Page 39 of Wings of Lies
“Be quiet! Stop!”
When the ice whispers. Be prepared for the fissures.
“I said STOP!”
“Lucy, wake up!”Oliver shouted. “Wake up!”
I lurched awake, finding the tent covered in frost. The frigid air froze the moisture in my nose and the breath puffing out of my lungs. White clusters speckled my sleeping bag, and a purple flame twinedwith black. The colorful flames slowly dissolved the end of the silky fabric once covering my toes. It crept along, eating holes like a picky eater, and suddenly changed tactics and dissolved a giant chunk.
I jerked my feet up and scrambled out, head throbbing. “What’s it doing?”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” he accused, squatting outside the tent.
Once the purple flame reached halfway up the sleeping bag, it dimmed and left, leaving Oliver and me gaping at the melting frost and the snacked-on material.
“Her voice… I had a dream. But the words… I can’t remember them all. Something about a daughter, ice, and sacrifice?” I shuddered.
“Your mom’s voice?”
“Maybe. You said I was yelling. Do you know what I said?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “You kept saying stop and be quiet. After that, I was a little more concerned with not getting eaten by whatever the hell that was.”
I glanced at my hands, shoulders dropping.
At this rate, I’d be naked by the time we arrived in Elora. From wrist to shoulder, my jacket sleeves were gone. Numerous holes in varying sizes peppered the rest. I looked…
“I think the style you are working toward is homeless chic or Swiss cheese couture,” Oliver supplied, guessing my thoughts.
I laughed—something I hadn’t done in some time.
“Cute! I’m glad after all my random blabbering, I could finally make you laugh.” He ruffled through his backpack. “Here. Less Swiss cheese like.” Oliver handed me a black shirt outlined with purple flowers—the same pattern on my joggers.
I eyed him and the lightweight material. “Thanks,” I said, taking the shirt.
“No problem, Luce, just don’t kill me in my sleep, okay?”
Sheepish, I sent him a weak smile. I wished it was that easy. After all of Oliver’s near-death experiences, I seriously wondered why he didn’t leave me.
I glanced at my discarded jacket and sleeping bag.So that was what my purple flame was? Slow-devouring ice?
Oliver gave my sleeping bag a wide berth and packed our gear. “Let’s get going. We have half a day left, and on the way, you’ll practice.” Oliver flung the backpack onto his shoulders, ducking under the tent’s opening.
After changing, I gingerly put on my backpack and climbed out. My lightning wound felt better, but the added weight made me cringe.
The moment I left, Oliver blurred around me, taking down and packing the tent faster than he put it up.
He was always in a rush, not that I was complaining. I wanted out of this forest.
“Here’s breakfast.” He handed me a granola bar, then took off at a jog.
“Not jogging,” I groaned.
I took off after him. He bounded through the grove of birch trees, jumping over stumps and swerving around bushes, never missing a beat. Then there was me, tripping over pebbles, catching on thorn bushes, wincing every time my backpack chafed against my lightning scar.
“Why are we jogging?” I yelled out to him as a branch so kindly whipped me in the face. Each downed log we ran by pleaded to be sat on.
“It’s a warmup,” he exclaimed, sounding at ease as his legs pounded into the ground, unlike my labored pants.
