Isle of Night

“We, we—who’s this we you keep mentioning?”

He stayed as he was, looking into the blackness, a grave expression on his face. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

I was determined to drag some sort of information out of him before we landed. I tried a different tack. “But your accent sounds Scottish. If Icelandic is the old tongue, well, your old folks must be pretty old.” It was an attempt at a joke, but he merely frowned.

Finally, he looked back at me. “Many of our . . . old ones . . . speak the language of the Vikings. We value their culture. And so our island still holds their traditions close.”

Focusing on my questions was keeping me from freaking out, and so I kept probing, despite the intensity on his face that was gravitating from serious to scowling. “So are you from—”

“This?” A squeal from behind interrupted us. The shrill tone identified it as Lilac, aka Bunny von Slutling. “You’re replacing my Murakami bag with this?”

“Whatever with your origami bag,” I muttered.

“Clearly they don’t carry Louis Vuitton at the local Goodwill, do they, Charity?”

I cringed. Maybe preternatural hearing was Lilac’s gift. I turned my attention to my own bag nestled between my knees, eager to see what had the girl in such a lather.

It was jammed full of clothing. On the top of the pile was a sturdy gray tunic and what looked like leggings.

“You’ve been issued a uniform, standard to all first-year recruits,” Ronan explained to all of us.

Recruits? The peculiar word stuck in my mind. But I shoved it away, thankful that Lilac would no longer be able to lord the whole Charity thing over me. Uniforms—the great equalizer.

“Cool boots.” I wrestled a pair of black, knee-high boots from the kit bag. They were lined with some sort of short fur and had laces running up the front. Kind of like a sexy version of Eskimo mukluks.

Ronan nodded. “You also have workout clothes and a set of oilskins.”

“You’re going to make us wear animal skins?”

Lilac’s comment was so ridiculous, I had to turn in my seat to steal a glimpse of her. I smirked, wondering if anyone had ever broken it to Miss Thing that her leather ankle booties had once been, in fact, the skin of some unwitting creature.

Ronan furrowed his brow at her question, and then recognition dawned. “Ah. Your oilies aren’t really skin. They’re made of canvas. For inclement weather.”

Lilac stared blankly.

“He’s saying oilskin is another word for raincoat, Einstein.”

Lilac curled her upper lip in a dead-eyed sneer, and it made my skin crawl. The girl looked like she might fillet me and have me for a snack later. She made the Dale R. Fielding High School Cheer Squad look like Barney and Friends, and I vowed to give her a wide berth.

“You’re to change and leave all your old clothing on the plane,” Ronan instructed us. I tuned back in, tensing, thinking of my smuggled goods. I couldn’t do anything about it with Ronan next to me, and it wasn’t like I could tote this ginormous bag into the airplane lavatory.

The attendant knelt at Ronan’s shoulder, and I startled. “Shall I administer refreshments?”

He gave her a brisk nod, and before I knew it, we all had crystal tumblers filled with a thick, dark red liquid.

“What is this stuff?” I sniffed. It managed to smell both cloying and sour, like a kid’s sweaty palm after holding a fistful of pennies. My stomach lurched, and I wondered again at the location of the airsick bags.

“It’s what you’re being served,” Ronan said sternly.

I contemplated the glass. “Can’t I just have, I don’t know, a Perrier or something?”

“You must drink it.” He tossed his back in one gulp. “No questions.”

I forced myself to follow suit. It was viscous, like syrup, the last of it dribbling down my throat slow and thick, like I’d just done a shooter of ice-cold Robitussin. I shuddered.

But then a strange thing happened. A buzzing began at the backs of my legs, crackling up my spine and out to my fingertips. Was it some sort of weird Viking alcohol? Whatever it was, it made me feel alive. Like I could breathe more deeply, and there were new scents all around.

From the hideous hurling sounds erupting from the rear of the plane—not to mention Lilac’s shrieks—it seemed as though the drink wasn’t having the same effect on Mimi.

Ronan stood, watching wordlessly as the attendant handed the girl a damp towel. Mimi must’ve shown some warning signs prior to throwing up, because she was already chin deep in a white airsick bag. So I guess they did have them hidden somewhere.

Ronan wasn’t aware I watched him, he was so preoccupied with Mimi, scrutinizing her with a strange look in his eye. Almost like he was angry. But then he told her, “It’s all right, love,” in such a kindly tone of voice.

Mimi raised her head, wiping her chin with the towel. She spat one last time into the bag. “We don’t drink mierda like this in Cuba.” She wore an angry snarl and pronounced her country Coo-ba.

I began to mutter a sassy retort, but then I realized everyone was distracted. I’d never get a better chance to deal with my photo and iPod.

Besides, my limbs were really tingling now. I had to act. I was hot and alive with the sense that I was becoming aware of each individual cell in my body. That there was some epiphany within my reach, if only I’d just move. I felt empowered, capable, and it made me brave.

“I’d like to get changed and ready.” I grabbed a stack of gray clothing and slipped by Ronan. I didn’t look back to see if he’d protest.

Keeping my hoodie balled at my stomach, I snuck into the bathroom, hoping the pile of wool in my arms amounted to a complete outfit. Sliding the lock shut, I began to undress, taking off my hat, clothes, socks, everything. The prospect of being barefoot in the bathroom gave me pause for a moment—I’d left the uniform boots by my seat—but one look at the pristine lavatory floor changed my mind. It was cleaner than our bathroom at home had ever been.

Leaning against the wall, I hitched myself into the leggings as best I could in the small space. I ran my hands over my thighs, smoothing the material into place. It was dark gray and soft, but thick and supportive, too. Not quite natural, but not entirely synthetic, either.

I unfolded the tunic and made a little hm sound. It was a lighter gray than the leggings, and seemed to be some sort of wool. I slipped it over my head, working my arms in awkwardly, knocking my elbow against the wall more than once. But when I finally got it on, it fit perfectly. It was long, with a squared-off neck, and like an Indian kameez, it fell to just above my knees and was slit up each side to my hip.

I squatted and did a few high steps to test it all out. The outfit was warm but not too hot, and not itchy at all. Like something I could really move in. There weren’t any identifying tags—of course—but the whole thing seemed high quality and tailored just for me.

Pulling my hoodie from where I’d balled it on the counter, I retrieved my iPod and photo. Ronan’s voice echoed in my head. Leave all your possessions. The picture was an easily hidden thin slip of a thing, and a no-brainer. But the iPod? I studied the cold, glassy face of it. Was it worth the risk?

As though in answer, I felt a fresh tingling up the backs of my legs. My music. Music was my one solace. My one friend. I wouldn’t give it up.

As it was, it was killing me to surrender my favorite hat. And that decided it. I would keep some semblance of myself, wherever this place was we were headed to.

I secured my smuggled goods in my panties, grateful that regulation underwear included big cotton briefs. I smirked. I guess no thongs for the old island fogies.

I smoothed myself back into place and looked at my reflection, canting up and down on my tiptoes to get a full view in the tiny lavatory mirror. I let myself smile full-on. The weird uniform kind of worked. I looked like Madeline from the kids’ books, if she’d spent her days in juvie instead of a French boarding school.

My hair, though. I pursed my lips. A hat, some Florida sweat, and a dry plane flight were the recipe for some serious hat head. You’d think nothing could go wrong with long, straight-as-an-arrow hair, but mine always managed to find a way. I raked my fingers through, shaking it out as best I could. Light yellow blond, with a conspicuous crimp just where my fedora had been. I shrugged, hoping there was something for it in my kit bag.

“Now or never,” I told myself, swinging the door open.

Lilac flinched back to avoid getting hit. She’d been looming outside, her own uniform in hand. It was a shock seeing her up close. My stomach clenched to see she was even prettier than I’d thought. And she was staring at me with hate in her eyes.

I took an inadvertent step back. Why had she taken such an instant dislike to me? Did she despise everyone? She’d acted amiable enough with Mimi.

I glanced her up and down, as though that might give some clue, and my eye caught on a chink in her gorgeous armor. The hint of a burn scar rippled Lilac’s skin, peeking from beneath her neckline.

“What are you looking at?” she asked in that evil-cheerleader voice. She’d noticed me noticing her weird scar and didn’t like it.

“Nothing,” I said with a quick shrug.

Lilac’s Mean Girls act was overkill, and it made me wonder what she might be hiding. I’d endured the broad cruelty of my father, and my well-honed survival instincts told me to steer clear.

She glared at my hair and then the crown of my head, taking in the staticky limpness of my hat head, and let out a short, sharp cackle.

I pinched my lips into a flat line. Steering clear was one thing, but I hated when people dissed my hair. Long, pale blond hair wasted on a nerd girl . . . ha ha.

“I have no words,” she said.

“Well, there’s a surprise,” I snapped, the words escaping my mouth before I could stop them. In it now, I gave her my brightest smile. I’d sworn off sarcasm, but some things just couldn’t be helped. Wit was my armor as much as Lilac’s prettiness was hers. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">