Where The Ice Gives Way Chapter 8

**Charlotte**

Moonlight turns the lake into broken silver. I stand at the treeline and listen. The woods creak and settle, and snow slips from branches in soft drops. My breath fogs in front of my face as the cold bites at me. I pull my skates from the bag and sit on a log to lace them up. The leather is cracked, the laces are frayed, and the blades are nicked from years of being used on whatever ice I can find. They still feel like mine. My shoes go into the bag, tucked under a low pine where the snow has drifted high against the trunk. The first step onto the ice is always a question. I place my weight down carefully, and thankfully, the lake feels solid. I glide forward, slow at first, following an old seam where the ice has cracked and healed. The blade whispers, and the sound goes straight through me. Then I push off harder. Cold air cuts into my lungs, but my body warms as I move, and my shoulders relax. The lake opens up, and I take it, skating into the wide space under the moon like it is the only place I have ever belonged.

For a while, the world becomes simple. I carve curves and deep edges that send frost behind me. I switch direction, crossovers clean, knees soft. The surface is rough in places, but my feet adjust automatically. Muscle memory does the work. The house slips away. Money slips away. Tomorrow slips away. I pick a line across the lake and build speed, wind tugging at my ponytail. Trees frame the ice in black, still and watchful. Out here, there is only the scrape of blades and my breath. I let a three-turn flow into a loop, careful on the landing. Then I go again. A spiral down the length of the lake, one leg lifted, arms stretched, chest open to the sky. It is not perfect, lake ice never is, but it is mine. I slow down and choose a patch swept clean by the wind. I set my edge and pull into a spin. The world blurs into white and dark and silver. My breath comes out in small bursts. My legs burn with cold, but I do not care. The spin finds its centre and holds. I come out of it clean and glide on, cheeks hot, lungs full. That is when I smell it.

It slips in under the cold… Warm, masculine, cedar and clean smoke, like fresh-cut wood and a fire that has just been put out. It does not belong here. It is too close, too real, and it makes the hair along my arms lift even through my sweater. My blades wobble, but I catch myself and widen my arc to slow down. My chest tightens with a strange pressure right in the centre like a fist closing. It’s not painful… but it’s not normal. I drag to a stop and press my hand to my sternum. What is that? My mind reaches for the easiest answer. Hypothermia. My body is finally noticing how cold I am. I look down at my legs, the frost clinging to the denim of my shorts. I flex my fingers; they’re stiff, but working. My thoughts are clear, and I do not feel dizzy, but the pressure in my chest does not ease. The scent thickens with the wind. I lift my head and scan the treeline.

My pulse stutters, then starts hammering. Charlie and I are wolves, and we run at night. We listen, we’re careful. If something is out there, I should have known before it got this close. A branch cracks somewhere close, and my breath hitches. My body reacts before my mind does. I push off hard, blades biting, sending me skating fast toward the far side. Cold air tears at my throat as fear makes my legs strong. The scent follows, trailing after me as if it were attached to my skin. The pressure in my chest spikes, sharper now, almost dizzying. I do not look back. The ice pops under my path, and I nearly trip. I force my knees to stay bent and keep moving. I aim for the bank where snow has drifted high, and the trees sit thicker. I want cover. I want solid ground. I reach the edge and half skate, half stumble up onto packed snow. My blades sink and catch, and I drop to a knee and rip my skates off with shaking hands. The laces fight me, and my fingers burn from cold and panic. I shove my shoes on, grab my bag, and run.

Snow grabs at my ankles, branches slap my arms, my breath tears in and out, loud in my ears. I don't shift because shifting takes time, and right now I can’t stop. I need to get home. The scent lingers for the first stretch, drifting between the trees, then it fades as the wind turns again. The pressure in my chest lingers anyway, like a bruise forming from the inside. When the houses start to appear, I slow down enough to listen. I can’t hear footsteps behind me—just the soft fall of snow and my own ragged breathing. I cut behind fences and take the long way around, keeping to shadows and backyards. The cold seeps into my bones now that I have stopped skating, and my legs tremble, but I keep moving. Our house sits at the end of the street, dark and quiet. The porch light is off, the windows are black. Dad is either asleep or passed out still. I slip inside and shut the door carefully behind me. The air inside is stale and cold, but it is still better than the woods. I stand with my back against the door for a second and listen. There’s nothing but silence.

Upstairs, Charlie’s door is closed. I can hear him breathing through it. That sound steadies me more than it should. I take my shoes off and carry my skates to my room, sliding them under the bed. I sit on the edge of the mattress and press my hand to my chest again. The pressure is still there, not as much, but… it is there. I breathe in through my nose. The house smells like old carpet and dust and the sharp bite of Dad’s beer. No cedar. No smoke. No warmth. In my head, I see the ice again, the circle my blades carved, and the way that scent wrapped around me like a blanket. Outside, snow taps softly against the window. I tell myself it was nothing, maybe it was someone simply walking home, or an animal. My body does not believe me. Somewhere out there, in the woods, something strange happened… I just don’t know what it was.