Thief Eyes

Chapter 2

The red mark had long faded by the time we ate dinner and returned to our guesthouse in Reykjavik. It was nearly ten by then, not that you could tell by the sun, which was low but still up, shining like an old quarter through layers of gray. I scribbled a postcard to Jared, changed into an oversized T-shirt, and crawled into bed. I was so, so tired. I clutched Mortimer, the stuffed brown wombat no one but Mom knew I slept with, and let soft sleep wrap around me, hoping for once I’d sleep without dreams.

Yeah right. Just because I’d traveled thousands of miles and not slept for two days, what made me think the universe would give me a break?

I dreamed of a gray tower of toy blocks, stacked on a golden hillside. Dandelions had rooted in the blocks and gone to seed. Little white-and-black birds perched on their heights.

I dreamed of a bow made of fire. Someone drew the bowstring back, and a burning arrow arced through the air. The arrow struck the hillside; the ground shuddered and gaped open where it fell. More flames leaped up from beneath the earth. Birds screamed and fled. Blocks caught fire as they tumbled to the ground.

The flames leaped higher, turning into grasping arms that were made, like the bow, all of fire. I ran, and as I did I felt something catch beneath my skin. I knew then the fire was in me, not the earth, after all.

The acrid stench of smoke filled the air. “You must never run from sorcery,” a voice yelled, but I just ran faster, struggling to breathe through the smoke, while my skin melted away and my bones crumbled to ash—

I bolted upright in bed, sweat pouring down my face. Something burned in my hand—I opened my eyes and saw the small silver coin, engraved with its pattern of circles and lines. I flung the thing across the room. I’d left it in my jeans last night. I knew I had.

I sat there, gasping for breath, trying to shake off the nightmare. Sweat plastered my T-shirt to my skin. “Just a dream,” I whispered. Slowly, the fear that burned through me faded. I had nightmares all the time now. Usually they were about Mom: Mom being kidnapped, Mom falling into a ravine, Mom being stabbed or shot or simply getting lost and calling my name. By day I told myself Mom had to be all right, but at night I dreamed about every possible awful thing that could have happened to her.

Mom hadn’t been in this dream, but I still had that stomach-aching, hands-trembling, after-nightmare feeling. “Just a dream.” I kept whispering so I wouldn’t wake Dad. Dad never knew what to do when I had nightmares; he just looked lost. I needed Mom here, to stroke my hair and chase the dreams away.

At least it was morning. Sun shone around the drawn shades. Through the thin wall I heard Dad talking about pyroclastic flows in his sleep. I dug Mortimer out from beneath the covers and hugged him close. The old wombat’s eyes had fallen out long ago and had been replaced with mismatched buttons. The thread of his seams was a different color each place Mom had patched him up. Mom was always bringing me stuffed animals, every one a different species and none of them the standard bear. Still holding Mortimer, I leaned back and shut my eyes.

Flames danced behind my eyelids. I leaped to my feet, breathing hard. “Just a dream,” I said, over and over. “Just a stupid dream.” My hands shook, and I tasted ash at the back of my throat. No way was I closing my eyes again.

I dug through my suitcase instead, pulled out running pants and a tank top, and got dressed for a run. My track coach was impressed by how much I’d practiced this past year, picking up county honors as a sophomore. I didn’t tell him I didn’t run for the honors. I ran because running chased the nightmares away.

My hands trembled as I laced up my sneakers. I glanced at the clock—4:17, it read. I groaned. It wasn’t morning. It was just Iceland, where the sun barely set in summer and barely rose in winter. I wasn’t about to go back to sleep, though. I pulled my tangled hair into a ponytail, wrote a note for Dad and taped it to the fridge, and headed out. The clouds and the rain were gone, leaving behind a deep blue sky and low pale sun. The cool air smelled heavy with water. It felt good against my sweaty skin.

My trembling eased as I headed down the gray brick sidewalk at a brisk pace, warming cold muscles. Just a dream. Concrete buildings lined the street, painted red and blue and green, like toy houses. A woman pushed a stroller toward me. The baby inside slept quietly. The woman’s eyes were red, as if she hadn’t slept nearly as well. I smiled in sympathy, but she didn’t smile back.

I broke into a slow jog. The dream faded, the memory of flames turning less real than the slap of my rubber soles on the pavement and the music blaring from a distant bar. Bright blue water shone in the distance. I headed toward it. Somewhere a car horn honked—a quiet honk, oddly polite. Two small white birds with red beaks, black caps, and long tail feathers stared at me from a rooftop. Arctic terns? Somewhere farther away, a raven krawked, and the little birds flew off abruptly. I was less interested in birds than in mammals, but I remembered that arctic terns migrated all the way from the Arctic to Antarctica and back again, every single year. They were tough little birds.

The street met a paved black trail that followed the bay, beside a seawall built of large gray rocks. Perfect—I turned right, onto the path, and broke into a faster run. Sun reflected off the water beside me. Across the bay, smooth black volcanic hills swept toward the sky, so different from the dusty brown mountains of home. Different, but kind of cool—I stared at them as I ran. In the distance I heard barking.

Something furry barreled into my legs. I tumbled to the pavement, speed turning to stillness in an instant. A wet tongue licked my face.

Someone pulled the dog away and began speaking—angry Icelandic words I didn’t understand. It was a boy around my age, with a wool cap jammed down over his ears and shaggy brown hair that fell into his eyes. He knelt in front of me, his arms overflowing with a wriggling brown-and-white Icelandic sheepdog.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—Talar thu ensku?” I asked hopefully. That was on the very first page of my phrase book.

The boy’s mouth pulled into a sardonic smile. He wore a scuffed black leather jacket, mended at the elbows. “Yes, of course I speak English. I yell at the dog, not you. Though you do not look like a tourist.”

I laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” My great-great-grandmother had come from Iceland, but that hardly seemed to count. I got to my feet. My running pants were torn, and the scraped skin beneath bled from a jagged gash. I flexed my knee and felt a twinge of pain.

The boy glanced at the scrape. “Sorry,” he said. The dog squirmed out of his arms and licked my knee, making the rip larger. His rough tongue stung, but I didn’t flinch away. I drew the dog into a hug, rubbing his shaggy fur and letting him know I forgave him for knocking me over. He licked my face, as if he forgave me, too, for not watching where I was going.

“He likes you.” The boy stood and offered me his handkerchief. He was taller than he seemed—taller than me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I took the handkerchief—he had lovely long fingers—and did my best to wipe the blood away. I stood, testing the weight on my knee. Already the pain was fading and the bleeding slowing. I reached down to scratch the dog behind the ears. He was a sweet dog, with one of those always-questioning faces. “What’s his name?”

“Flosi,” the boy said.

I rubbed Flosi’s nose. Flosi nudged my hand away, gave my knee an enthusiastic final lick—that stung, too—and looked up at the boy.

“We need to go,” the boy said.

“Yeah.” Of course he had to go. No reason for him to hang around chatting with some random tourist his dog had toppled over. Still, we both hesitated. In the sunlight, his green eyes were nearly as bright as the sea.

We looked away at the same instant. My face felt hot. There was no reason for that, either.

“Sorry,” the boy said again.

“No harm done.” I smiled. Then, because I didn’t want him to think I was the one hanging around too long, I added a “see you” and jogged off. My knee hurt at first, but I’d run through worse, and the pain disappeared as I found my pace once more. I realized I still held the boy’s handkerchief, but when I glanced back, he was already gone. I shoved it into my pocket, thinking about the way his shaggy brown hair fell into his face, over those bright eyes.

There was definitely no reason to be thinking about his eyes. I turned my thoughts to Jared, in his jeans and the sleeveless T-shirts he wore even in winter, his arms well muscled from hours spent helping with his family’s landscaping business. Jared’s hair was clipped close to his neck and never fell into his face. We’d only started dating this past year, but we’d been friends forever. I needed to find a net café to e-mail him—my cell phone didn’t work in Iceland, and it felt strange being out of touch. Jared was doing a wildlife biology internship in San Diego this summer. Before I’d decided to go to Iceland, I was supposed to intern there with him. Jared and I both wanted to work with animals one day, not in a clinic but in the wild.

I ran past houses and apartment buildings, offices and warehouses. Sweat trickled down my neck and into my eyes. A few cars drove past on the nearby road. A duck with brown feathers and a bright green head drifted by on the water. Given how little Dad was willing to tell me, maybe I should have gone to San Diego. I felt a twinge of anger at the thought.

A warm wind picked up. A desert wind—it dried the sweat and caressed my arms, just like at home. The air shimmered, as if with heat haze.

“Haley,” a voice whispered. That voice tugged on some thread anchored deep inside me. I skidded to a halt.

A woman in a long scarlet cloak stood atop the seawall. She was just a few years older than me, her eyes a smoldering gray, her blond hair so long it blew about her calves. I should have seen blue sky behind her, but instead I saw black stone. I caught the faint scent of hot ash. “Haley.”

It was the same voice I’d heard at Thingvellir. She reached out a hand, and the gesture pulled at me, too. I stepped toward her, not sure why, not sure whether I had a choice. My feet clambered up onto the seawall. The ground trembled. “Who are you?” My voice shook, which surprised me.

The woman spoke sharp Icelandic words I couldn’t understand—a question? Her accent was very different than the boy’s had been. She reached for my hand, and her fingers slid, ghostlike, right through mine. A wave of dizziness washed over me. The hot wind blew on. I swayed and reached for the woman in turn, not sure if I was awake or asleep.

A raven’s cry cut the air. A gust of cold wind blew. I stumbled and fell from the seawall, into the icy water. Rocks jabbed my arms and cut through my running pants. The woman cried out in anger. More faintly, I heard beating wings.

I staggered to my feet, dripping water, the sea up past my knees. The blue sky was gone; I could barely make out the fog-shrouded seawall above me. That made no sense. How could fog move in so fast? It raised goose bumps on my arms, which were covered with gritty black sand. I climbed back up onto the seawall.

The woman had vanished. That didn’t make sense, either. For a moment the wings beat on. Then another gust of wind blew, and I knew only that I was too, too cold.

I stumbled back down to the paved path I’d run on, teeth beginning to chatter. Wet, itchy sand had gotten down beneath my tank top. My skin felt like ice, and the fog was like ice, too. Only my hand was still warm, my fingers clenched around some small hot coal. I unclenched them and saw the silver coin. I swore and flung it into the sea, then immediately missed its warmth.

I shivered violently, barely noticing the small red circle on my palm again. God, I was cold. The buildings had disappeared into the fog, but I could still see the seawall and the paved running trail. I ran back toward the guesthouse, hoping that running would warm me up. There were rocks in my squelching shoes. I didn’t care. I ran faster, desperate for any warmth I could find.

The fog slowly cleared. The sun was always so low here—I couldn’t tell what time it was. My knee had stopped bleeding, and the sea had washed the blood away. Instead of the jagged gash that had been there, I saw only an angry red scab.

As if I’d been running for quite some time.