Hellfinder, p.5
Hellfinder, page 5
“Sleeping in that?” Gram asks.
I shake my head. “I just need a minute to unwind. You can use the bathroom first, if you want.”
“A hot shower sounds heavenly.” Gram fishes some shampoo and conditioner out from her backpack. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but most of the water here is heated geothermally, which means the shower water can smell like sulfur.”
“Ugh,” I say, thinking of the noxious scent of sulfur from science class back when I was in school in Bangkok. “So we’re going to smell like rotten eggs this whole trip?”
“No, silly,” Gram says. “The scent won’t stick to you, I promise. I just didn’t want you to panic. You’ve seemed a little…flustered since we got here.”
Jeez. Even Gram is picking up on my awkwardness around Gunnar. I’m going to have to get a handle on that.
“What did that woman in the restaurant say to you?” I ask. “She said something in Icelandic, right?”
“It was mostly gibberish.” Gram’s eyes are drawn to something outside the window. “A bunch of words strung together that didn’t make much sense.” She lowers the blinds and pulls the curtains closed.
She turns back toward me and I try to discern from her expression and body language if she’s lying. She doesn’t seem to be, but if she’s not, then Gunnar is. And why would he make up a story about what the old lady said? He doesn’t seem like the type who would lie just to scare me. Plus, his version of the story makes more sense with what I saw.
“It just seems odd,” I continue, “her talking about evil when we’re on this trek to retrieve a magical rock that allegedly leads people straight to hell.” It also reminds me of the things my dad used to say when I visited him in the mental hospital, but I’m not going to bring him up right now. Gram’s official position on my father is that the stress of my mom’s difficult pregnancy wore him down, physically and emotionally. When Mom was dying in surgery, he had a psychotic break and started hallucinating demons and evil spirits. He hasn’t ever recovered.
“You know,” Gram says, “in Norse mythology, hell wasn’t even a bad place. It was just where people went if they weren’t lucky enough to die in battle.”
“Yeah, I learned that in school. But these people aren’t Vikings and that woman specifically said ‘evil’ more than once.”
Gram pats me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry if she scared you, but I got the feeling she may have been mentally ill.” She pauses. “And many Icelanders grow up very superstitious. Did you know that close to half the population believes in hidden people?”
“Hidden people?”
“Invisible elves, basically. We call them huldufólk.”
“That’s interesting,” I say. “And a little disturbing. But why do I feel like you’re trying to change the subject?”
“Not at all.” Gram chuckles. “I just mean that when you take someone who already believes in supernatural things, and figure in advanced age, perhaps medications with side effects, or other issues, it’s not that unusual for people to…have episodes.”
“I guess.”
Gram heads for the hallway with her shower stuff. “I wouldn’t let it worry you too much.”
Maybe Gram is right and I’m making too much out of this, but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that she and Gunnar told me two different stories. As far as I know, my grandmother has never lied to me. Why would she start now?
6
Later I lie awake, my mind replaying each moment from the restaurant, my head spinning with questions: What were we doing when the old woman came over to us? What were we saying? Could Gunnar have misheard her?
Next to me Gram lies on her back, snoring peacefully. At least someone is getting some rest. Sighing, I slip out of bed and grab my tablet. If I can’t sleep I might as well get some research done, but I don’t want to risk waking Gram by turning on a light. I’ll find a cozy corner of the guesthouse where I can sit and not disturb anyone else.
I fumble around in my backpack until I locate a pair of socks and something warm to put on over the T-shirt I’m sleeping in. It turns out to be the red-and-gray Icelandic sweater. I smile to myself as I pull it over my head. Time to test you out.
It’s a little after eleven p.m., and my plan is to sneak downstairs and curl up in one of the chairs in the sitting room. When I slip out into the hallway, I see a narrow beam of light from under Gunnar’s closed door. My heart revs up a little as I debate my next move. It makes total sense for me to try to clarify what happened at dinner, but I’m a little nervous about talking to him alone. What if he does hate me? What if he tells me to go away?
Just do it, a voice whispers in my brain. This voice has gotten me in trouble in the past, but for once I feel like it’s giving me good advice. I lift one shaking fist and knock gently on his door. I hear Gunnar moving around inside, and then there’s a pause and the sound of the deadbolt unlatching.
When he opens the door, he’s wearing black and white plaid flannel pajama pants and no shirt. His damp hair is hanging over his shoulders, droplets of water clinging to his pale chest. “Hi,” he says. “Is everything all right?”
Holy crap, I almost say aloud. Of course his chest would rival his cheekbones when it comes to chiseledness and general Louvre-worthy appearance. I train my eyes on the ground, hoping the dim lighting in the hallway is obscuring the blush I feel creeping across my face. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding. I just got out of the shower. Come on in. I’m guessing you want to talk more about what happened at the restaurant?”
“Right.” I lift my gaze to make eye contact, which involves taking in Gunnar’s entire body, which sends another rush of heat to my face. I focus on one of his shoulders, but even that is so smooth, the muscle defined without being bulky. “Aren’t you cold?” I blurt out.
“Not particularly,” Gunnar says. “Aren’t you warm in that? You’re looking a bit flushed.”
“It is warm,” I say. “And comfortable. I was testing it out.”
“Working your way toward that thank you.” He grins as he shuts the door behind me. He goes to the far side of the room, bends down, and removes a folded piece of black fabric from his backpack. It turns out to be a concert T-shirt from a band I’ve never heard of. As he pulls it over his head, I’m just glad I don’t have to avoid staring at his bare chest anymore.
“So,” I start, “I feel like there might have been more to that story.”
“There might.” Gunnar sits on the edge of the bed. “It’s possible that woman thought I was Einar.”
“I don’t understand. People think Einar is evil?”
“My brother is…troubled. He was doing all right for a while, but his girlfriend broke up with him a few months ago and he dropped out of school. My grandfather was upset, but figured he just needed time to heal and that he’d go back eventually. Instead, Einar started spending most of his time in his room on his computer, staying up until four or five in the morning and sleeping all day. That’s how he met Lars, the lead singer of Black as Death. The two started messaging each other on some music board and then Einar starting working for the band. This whole pilgrimage to the doorway to hell was something the two of them came up with together.”
“And that’s why people think he’s evil?”
“It’s more than that.” Gunnar sighs. “A few months ago, a church on the outskirts of Reykjavík burned to the ground. Satanic symbols were spray-painted in the parking area. Einar was questioned about the crime.”
“Did he do it?”
“Possibly,” Gunnar says. “But he wasn’t arrested because the only evidence the police had was some eyewitnesses who saw someone they thought was Einar running away from the blaze. He acknowledged being there. Said he was out for a late-night walk and saw the fire and went to check it out.”
“Didn’t they ask why he didn’t call 911?”
“It’s 112 here, but yes. Einar said he didn’t have his phone, and by the time he got home he could see online that the firefighters were already trying to put out the blaze,” Gunnar says. “Also, not calling 112 isn’t a crime even if they could somehow prove he was lying.”
“If he wasn’t arrested, how would people know he was questioned?”
“A local tabloid ran an article on the fire and mentioned my brother as a possible suspect.” He pauses. “And someone from the church found one of his school photos online and put up a notice saying he wasn’t to be allowed on the property. They also posted about their suspicions on the church website.”
“So you think that woman saw a picture of Einar online and remembered what he looked like months later?”
“Or there may have been other articles or postings. Here, I’ll show you.” He holds out his hand and I realize he’s waiting for me to give him my tablet computer.
“Okay.” I tap in my password and hand the computer to him.
His lips purse as he taps at the screen. I walk around to the end of the bed so I can watch over his shoulder.
“You can sit down, you know?” he says, without looking away from the screen. “I don’t bite.”
That’s too bad, I think. Gah, what is wrong with me? It’s like I’m twelve years old again and getting flooded with puberty hormones for the first time. I lower myself gingerly to the bed, making sure to leave ample space between us.
Gunnar has pulled up what appears to be a church news feed with information about the fire. I consider the picture of his brother. Same long hair and high cheekbones. Einar’s face is a bit sunken, though, and he has faint dark circles under his eyes.
He scrolls down to the comments. They seem to be a mix of alleged satanists praising the burning of the church and zealous parishioners pledging that God’s vengeance would be swift and powerful.
“I don’t want to hang out with either of these groups,” I say.
“Same,” Gunnar says. “This is not your ordinary Catholic or Lutheran church. It’s a fundamentalist Christian church with a long list of ‘sins’ that require parishioner repentance by sending in donations.”
“Church of the Holy Light,” I murmur. “You think it’s all a big scam?”
“Hard to know for certain.”
“You really think your brother might have been the one who burned it down?”
“I saw him with spray paint that day. I asked him what he was doing and he told me to stay out of it, so I did.”
“Did you tell the police that?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not in the habit of volunteering extra information to the police, but even if I were, I wouldn’t implicate my brother. The church was empty. It’s not like he killed anyone.”
“So you don’t think he’s dangerous?”
“He wouldn’t hurt me,” Gunnar says. “And I don’t think he’d hurt anyone else either, unless he was being influenced or coerced.”
I start to ask what he means by influenced or coerced, but then he reaches out to hand me back the tablet and his arm brushes against mine. I flinch, visibly, even though there’s a thick barrier of wool between us.
He turns his head sharply to face me, the ends of his hair splattering a few drops of water in my direction. “Why are you so…twitchy?” He cocks his head to the side.
I lick my lips and compose a lie in my head about too much coffee, but then I realize he sat across from me at dinner and might remember me ordering water just like he did. “You make me nervous,” I admit.
“Nervous?” Gunnar snorts. “Why? I’m not exactly what people call intimidating.”
I shrug. “I’m not very good around people my own age.”
“Why?” he asks again.
“I don’t know. They tend not to…like me.” My voice wavers a little and I wish I could crawl under the bed and hide from my embarrassment. Why did I just say that? Why am I saying any of this?
“Ah.” Gunnar’s expression softens. “I know the feeling.”
I would honestly rather everyone hate me than for people to look at me the way Gunnar is right now, with eyes full of pity. “Shut up. You do not.”
He snickers. “You know, people might like you more if you didn’t tell them to shut up.”
“Come on. Look at you,” I say. “You’re ridiculously hot. I bet everyone likes you. Unless they’re jealous or something.”
Gunnar’s eyes widen. “You think I’m ridiculously hot?”
Oh God. I’m the one who needs to shut up. And yet, I keep talking. “I mean, yeah, sure, in a traditional, socially approved kind of way,” I hedge. “I don’t personally think of you that way.”
But then I decide to be honest. Gram says that when you mess up, the power move is to own it. Backpedaling just looks sad and pathetic. And it fools no one. “You know what? Actually, I do think of you that way. I’m pretty sure every girl on this island thinks of you that way.”
Gunnar shakes his head. “Untrue. Some of the girls at my school tease me. They say I’m too skinny and that my face is too smooth, like a girl’s.” He rubs at his chin. “They like men with big muscles and facial hair.”
“Facial hair? Gross.” I scrunch up my nose. “Well, if you ever get lonely, you should just drop by the US, because I’m pretty sure there they’d want to put you on magazine covers.”
He laughs out loud. Lifting his chin, he crosses his arms, and leans slightly to the side. “You mean like this?”
“That looks like the cover of the worst rap album ever, but sure.” My lips melt into a smile.
Gunnar reaches into his backpack and pulls out his traditional Icelandic sweater. “Maybe I should put this on.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You might even be able to make that look good right now.”
“It looks good on you.” His eyes linger on me for a few seconds. “Also, you’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
This makes me blush even hotter. “What is happening right now?” I ask. “I never talk like this. I never feel like this. Are you some sort of Svengali?”
Gunnar laughs loud enough that I get the urge to cover his mouth with my hand. I don’t, of course, because I have no idea what would happen if I touched him. I do get a great view of his molars, though. Cavity-free, of course.
“So now I’m ridiculously hot and…beguiling?” He blinks his long eyelashes.
I hop up from the bed and pace back and forth. “How about we just delete the last five minutes? My grandmother would kill me if she could see how unprofessional I’m being.” I turn to face him. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to her.”
“I’m enjoying imagining how that conversation would go.” He clears his throat. “So, Ingrid. I’m afraid we need to discuss your granddaughter’s behavior. Her unwanted advances have been making me very uncomfortable.”
“I have not made any advances,” I huff. I look around the room. “This is a nightmare, right? Wake up, Rory.” I pinch myself. I do not sit up in bed, safe under the covers. I am still in this room with Gunnar, who is still laughing at me.
“I don’t want you to be nervous,” he says. “Is there any way I can help? Maybe we should do like in the movies and just kiss right now to get it out of your system.”
“Ahahaha.” My breath catches in my throat. “Not funny.” Is this flirting? Is this marble sculpture boy flirting with me? No, he’s just screwing with me—feeding off my discomfort like some kind of Scandinavian succubus.
“Who says I’m joking?” he continues. “If there’s some sort of…tension that’s going to interfere with finding my brother, then I—”
Kill me now. Seriously. Stroke. Heart attack. Spontaneous combustion. “You want to help?” I say. “Tell me some of your flaws—let’s hear all the reasons you suck. Your room is full of country music posters, you moonlight as a drug dealer, you think women belong in the kitchen, you hate immigrants. Something like that.”
“I actually like to cook, but Grandfather is sort of traditional and insists on employing a housekeeper who cooks for us.” Gunnar thinks for a moment. “I don’t drink. I ride a bicycle to school.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I tell him. “You’re not helping.”
If this were anyone else, I would think he was manipulating me, that he had done some research to figure out exactly what to say to me. But this guy didn’t even know my name a few hours ago. He just happens to be the kind of guy I thought existed only in books and movies—one who is both extremely hot and extremely cool.
The “just do it” parts of my brain light up again and I imagine taking him up on his offer to kiss. But if I do that I might get pulled even further into his orbit. Or get rejected. I’m not sure which would be worse.
Yes, I am.
That offer was a joke anyway, I remind myself.
“Oh, I know!” Gunnar’s eyes light up. “I am bad at athletics.”
“Really?” I ask, intrigued by the possibility of an awkward, fumbling Gunnar.
“I scored a—how do you say?—‘own goal’ playing football when I was younger. It was a big game. We lost by one. I got yelled at by my entire team…and some of their parents.”
My insides go soft. Even I’ve never had an entire team of people mad at me. I’m seized by the urge to console him. “Okay, that story is sad, but it’s getting late.” I start backing toward the door. “I should go.”
“I’m glad we had this talk.” Gunnar smiles again.
“Ha, that makes one of us.”
“Seriously, though. You’re right that this job requires focus. But…” His voice drops low. “Maybe once we find my brother, I can show you around Reykjavík…if you want.”
I can show you around Reykjavík. Is that code for something? I curse inwardly at myself for spending so much time reading about science and politics and no time at all reading about romance or dating.
