“Hey, Nick. It’s me,” I whisper, turning slowly in a circle, looking for predators. “I’m near BBS by the tracks, running. I think . . . I hear something. Okay. Yeah. I’m going to check it out. If I don’t call again, I’m probably dead or something. Yeah. Right. Bye.”
Mrmph.
I slink forward across the crunchy whiteness, cautious, looking up into the branches of the trees to make sure nothing is waiting to jump down and attack. I’m being paranoid, I know, but a lack of paranoia can be hazardous to your health. I start thinking about phobias. It’s my thing. I chant them to make me less nervous.
Albuminurophobia, fear of kidney disease.
Philemaphobia or philematophobia, fear of kissing.
Genuphobia, fear of knees.
It’s not helping. I’m in about twenty feet when I spot the source of the noise. It’s a guy. He’s tied up to a big spruce tree. He’s blond. There’s duct tape over his mouth, and barbed wire wrapped around his body. The only thing that’s keeping him upright is the wire and what’s left of his will, I guess. The pixies have almost killed him.
Unless he’s the pixie. Maybe he’s the one Nick had the run-in with, but Nick wouldn’t just tie him up and leave him here, would he?
The answer: maybe.
My stomach falls. The guy’s eyes plead with me. He looks like he’s about to die. Pixie or not, I run toward him. I rip off my gloves. They flop on the ground near his feet, a puddle of blackness by his leather boots. It starts snowing down on us, big heavy waterfilled flakes the size of my thumb. I work on the wire, but it’s so cold that it stings my skin. I jump back. My fingers curl up, protecting themselves.
“Mrrphh . . . Mrr . . . ” His voice is desperate and matches the look in his green eyes. Somehow I know what he wants me to do.
I uncurl my fingers and reach up. “This might hurt.”
I feel bad ripping the tape off him, but I do it. I get my nail around an edge and yank. It comes off in a big sticky rush.
“Put your gloves on and then untie me.” His voice is low and has a slight accent that I don’t recognize. Almost Irish. Almost not. “Please. She is coming for—”
“Was it pixies? Did they do this to you? I saw the glitter. Or are you the pixie? I need to know.” Guilt rushes into me. I know they are evil but to see one so hurt, if he is one—okay, he probably is one, but it doesn’t matter. “I need to know if you’re still in danger.”
Every word he speaks seems to take incredible effort. His lips move so slowly. “What? She is . . . I am not prepared to die.”
“You won’t die.” I grab my gloves off the snow, shoving them on again. He’s a pixie, I know it, but I can’t just let him die. Something in my heart twinges for him. It would be awful to be here, tied to a tree, waiting to die. “If you promise not to hurt me, I promise I won’t let you die.”
“I am attempting not to, but if she comes, then—”
I’m yanking at the wire when his voice breaks off.
“Watch out!” he manages to yell.
I whirl around. A glove drops. The other is barely halfway on. A woman stands in front of me. She’s tiny but beautiful, with long, flowing black hair and dark skin. I think I gasp.
“Please, do not let her take me,” he whispers as I back up.
“I won’t.” I’m not sure how I’m going to keep that promise. There’s something menacing about her. And yes, it might be because she has this armored breastplate thing over her dark green velvety dress, but it might be something else, like the scary-intense look in her eyes.
“You know I have to take you with me, warrior.” Her voice is strong. Her eyes flash. She steps forward. Her hands are slender and delicate but they somehow look absolutely deadly.
I put up my own somewhat wimpy arms. “Hold on a second. Time-out. Okay?”
She smirks. “Are you attempting to stop me, little one?”
“Excuse me? Did you just call me ‘little one’? What are you? Like, four feet tall?” I ask. My temper comes through, turning my voice a little bitter.
The guy behind me gasps. “Do not.”
The woman just smiles and takes another step forward. “It is my sacred duty to take the fallen warriors with me.”
“With you where?” I scoop up the glove and step back so I can start working on his wire again. I do it like I’m so casual, like my heart isn’t beating eighteen hundred beats a minute or anything, like this woman doesn’t have tiny little fangs sticking out on her lip.
“Valhalla.”
I search my brain. Devyn’s been telling me about myths, and I think he mentioned that word before. The data doesn’t totally compute and I go, “Valhalla? As in all that Norse myth stuff? It is Norse, right? The god Odin? Is that the one?”
She rushes forward. Claws form where fingers should be. One tips into the flesh of my cheek. It cuts my skin. Her eyes stare into mine, cold and harsh. Snowflakes land on her eyelashes.
“Do you dare speak his name, human?” she says, with all this confidence and menace. “You are puny and helpless against one such as he.”
The prick of her claw seems to resonate all the way through me. It feels like something fundamental inside has shifted. Dizziness threatens but I struggle to keep it down and look away from her and stare instead at the captive guy. I keep working at the wire. It’s a knot. I’m good with knots, though. I don’t move my cheek away. I won’t show fear. “Whose name? Odin?”
Finally the knot comes undone. I yank at the wire and the pixie guy falls forward. I leap and catch him. He struggles to stay upright, leaning into my side. Both my arms wrap around his chest. The snow crunches beneath us. The trees around us sway with the wind.
The woman hisses, then sniffs the air. The world is chill and gray and without color. She looks at me accusingly. “You are not human.”
I struggle to keep the guy steady. “Of course I’m human.”
Her eyes narrow a little bit. “No . . . not all.” Her features form into a mask of disgust. “You are a halfling.”
The guy gets a little bit rigid and starts to shake. Our feet shuffle in the snow as I try to keep him upright. I lean him a little against the hard, rumpled bark of the tree.
“Whatever.” I pull in a deep breath, try to ignore the claws and the fangs, and think about the knife tucked into my sock. I’d have to drop the guy to get it out. My mind is working overtime trying to figure out how to be casual about it. I keep talking. “My point is that you can’t take him.”