Kiss of Frost Page 5

  “Well, my money’s on twenty,” Helena answered her own catty question. “Since Morgan likes to keep herself so busy.”

  More snickers filled the air. Morgan had her back to the group of Amazons, but I could see the anger and humiliation that flushed her face. She bent down over her books a little more, but she didn’t give the other girls the satisfaction of turning around and glaring at them. Still, I felt sorry for her. I knew what it was like to be an outcast.

  Maybe it was almost getting run over by that SUV, but suddenly, I wasn’t in the mood to be nice and quiet and blend into the background like I usually did, especially not when it came to the subject of Jasmine Ashton.

  I stalked over to the table of giggling Amazons. “Hey,” I snapped. “Why don’t you guys shut up? Because you have no idea what Jasmine was really like. How mean and twisted and evil she really was. Trust me, Jasmine was not a sweet, innocent girl.”

  Jasmine might have been the prettiest, richest, and most popular girl in my second-year class, but the Valkyrie had also been a Reaper of Chaos. In fact, her whole family were Reapers, and Jasmine had faked her own death as part of a scheme to sacrifice Morgan to the evil god Loki.

  Helena stopped laughing and looked at me. “And who are you?”

  Another one of her friends spoke up. “The weird Gypsy girl. The one who found Jasmine after she was murdered.”

  The Amazon was right. I was the one who’d found Jasmine’s body one night while I was working in the Library of Antiquities. I didn’t know at the time that it was just an illusion, just a part of Jasmine’s Valkyrie magic and her plan to make Morgan pay for screwing Samson behind her back.

  I’d been stunned by Jasmine’s supposed death and even more so by the other kids’ blasé reaction to it. Deaths weren’t uncommon at Mythos, and practically all the students had had a family member or friend killed by Reapers, so Jasmine’s supposed murder hadn’t been as much of a shock to them as it had been to me. But I’d wanted to know exactly who’d killed Jasmine and why, so I’d started investigating her death with my psychometry magic. Of course, I’d figured out the truth too late, and Jasmine had almost sacrificed me, along with Morgan, to Loki. She would have, if Logan hadn’t killed her first.

  Professor Metis and the other Powers That Were at the academy had tried to keep the whole Jasmine thing quiet, but Metis had told me that the Valkyrie’s family had somehow found out about my involvement in her death—and they blamed me for it.

  Their logic seemed all twisted and wrong to me, since I hadn’t actually, you know, killed Jasmine myself, but it was one of the reasons why I’d started weapons training with Logan and the other Spartans. So I could defend myself in case the Ashtons sent a Nemean prowler or some other nasty mythological monster after me—or perhaps even an SUV.

  It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to think that Jasmine’s family or one of their Reaper friends might have tried to run me down with a car instead of sending another killer kitty-cat prowler after me. I was willing to bet the Ashtons wouldn’t be too concerned with how my murder actually happened.

  The table of Amazons turned their full attention to me, their eyes sharp and narrow in their pretty faces. Their calculating looks reminded me of the sphinxes at the front gate. Then again, mean girls were monsters in their own way.

  After a few seconds, Helena let out another laugh. “Whatever. We weren’t talking to you, Gypsy, so why don’t you run along and shelve some more books before Nickamedes comes out of his office and yells at you? No, wait. On the other hand, don’t. I’d love to watch him scream at you again. Working in the library. That’s so pathetic, just like your cheap clothes.”

  “My clothes aren’t cheap,” I growled, even though I knew I was fighting a losing battle the second the words came out of my mouth.

  According to my Grandma Frost, we had plenty of money, but she and my mom had decided not to overindulge me, like the other warrior parents did to their kids. Since Reapers, and the death they brought with them, were a constant threat, almost all the parents spoiled their children rotten, giving them the finest things money could buy, just in case they—or their kids—died before their time. Which is why all the Amazons in front of me sported designer clothes, shoes, and purses, along with expensive jewelry.

  Helena gave me a pitying look. “Oh, honey, no-name jeans and hoodies are the very definition of cheap. It’s so sad you don’t know that. Now, why don’t you run along? The big girls are talking.”

  Her putdown delivered, Helena rolled her eyes and turned to her friends. And just like that, the other girls went back to their gossiping, ignoring me despite the fact that I was standing right in front of them. This time, my cheeks were the ones that flushed with anger, but there was nothing I could do but plod back over to the checkout counter.

  I walked by Morgan’s table, and my steps slowed as I studied the other girl. Sometimes I wondered exactly what Morgan remembered of that night in the library when Jasmine had tried to sacrifice her to Loki. Jasmine had dripped Morgan’s blood into a powerful artifact called the Bowl of Tears, which had basically turned Morgan into a zombie while I’d fought the evil Valkyrie. Still, I thought Morgan knew something about what had really happened. She never said anything to me, but we had gym class together, and every once in a while I’d catch her staring at me, almost like she wanted to ask me something. But she always bit her lip and looked away.

  Morgan saw me watching her. For a moment she looked at me, her eyes dark, haunted, and sad. Then she pressed her lips together and stared fixedly down at her book once more. Behind her, the Amazons let out another round of snickers, and Morgan’s face started to burn again.

  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Yeah, she’d screwed her best friend’s boyfriend, but now she was all alone. I’d heard through the rumor mill that Morgan had broken up with Samson two weeks ago, and her old Valkyrie friends weren’t speaking to her. Thanks to Daphne, the other Valkyries had discovered how Morgan and Jasmine had always made fun of them behind their backs. Kind of hard to be friends with someone who mocked you all the time.

  Eventually, the Amazons quit laughing and got back to their studying. Bits and pieces of other conversations drifted over to me from the various tables, but I ignored the whispers. I was still too busy thinking about the SUV that had almost pancaked me this afternoon. Had it been an accident? Or deliberate? Had Jasmine’s parents decided to come after me after all? Or would the Ashtons send some other Reaper to kill me? I didn’t know, and I had no way of finding out.

  The worrying was driving me crazy.

  Around seven o’clock, Daphne came into the library, along with her boyfriend, band geek Carson Callahan. I waved at them, but Nickamedes gave me such a venomous look that I didn’t leave the counter to go talk to them, even though I really, really wanted to tell Daphne about the SUV. The Valkyrie was supposed to come over to my dorm room after my shift tonight anyway, so I’d just wait to tell her then. It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to casually text her about.

  Finally, at around eight thirty, the library started to clear out for the night. I packed up my own books, hoping that Nickamedes would let me leave early. But, being the giant pain in my ass that he was, the librarian pushed another cart of books over to me.

  “I have a few more e-mails to send out before I close down the library,” Nickamedes said. “I trust that you can shelve these books in the meantime, Gwendolyn, and not make any trouble while you’re at it.”

  “Cross my heart.” I made an exaggerated X over my chest. “No trouble at all.”

  The librarian gave me another cold, suspicious glare before disappearing into the glass office complex. I stuck out my tongue at his retreating back. Yeah, I knew he was still pissed I’d wrecked the library, but that had been weeks ago, and I’d helped him clean up the damage. Nickamedes so needed to get over it. It wasn’t like I’d decided to destroy his precious library on purpose—I’d just been trying to keep Jasmine from killing me. It wa
sn’t my fault we’d knocked over thousands of books in the process.

  I grabbed the old, rickety cart and pushed it into the stacks, having to fight against the loose wheel that always pulled to the right. I shelved books for the next twenty minutes, sliding all the thick volumes back into their proper places. Despite my psychometry, I didn’t get much of a vibe off the books, since so many kids had thumbed through them over the years. They were just history books, used for research purposes and class assignments. Nobody had any other real interest in them. Usually, I didn’t get much of a feeling off stuff that people used every day or items that had a specific purpose or function, like dishes, tables, or chairs.

  I only got the whammies—the big, vivid, high-def flashes of images and feelings—when I touched an object that someone had a deep, personal attachment to, like a treasured family heirloom ring or a photo of the kid stepbrother who someone secretly despised.

  When I’d first come to Mythos, I’d hated working in the library because, well, I’d hated pretty much everything about the academy. Especially the fact that I’d been taken out of my old school and away from all my old friends with no real explanation. But now I kind of liked roaming through the stacks—mainly because of all the cool artifacts on display.

  It wasn’t called the Library of Antiquities for nothing. Hundreds of glass cases could be found throughout the various floors of the library, each one containing an item that had once belonged to someone or something important in the mythological world. Like the shield that Achilles had used during the Trojan War, or the tattered shoes that Pysche had worn as she wandered the world in search of her husband, Eros, the Greek god of love. I peered into all the cases I passed, taking a minute to read the silver plaques stuck on the fronts or the small white cards tucked inside that told me what the objects were, who had used them, and what magic they might have.

  I’d just finished reading about the loom Arachne had used to test her weaving skills against those of the Greek goddess Athena when something rustled in the next aisle over, and a flash of movement caught my eye.

  “Hello?” I said, peering in that direction. “Is someone there?”

  Yeah, calling out was probably the wrong thing to do, but I didn’t want to step around the far end of the aisle and trip over a couple of kids doing the nasty. I’d done that twice last week, which had been two times too many.

  “Hellooo,” I said, pushing the cart toward the end of the aisle.

  I wiggled the wheels back and forth, making them squeak-squeak-squeak even more than usual. Hopefully, if there were some kids going at it, they would hear the noise and have the good sense to pull their clothes back up—or down—where they belonged.

  I pushed the cart past the end of the aisle and stepped out into the main library space. “The library’s closing in a few minutes—”

  An arrow zipped through the air and thunked into the bookcase beside my head.

  It quivered there, wobbling back and forth ever so slightly, just like the ones I’d shot into the target in the gym this morning. A foot closer, and it would have drilled straight into my skull.

  That’s when my brain caught up with my eyes, and I realized that, you know, someone was actually shooting at me.

  I immediately dropped to my knees and crabbed backward among the stacks, dragging the metal cart along with me and wincing at all the freaking noise it made. I didn’t know if I was out of the archer’s line of sight or not, but surely, he couldn’t shoot at me through the cart—could he? Were there magical bows and arrows that could do that sort of thing?

  Shit, shit, shit! Why did this always happen to me? You’d think the library would be one of the safest, most boring places at Mythos instead of one of the deadliest. This was the second time someone had tried to kill me in here. I so needed to work somewhere else on campus.

  I huddled in the stacks, my back against a bookshelf, knees tucked into my chest, and the cart positioned in front of me. My breath puffed out of my mouth in sharp, short, ragged gasps. It took me several seconds and some deep, deep gulps of air before I was able to notice anything but the crazy thump-thump-thump of my heart and the blood roaring in my ears. I forced myself to focus, to listen, and to keep the panic to a minimum. You know, so I could maybe hear whether or not the mysterious archer was nocking another arrow in his bow and coming my way with it.

  Silence—I heard nothing but absolute, still, dead freaking silence.

  I stayed where I was. The seconds ticked by, going past one minute, then two, but I still didn’t hear anything. Whoever the archer was, I hoped he was long gone by now, but I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to just go about my business, like everything was normal. I might not be a highly trained warrior like all the other kids, but even I knew that assuming the bad guy was gone would be a quick, dumb way to die.

  As quietly as I could, I shoved the metal cart away and crawled to the opposite end of the aisle, keeping close to the shelves and the floor. I paused there and listened some more. When I didn’t hear anything, I slowly stuck my head around the corner.

  Empty—the library was completely empty.

  Nobody was studying at the tables. Nobody was packing up their stuff. Nobody was walking toward the double doors with a backpack slung over their shoulder. Even Mrs. Raven, the woman who manned the coffee cart, had already left for the night.

  I bit my lip. Just because I didn’t see anyone didn’t mean the library was empty. That arrow had come from somewhere. Someone had shot it at me, and I had no way of knowing whether or not he was still in here—

  A hand clamped down on my shoulder. I shrieked and threw myself to the left, banging my shoulder on the opposite bookshelf. I grabbed one of the thick books, whipped back my arm, and turned around on my knees, ready to throw the heavy volume at whomever was behind me, then surge to my feet and run like crazy.

  Nickamedes stood in the middle of the aisle, his hands on his hips.

  “Gwendolyn?” The librarian frowned. “Are you okay?”

  I scrambled to my feet, for once extremely grateful to see him. So much so that I would have hugged him if it wouldn’t have been just too weird. Nickamedes opened his mouth to say something else, but I held up my hand.

  “Shh!” I hissed.

  Nickamedes’s confused frown turned into a glacial glare at my shushing, but I ignored him and concentrated. Once again, I didn’t hear anything. No rustles, no whispers of clothing, no footsteps hurrying away.

  “I ask again. Are you okay?” Nickamedes said in a snide tone. “Or are you having some sort of ... episode?”

  “No, no, I’m not okay,” I said, moving past him and stalking to the end of the aisle. “I’m not okay because of that—”

  I rounded the corner and pointed at the end of the bookshelf, but my words died on my lips.

  The arrow was gone—vanished, like it had never even been there to start with.

  “Gwendolyn? Is something the matter?” Nickamedes stepped out from the stacks behind me.

  My mouth opened, closed, and opened again, but no words came out. No, I’m not okay, I wanted to say. Someone just tried to put an arrow through my skull.

  But I couldn’t tell him that. Not without proof. Nickamedes hated me. He’d never believe someone had just taken a shot at me in the library. And even if he did, well, he might not care all that much.

  I clamped my lips together and stood there, anger, embarrassment, and fear making my cheeks burn.

  Nickamedes raised his black eyebrows in a way that clearly said he thought I’d lost what little sense I had. “Well, I’m done with my e-mails. Go get your things together, and I’ll turn off the lights and lock up for the night.”

  He walked back to his office, but I stayed where I was, feeling crazy, scared, and frustrated, all at the same time. I blew out a breath and turned back to the bookshelf, as if the arrow would somehow magically reappear. It didn’t, of course, but I realized that maybe I hadn’t been imagining things after all.

 
Because there was a nick in the wood that hadn’t been there before.

  The deep, ugly, starlike shape looked like it had grooved maybe four inches into the dark, glossy wood. Whoever had shot the arrow must have yanked it out while I’d been looking around the far side of the bookshelf. That was the only explanation I could come up with. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he fired another arrow at me when I’d had my back turned? Had the archer heard Nickamedes moving around in his office and had been scared off? If so, I was going to have to start being a lot nicer to the uptight librarian—a whole lot nicer.

  But right now I wanted answers, and I knew of one way to maybe get them. My hand trembling, I brought my fingers up to the groove. I hesitated a second, then pressed them to the splintered wood, knowing that my psychometry would kick in and show me exactly what had happened.

  THUNK!

  An image of the arrow slamming into the bookcase filled my mind—but nothing else. No clue as to who had shot it or why. Disappointing but not surprising. I’d need the actual arrow itself for that or the bow that it had been launched from. Those were the tools the archer had touched, the things he’d used when he’d tried to kill me. The bookshelf was just where the arrow had landed. That’s why there weren’t any emotions attached to it—just the sudden violence of the arrow slamming into the thick wood.

  Frustrated, I dropped my hand.

  “Gwendolyn!” Nickamedes called out to me from one of the doors in the glass office complex. “You either come get your bag right this second or leave it here for the night!”

  There was nothing else I could do—not tonight, not without the bow, the arrow, or some other sort of proof—so I turned away from the splintered bookshelf and headed over to the checkout counter.

  I grabbed my messenger bag and slung it over my shoulder, but I wasn’t really thinking about what I was doing. Instead, I was replaying the day’s events in my head. First, the SUV, and now the arrow in the bookcase. It all added up to only one conclusion.