Isle of Night

He faced me, his eyes grown hard. “Not that kind of island. It’s far away. Far north. North of Scotland. North of the Shetlands. It’s a dark place. A cold place.”



Why was his voice so flat? Renewed doubt was making me queasy.



“Is that where you’re from?” I asked, desperate to experience that warmth again, for this to be all right. Images of maps flitted through my head—a photographic memory was good for something. “Is it the Faroe Islands? Iceland?”



“Near there. It’s not a place you’ve heard of.” He looked back at me, and I tried to summon the ease he’d made me feel before. “And, aye. It’s where I’m from.”



He was taking me to see his home? I found it hard to believe we were even having this conversation. My thoughts were so jumbled, as though not my own. “How will I get back if . . . if I don’t like it?”



“You won’t want to leave.”



I mulled what he could mean by that, but he seemed to sense my anxiety, and the shadows cleared from his eyes. He stroked a finger down my cheek. “I’m taking you to a place where there are other girls like you. Girls with . . . gifts.”



This took me aback. It was looking like this . . . thing with Ronan was less run-away-together than it was some sort of recruiting exercise. Oddly, the prospect reassured me, explaining his presence at a university and why he’d want someone like me.



The fog cleared a bit from my mind. “Like a special school?”



“Aye. Like a special school. To train girls.”



“Train them to what?”



“To become women.”



My breath hitched. Oh, God, this was a sex-slave thing. He could give me all the mesmerizing looks and lingering touches in the world, and never would I vibe with anything like that.



He rolled his eyes, reading my thoughts. “Not like that. Successful women, with skills and depth.”



He traced his finger down my arm, resting his hand on my thigh. Heat plumed up my leg, coursing through my body. I let out a sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding. Not a girl . . . a woman. With skills and depth. Did that mean I’d finally found a place where I could really learn? Where I’d meet other girls who liked to learn, too?



Suddenly all things seemed possible. Could I really get on this plane? Could I finally, for once in my life, begin to realize my true self?



Visions cascaded into my head . . . me goofing on campus with the other girls. We’d wear white anoraks with fur hoods and have snowball fights. We’d discuss things like medieval Latin and rap music of the Asian Diaspora. I’d meet Ronan for coffee after class. I wouldn’t be so different. I wouldn’t have to hold back.



Never again would I have to hold back.



I should’ve been scared, but not many things frightened me anymore. My father’s opened hand careening toward my face no longer scared me. The dead-eyed stares of the other high school kids had stopped scaring me long ago. But being stuck in the same small town for the rest of my life? That scared me.



Could I be a real woman? Someone self-determined, who hopped onto private jets headed for islands far, far from home. I wanted to be.



“Okay.” I opened the car door. I stepped onto that tarmac, onto the path of no return. I turned to look at him. Those haunted-forest eyes were intense on me, and I hoped I was making the right choice, because standing alone on the runway, I felt suddenly isolated and alone. I forced a lightness into my voice that I didn’t feel. “So, what’s this island called?”



“Those who speak the old tongue call it Eyja nœturinnar,” he uttered, and a peculiar melancholy sounded in his voice. “The Isle of Night.”



CHAPTER FIVE



I stood at the rear of his car, watching as he strode to the plane. “Wait,” I called, knocking on the trunk. “My bag?”



“You won’t need it where you’re going.”



When we were cozy in his car, with his hands and eyes wrapping warm reassurance around me, I was champing at the bit to go. But now, standing in the glare of the Florida sun, uncertainty crept in.



“But . . . my stuff.” My mom’s picture. My ginormous dictionary. My Converse and my iPod. I needed to keep some reminder of who my mother was. Of who I was.



“You’ll be issued new stuff,” he said dryly.



I knew a sharp pang of loss. There were likely dictionaries where I was headed. And Converse wouldn’t do well in snow. But that picture was all I had left of my mom.



And music? Music had become my survival. It’s what got me through. No Led Zeppelin, no cheesy French pop, no Death Cab for Cutie. Not happening. “But my iPod—”



“Isn’t allowed on the island,” he finished for me.



“But—” My gaze shifted from Ronan to the plane. I shaded my eyes against the glare of sunlight on smooth metal. The jet door opened, and though the interior was dim, I caught a glimpse of a catwalk-worthy attendant floating past, bearing a tray of drinks.



I’d never stood this close to such luxury. I stepped closer, and a stuffed leather seat came into view. I craned my chin up for a better look. The interior looked cool and plush, all beige carpet and tan leather. Luxurious, and a bit daunting.



My eyes went back to Ronan. His gaze was waiting for me, and that same warmth rippled along my skin. My response to him was immediate, like he’d imprinted me, my body primed for him, and I knew I’d follow him wherever he led.



I tore my eyes away, back to the trunk. I wasn’t leaving without the picture of my mom. And as long as I was going to smuggle a photo on board, why not my iPod, too? If they discovered it, what was the worst they could do to me? I’d endured my father for seventeen years.



“Just a sec,” I called, dashing back to the car. I met his suspicious look with a shrug and poised my hand expectantly over the trunk. I tried to look as casual as possible. “My hoodie. I hate air-conditioning.”



His eyes hardened and I felt a shot of panic, but then Ronan popped the trunk using the remote on his key chain. It made a little vacuum-suck sound and the lid slowly elevated. Though he remained standing at the front of the car, my heart was pounding in my chest.



Forcing myself to look neither too relieved nor too guilty, I dug through my duffel, snagging my iPod and the picture. I hastily shoved the photo out through the back of its cheap cardboard frame, cracking the glass in the process. Hands shaking, I grabbed my tan velour hoodie and crammed everything in the pocket. The photo would get rumpled, but the iPod was awkward enough—I couldn’t risk smuggling a cheapo Wal-Mart picture frame, too.



I shut the trunk, slamming it a little harder than necessary in my nervousness. Success. And what Ronan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.



I jogged to the plane, joining him on the sleek metal stairs. He took my hand to steady me. For a guy in jeans, he was quite dashing, quite gallant.



Cool air washed down to us from the open hatch. I felt on the brink of a grand, worldly adventure. It was the first step toward reinventing myself.



It would be exciting, this starting over. I’d discover a true me lingering down deep. Maybe there really would be a fox-fur anorak waiting for me on this island. I’d be like Nicole Kidman in that crazy snow-bear movie, where she glided around wearing ivory gloves and a fur stole. I’d be like porcelain. I’d be a woman.



The kind of woman worthy of a mysterious man. Worthy of Ronan. I’d quote all the Proust he wanted. In the original French. He’d want me.



Following him up, I couldn’t resist stealing a glimpse of his posterior. Dark blue denim, not too clingy, not too loose, and tight muscle flexing beneath. A strange feeling shimmered in my belly.



I stepped through the door. Through the portal to my fabulous new world. I let my eyes adjust.



And then my heart fell.



Two other girls were already on board. Two gorgeous girls.



I forced myself to breathe. And I forced myself not to look at Ronan, even though I felt that green-eyed stare boring through me.



I scanned down the aisle—quickly assessing the girls, the cabin, the situation—without seeming to stare. There were eight seats total, and they were all the same mushy, tan leather, like really pricey versions of my father’s Barcalounger. They were arranged into two sets of four, with pairs of seats facing each other.



The girls sat side by side at the rear of the cabin. Was I expected to join them? To sit facing them, brushing knees, like we might giggle and gossip the trip away?



I tried to have an open mind. After all, Ronan had said the girls were like me. I assumed he meant they were geniuses. I swallowed hard. Why’d they have to be such hot geniuses?



I took a hesitant step forward, pretending bored disinterest in my seat selection, as if I rode around on private jets every day. But really, it just gave me an opportunity to weigh these teenage interloper hotties.



One looked like a Playboy Bunny in training, with a tight, low-cut designer shirt that made the most of her sizable assets. My seventeenth birthday had come and gone, and I was still waiting for my assets to make themselves known.



Bunny Girl had large, round, flawlessly made-up eyes to go with her other large, rounded goods. Her hair fell in long, perfect waves the color of maple syrup. She was glaring at me with the same look the Yatch liked to use. My stomach clenched into a knot.



I flicked my eyes to the other girl, hoping a friendly face might greet me. Hope fled, and the knot in my belly became a nauseating rock of ice.



Girl Number Two was perhaps the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, with skin the color of milky coffee and black hair falling in tight spirals to just above her shoulders. Two tiny teardrops were tattooed beneath one eerily light, almondshaped eye.



“You’re what we’ve been waiting for?” Almond Eyes spoke in a lush, husky accent. Her vowels were thick and rounded. Cuban, I thought.



I considered fleeing—nodding a quick and apologetic never mind to Ronan and backing out of there. I needed to flee. Ronan had mesmerized me with those eyes and that touch, but these girls shattered whatever magic it was that’d seduced me on board.