's face.

  “What's wrong?” I asked him.

  “Nothing,” he turned red.

  “Is the portrait all right?”

  He nodded, refusing to look at me. “Is that the guy from your dream?”

  “The man,” I said, defensive in spite of myself. “Yes, from my dream” My face fell. “You don't like it?”

  “No, it isn't that,” Logan said. “He's beautiful. Beautiful. It's just – the detail...you've an eye for details, Bree.” His voice sounded forced. “They're really – they're really lovingly done.” He sighed. “Come on, Bree, let's get some food. I vote that we start with a certain favorite delicacy of yours. Three guesses.”

  “What is it?”

  “What wakes you up in the morning, cools you off in the summer, and can only be found in your favorite chain coffee store?”

  “A caramel latte?!” I leaped up. I had not had one since May; Gregory didn't have one store (although the proposed woodland shopping mall, to my intense frustration, was due to get one), and my commitment to environmentally friendly behavior meant that I didn't want to waste the gas to drive all the way to neighboring Vanton.

  “I bought ice cream, coffee, and this weird syrupy-stuff from the corner shop.” He poked the canister suspiciously.

  “Let's try it,” I said, eager to let the subject of the paintings drop.

  It was not quite chain-store quality – it was messy, and our efforts rather stained the countertop I had just finished cleaning – but it was delicious. “Whipped cream on top!” I proclaimed, grabbing a canister from the pantry and foaming the top of the cup with a pyramid of whipped cream. I missed the cup slightly, accidentally aiming at Logan and getting whipped cream all over his shirt.

  “Nice going!” said Logan.

  “Oh, God, Logan,” I breathed, “I'm so sorry. That's your favorite shirt!”

  “Well, you should be,” he snapped, grabbing the canister from me. “You know why? Because now! Now! Now your shirt's going to get ruined too!” His mock-anger gave way to gleeful joy as he aimed the canister square at my face and started squeezing.

  “Gotcha!”

  “Not so fast!” And so we began chasing each other around the living room with the whipped cream canisters, laughing as we did so. The worries of the day were forgotten – at last we were relaxed, carefree, and normal. Pixies and fairies and Jared Dushev seemed far away as we joked and teased each other. We were kids – normal kids – having a food fight in a living room while my parents were out.

  At last we gave up (Logan having won a rather sound victory), and I went upstairs to change. “I can just wash my hair out in the sink,” I said, putting my head under the cool, refreshing water. Logan, meanwhile, had taken off his shirt to let it dry.

  “I bet Clariss just wishes you sat around shirtless in her house,” I said – and I cannot deny that I certainly allowed my glance to linger on his lean, taut muscles a few moments longer than would have been strictly friendly. Despite being in Oregon, Logan had a natural tan as though he spent a lot of time outdoors without a shirt. Not only had he grown taller in the last couple of years, but his frame had filled out – broad shoulders and chest down to a taut tapered stomach. Logan had a body any athlete would envy.

  “Yeah, well, I'd sure like to empty a canister of whipped cream in her face,” said Logan. “Maybe then she'd shut up.”

  “You really don't like her? Not even a little bit?”

  “Yeah, that's why I'm not going to prom with her. Because I'm desperately in love with her.”

  “No, seriously, Logan.”

  “Firstly, she's horrible to you, and I don't care if she looks like Keira Knightley, that's a deal-breaker. Secondly, she's really not that attractive. All that makeup, hair extensions, and straightener – I don't even know what she looks like under all that stuff. If she isn't confident enough to look like herself...”

  “You're like the perfect boy,” I said to Logan, coming over from my impromptu shower, my hair dripping all over the floorboards.

  “Not quite,” said Logan, and his smile darkened. For a moment, he looked unhappy. “Hey you, come here.”

  I grabbed a clean kitchen towel, wrapped it around my head, and sat beside him.

  He took the towel and started rubbing my hair dry. “You've still got some whipped cream – right there.” He gestured to a stray bit still clinging to the hairs beside my face. “Let me get it for you.” His hand stopped at my cheek, cupping it softly. I looked into his eyes – they were full of intensity, full of kindness.

&
nbsp; “I've had a great birthday,” I said, softly.

  “It's a pretty good day for me, too,” he said. His hand was still there. “Happy birthday, Bree...” His face came closer, ever more slowly, to mine.

  My heart began beating more quickly. “Yeah, you too,” I said instinctively, before realizing what I had just said. “I mean...”

  “Yeah...” His other hand found mine. I felt myself leaning forward, just slightly, my lips just inches from his...

  Suddenly there came a loud knock on the door.

  Something was wrong.

  It was a booming, vicious knock – the kind of knock that echoed through the house and seemed to make it shake.

  “Bree-na!” came a voice from outside. “Bree-na!” It was high-pitched, unearthly, terrifying. It was the Pixie's voice. Delano.

  Logan sprang up. “Go upstairs,” he said, roughly.

  “Logan, what's going...”

  “Don't argue with me – go!” He knew something. I could see it in his eyes, in the tautness of his muscles, in the fierce setting of his mouth.

  “Hide in the art studio. Lock the door, get on the floor, and don't. Move. Whatever you hear – whatever you think you hear – Don't. Move.”

  There was no time to argue. I ran.

  Chapter 4

  I could not breathe. I could hear the knocking get louder and louder downstairs, hear Logan rushing down, but I could not wrap my head around what was happening. “Logan!” I tried to cry out but my voice refused to listen to me, to make any sound at all; I choked. What was he doing? Whatever was down there – whatever thing – and I knew deep in my heart that it was the Pixie, Delano, the thing I had seen staring at me on the side of the road – it was surely nothing Logan could fight. He was just a boy, after all – strong, surely, muscular, certainly – but a human. Like me. He could not fight against some magical creature.

  And yet – what magical creature was there? Until this morning, I hadn't believed in magic at all; now, it was coming all too quickly.

  He had been so strong, so sure, Logan, I thought. He had taken control of the situation – he had believed everything I said, taken it seriously, then rushed me upstairs and had me lock myself in the art studio. Why? It was almost as if he had known what was going on, recognized the situation from what I was telling him, and determined that he would fight the Pixie.

  What did he know?

  The door flew open; I could hear the sound of a whistling wind swoop into the living room. It was the sound of a thunderstorm. My heart was beating faster now; terrified, I scrambled under the desk, covering my head with my hands. There was a loud crash.

  What was going on? Who was this thing – this Pixie? And what did it want with me?

  My eyes caught sight of the painting I had done of Kian, sitting back on the easel where I had replaced it, and my heart felt that same familiar longing – that same familiar familiarity. I felt as if there were something I had forgotten, some grave and important fact just slipping beyond the grasp of my brain, some key to all the answers of my dreams, of this whole strange day, that I knew – that I had always known – but just could not remember.

  And Kian's face was the key to it all.

  I closed my eyes tightly, my mind straying back to the world of my dreams.

  Come on...I whispered to myself. Come on, Breena, remember...

  Remember whatever it was I had forgotten.

  There came a great and terrifying howl from downstairs, the howl of a wolf, careening off the ceilings and the walls, echoing upwards so that it felt the howl was coming from directly behind me, from all around me. The floors of the art studio shook; the walls were vibrating. I could hear one set of plates crashing, then a vase – identify each sound as one thing, then the other, crashed, was destroyed. I could hear sounds of a struggle – great thumps followed by loud crashes, the sibilant hissing of the wind on all sides of me, seeping underneath the door, shaking at the lock.

  Make it stop...I cried. Just make it stop...

  And then at last it had stopped, and the silence that followed was worse than the fight itself. One way or another, it had finished, and I did not dare to get up, to go downstairs, to see one of them (oh, but which one?) lying dead upon the floorboards, and one of them standing before me.

  It didn't matter, I told myself, willing myself to be brave. If Logan had won, and sent the Pixie away, then he would need my help – washing the wounds, getting bandages...If Delano had won, then he would be coming upstairs to find me shortly...and the end result would be the same. I had to be brave.

  You are a princess, said a voice in my head. Be brave.

  Somewhere, somewhere far away, deeper than every plummet sound, I heard the melody of fairyland, that strange waltz from my dreams. It was playing for me. It was willing me to be brave.

  Slowly, I opened the door.

  I came downstairs, feeling sicker and sicker at each step. I did not want to see what had happened.

  The first thing that caught my eye was Logan. He was laying naked, unconscious, thrown upon the sofa. But he was breathing.

  I grabbed a blanket and ran to him, covering him up, without even the presence of mind to be embarrassed. He was hurt, and that was all that matter. I knew enough First Aid Training not to move him, nevertheless I shook him a bit, calling his name.

  “It's going to be okay, Logan.” I pressed my cheek to his heart. It was beating strongly, powerfully. He would be fine. “Listen to me – there's just a little wound, okay? Nothing too bad.” I grabbed the shirt he had taken off earlier, pressing it to the cut on his shoulder, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. “You'll be fine.”

  There was no sign of the Pixie. I relaxed, taking the first full breath I had taken since that terrible knocking first rapped on the door.

  I went to the window, checking the locks, making sure there was nothing lurking in the woods.

  And then the kitchen door flew open.

  He was taller than I had remembered; his face was bonier, his eyes even more yellow – the putrescent color of burning sulphur. But I remembered his smile from the bus well enough – that cruel, cold, evil smile that told me he could look upon me, and Logan, in full, clear knowledge of what exactly he planned to do to us, and feel no regret, no remorse, no hesitation.

  “Breena.” His mouth had not moved, but I heard his voice bearing down upon me, freezing the blood in my veins. “Come here, Breena.”

  His eyes remained fixed upon me.

  And then he was changing. He was beautiful, almost – and charming – his chin became less pointy – his eyes turned green again. Why, what had I been so afraid of, I felt myself wondering. He wasn't so bad at all. He was even handsome, with his outstretched hand, his long, ash-white hair. (And somewhere in the back of my mind a voice kept on screaming, kept on resisting, but I kept on moving forward anyway, hypnotized, entranced by his beauty, by those mesmerizing, morphing eyes...)

  Perhaps I could just go to him, just for a little while...

  Something stopped me. I felt a hand – a warm, strong hand – clamp around my mouth, another arm encircle my waist.

  “Logan?” I craned my neck, but Logan was still there, lying unconscious upon the sofa where I had left him, still breathing.

  Then who was behind me?

  I struggled, but the grip remained firm on my waist, pulling me backwards, away from the Pixie King, whose malicious eyes (for they were back to malicious, now) were still fixed upon me.

  I whipped my head around and gasped.

  I knew his face, knew his face better than I knew my own reflection. I had dreamed of it every night for sixteen years.

  It was Kian.

  He was more beautiful than I remembered – that I ever could have known. His hair was longer, now, and his skin was even more white – the color of the first snowy morning in wintertime. His eyes were the silvery-blue of a wolf pelt – I could have mixed a thousand colors together, but I would never have been able to paint his eyes a
s I saw them then, in all their evanescent beauty.

  And he was pulling me away.

  “Wait,” I said, pushing myself out of his grasp. “Wait – look – we can't leave Logan here.”

  But he kept on pulling me, floating backwards, up the stairs, towards the art studio.

  Prince or no prince, I wasn't about to leave Logan in the clutches of the Pixie King. “Let me go!” I cried, trying to loosen his vice grip upon me. I remembered the Kian from my dreams – soft and gentle, even loving. This wasn't right.

  “Let go of me!” I cried, but it had no effect. We were nearly at the studio now.

  Then I caught sight of the Pixie King. He wasn't any more keen on Kian taking me away than I was, and he had fitted his bow with a sleek, silver arrow, and was aiming it right at us.

  In a choice between the two of them, I still would have gone with Kian.

  “No!” I cried, but it was too late. He had already drawn his bow, his sinewy arms tensed up, ready to fire the arrow straight into my heart...

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a blur leaped upon the Pixie, knocking him to the ground. It was some kind of animal, I thought, but it was certainly bigger than any animal I had ever seen. Its fur was long and gray; it had endless claws, and huge teeth. It was like a wolf – but it wasn't a wolf. It was different, somehow – nobler – the way unicorns in Causabon's Mythography looked different from ordinary. The wolf had been touched by magic.

  The Pixie King leaped up again, ready to strike at the wolf, which in turn bared its teeth and snarled viciously. The two hurled themselves at each other, locked in battle, ready to fight to the kill...

  And then Kian starting pulling me back again, into the art studio, away from the wolf, away from the Pixie, inextricably bound in the struggle of death...

  He swept us backwards and the art studio door closed before us.

  And then the door vanished.

  I looked around us. We were in a forest – a great expanse of glittering trees, shimmering leaves. This was no ordinary forest.

  “Where are we?” I asked Kian, but somehow I already knew.