I jump out of the car, shoes sinking ankle-deep into the snow. Shoulders hunched, he’s losing his breakfast against the bark.
My hand finds his back. His muscles feel like stone under my palm as he struggles to catch his breath.
“Shit,” he rasps. “Can you grab some water?”
I go back for the bottle. He takes a sip, swishes, then spits into the snow.
One long breath, chest rising. He rolls his shoulders, pulling himself back together.
He heads for the gate again without saying a word.
Tom presses his hand to a scanner. A blue beam sweeps over his eye, then there’s soft beep, followed by a mechanical growl.
“Welcome, Thomas James McKenna,” a flat cyber voice declares.
A warmer welcome than biometric security is hard to imagine, but I guess this gate doesn’t open for people. It opens for assets.
The iron gates drag open and Tom gives me the tiniest nod to go back in the car. I hop in fast.
We drive into a dark forest. In the distance, I see an opening, like we’re approaching light at the end of a tunnel.
Snow crunches under the tires, no other tracks in sight. Either we’re the first to arrive, or the last ones to show up.
My eyes keep darting into the trees until I spot a small structure behind a fence, same gothic style as the front gate. A fountain? A statue? Hard to tell from here.
Suddenly, Stella’s voice cuts through my head; “They don’t let anyone in. And whoever manages to get in, won’t get out.”
I know she’s full of drama, but driving here now, I can feel that same eerie awe she had in her voice that day.
We break out of the trees, light hitting the windshield hard.
“Wow…” I whisper. That’s all that makes it past my lips.
The forest opens into a wide plain. The first thing I see is a huge frozen lake, so big it would take at least half an hour to walk all the way around. Around the water, spaced evenly like the points of a compass, are four wooden lodges.
I check the faint glow of light behind the thick clouds to get my bearings.It is a compass,with north representing the location of the biggest lodge, an impressively detailed wolf carved in dark oak above a set of double doors.
This is the den.
Tom is silent as he drives to the biggest lodge. There are twelve cars—same model, same color SUV—parked next to each other. As if my subconscious already expects the bizarre, each carhas a sequential number plate. As I count, there’s one number missing; we’re probably the last ones.
There’s a spot between number five and seven. Tom parks there, completing the sequence as his license plate ends with the number six. I can’t deny it satisfies me.
“Leave the luggage in the car. We’re staying over there in the West House, but we have to greet everyone in the North first.”
His businesslike tone feels distant; Tom is building a wall.
He reaches for the handle to get out, but I grab his hand quickly, tugging him back into his seat. Our eyes meet.
“If things get too much, just say…pineapple cookie.”
“Pineapple cookie?”
“Yes. Our safe word forlet’s get the fuck out of here.”
A little smile. “Pineapple cookie,” he repeats.
We get out of the car, and just as I’m about to grab the bottle of whiskey for Jay, a piercing scream nearly destroys my eardrums. My whole body snaps to alert. That shriek could only belong to one person.
