Cold Spell

there, but the water tried to drown her. She went to her family’s home on Fifth Avenue to find it full of strangers. She went to her sister’s grave.

“How is it,” she mumbled to the gray headstone, “that you’re dead, and yet still the lucky one?”

Her current life was perhaps the strangest, this one that lurked between monstrous and perfect. Three lives, human, ocean girl, and this, forced together ever since the moment the boy kissed her. Three lives, three names. Too many for one girl, she thought, intertwining her fingers with Kai’s and leaning down to kiss him. He kissed her back hungrily, pulling her to his chest under the blankets.

“Tell me,” she whispered in his ear before biting it playfully. “What do you remember about your first life? Before I found you?”

“I remember…” Kai paused to think. “I remember a rooftop. I remember an old woman, and that our house was dark….” He shook his head. “Wait, is that real?”

“Who knows?” Mora said sweetly. “Here.” She stretched across him and tugged his violin case up onto the mattress. “Play me a song, darling?”

“What song?”

“Anything,” she said. “Do you remember any?”

“Maybe,” he said, removing the violin from the case. He fit it under his neck and dragged the bow across the strings. Mora winced as one squeaked loudly. That was the downside of changing them, turning them into something half-dark like herself. As their memories left, so did years of piano, violin, voice, or cello lessons. The raw talent remained, as did those few songs ingrained in their fingertips, but it was always a bit disappointing to hear them play so poorly compared with what they once were.

She relaxed as Kai found the notes, finally, then beckoned for Larson to come over. He obeyed, wrapping his arms around her just the way she taught him to. Mora closed her eyes and exhaled. They may lose their talent, but they’re mine, Mora told herself as Kai’s song continued, notes that made her heart feel long and tender. They’ll never love someone new. They’ll never leave me. She thought back to her sister’s grave, the way the acorns dug into her knees as she ran her fingers across the engraved death date.

In the hotel room, she looked outside at the storm-filled clouds and wondered if her sister could hear her. You weren’t the lucky one after all, Mora.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I wake up, disoriented, afraid for a moment—it takes a few breaths to remember why I’m not at home, then why I’m not in the car, then why I’m not at Lucas and Ella’s. I can hear the dull babble of the television in the adjacent room, and the sound of the elevators chiming beyond that. Is it four in the morning or four in the afternoon? I blink, a little dizzy, and peek through the blinds.

Four in the afternoon, as it’s still light out—I haven’t been asleep as long as it feels like I have. The roads are more crowded now, piles of dirty slush forming in the triangles of intersections. The horizon is bright and pink, nothing like the thick, white haze from earlier. It’s warmer. The snow is melting, however slowly. Mora and Kai are getting farther away.

I feel like I should spring from my bed, but instead I inhale. Relax. You’re no good to him without sleep, I say to myself in a voice with a cadence that reminds me of Grandma Dalia. I open my eyes, wrap the comforter around me, and step away from the window. The television is still on, muted; and the coffee I started earlier has gone cold. I reach in my bag for the cookbook, planning to flip through it absently while I work up enough hunger to warrant a trip to the McDonald’s across the street.

It’s not there—right. Still in the car, in the front seat. I jump in the shower instead, planning to grab the cookbook on my way to dinner at McDonald’s. A half hour later, I regret not completely drying my hair as I step through the lobby doors and a gust of frozen air sweeps around me. I fumble for the keys while I walk to the car—

The car.

A group of boys my age stand around it, wearing beaten T-shirts and pants that don’t fit right, with beads threaded into their hair. They laugh with one another, talking loudly, but I don’t understand the words or what language it is they’re speaking. They have the passenger-side door open, and one is leaning in, slowly dumping the contents of the car into the hands of another.

“Hey!” I shout, suddenly finding my voice. I don’t sound nearly as threatening as I’d like, but I run forward. They look up at me, like wild animals caught with a carcass. “That’s my car!” I snap. One of the boys—the one with woven bracelets up and down his arm—glances at the others.

And then, laughing, they turn and flee. Bracelets slides over the station wagon’s hood, another jumps out of the backseat, and they spring away as if this is a well-rehearsed musical number. Bracelets, I realize, is carrying something I care more about than the car—the cookbook. It’s tucked under his arm, with one of my sweaters and the bag of Grandma Dalia’s dimes. I run forward, still yelling, stumbling in the red heels.

I stoop and take them off, and when I look up I see the four jumping into a beaten and ugly RV. A boy with blond dreadlocks takes the driver’s seat, and, grinning, he starts the engine and moves the RV toward the McDonald’s exit. I yell again, and people are staring—not helping. I chuck the heels into the back of the car, slam the door shut, and then jump into the driver’s seat just as they run a red light and rumble out of sight.

No, no, no. I’m tired of people taking things from me.

I slam on the accelerator and squeal out of the parking lot. I feel blind, hot, as if someone else is living inside me. The light turns green again just in time for me to race after them—they’re ahead, far ahead, going slower than expected. I supposed getting pulled over is more trouble than it’s worth for them—probably for me, too, but that doesn’t stop me from squeezing through two yellow lights until I’m just behind them, passing feed stores and tractor dealerships as we leave town.

They speed up as the town fades behind us, and I follow suit. The RV kicks out black exhaust, and we weave around minivans full of offended-looking families. Go, go, go—I see the boy with dreadlocks staring at me in the side mirrors, his expression growing more and more concerned as it becomes clear I’m not letting up. I hear a tiny voice in my head, begging to know what I plan to do when we stop—fight them? Not hardly. I squash the voice. I don’t care about the voice.

The back of the RV is splashed with mud; two of the boys, Bracelets included, appear at the back window, staring at me as they relay information back to the driver. He cuts over suddenly, taking an exit. I almost miss it, but the station wagon handles better than the RV; I slide onto the exit ramp just in time, taking out a few of the bushes on the median in the process. Bracelets’s lips form a string of curse words in response.

Right off the ramp, and we’re on a tiny road now, one that becomes smaller and smaller as we travel. There’s nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide, nothing to do but rumble along behind them. I’m low on gas, and the adrenaline is wearing off—I’m chasing total strangers through the middle of Kentucky. But the cookbook, I need it, there’s still so much I haven’t looked at—

The road becomes even smaller, scarcely two lanes—the RV barely fits, and it skids on the ice, which is far more plentiful here. I see Bracelets on a cell phone, yelling at someone. He looks like a child suddenly, the cocky, arrogant look I saw when he was robbing my car gone, replaced by fear. It makes me feel strong, makes my eyes narrow. Trees are flying by, the setting sun bouncing off the snow, flashing at me—

The RV slows, and for a minute, I think they’re stopping, that I’ve won. But no, they’re turning on a different road, a drive, almost—I follow, squeezing my eyes shut as the car slides a little; suddenly, the tires can’t find traction. I mash the accelerator. They’re getting away, hurry, back out, hurry—

Faces in the rearview mirror—there are people behind me. Two men, wearing thick coats and strange hats, standing in my tire tracks. I cry out, remember the Fenris back in Nashville—this can’t be happening again. I try to veer to one side, overcorrecting in my frenzy. The car lurches and begins to tilt; the front corner tire lifts up off the ground. I flounder, locking my door as the men draw closer; in the distance, I see the boys stopping the RV,