Adagio (Book One of the Muse series)

27. Cold

I think I read somewhere that Eskimos have hundreds of words to describe snow. However, ten bucks says that they all have something to do with cold.

My ass was cold. My hands were numb, my feet were wet and numb, which is even more enjoyable, and there was an area on the outside of my thighs that was so numb it hurt. That makes no sense whatsoever, but neither did the fact that I was in the tenth circle of frozen-over Hell with an hallucinating kidnapper whose bones I wanted to jump. Take that, Jerry Springer.

After landing in Fairbanks, we had hopped a mini-plane and flown an additional hour north to a little town called Coldfoot (right on). From there, Tristan had hired a car to take us even further north, to a resort-type log cabin retreat out in the middle of absolutely woodsy nowhere, but complete with all the posh trimmings a girl could hope for, including a spa offering a hot cocoa body scrub. Because that's the kind of treatment I usually get on a Saturday. On Thursdays I rather enjoy a nice whale blubber facial—I wouldn't be surprised if they had that too.

I can't euphemize—this was a majestic place. A triple-wide, wood-burning fireplace consumed the heart of the room, surrounded by gorgeous tapestries dripping down all four walls. The sofa and two easy chairs across from it were all made of top-quality distressed leather, and they all convened around a huge, roughly-hewn oak coffee table that was so authentic that it still bore some raised knots. If academics had coin, Tristan certainly knew how to use hers.
How long we would be here was unknown to me—it was all part of the grand scheme of the caring criminal in the doorway who was handing over a stack of bills to Andre, the total ace of a driver who had expertly navigated every weather-related hazard in the known universe to get us here in one piece. It was all part of the grand scheme of the deluded professor who was now closing the door to the outside world and leaving me vulnerable, the one who was turning to me with an annoying little smile stamped on her face.

"Thank you for the boots and gloves. And the coat," I said, shrugging out of my thick, shin-length wool and something-hide cover.
Tristan came behind me and held the coat as I wriggled out my arms, her knuckles brushing my back in the process, and as she left to open the closet door I marveled at the residual buzz on my skin.

"Andre will be back to collect us tomorrow night. We have an eight PM flight back to Fairbanks."

The buzzing stopped abruptly, ire the size of the snowbanks Andre had circumvented building in my belly. "Wait a second," I launched at her, you flew me to the North fucking Pole for twenty-eight hours? Even for a lunatic, you're crazy! What the hell, Tristan?"

"We need a place and a bit of time to think, and this is a location in which we can do so securely. Esteban will not come to us here." She had all the animation in her tone of Ferris Bueller's teacher reading a cookbook.

"Ya think?" Brilliant comeback from me, but I was too sore, tired and spent for wittier verbal ping pong at that particular moment. I exhaled a long, cleansing breath, stretched, and sent my hand behind my head to massage my neck. After being met with layers of rough, caked-on dried blood, my next activity sprang clearly to mind. Tristan saw my thought process, and just smiled faintly and nodded.

There was a giant hotel-style bathrobe hanging in the bathroom closet (yes, closet), so after a luxurious, hot shower and thorough brushing with the hotel-provided travel dental kit, I emerged clad in white terry from head to toe to find Tristan in the kitchen . . . cooking. Really COOKING. Where she had scored the food I had no idea, but there was a pot of pasta bubbling next to a sauté pan simmering with wilted greens, another small pan filled with a bubbling, whitish sauce, and the distinct smell of salmon coming from the oven. Heavenly.

"You look well," she remarked, coming toward me with a glass of red wine in each hand. "A toast, then—to a safe journey. Uzdravlje."

"Cheers," I offered. Sweet, warming tannins bursting with cherries coated my palate, and, even mixed with the flavor of Crest, tasted intensely good to me. I needed this badly. But of course, my inner discussion partner had to choose this exact moment to remind me that I was, although clean, toasty and about to eat a gourmet meal, still in the clutches of a sanity-challenged criminal, and therefore should not be dulling my senses with highly delicious alcohol.

I placed my glass on the counter and watched as Tristan loaded our plates with food and carried them over to the dining table, which was oak, thick to match the coffee table, and just gorgeous. White linen napkins and good quality silverware had already been placed, along with a vase of white daisies. Either this theme of white indicated a pleasant, blemish free evening, or, my inner voice countered, since white is the color of death in Japan, perhaps we shouldn't be thinking everything looks so quaint. And I'm right in the middle of this theme, in my white getup . . .

"I should change first," I piped up then, remembering that I was wearing only a bathrobe and a towel wrapped around my head. That and I was clad in the color of death.

Tristan sat down in her seat and chuckled. "Change into what, Elma?" Your shirt is covered in blood. You are just fine as you are—there are laundry facilities here, so you may have your things cleaned before we leave. I shall as well," she gestured, indicating her sweater, which now had no tee shirt underneath it, since it was also covered in my blood somewhere in her bag. There had been blood on her boxer-briefs too, I mused. Damn smartass caught the thought in my eyes, and grinned. "Indeed," was all she said.

The color of my face against my white bath turban and robe must have been a sight to behold, so the least I could do was pick up my wine glass again, which she had kindly carried over to the table with my dinner plate, and get that sucker right up next to my face as I sat down.

She cleared her throat, and threw me a bone. "I wasn't certain of your tastes, so we've got a bit of a mix here . . . pasta, fish, vegetables . . . please, begin." She wasted no time and went to work on the salmon in that white sauce, which I soon discovered was beurre blanc and phenomenal.

"It's delicious," I garbled honestly and semi-unintelligibly with a mouthful of sautéed kale. "Where did you learn to cook so well?"

"My father was a chef, actually. At quite a high level. I learned to cook as a child. I don't have the opportunity to do so very often, but it is something that I enjoy very much. I'm glad you enjoy it as well."

She had made a fire, and in the silent moment after she finished talking, as she looked over at me with a half-smile, the firelight flickered in her eyes and in the glass she held, making both look simply irresistible. I grabbed at my own goblet without looking and took a giant slug of wine, filling every corner of my mouth with its rich flavors.

"Do you?" she asked.

"What?"

She smiled again. "Do you cook?"

For a good ten milliseconds my internal pal flogged me about the head and neck with her imaginary wiffle ball bat, which helped get me back onto planet Earth from wherever the hell I was.

"Oh! Not really. I can make a few things, but—it's a little silly—I never got deep into cooking as an art because I had this irrational fear of cutting a finger or burning a hand . . . "

Tristan looked at me quizzically until I made a little piano playing gesture, and then she nodded as she understood my meaning.

"Yes, yes, of course. I don't find that irrational at all, Elma. With your skill I would protect my instrument as well. You are very gifted, you know. You play beautifully."

I was going to reply, but she looked like she was about to say more. She didn't, though, but simply took the bottle and poured us each more wine. Then, with another sip, she looked back at me.

"I explained things incredibly poorly yesterday, I realize. That idiotic monologue about supernatural beings—it's no wonder you think me mad. Allow me to try again. It's very important. Please."

I nodded slowly in reply, took another drink, and leaned back into my seat.