Ice Country (18 page)

A few times I think I’m doing something wrong
by paying her so much attention, because I should be focused on
finding Jolie—which I am—but it’s kind of hard to find your sister
when you’re locked in a tiny cell. So I figure anything to pass the
time is fair game—at least until Wes breaks us out.

Which he will.

Of that I’m certain.

Well, mostly certain.

When I think it’s near the end of the day,
Big brings us each a thin metal dish of something gruel-like, but
even under the torchlight it’s hard to identify what it is. It
tastes like a mixture of dirt and bark, so maybe that’s what it is,
seasoned with yellow snow and fried up in a big old pot, made
special for prisoners. Wanting to stay strong, I eat it anyway.

Skye messes with Big on the way out. “Hey,
Big,” she says.

“Eat your food!” he says.

“I will. It’s just, there’s this nasty
searin’ fungus goin’ ’round and I been wonderin’ if you know
anythin’ ’bout it.”

What’s she up to?

Big stops sharply. “I’m the one who told ya
about it, Woman. When I tossed you in ’ere.”

“Was it you?” Skye says, false question in
her voice.

“Yah!”

“Oh, I guess I forgot.” Skye’s voice echoes
off the walls.

“What about the fungus?” Big asks, a hint of
something that I think is fear in his tone.

“Is that a spot of it on your chest?” Skye
says, pointing.

Even under the dim light, I can see Big’s
face go white. “Where?” he says, frantically searching with his
fingers.

“Above that big ol’ crater you call a
bellybutton,” she says.

Big’s fingers find the spot, run across his
sweaty skin. “Just a mole,” he says, relief evident in the way he
breathes out as he says it.

“Good,” Skye says. “I was worried.”

“Now eat your food!” Big repeats, stomping
through the doors.

“What was that all about?” I ask Skye.

“Nothin’,” she says. “Just havin’ a bit of
fun. When we were brought in, the big fella was goin’ on and on
’bout this flesh eatin’ fungus that’s been goin’ ’round. Seems the
only thing he’s scared of. Just wanted to put that fear to the
test.”

~~~

There’s not much else to do other than
talking, sometimes as a group, sometimes broken up into separate
conversations. A coupla of times I move to the front of my cell,
stick my head out the bars, look up and down the row, hoping to get
another look at one of the others—okay, okay, Skye mostly—but none
of them are ever doing the same. Well, except for Buff, who seems
to be doing the same thing, except his eyes are always on the cell
I suspect belongs to the song-voiced one they call Wilde.

When I make a rude gesture he slinks back
into his cell.

So I just sit there, arms draped over the
bars, waiting. For Wes. For anybody.

I picture how it’ll be when we’re reunited
with Jolie, how her smile will fill up my heart, how she’ll wrap
her arms around me and I’ll swing her in a circle.

There’s movement to my left, from the cell
next to mine. The girl sticks her head out. Skye’s sister, Siena.
She glances my way, smiles a rather pretty smile, and then leans as
far to the edge in the other direction as possible, as if I might
have the Cold and share it with her. I frown, perplexed as to her
strange anti-me behavior, but then a pair of strong arms reaches
out from the cell beyond hers. She’s barely able to reach them, to
grasp them, to hold them. There’s something so tender, so longing,
so
loving
in the simple touch I witness, between Siena and
Circ, that I feel a yearning in my own heart. Not for anyone in
particular, certainly not for any of my exes, not even for
Skye—although she has captured my interest—but just for a
connection to someone like the one I see between Skye’s sister and
the Heater boy.

As they continue to hold hands, they whisper
to each other, laugh, whisper some more, laugh some more.
Everything seems so easy for them, like one was made for the other.
Like they never had a choice. Almost like destiny. As I pull back
into my cell, I’m left wondering if it’s always been that way for
them.

~~~

“Psst! Skye!” I hiss through the hole in the
wall.

Everything’s dark. A few hours back, Big
stomped through the dungeon extinguishing all the torches.
Everyone’s sleeping. I should be sleeping. But I can’t, not without
clearing something up first.

“Psst!” I hiss again.

“Sun goddess sear it, Icy! This’d better be
good.” I can sense her face at the hole, her lips turned into a
frown that could kill.

I smile in the dark.

“I’ve got something to say,” I whisper.

“Well, out with it, Icy.”

“Dazz,” I say.

“That’s what you wanted to say? To tell me
yer name agin?”

“Nay, nay, I’m just saying call me Dazz. In
ice country, icy means…”

“Spit it out, Icy. I’m tired.”

“Attractive,” I say.

“And yer not?” she asks. Is she asking me? Is
she saying I am…icy? What is she saying? “An icy Icy,” she
whispers, floating the words off her tongue. It’s the gentlest I
think I’ve ever heard her voice sound.

“Uh,” I say.

“Yer smoky,
Dazz
,” she says, my name
sounding strange coming from her. “But that ain’t nothin’ where I
come from. Not that I mind a-lookin’ sometimes.”

I almost choke on the wad of spit that’s
congealing in my throat. I’ve never had a woman be so…honest with
me. Not that women aren’t honest, a lot of them are, too honest
sometimes, but Skye seems to say every last thought that pops into
her head. It’s exhilarating in a way, although I couldn’t imagine
doing the same. If I said half the things floating around in my
brain right now, she’d probably never speak to me again.

“Now, are we done, or are we done?” she says.
“This feather-hard floor is callin’ my name.”

“Wait,” I say. “Nay, there was something
else.”

“Well then hocker it up like the lump that
always seems to be in yer throat.”

Heart of the Mountain, is she reading my
thoughts now, too? I gotta get control of things again, if I ever
had control of them in the first place. “Look, I just wanted you to
know that I’m usually a better fighter. I really was surprised when
you turned around and found out you were a—”

“A woman. I know. Full of curves and a mix of
hard and soft spots and all the things that guys git all wooloo
over. But even if I hadn’ta been a woman, or if you weren’t
surprised and all that, I’da still’ve beat you redder’n the fire
country sky. You can count on that, Icy.”

My jaw drops and I try to lift it back up but
it’s dead weight. I’m thankful it’s dark and she can’t see me. “Now
wait just a minute, you’ve never even seen me fight. I’ve been in
more scraps in the last week than you’ve probably seen your entire
life.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to compete, Dazzy. I’m just
sayin’ truths, which can be hard to hear sometimes. Sleep on it and
you’ll feel much better in the mornin’.”

Sleep on it? You bet your cute little arse
I’ll sleep on it. And I’ll prove to her one way or the other that I
can hold my own in a fight. Certainly better than Feve, who’s
probably who she’s comparing me to.

“G’night, icy Dazz,” she says, completely
disarming me. I lay down with my own shoulder and arms as a pillow,
not thinking about proving that I can fight, but about whether she
meant icy with a capital or lowercase “i”, smiling like a butcher’s
sled dog.

~~~

Boredom sets in pretty hard the next day.
People are used to having the right to come and go as they please,
so if you take that right away from them, they get bored very
quickly. At least I do.

All of us seem energized after sleeping,
though, and when morning comes—in the form of a pathway of torches
lit by a lumbering Big, still shirtless and so meaty he looks
capable of feeding a village of cannibals for a month—everyone’s
ready to talk some more. Buff, being Buff, suggests a game of
sorts.

“I’ve got some rocks that broke off the
floor,” Buff says. “I toss one to whoever I please, and I get to
ask them a question.”

“A question ’bout what?” Skye hollers down
the row.

“Anything,” Buff says. “Whatever I want. And
the person who’s got the rock has to answer, and when they do, they
get to throw the rock to someone else and ask their own
question.”

“What’re we, a bunch of game-lovin’ Midders
tryin’ to figure out which boy thinks they’re smoky?” Skye
says.

I laugh, starting to catch onto the fire
country lingo.

I make a suggestion. “We’ll play Buff’s
little game, but let’s stick to questions about fire or ice
country.”

“’Specially blaze about Goff, the Cure, and
the Glassies,” Skye suggests.

“I’m bored already,” Feve says.

“You shut it,” Siena says, which makes me
smile. I’d love to get a glimpse into whatever history there is
between those two.

“I’m in,” Circ says.

“It might help us figure things out,” Wilde
adds.

“Right,” Buff says. “First rock’s for Wilde.”
Surprise, surprise.

There’s scuffling and scraping as everyone
moves to the front of their cells. I stick my head out and
purposely look left first, so as to not be so obvious about how
icin’ bad I want to look in Skye’s direction. Siena’s head pops out
but she looks at Circ, who’s grinning at her. Feve’s on the
opposite side, his bare chest sliced by shadows and markings. He’s
staring at me like if he looks hard enough he might kill me with
just his eyes. Further down the row, Wilde’s next to Feve, and
she’s looking my way, but past me, I guess at Skye.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

Not yet. Too obvious.

Buff’s at the end of the hall, sort of
looking at everyone, but definitely favoring Wilde’s direction.

Don’t look—

—how can I not look?—

—don’t. Really, don’t.

I look.

I mean for it to be a quick, nonchalant
glance, just to see that she’s there, but she’s looking right at
me, a smile tugging at the corners of the lips I’ve gotten to see
the most of over the last day. I don’t blush this time, not one
bit, just look back, meeting her eyes, feeling something akin to
excitement rush through my chest.

She’s not icy, like we thought. Nay, her
beauty goes far beyond a word like that, which suddenly seems so
childish, so ordinary. And she is anything but ordinary. With deep,
brown eyes that seem to collect every last flicker of torchlight,
strong high cheekbones that fit her right-sized nose and full lips
so perfectly, she’s a brown-skinned angel, delicate and strong,
soft and hard—and grinning.

I’ve been staring a while.

“Mornin’, icy Dazz,” she says, soft enough so
only I can hear.

“Morning, beautiful Skye,” I say, shocking
myself at my own boldness.

Skye’s grin fades and I can tell I’ve
surprised her too, which is some feat, considering she’s seemed one
step ahead from the very beginning.

When Buff says, “Catch, Wilde!” she looks
past me, and the moment is broken. I turn, too, and watch as Buff
chucks the stone awkwardly through the bars. To his credit, it goes
in the general direction of Wilde, skipping across the stone and
resting in front of her cell, where she picks it up. She looks at
Buff, her long black hair draped behind her.

“Ahem.” Buff clears his throat. “Wilde, my
lady, what are the three most important qualities you look for in a
guy?”

Chaos follows the question. I’m laughing,
unable to help it. Feve’s protesting, yelling something about the
childishness of Icers. Siena and Circ are holding hands and more or
less just shaking their heads. And Skye’s screaming the most,
saying things like “…burnin’ not what we agreed,” and “…searin’
wooloo Icies.”

Wilde, however, raises a hand, instantly
silencing everyone, including me, as I suddenly find myself unable
to laugh. “Truth, honor, wisdom,” she says, answering.

There’s silence for a moment, and then I say,
“Sorry, Buff, oh for three.”

Laughter fills the dungeon, Buff’s being the
loudest of all as he nods his head. I catch a glance from Feve and
it’s not filled with animosity. He’s not laughing exactly, but he’s
not glaring or frowning or shooting eye-daggers, so I guess it’s a
win.

Skye’s laughing, too, which makes me smile
even bigger. Score one for the funny man.

We all stop, however, when the door barges
open and Big sticks his thick head in. “What the freeze is goin’ on
in here! Shut yer gruel-eaters ’fore I shut ’em for you!” He slams
the door and there’s a lot of hands over mouths, as people try not
to laugh.

“Now, can we stick to the rules?” Wilde
says.

Buff nods sheepishly.

Right away, Wilde turns down the row and
says, “Dazz,” bouncing the rock along the floor. It skitters to my
feet and stops against my toe. I look up expectantly. What will the
wise Wilde leader ask me?

“What are you not telling us?” she asks.

I
bite my lip. I’ve
told them most everything, but not one of the most important
things. They might already know all about it—but then again, they
might not. And who am I to be the one to tell them? On the other
hand, who am I to keep it from them?

I decide on a more neutral approach, seeing
if I can draw what they know out of them.

“My sister was taken,” I say.

Silence and stares.

“I’m sorry, I left it out because—well, I
don’t know why. Just because it’s personal, I guess. Her name’s
Jolie, she’s twelve years old, and someone took her away, abducted
her in the middle of the night. I couldn’t stop them, I couldn’t—”
My voice breaks and I look at the ground, at the rock at my feet.
Failure written all over me. Plain as day for Skye to see. I
couldn’t even protect my own little sister.