Harley Merlin 12 by Bella Forrest (reading books for 4 year olds TXT) 📕

the last of her. Frankly, I should’ve been more worried about her popping up than ravenous bears.

I stopped on a slippery rock to catch my breath, the surface worn smooth from years of battering by the stormy waters beyond. Breathing here felt like dragging in shards of ice instead of air, and the shock on the back of my throat made me cough.

I hate you, Erebus. I really, really hate you.

Then I saw it. Below, partially hidden by the endless array of snow-covered rocks and sparse trees, the silvery shine of a downed plane caught the wintry sunlight. The last known location of Nash Calvert. Naturally, Erebus hadn’t bothered to teleport me anywhere near this plane. He’d wanted me to sweat for it. Sadistic asshole.

I clambered across the intersecting rocks and down to the crashed plane. It had some graffiti scrawled on it—the signature of bored teenagers with nothing better to do. With no Wi-Fi and no signal, it was only to be expected. Judging by the word “cargo” slapped on the side of the plane, this silver bird had carried freight before its untimely demise. And, though it was pretty sizeable, it looked truly abandoned.

Come on, Nash, where are you? I approached the plane and sent out some magical feelers. Fortunately, Erebus had instructed me on a spell I could use to break through any secret interdimensional walls.

I pressed my hands to the plane and spoke the words: “Removere velamen. Illud trahere seorsum. Ostende mihi verum. Videbo. Ne abscondas. Latitudo autem ante faciem meam ad quæ revelanda erat.”

Nothing happened. I tried again, which resulted in nothing again. A few faint sparks drifted to join the snow, but that was it. If Nash had ever hidden himself here, he was long gone.

An expletive tingled on the end of my tongue. My patience had worn so thin it was borderline transparent now. My gremlins weren’t helping. My Child of Chaos meetings had set them off again, wilder than before, and they had a grand old time in my head, making a mockery of logic and focused thought.

They were responsible for the paranoia about polar bears. They kept whispering that I would get munched, feel my skull pop like hard candy in a set of jagged jaws. And when I’d managed to talk myself out of that pit of fear, they lashed me with Lux’s expectations, images of Ryann being splattered across San Diego, and mutterings of Raffe failing his task in the UAE, resulting in Erebus splattering me once I’d done everything on his extensive list.

I couldn’t handle the barrage of images. My control slipped further with each tormenting hiss in my head. If I didn’t find Nash soon, I would wade into the bitter water of Hudson Bay and never come out again, just to shut them up for good.

Moving away from the plane in an even fouler mood, I spotted a fisherman up the bay. He sat perched on a huge rock, his rod dangling in the water. I dug a photo from the top pocket of my pathetically thin coat—about the only helpful thing Erebus had given me. The photo, not the coat. The coat was mine, the only cold-weather item I owned. However, it worked for San Diego cold, not Canadian frostbite cold.

“Excuse me!” I shouted to the guy. He looked middle-aged and was dressed in a puffy orange jacket complete with a furry hood that turned me green with envy.

He glanced down at me, then set his rod on a mount. “Hello there!”

I hurried toward him as fast as my legs, and this terrain, allowed. “Could I pick your brain for a minute?”

“By all means, my friend.” The man smiled with Canadian warmth. “I’m not doing much; the nibblers aren’t nibbling.”

Lucky for them…

“Here, you have yourself a sip of this. You’re about to catch your death. This weather often catches folks unawares.” The man unscrewed a thermos and poured some coffee, then handed the filled cup to me. I had no pride left to refuse, so I practically snatched it from him, letting the heat radiate into my frozen hands. After giving myself a moment to enjoy the warmth, I handed him the photo.

“Do you recognize this guy?” I asked. “He might be using the name Nash Calvert.”

The man scanned the photo. “Nope, I’m sorry to say I don’t recognize him. And I don’t know any fella out here by that name. It’s a small town, my friend, so I would have heard it. It might be that he’s going by a different name.”

“You could be right.” After all, he wouldn’t be much of a runaway if he went and used his real name. Yeah, dumbass. My gremlins gave me a kick, just to make me feel twice as stupid.

“Try asking along the bay—I don’t go into town much these days, so it might be that he’s a newcomer I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting yet,” the man said. “And take this with you. You need it more than me, from the looks of you.” He took a woolen blanket from his pack and handed it to me. I took it gratefully and threw it over my shoulders before reclaiming my photo. Someone in this godforsaken place must have seen Nash. He may have been the king of hide and seek, but he had human needs—food, water, etcetera. He had to have left his hole at some point.

“Thank you.” I wrapped the blanket tighter around me.

“Think nothing of it, my friend. I hope you find this fella.”

I sighed. “Yeah, me too.” He didn’t bother to ask why I was searching for the guy, and he hadn’t thought twice about giving up a blanket for me—a total stranger. Either the cold had dulled his brain to dimwitted proportions, or this was the fabled Canadian trust and friendliness in action. This would never have happened in San Diego, for sure. Maybe I just wasn’t used to folks doing favors for others, no questions asked.

I pressed on up