Page 7 of The Midwinter Mirror
“Move it, Zayne.” Josh is already at the door, fully dressed, backpack on one shoulder, Grimlet perched on the other. I start to dress.
Two hours—and a trip through a magical mirror—later, and we’re on a borrowed Harley heading north.
Elderfell—the shithole I used to call home—lies a couple of hours’ drive away. But I soon realize that I should’ve listened to Brown and taken the truck. (Brown runs the safe house where the Valandria mirror spits you out on Earth—and, annoyingly, he’s usually right.) But I could never resist a Harley, and thisone’s a beauty: black and silver, purring like it knows my name. Besides, the sky was clear when we left. Unfortunately, it didn’t stay that way, and the farther north we push, the darker it gets. By the time I swing onto the Elderfell turnoff, the first flakes hit the visor.
Snow. Fuck. My stomach clenches.
Nothing good ever happens in Elderfell when the snow falls.
How many times did I hear that growing up?
And every single time it proved to be true. Especially the last. But I'm not even going to think about that last time, that last winter when everything went to shit and my whole life fell apart.
Nope, not going there. Not happening.
Josh is clinging on behind me, pressing up close, probably to keep warm. Brown lent us all—well, except Grimlet; I don’t think he feels cold or hot, for that matter—warm jackets and gloves, which is just as well as the temperature has dropped dramatically.
Home, sweet fucking home.
At least it looks like Josh will get his white Christmas.
Grimlet is sitting on the tank in front of me, holding onto the handlebars with his little claws. He's loving it. He's a little speed demon.
The road climbs, and the snow falls heavier, and I know we're not going to make it. The snow gets thicker until we’re crawling along. Finally, about five miles from Elderfell, I admit defeat and pull the bike over to the edge of the road. I sit for a moment.
Five miles. It's a bloody long walk in this snow. But then, these days I don't have to walk. I do have an alternative. Josh scrambles off the back behind me, and I swing my leg over. Grimlet jumps onto my shoulders as I pull the helmet off and lay it down beside the bike. We don’t have any luggage—just Josh's backpack, but Brown gave us some cash, and I was just going tobuy anything we need. I don’t plan to stick around this shithole any longer than I absolutely have to.
Josh is looking around him at the snow. “It's beautiful,” he says.
“It's a menace. I hate fucking snow.” Nothing good ever comes from snow in Elderfell. Gods, why won’t my brain shut up with that stupid saying? We’ll be in and out before any bad things have a chance to happen.
Just stay away from Silvergatea little voice in my head mutters.
But then there’s no reason to go anywhere near that fucking place.
“What do you think, Grimlet?” I ask.
“It's different,” he says. “Grimlet's never seen snow before.”
“No, well, I don't think there's too much of it in hell.” That’s where Grimlet spent his whole 5,000-year-long life until recently. Grimlet’s a gargoyle, whatever that means. As far as I can tell, he’s the only one around, at least the only live one. He’s small, about the size of my fist, with dark gray skin, like rock, amber eyes, ears that are too big for the rest of him, membranous wings, and a tail that is currently wrapped way too tight around my neck. He was a friend of Amber—our foster sister’s—mother, who was married to Lucifer. Yeah, our sister was Lucifer’s fucking daughter. Tansy will have a lot to live up—or down—to.
If she agrees to come with us. What if she won’t? What if our bitch of an aunt has totally poisoned her against me? We might have to kidnap her. She’ll come around. I mean anywhere has to be an improvement on Elderfell.
Enough procrastination. “Okay, so we're going to fly in on my basilisk. That's the plan.”
“Yay!” Josh grins. He's another little speed freak. Then he peers at me through the snow. “You need to call him something other than ‘basilisk’. It’s rude.”
“I don’t need to call him anything,” I mutter. “He knows who he is.”
Josh snorts. “Yeah, but I bet he’d like a name.”
Grimlet pipes up from my shoulder. “Grimlet thinks ‘Snakey’ is good.”
I glare. “If you ever call him that again, I’ll feed you to him.”
Josh leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Come on, Zayne. Give him a name for Christmas.”
“How about ‘Eater-of-annoying-little-brothers’?”
