Defy the Dark (27 page)

 

S
triding through the cottage, Dacey held her phone in front of her as she talked. She'd gone through the camera manual page by page, spent a very tedious hour wiping all the lenses down in exactly the right way, and then shot another hundred pictures of the gold-edged dusk. Every single one of them was smudged.

“No, that's what I'm telling you,” she said. “It doesn't matter where I go, the pictures are messed up. Right, I tried different locations. Yes.”

She stopped to peer at one of the window frames. She hadn't realized it before, but someone—perhaps the legendary Kristian—had carved roses into the wood. They bore faint traces of paint, red and gold and blue.

Trailing her fingers over them, Dacey warmed at the detail. She could imagine masculine hands carving into the wood. Almost see them, paint smeared and rough, filling in the little details with so much care . . .

The tech on the phone interrupted the thought. “And you're using it outside?”

“Um, yeah. My dad bought it
because
it was recommended for outdoor stuff.”

Dacey turned to grab the manual and stopped abruptly. It wasn't just that window—the room was full of rosemaling. Delicate curves and swirls framed all the doors and windows. The mantle matched, and so did the cupboard panels.

Suddenly, the cabin shifted. The distressed, faint streaks of paint turned vibrant. Gold poured into darkened outlines, glimmering in the light. The room swelled with color; thousands of hand-painted roses bloomed. Everything else faded—the furniture, even the light outside. A masculine scent hung in the air, musky and clean.

A cool touch raised the hair on Dacey's arms, and she distantly heard herself telling tech support that she didn't know
how
cold it was outside, just that it
was
.

“Are you wearing a scarf?” the tech asked.

The question broke the spell. Colors drained away, faded again.
Aged again,
her delirious brain insisted.

Rubbing a cold hand against her face, Dacey shook herself, catching up to the conversation she was trying to have. “I . . . no, what difference does it make?”

Gently, and surprisingly without condescension, the tech replied, “It's probably your breath. The flash reflects off the frost when you breathe. That's why you see it in
all
your photos.”

A blush crawled up the back of her neck, heat to drive away the lingering chill that had touched her skin. “I don't know what to say.”

“It's a common problem,” the tech said. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“No, that's all, thank you,” she said, and hung up without waiting for a reply. She kept waiting for the colors to come back, or the cold. Prickles raced on her skin again when she realized that the scent of musk still hung in the air.

Patting her face sharply, Dacey started for the bedroom. The insomnia was getting to her, obviously. She didn't like to take sleeping pills because they didn't work very well. Sure, they left her dreamlessly unconscious for a few hours. Afterward, she'd wake with a hangover, aching and tired. But sometimes it reset her brain enough that the hallucinations faded. Better exhausted and gorked out than exhausted and loony tunes.

She dug out a prescription bottle and swallowed a half tablet without water. Sprawling across the neatly made bed, she waited for sleep to claim her. Her fingers ran restlessly over the patches that made up the top of the quilt.

And then cold came over her again, when it was too late to do anything about it.

She hadn't made the bed! She hadn't turned it down the night before.
Someone's been in here,
she thought.
That's why I smelled cologne. Someone's been in here!

Panic swallowed her. Trying to claw back up from sleep, Dacey managed to pick up the card with the exchange counselor's phone number. But it fluttered to the floor when her woozy fingers refused to keep hold. She slumped onto the pillow and slept.

 

W
hen she opened her eyes, Dacey felt like she was made of lead. She blinked, and confusion set in.

The world had an upside-down kind of dream logic, little stars and sparks drifting around her. The flowers on the headboard opened bright petals, and when Dacey sat up, she realized she wasn't alone.

A boy stood at the windows, cradling a cup in his hands. He was finely built, lean and tight, his shoulders tapering to a perfect triangle at the narrow straits of his waist. His close-cropped hair was so pale that it reflected the palette of blues outside.

Dacey tried to throw herself out of bed, but the molasses weight of dreaming held her down. So instead, she demanded, “What are you doing in here?”

Hesitating, he formed his lips, then stopped. After gathering his thoughts, he said in accent-tinged English, “This is my cottage. I'm supposed to be here.”

Moonlight outlined his profile, glowing at the tuft of his brows and through the fine, silvery curve of his eyelashes. He had a strong nose, and a full mouth, and the slightest hint of transparency to him. Through the pale lavender part of his lips, Dacey could see the fence outside; the mountainous horizon traced a shadow on his cheek.

Relieved, Dacey fell back in bed.

“A dream. Oh, God. Thank God.” She laughed, a bubbly, delirious sound that spilled out of her and didn't stop when he came to sit beside her. Instead, she clapped a hand on his knee, which seemed substantial enough. “You're a salmon-egg omelet and half an Ambien.”

“What? You're talking out of your head,” he said. He held out the bowl-shaped cup in his hands. “Tea?”

The clean scent of well-steeped tea flooded Dacey's senses. Struggling against the strange weight of dreams, she finally managed to sit up. She swayed into him, her cheek skimming his shoulder, her hand accidentally slipping down his chest.

His leanness was all muscle, tight and sculpted beneath the rough fabric of his clothes. Warmth radiated from him; it slipped into her and slowly spread. Tipping her face up, she smiled and asked, “Are you a
dirty
dream? I don't usually have those about white boys.”

He pressed the cup into her hands. “You're the one; I've been waiting for you.”

Swirling a finger in the air, Dacey spoke between swallows of tea. “Kristian, right?”

“Yes—” he started.

Leaving the cup on the bedside table, Dacey sat up quickly. With a lunge, she grabbed two handfuls of his shirt and pulled him back with her. The bed rocked slightly; the headboard whispered against the wall. Kristian felt remarkably real, deliciously real.

But despite his seeming solidness, and all his perfect details, she saw the roof timbers through him. Plainly, faintly—but most definitely there.

He blinked at her, a mixture of surprise and wonder playing across his face. “I must be imagining you.”

“Fair enough—I'm dreaming you,” Dacey replied.

And she kissed him, so crazy bold she couldn't even believe herself. Until now, all of her kisses had been a little bit shy, a lot awkward, with real-life noses bumping and real-life teeth cracking together. But this wasn't real life, was it? It was an eerily lucid dream.

Considering all the bizarre tricks her mind played on her, Dacey figured she had a right to enjoy this one. Why not let a myth she heard over breakfast come true?

His mouth skimmed hers. He captured her and chased her, all with a part of his lips. The stars and lights in the room surged, as if controlled by the rush of her breath. Kristian was gentle, but his hands were rough-hard from work—building a cottage, carving it full of roses. His fingers tangled in her hair; his thumb smeared the full curve of her lip.

Everything had a strange, giddy glow to it, and his kisses left a trace of honey on her tongue. Before she could steal one more kiss, he disappeared. It wasn't subtle at all. One moment, he wasn't there.

He's buried on the hill behind the house,
the waiter's voice repeated.
In the pine trees.
Nothing but night air pressed against her. Breath shallow, she fell back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling.

“Kristian?” she called.

Of course, no one answered. Leave it to her stupid brain to come up with the perfect dream and the perfect way to destroy it. Nothing like a little bit of morbid reality to ruin the mood. Wrapping her arms around herself, Dacey sighed and sank into the pillows.

A cold trickle seeped through her hair. Jerking up, she slid back and stared. Kristian's cup had tipped onto the pillow, tea coursing through wrinkled bedding to get to her. It took just one thought—
I never could have imagined a detail like that—
to break the spell.

Actually, the dream.

“I'm awake,” Dacey said. And she threw herself out of bed.

 

W
rapped tight in her hoodie, Dacey followed Herr Velten, the exchange counselor, through the cottage.

“Someone turned down the bed last night, then made it this morning. And they left . . .” She gestured at the cup, still overturned on the pillow. “That. I've smelled cologne!”

Herr Velten frowned, tugging his own ear as he considered the bedroom. “I have a key and you have the guest key. No one else should be in here.”

“That's what I thought!” Dacey threw up a hand. “I didn't want to call the police but, you know, I don't feel very safe now.”

“It's just so strange.”

You're telling me,
Dacey thought.
You didn't try to kick it with a ghost.

But she kept the sarcasm to herself, especially when she glanced at the clock and realized it was approaching midnight. A taste of guilt ate at her, and she said, “I know it's late, and you probably want to get back to bed. Do you have another cottage available?”

Humming, Herr Velten knitted his snowy brows. He looked around, then hummed again, a thoughtful sound that lingered. Time seemed to slow as he considered this question, and Dacey found herself wanting to shake him.

Finally, he nodded. “Yes, but not until tomorrow night. There are boys in the other cottages.”

It was all Dacey could do to keep from blurting out that there was a boy in this one, too. Clasping her hands together, she shifted her weight from foot to foot. “There's nowhere in town or . . . ?”

“I'll lend you my dog,” he said.

Dacey stared at him. “Herr Velten, I don't want to be pushy or anything, but I just told you I thought somebody was in the cottage.”

Gently, he put a hand on her shoulder and pointed to the floor-to-ceiling windows. No, to the nearly pristine snow outside. It gleamed in the dark, crystalline and clean. “Two sets of footprints. Mine. Yours. No one else could be here.”

No one with a body,
Dacey thought uselessly. Since she wasn't prepared to say that out loud, she went with “Oh.”

“Is this your first time away from home?” Herr Velten asked. “Maybe you're a little nervous. A little jet-lagged.”

“Maybe,” she said.

With a smile, Herr Velten gestured for her to follow. “Take my dog. You'll like Skadi. She's very loyal. Very warm on the feet, too, if you enjoy that sort of thing. And she barks like mad when someone comes in the house. If there's an intruder, she'll scare him away.”

Dacey wavered. She'd never had a pet before; her dad was allergic. It would be kind of cool to borrow a dog . . . but it really didn't fix the problem, and that was, this cottage was haunted. Or something. “There's really nowhere in town?”

“It's
Nordlysfestivalen
, and the film festival is starting, too. I doubt there's a room to be had.”

Inwardly, Dacey groaned. She knew about the aurora celebration; actually, she knew about the film festival, too. She'd read about them in the binder. She was probably supposed to be enjoying them.

“Miss Shen?”

She looked around, her gaze falling on the camera. The only reason her parents had agreed to this was for the extracurricular value. Because she'd promised to create a photo-essay to add to her journalism portfolio. She had to go back with something—even if it
was
more travel legends.

Swallowing her nerves, Dacey nodded. “All right. I'll take the dog.”

“And we'll get you moved tomorrow night,” he agreed.

With a wave, he headed out the door—off to fetch a dog Dacey didn't know what to do with. Worse, leaving her alone in a cabin that had gone cold from the open doors and the unsettling sense that it wasn't entirely empty.

Outside, the northern lights began to shimmer. The otherworldly greens and blues were joined by streaks of pink, a stunning display. Threads of light hung in the dark, wavering as if strummed by an unseen hand. A faint crackling accompanied it tonight, as if the aurora sparked against the snowy horizon.

Awe pushed Dacey's anxiety away. It was hard to be scared when there was magic in the sky. Pulling her coat on, she stopped to carefully wind a scarf over her nose and mouth. Then she grabbed her camera and headed into the night to try again.

 

M
aybe she'd made up the photo-essay thing because it sounded good. But as Dacey stood beneath the swirling lights, she had to admit they moved her. The ethereal twist of light drew her in, threads of blue and green hanging against the deepest black she'd ever seen.

Rationally, she knew it was just solar winds playing with the atmosphere. Logically, she knew that the high-pitched crackle when it was particularly quiet was just electricity confusing the fibers inside her ears. She wasn't really hearing a celestial event. She wasn't really seeing a Greek goddess spill out across the night.

Dacey took a few more shots, walking across the yard. The snow squeaked beneath her feet. Herr Velten was right: two sets of footprints, hers and his. Maybe the static that made the northern lights whisper also generated hallucinations. Or the insomnia. Or the jet lag. Or the whole lot of them had joined forces to drive her just a little crazy in an endless night.