I drummed my fingers against the desk. He was late. And that was making me increasingly nervous. Had I not been a warm, welcoming hostess? Had I not treated him with every kindness? Had I not done enough to earn his favor? There was a knock at the door and I hastily rose to my feet, smoothing my dress as I tried to repress my anger toward his lateness. With a sigh, I finished composing myself, and threw open the doors. “Ah, my lord,” I said, as pleasantly as I could manage. “Forgive my tardiness,” he bowed as he entered the house. “Well,” I smiled to myself as I shut the door. “How can I not, my lord? I’ve already prepared tea!” I gestured toward the parlor. “Please,” he removed his hat. “It’s Marcus.” “Marcus,” I tried it out as I turned to the parlor. “Join me.” He accepted, coming to sit beside me, him on the settee, me on my chair. I served him as he explained himself: “I would have been here earlier but, I’m afraid I slept in. It was an excellent party, my lady. I haven’t had such fun in so long. And I have never been so exhausted!” I laughed behind my teacup. “Well, I am pleased to hear it, my lord- Marcus.” He smiled. “And then, well, I spent the morning writing to my daughter.” I nearly choked on my tea. “Your- daughter?” “Yes, my Ella,” he smiled, almost dreamily. “I hate to leave her. But she accepts my absence, so long as I write.” I fell silent. My hopes were crushed instantly. When we were introduced, my associates called him a “very wealthy, very eligible bachelor,” not a loving father. All my attempts to impress him, to succeed in making his wealth my own, were snuffed out instantly. I managed to recover: “And your wife?” He then became quiet: “My wife. She... was lost to us. Three years ago.” Hope sparked in my chest as I sat my teacup on the table. “Oh, do forgive me. I didn’t realize-“ “No harm done,” he assured me. “What about your family?” I paused. How should I play this? If I continued to show off my social prowess and skill as a hostess, I might impress him. But if I compared our situations as single parents, I might earn his sympathy. I chose the latter: “I lost my husband almost ten years ago. My daughters and I have been living off what was left of his savings.” I turned away from him with a sigh. It was the first time I had admitted my hardships to anyone. It was a lot more strenuous than I had imagined. He looked at my hand, considering grabbing it. I hoped he would. But, perhaps I performed my “proper lady” act too well. “Ella and I live comfortably,” he finally said. “If you ever need help...-“ “Oh, I couldn’t,” I held a hand over my chest. “You are too kind, Marcus.” He smiled a little. “If I learned nothing else from my wife-“ I swallowed. I had heard enough about his dead wife. “I’m hosting another dinner party this weekend. Perhaps dear Ella would like to join us?” His face brightened. “I would so enjoy that. But I could never allow her to make that journey.” He got comfortable in his seat. “Perhaps when she is older. How old did you say your daughters are?” “They are twins,” I explained. “Both thirteen.” He beamed. “How wonderful! As is my Ella!” “Really?” I feigned excitement. “Well, we must introduce them!” Honestly, what had I gotten myself into? I didn’t want someone else’s child! I wanted to save myself from financial ruin! To be married and rich and aristocratic again. Instead, I was walking myself into a job as a nanny. “Wonderful,” he said, standing. “But, I’m afraid I must bid you adieu. I have a ship to catch come midday.” “Oh?” I followed him to the door. He turned back to me, taking his hat in one hand and my hand in the other: “Don’t worry,” he kissed the back of my palm. “I will return in time for your party.” As he left and I stood in the doorway watching, I realized I had gone too far to quit now - he had awakened a feeling within me the that I believed died with my Francis ten years ago. There was no question: I would marry Lord Tremaine within the year.

In summer days I reminisce The fallen leaves of past Sunshine warms the asphalt road I drive back home at last

In hand I take my horn and key In heart I carry fear Will I be welcomed back again By those I hold so dear?

I left with hardened bitterness I resented what was done I return again with hopefulness I return to see someone

The door is opened by a face I do not know their name I fear I now will not fit in I fear things aren’t the same

Before my heart can falter fast Before I isolate A friendly voice refrains my hope And calls me to the gate

A thousand faces ease my fear A thousand songs they sing Each one brighter than the last And a smile to me bring

The hero returns with fear untold But their heart did lead them true To the place they called their home The hero returns to you

I looked at the crazed writings of the lunatic I once called “brother.” Scribbling on napkins, photographs of shadows he claimed were not supposed to be there, all piled onto his desk in his room where the only light that worked was his flimsy table lamp. I shone the flashlight on my phone up onto his bulletin board, where he had connected newspaper clippings and Polaroids and sticky notes with strings wound around thumb tacks. “LOCAL 18-YEAR-OLD GOES MISSING” one read. A nearby sticky note read: “What’s the connection???” Photos similar to the ones he had on his desk were layered beside that. I sighed as I stepped back, rubbing my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I took the trash bag and started piling the junk in. I had about 10 minutes before the police would get here and start tearing apart his room, trying to find some indication as to where he had gone.

“Promise me you’ll destroy it,” he had said the day I found his collection. “If I ever go missing, promise me you‘ll get rid of it before anyone finds it.”

I remember calling him “paranoid,” among other choice words. But, yes, I did promise. And here I was, fulfilling that promise. Maybe Colby wasn’t so crazy... Once the desk was clear, I reached up to the bulletin board. I wanted to just tear the whole thing down. The thing that had ruined my relationship with my brother. The thing that had caused me to lose him. Instead, I carefully pulled it off the wall, away from the cling strips, stuffed it in the trash bag, and pulled the strips cleanly off the wall, as if it had never been there. Carefully, I dragged the bag, stretched to its limit, to my bedroom, closing his door behind me. Safely in my own domain, I shoved the bag into my closet and forced the door shut. I flopped onto my bed, mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep. I was too distraught. Too afraid. Too worried over my brother. He was gone. The last time I saw him, he was slaving away over his work. He never even turned to look at me.

“Goodnight, Colby,” I had said from the doorway. “Night,” he had snapped. “Don’t stay up too late,” I had warned him. “Eh,” he had grunted.

It hurt so much more now. Knowing that I might never see him again. Knowing that the last thing he had said to me was “eh.” I looked over at my doorway. What would I do if he walked through that door right now? If he came home and started his nonsense all over again? If he shut me out? If I got another chance to make things right? I turned back to my phone as it chimed beside me on the bed. There was one text:

COLBY REGHAN: they know you have the stuff

I stared at my screen in disbelief and texted back as quickly as I could:

ME: Colby!!! Are you okay???

Three dots popped up, indicating he was texting back. And then his message came through:

COLBY REGHAN: get out of the house! Keep mom safe! Please!

I shook my head, panic rising in my throat:

ME: Where are you?

Three dots appeared again. Then his message:

COLBY REGHAN: do what I said. I lov

Horror washed over me.

ME: Colby? Are you there???

Three dots appeared. And then they disappeared. And then they reappeared. A message came through:

COLBY REGHAN: you’re next

I dropped my phone. Adrenaline kicked in. Colby had been right. Someone WAS after him. My gaze shifted up as the doorbell rang. I could hear my mother going toward the door. I sprinted toward the living room, shouting her name: “MOM! DON’T OPEN-!” But I was too late. Figures in dark clothes and tactical gear pushed through the door, rifles pointed at my mother. “THE PICTURES!” One of them shouted at me. “WHERE ARE THEY?” I backed away, fear rising in my chest.

“Promise me you’ll destroy it,” Colby had said.

I darted into the kitchen, too fast for the men, and shuffled through the junk drawer. By the time I made it back to my room, the men had already ransacked Colby’s desk. I slipped into my room and locked the door. Then I grabbed the trash bag. “This better be worth it,” I whispered as I took a lighter to Colby’s research.

Blood and ice. These are the things that cloud my vision. That dictate what I do, how I act, what I say, what I feel. I am blood and ice.

As I stare up at the sky - gray and submitting, like my spirit - I can feel my power sinking into the ground. Any sense of normalcy that I gained over the last two years went with it. My skin started to turn blue, the scars that ran up and down my body grew sub-thermal. Ice formed on the bandages of the ones I had rubbed raw. My fingertips turned bright red, drawing my gaze to my newly manicured nails. I had just gone with Hadley, my new friend, to get them done, at her behest. They would soon be as distant a memory as her. The frosted grass crunched under the feet of an approaching figure. I could feel myself being lifted off the ground. Limp, numb. It’s like no time has passed. I fell back into my old ways so easily... And then, we both fell. I stood over his bluing corpse. It frightened me: how easily I could take down someone twice my size. How easily I could kill. I checked his pockets, stole his wallet, and crushed his phone under the heel of my boot before walking up the hill to the street, holding my side as I did. I could still feel the effects of the rubber bullet he used to snipe me down. Pulling up the hood of my black sweatshirt, I trekked westward on the road, into the forest.

Under the cover of pine trees, I had not expected to meet a car. Let alone, an Uber. He flagged me down. It was an older man - balding, wide-eyed, unnervingly friendly. He spoke with an accent: “Need a ride, kid?” When I turned to him, I supposed he saw my strikingly pale features and did a double-take. I didn’t wait for him to recover - I just got into the backseat, locking the door myself. “Where to?” He asked, eyeing me in the rear view mirror as he pulled back onto the road. I looked out the window at the passing trees and my reflection: “Away from here.” He nodded - I could tell from my peripheral vision - and then tightened his grip on the wheel.

A few hours later, we picked up another passenger. He was tall, lanky, and wore a knitted sweater and glasses. He explained that he was a student from the nearby university and that his friends had forgotten him at the rest stop a few miles back on their way out of town for spring break. If only I had problems as simplistic as his, I thought to myself. One look at me warned him to sit in the front with Marcus - as the driver had told me his name was. The student was also overly friendly - but if Marcus was such, the student was ten million times that. He said his name was Oliver and that he was studying physics and that his friends really hadn’t wanted him to come because he was “a nerd” and blah-blah-blah. Somewhere between “Nancy” and “Key West,” I stopped listening. I started thinking about the man who attacked me. Who followed me from the bus stop (five stops before my apartment), into the woods, to shoot me, only to be killed himself. I thought about my powers. I thought about how I could kill both of these men sitting in front of me instantly. How I could freeze the vapor in their lungs. The water in their blood. And yet I chose not to. But that didn’t stop the secret societies, the rogue agencies, the federal programs from coming after me. I was strange, I was foreign, I was unpredictable - so I was a threat. But one, they hoped, that could be harnessed. Yes, I was better off alive, I thought as Marcus parked the car. I waited for Oliver to get out. A minute passed. Maybe two. Stillness. Suddenly, the two men turned on me, pistols in their grasp.

Blood and ice. That is what I remind myself as the two men lay my bleeding corpse in the dead grass. These are the things that cloud my vision. That dictate what I do, how I act, what I say, what I feel. I guess I was too unpredictable to left alive. I am blood and ice. Blood and ice...