Fire and Ice (4 page)

It was still dark when I opened my eyes. I was still half asleep, but it only took a minute to remember who I'd been dreaming of. Adrius. He was hard to ignore even though part of me felt like I should. All of the warm and fuzzy feelings evaporated when I remembered where I was — Great Aunt Camilla's spare room. And a second later the sick feeling washed over me as I remembered what day it was. My seventeenth birthday, and the worst day in the history of my life.

“Lorelei, you're going to be late!” Camilla's voice shrilled from down the hall.

“I'm up, Aunt Camilla,” I croaked, stumbling out of bed. “So is half the neighborhood now, so thanks.” I said that part to myself. It was way too early for a verbal sparring match.

When I opened the door of the closet that passed for my bedroom, the smell of coffee and toast drifted in, momentarily disguising the usual musty bouquet.

Camilla's old stone house stood in the midst of a weed-infested acre of land. The whole house leaned slightly to one side. If she was aware of the fact that it looked like it was falling down, she never let on, and whenever I mentioned it, she rolled her eyes. No one else would have commented on it, since the people of Drearyton Cove rarely noticed anything unless it affected them directly. They suffered from a curious
lack
of curiosity for a small town. Truthfully, I don't think anyone cared enough to notice. But I noticed. It was yet another depressing point filed under
why I loathe this house
. Given the fact that it was over a hundred years old and nearly falling down, I'd compiled an impressive list. As if the constant dampness and 1940's decor weren't bad enough, staying with her was the worst. Camilla hated me. Not the exaggerated, overly dramatic meaning of the word, but the literal, Webster's dictionary definition. I looked it up — `
intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury; extreme dislike, antipathy, loathing.
' That pretty much summed it up. I had no idea why I rated such strong negative emotion, but the feeling was definitely mutual.

I wandered to the window and frowned at the gray sky, before flopping back down on the bed. The last thing I felt like doing was getting up to face this day. Groaning, I dragged the faded quilt up over my head and tried to gauge how much trouble I'd be in if I ditched.

The distant ringing of the phone served as a second alarm. I glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. I was going to be late. School uniforms were a blessing on mornings like these — mornings where it was almost impossible to drag myself out of bed and face one more day at Drearyton Collegiate High, much less pull together an outfit to do it in.

Fishing around in my dresser I found a small book of matches and a birthday candle. The really tall spiral kind you use on kid's birthday cakes. This one was purple, burned down to half its original size. I'd had it for every birthday I can remember. Striking a match, I lit it and closed my eyes, whispering, “I wish that today will be different.” I blew it out quickly, before the sulfur smell had Camilla accusing me of smoking again. The tiny blue flame flickered in protest and then went out. It was a silly tradition, but I'd been raised on silly traditions, and they were one of the few things I had left from my time with Gran. That and her archives of herbal remedies.

I slipped into the pleated plaid miniskirt, white shirt, and long black socks, and added one accessory that set me apart from the crowd. Gran's knee high boots with worn black leather that laced up the front. When I'd found them in the back of her closet, Gran had said they were so old they were new again. But I didn't care. They were hers and that made them a priceless gift.

Camilla's voice was muffled as I shuffled down the hall, dodging the rusty bucket positioned to catch the water dripping from the leaky roof. She was barking into the phone, sounding more irate than usual, and her voice was rising.

“I don't care what you've found in there. There is no way I'm coming into that city of miscreants for anything that has to do with her, you hear me? …Well, you go right ahead and call them. I'll tell them the same thing I'm telling you!”

I wandered past her into the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards for a mug that wasn't spotted with rust stains. Camilla was not in the habit of throwing anything away. Her entire house was a sad testament to that fact, but nowhere was it more evident than in the kitchen.

With a sigh, I selected a dejected plain brown mug with the fewest spots. The chipped handle scratched my finger when I picked it up, like the nip of a small animal defending itself. I poured some coffee and glanced curiously at Camilla. She seldom received phone calls, much less those that caused her to shout. She was more of the quiet disapproving type, frowning down her judgmental pinched nose at everyone and everything. According to the clock on the stove it wasn't even eight yet… way too early for any sort of business call.

I dumped two heaping teaspoons of sugar into my cup. Instinctively, I checked to be sure she wasn't watching. It was a rare gift not having her breathing down my neck in the morning. I could have a second cup of coffee, maybe two blueberry muffins — it was my birthday after all — instead of our daily grudging exchange. I could bolt without having to talk to her at all. Yet, something inexplicably held me there. Standing at the edge of the kitchen I leaned against the wall, listening and scanning the décor. It pretty much consisted of bare walls, mismatched furniture the thrift store would have rejected, and floors carpeted in varying hues of Muppet-like shag.

I wove my way through the living room, past the piles of dust-covered books; books I'm convinced no one has read for decades. Somehow, nothing seemed as it usually did. The curtains were still closed. Camilla always threw open the curtains in every room, including mine, first thing in the morning. And all of the lights were on. The lights were
never
on. Mom called her frugal, but really, she hated giving her money to the electric company.

Without being obvious, I strained to hear as much of the heated conversation as I could while making my way to the bathroom. The light hummed, and wavered when I flicked it on, before settling into a soft yellow glow. My pale reflection stared back at me, and I made a face.

You know that girl that has the great life, the great guy, and the great hair… I was so
not
that girl. It took effort to yank the wire bristles through the long waves of my hair because of how thick it was. In this light, it cast an unusual shade, like bittersweet chocolate with reddish highlights. I liked that better. Score one point for Camilla's place… superior bathroom lighting.

Old dentures, an empty tube of denture paste, a jar of cold cream, assorted hair curlers. Camilla would never be accused of being a vain woman; she saw no need to hide the deep wrinkles that lined her weathered face, or to `paint herself up like a harlot' like I apparently did when I wore pink gloss. She was a small woman, petite and finely boned, with the ferocity of a pit bull. Although I had no idea how old she actually was, I saw a disturbing amalgam of a forty-year-old mind trapped in a two-hundred-year-old body.

She was still snarling into the phone when I returned to the living room.

“You tell them that I will not allow it. Clearly you do not know who you're talking to. I am not one of them. That property belongs to me and I alone decide what happens to it… Absolutely not! My decision is final.”

The only phone in the house sat on an old, roll top desk. Refusing to enter this century and buy a cordless meant she was chained in place like a wild guard dog, pacing a furious path in the shag. Next to it sat my laptop, completely out of place among the museum décor. There were times I would swear she used it while I was at school. Strange things went on with it when I came home; like freezing as though the CPU had run out of memory from over-browsing or excessive downloading. Okay, so logically, I knew it was highly unlikely the old woman even knew what the Internet was, much less how to surf it, but still, I wondered.

I nibbled on a muffin and perched on the pea-green, vinyl, circa 1950 kitchen chair. Chewing slowly, I forced myself to swallow. Maybe one muffin would be enough. Baking was not Camilla's forte. It was like she substituted sawdust for flour.

“No, I don't know the exact location, but that's what the maps are for now, aren't they? I assume you still have access to those.” She paused, grinding her crooked teeth. “The graves are all well-marked and are not to be disturbed under any circumstance. I don't care what they told you.”

A strange shiver ran through me.

“The dead cannot speak for themselves, Mr. Peterson. And I have nothing more to say.” The fact that the acid in her voice hadn't dissolved the receiver was miraculous.

“Of course, she's here. Where else would a girl be on a Monday morning? Lorelei, come here.”

I jumped, knocking my blueberry muffin to the floor. It landed with a thud, stirring the resting dust moats into a frenzy. I was the audience; I had no desire to actually play a part in this freakish drama. Steering clear of conflict had been a carefully honed skill of mine. I hated friction and quietly did as I pleased with or without consent.

Camilla shoved the phone toward me. “Well, take it. They want to talk to you.” She snapped with annoyance.

Stunned, I took the phone, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. “Who is it?”

“He'll explain all of that.”

“What does he want?”

“How should I well know? Just talk to him.”

“I really don't think—”

“Talk!”

“Hello?”

“Lorelei? Hello. My name is Howard. Howard Peterson.”

“Um, hi.”

“Did your great aunt apprise you of what is taking place?”

“No, she didn't.”

“Well, there is a great deal of paperwork that needs attending to for starters, and we are going to need you both to come to Ridgetown as soon as possible.”

My stomach tightened and I found it hard to disguise the revulsion I felt. “Ridgetown? That's two days' drive.” Seriously. Forty-eight hours trapped in a small vehicle with Camilla and no witnesses? Did this guy have any idea what he was asking? “I don't see how I could fit in a trip like that, Mr. Peterson. I mean, I have classes… finals. I can't just take off.”

“I understand your situation… better than you can imagine.” He was turning on the charm the way political candidates do when they discover you're old enough to vote. “We met years ago, Lorelei — you wouldn't remember, of course. You were a child. But I remember you well.” He chuckled softly. “You have your mother's smile, and, if I remember, her weakness for bad ideas. I seem to recall an incident involving some paper wings and the roof of a neighbor's barn.” He chuckled more. “How old are you? Seventeen now?”

Every muscle stiffened. I didn't want to talk about my mother, least of all with him. Something about him seemed wrong. It wasn't so much what he said, but the way he spoke that was unsettling.

“I'm sorry… who did you say you were again?”

“Howard Peterson,” he repeated loudly, emphasizing each syllable in the slightly condescending way people did when talking to someone learning English. “I'm an attorney with Peterson, Dunkerly, and Associates. I'm also aware of your mother's previous medical condition.”

I froze. No one had spoken of my mom's condition in years. It had completely disappeared before Gran died. She went from perfect health to death's door and no one could find the reason why. Doctors couldn't help her and neither could my gifts. In the end it was Gran who brought her back from the brink of death, with a special blend of herbs. All I remember is that it took a long time to prepare and she made several trips into the forest behind our school. Gran used to be the town's unofficial apothecary. And the Lemon Balm was her clinic.

“As I mentioned, I've known all about your… family, for quite some time.”

This time it was
what
he said. And the way he paused before saying
family
. What was up with that?

“Well, Mr. Peterson…” An icy tone formed in my voice. “I think my great aunt has already answered your questions and told you her decision. So I don't know what you want with me.” It was getting late and I was losing my patience. Camilla had shuffled down the hall to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. It might not have been deliberate since every door in that house slammed shut with the slightest push.

“Lorelei, you have to get her to come here.” The carefully constructed charm had been replaced by a high pressure pitch. “It is of the utmost importance. Nothing can be resolved over the telephone; it's too delicate a situation.”

“What is it exactly that needs to be resolved?” If I was going to be dragged into something, I deserved to know what.

“I can't discuss that with you now. It must be in person.”

Figures
, I sighed, shaking my head in disbelief. “So you want me to get Camilla to Ridgetown? How exactly do you expect me to do that? You may not have noticed, but she can be pretty stubborn when she makes up her mind about something. And I doubt a road trip with me is going to rank high on her must-do list.”

“Now listen carefully, you have to do this. You owe this to your parents… and to your grandmother. She was a believer.”

A believer? In what?
“Well, even if Camilla decides to go to Ridgetown, it's not likely she'll ask me to go with her.”

“Offer,” he said simply. “You need to be there also.”

“But…”

“I have to go.” His amicable business-like tone was gone and he was all secret-agent… “I'll be in touch with the details.”

The phone went dead. I stood rooted in place, receiver pressed to my ear, trying to process over the hum of the dial tone.