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.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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.
I feel numb, sitting in the house alone, staring at the flames in the fireplace. I’m not sure what weighs me down more—the fact that Kai got away, or seeing a man, bleeding, naked, and innocent-looking, where a monster had been.
And not just any man. I recognized him, his red hair, his cheekbones. He’s the one from Grandma Dalia’s photo, the one who was at her funeral.
Did she love him? Did she know he became a…
I close my eyes.
I lie down on the couch to settle my churning stomach, though the position does little to stop the nausea or the weight of the afternoon from replaying in my head for hours. Could I have done more? I saw him. Kai saw me; he was right there. Am I angrier at him, or myself? Does one of us not love the other enough to overcome Mora’s spell?
It starts to rain—thick, fat drops that make the world feel even more miserable. I love Kai enough. I always thought he loved me enough. Am I wrong? The prospect is crushing, the weight of years and dreams bearing down on me until I feel I’ll crumble. What if I was wrong all along? He doesn’t love me, not the way I love him. Not completely.
And yet here I am, looking for him, wanting him, needing him.
I jump when I hear the door open and realize it’s nearly eight o’clock—my jeans are still soaked from snow, and I haven’t even taken my shoes off. Ella and Lucas walk in, looking tired. Her hair is wet from the storm, and she’s shivering. And Lucas… Lucas is furious.
“You’re all right?” he asks me, voice gentler than the lines on his face. I nod, and he continues. “Ella’s
