Chapter One
Every time she blinked, Leda Lindgren saw blood. Blood in vials. On hospital sheets. Crusted around IV sites. Blue vein rivers on pale, paper-thin skin.
Two weeks had passed since Dad died. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Over a million seconds without him. She felt his loss like a physical pain so deep it would never fade. And Mom? She just erased him, painted over his little corner of the universe in slow, deliberate brushstrokes. But Leda remembered. She held on to every memory, every picture, every piece of him.
Mom wanted the move to Norway to be a fresh start. But it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be that. There would be new friends. New places. But some things couldn’t be left behind.
She stood outside her new home beside Nils, a scarecrow of a boy, all mismatched parts stuck together with a mop of white-blond hair hanging in his eyes. He was her distant cousin or something. Actually, her uncle hadn’t really explained how they were related, just that he hoped they’d get along. Leda had avoided him until ten minutes ago, when he walked up and without a word stood with her and stared up at the gray house while biting, Arctic wind burst down the street, filling the space between her palms and the crutch hand grips. The galaxy pendant felt warm against her chest—a gift from Dad the day before he died.
“Wear it always,” he’d said. “When you least expect it, you’ll need it.” Though she didn’t know what he meant by that, she’d slipped the silver chain around her neck right there in front of him and hadn’t taken it off since.
Leda blinked away tears. Best to avoid the giant black hole of grief and pretend everything is all right. Her breath came out in a shaky sigh. “This sucks.”
“It’s not so bad.” Nils motioned to the harbor between her house and her uncle’s shop. “The view’s kind of pretty.”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind the lack of trees and sub-zero temperatures in the middle of summer. Or living in a boring gray house.” Everyone else in this freezing cold suck-fest known as Vardø chose bright colors for their houses. Maybe they thought sunny yellow or vibrant red made living in the Arctic Circle less crappy. None of the other houses were the same dull gray shade as the surrounding skies.
“Could be worse.”
“How so?”
A smile transformed his features, and suddenly, all his mismatched pieces fit together. Nils should always smile, she thought. “You could be stuck living on the islands with all the birds and no people.”
“I can deal with no people. A slow internet connection is another story.”
“We get a fairly decent connection here. Perks of living at the top of the world. And hey, you speak Norwegian like you grew up here.”
“My parents were born in Norway, and Dad spoke Norwegian to me at home all the time. When I complained about it, he’d say, ‘Understanding your roots gives you a tangible connection to where you came from, and learning the language is a powerful tool to start with.’”
“And it paid off.” He paused, his smile fading to a contemplative look. “Did you sprain your ankle or something?”
There it was. The first of many innocent yet annoying observations about her crutches. Just once she wanted people to see her and not her disability.
This is why I hate meeting new people.
“I have Spina Bifida with an L5 lesion.”
“L5?” His brow creased.
“Yeah, the letters and numbers tell you what part of the spine is affected. L means lumbar, and 5 is the section. I can’t feel much of anything in the muscles down my legs, and in my ankles and toes. Makes walking kind of a challenge. That’s where these come in.” She lifted one crutch. “I mean, I can walk without them, but I’d rather not take the risk of falling.”
For a moment, Nils remained silent with that curious stare most people wore when she spoke about her condition. Then he bobbed his head. “I’m starving. You hungry?”
Leda opened her mouth to answer when Uncle Arne Johan Fredrik Sørensen—who thankfully just went by Arne—poked his head through an upstairs window. A shock of red hair and a thick beard against milky-white skin with a brow the size of the entire Asian continent. Including Russia. He reminded her of a wild mountain man who hadn’t seen civilization for decades. Except he owned an electric razor. She saw him using the trimmer attachment on his nose hairs earlier. Some people lacked a filter while others were clueless in the privacy department.
“Hello, Nils! I see you met my niece,” he shouted in Norwegian, stroking his bushy beard. His voice carried between houses in a Shakespearian-actor-on-stage kind of way. “Are you just going to stand out there all day, Leda?”
“Is there anything else to do here?”
Arne’s deep belly laughter ricocheted off the buildings and carried down the narrow street. “There’s plenty to do! I offered to take you to Hornøya to see the birds.”
“Birds aren’t really my thing.”
Nils hid his laughter with a cough.
“Ja, well, you could always join me in my shop.”
Instantly, she perked up. Uncle Arne created one-of-a-kind pieces of art with wood. Some were small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, while others required months of painstaking work and attention to detail. Leda had seen a couple other pieces on his website (she’d been utterly shocked that they had internet up here) and had to admit, he had some mad skills.
“I could use some help today,” Uncle Arne said. His smile sent warm flutters around her heart. “You, too, Nils.” His gaze drifted away from Leda and he waved.
Leda turned and saw an old man behind her. Coarse, unruly gray hair framed his age-ravaged face. But his eyes were clear and bright, almost mischievous. Like the trolls in the fairy-tale books Dad used to read to her. The man looked directly at Leda, his focus intense. A slow grin stretched the wrinkled map around his mouth as he blinked. What the…? Two sets of eyelids flickered, one after the other.
Leda stumbled back into Nils.
“Whoa, you okay?” His hands closed around her shoulders.
She rubbed her eyes, then stared at the old man again. He said not a word, just went on his way down the street. Whistling a tune and swinging his arms at his sides. She could almost believe she’d imagined the eyelid thing, except his legs—they bent the wrong way when he stepped.
No. She shook her head and straightened up, moving away from Nils. It’s all in your mind. You’re exhausted. That’s all.
Uncle Arne called from the window, “Are you all right down there?”
“Fine!” Not even close. “We’re going to grab something to eat, then we’ll meet you in your shop.”
Nils clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I wonder if your grandmother has any of that Scottish shortbread left.”
Right. Shortbread. Not those eyes. Not those backward legs.
What the hell did I just see?
In the kitchen, Grams stood in front of a closed door behind a round, age-worn kitchen table, her back to Leda and Nils. When she turned, Grams’s jaw hung open and she slapped a hand to her chest. “My God, Leda! You took five years off me.”
Leda’s brows lifted. Every time she put her weight on her crutches, they squeaked on the polished hardwood floors. No matter how dry the rubber tips were. “We just came to grab a snack before heading out to join Uncle Arne in his shop.”
“Ah.” She paused for a breath. “There’s shortbread in the tin on the counter, and ginger snaps in the pantry. You know your way around, Nils.”
Leda motioned to the door. “What’s that for?”
“Nothing!” Bright panic flashed over Grams’s face. Quick as it came, she steeled her expression. “Just…don’t go in there. It’s nothing. Unsafe.”
Leda frowned. “Why? What’s inside?”
“The basement was never finished. There’s only a tunnel going down, with no lights, and no way up. That’s why it’s sealed.” Grams shuffled away from the door, hands pressed to her heart, white wispy hair drifting around her narrow face. “I need to go sit down and slow my heart rate.”
What a crazy overreaction. It was just a door. Nothing special. Unless Grams had a secret lab or something in the basement. She glanced at Nils, but he was already at the counter with the tin open, stuffing cookies in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in years. He snatched the ginger snaps and a bag of chips from the pantry on his way outside. Shaking her head, Leda grabbed a banana from the counter, then slipped out the side entrance and shuffled the short distance to her uncle’s woodshop.
Located a couple of yards from the harbor shore, Uncle Arne’s shop boasted high ceilings, a state-of-the-art sound system, and the comforting scent of wood. In one corner was a small pot-bellied stove where he discarded small or otherwise unusable scraps. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the harbor and two smaller islands: Hornøya and Reinøya; both nature reserves.
“If you look out that window there,” Arne said, appearing at her side, “you’ll see the high school across the harbor. That blue building, beside the hotel.”
Just what she wanted to be reminded of. School, and having to make new friends, and moving up in grades. That the world kept on turning, never looking back at the ones left behind. Unshed tears blurred her vision. When she looked up, Uncle Arne gave her a look showing too much…everything. From his seat in the corner, Nils crunched away on a shortbread cookie, oblivious.
Leda turned to the window. Sea birds fell like dead weights, cutting through the water. Foam chevrons marked each entry point, then vanished with the swell of the sea. Despite the near-freezing temperatures, the birds chattered and played in the sun. Dad would have loved it here.
“I think so, too,” Uncle Arne said.
Leda blinked. “Did I…?”
He nodded.
Oops. “Speaking of parents, have you heard from my mom since she left this morning?”
A shadow stretched across his face, but as quickly as it came, it vanished. “Your mother is a complicated woman.”
Not exactly an answer to the question. “Tell me about it.”
He flashed a wry grin. “I know she’s not the easiest person to get along with, and I have the scars to prove it, but we have to remember that she’s family.”
The reminder slammed into her chest like a ten-car pile-up. Leda was quickly running out of family members. Dad had no family left; it was always just the three of them back in New York. Well, when Mom bothered showing her face. Most of the time, Mom took off on her own every chance she got.
Uncle Arne settled a massive hand over Leda’s on the worktop. “Just because she’s your mother doesn’t mean you can’t be upset with her, or hurt by her words or actions, hm?”
Leda turned to the window, biting the tip of her tongue so she wouldn’t lose her cool. “It’s just that…I try,” she said. “I try so hard, but nothing’s good enough for her.” Not even her seriously amazing math grades last year, and the invitation to an exclusive summer program at MIT. All expenses paid.
“She’s been like that since we were both kids. Always so uptight. I’ve never met anyone with such a sharp tongue.” Arne shook his head and a halo of red curls spun above him.
The shop door opened, and Nils made a gasping, spluttering sound. Leda stared at him in shock. His pale skin glowed an unearthly shade of pomegranate, his eyes bulged, and he clawed at his neck. He was choking.
Leda’s brain screamed “do something!” Her body didn’t respond. Fear rooted her legs to the ground.
A silver flash rippled by her left side, gusting chilly wind through the shop. Faster than anything she’d seen. Suddenly, a boy appeared from nowhere, faint silvery lines surrounding him and fading in seconds. In a single motion, he yanked Nils to his feet, turned him around, and thumped him on the back, hard. A solid wad of chewed-up shortbread landed on the floor with a splat.
Nils took an audible breath, then another, and another. His color faded to pale as Uncle Arne reached his side. The stranger backed away, his face turned to the ground, but she could see his expression. His mouth turned down. His eyes squinted. The emotion he was trying to hide, it looked almost like…
Regret?
But that didn’t make sense.
Arne was speaking, but Leda didn’t hear him—the stranger zeroed in on her with dark, earth-brown eyes that sucked all the light from the room. Scraggly auburn hair streaked with beams of sunshine hung down across sharp cheekbones and slanted into a wide jaw. His face was haunting. The look in his eyes, confusing. Intense. He stared at her, like he saw her. All of her, through every layer of skin and muscle and bone, right down to the dreams and fears etched on her soul.
The right side of his mouth twitched a bit, like he was holding the frown in place using every ounce of resolve to keep up his stern expression. Then he looked up, right at her again, and the sky fell to the ground with an unholy clatter. Or was that the sound of her heart? She suddenly felt very aware of her crutches.
She dropped her gaze from his, settling on broad shoulders and solid-looking chest. His T-shirt read “My other sword is a Zweihänder…” and the words were bisected by a long blade.
“Leda? Are you listening?”
Embarrassment burned white hot, like a rash on her skin. Leda met her uncle’s amused stare and mumbled an apology.
“I was introducing you to my new assistant, Roar. He’s been helping out around the shop for about a week.”
“Oh.” She noticed Nils seemed fine now. He opened up a package of ginger snaps and bit into one, slowly this time. “Are you okay?”
Nils just stared between her and the stranger. Since he came into the shop, Nils seemed almost terrified of Roar. He stood hunched behind Arne, his attention never leaving Roar for long. Distress pinched his brows together.
“Probably ate too quickly, hm?” Arne smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Something niggled in the back of her mind, something important. The stranger rolled his shoulders and all she could do was stare. A series of tattoos ran along his throat and dipped down the V-neck of his shirt, shades of vibrant blue outlined by black, a stark contrast. A flock of what looked like tiny birds in flight on the left. Intricate tribal swirls and barbed wire on the right worked their way from his neck, dipping down beneath the collar of his shirt, where they peeked out of the sleeve to curl around a bicep. And it looked like the tattoo was moving.
This time when Leda stumbled, tripping over her crutches, Nils wasn’t there to catch her. The floor jumped up, a hardwood wave. But she didn’t fall. Warm hands gripped her by the waist and held her upright, turned her around. Roar.
Again, he was all she saw. Only him. She moved her hand to his on her waist, and the world disappeared, everything disappeared, except him and the flash of something in his eyes that excited and scared her. Electric shocks rippled up and down her spine, filled her chest, froze her brain. For an hour—or was it a second?—she stood there, holding this stranger’s hand.
“There must have been some snow on the floor,” he said. “I’ll clean it up.”
Snow. Not some comment about her disability. The comment made her feel oddly…empowered. Like it didn’t even occur to him how the crutches could hold her back.
His gaze moved from hers down to their hands, fingers interlocked, his skin a few shades paler than hers. She watched his eyes, searched for some hint hidden in their shadowy depths, anything that might explain his thoughts. Roar gave her hand a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure himself it was really there, and Leda squeezed back. He snapped his head up like an alarm had gone off.
Weird. Leda backed away and released his hand. Her palm slid out from his, the friction warm. She almost forgot about her crutches. In the next second, she remembered where she was, and who else stood in the room. Nils and Uncle Arne were watching. Oh crap. What’s wrong with me?
Nils remained half-hidden behind Uncle Arne, his gaze locked on Roar. Roar glared at Nils. A muscle jumped in his jaw; his hands formed tight fists at his sides. No one moved. No one spoke. Leda could almost hear the hands move on Uncle Arne’s watch. Sweat glittered like pin-sized diamonds on his brow, making his peach freckles stand out.
Grams called a ten-minute warning for supper, her words cutting through the intense silence. Roar grabbed a broom and began sweeping the floor.
“I should go,” Nils practically whispered.
Spider’s web lines pulled at the corners of Uncle Arne’s eyes and a smile hid in the scruff of his beard. “Come by tomorrow afternoon for pizza and a Zombie Island marathon. Leda brought the entire series with her.”
Nils perked up. “I think Leda just became my favorite person.”
She smiled at him, ignoring the strange pulsing in her brain that seemed to insist she look at Roar again. “I’ll remember that when school starts.”
“For sure!” Nils moved with Arne to the door. He smiled at Leda over his shoulder, avoiding Roar, and then he jogged off in the dim twilight. All scarecrow and mismatched and awkward.
In coordinated silence, Roar and her uncle tidied up the shop. All signs of Nils’s near-death experience were swept away. As they worked, Leda was acutely aware of Roar’s movements in the shop, though she didn’t dare look at him. The swish of wood shavings with each sweep. His breath a whisper on her skin whenever he came close. He invaded her—there was no other way of putting it. Made her forget about everything but him.
Roar finished sweeping and replaced the broom. His eyes found hers across the shop. The air between them suddenly felt tissue paper-thin. She drew a breath with the feel of something heavy on her chest, a weight pressing down like a fist. It didn’t last this time, though, thankfully. After a jolted nod to Uncle Arne, Roar ducked outside. Then he was gone. He left the same way he arrived: lightning fast and without a word.
“Dinner’s ready!” Grams shouted.
Uncle Arne dropped a sawdust-coated hand on her head and ruffled her hair. “Better get going.”
“Wonder what we’re having.” Leda shuddered, recalling the meal on the flight from Iceland to Norway. She’d gone vegan after a class trip to a dairy farm in the eighth grade. All those cows, trapped, because of what they were, what they produced. Used—that resonated with her. It had become her biggest fear: not being good enough for anything but what people thought she should be. The cripple. Useless. Discarded. Overlooked.
She wouldn’t do that to anyone—or anything.
“Fiskeboller, by the smell of things,” Arne said.
She wrinkled her nose. “Ew, fish balls?”
Uncle Arne inhaled a deep breath through his nose. The knit on his sweater pulled so tight, Leda thought the wool might snap and unravel around him. “I smell fresh-baked flat bread, too.”
She sniffed the air, then frowned. “All I smell is wood.”
A deep belly laugh erupted from him. “Come on.”
It was over an hour later before she realized that this was the first time in those seconds, minutes, hours, and weeks that she’d been able to think about anything other than her father.
Who are you, Roar?