Winterwood Read Free Page B

you?” Nick asked.
    One of the strangers laughed and pulled his hood back, revealing a nightmare face, lumpy and misshapen. Ragged tufts of hair sprouted at odd places on his chin and cheeks. His eyes shined yellow like the goat’s.
    â€œOur names do not matter. But our good fortune does, finding two more fools for the feast.”
    Jake tried to shout for help but something struck him in the back, knocking him into the snow. Strong hands grabbed him and pulled a heavy sack over his head. A muffled gasp and a thud told him the strangers had gotten Nick too. Someone lifted him into the air while he struggled to regain his breath.
    No, not someone. They were elves. But not Santa’s elves. Something much worse.
    He had time for one last thought before a heavy object hit the back of his head.
    Grandpa was right.
    Anders Bach knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes. Despite the heat running full blast—he could hear the roar of the furnace through the grate next to his bed—the air had a nasty chill to it. His first thought was that a window had broken during the night. Over the years, he’d seen it happen more than once, old glass no longer able to take the strain of subzero temperatures. With a groan, he tossed the covers back and sat up, his seventy-seven-year-old bones protesting each movement, the way they did every morning before he took his arthritis medicine.
    With his body no longer protected by three layers of blankets, the frosty air roused him to full wakefulness. It struck him that the draft he’d felt was more than chilly. It was downright cold. With the vision of a shattered picture window motivating him to move faster, he donned his robe and slippers and hurried towards the doorway, knowing he’d be the first person to discover the problem. The rest of the family had a tendency to sleep late on the weekends.
    Lazy. The whole verdammt generation. In my day—
    Anders stopped. From where he stood, he could see the entire living room. A dull-gray dawn struggled to get through the frost and snow covering the outside of the windows, leaving most of the room in shadows. However, it illuminated the glass well enough to show none of the panes were broken.
    Yet the air had grown even colder.
    Anders turned in a slow circle, his hands out to feel the direction of the draft.
    The kitchen.
    He paused, wondering if he’d been mistaken about a broken window. Perhaps Anna or Paul had simply gotten up early and stepped outside to get the paper, leaving the back door open in the process.
    â€œAh, it’s still a waste of heat. Do they think money grows on trees?” More annoyed now than worried, he entered the kitchen. Sure enough, the back door stood wide open, filling the room with chill winter air. Lazy. He went to close it, his eyes automatically scanning the driveway to see who’d been such a fool.
    He froze before his hand reached the knob.
    Clearly visible in the fresh snow were footprints. Footprints too small to be Anna’s or Paul’s.
    The boys. They went outside. Why?
    A new fear came to life inside him. Footprints leading out, but none coming in. A cold house, much too cold for the door to have been open for only a few minutes.
    How long ago did they leave?
    Anders tracked the twin line of prints. They went across the porch, down the stairs and out into the yard, where they curved around the side of the house and disappeared. He turned to grab his boots from the alcove by the door and his heart gave a painful flutter when he saw two pairs of rubber snow boots sitting on the mat. A cold feeling erupted inside him, one that had nothing to do with the winter wind already carving through the thin cotton of his robe.
    Even more frightened now, he stuck his feet into his boots and hurried outside, not even bothering to buckle them. Ignoring the way the wind burned his cheeks and gnawed at his aching bones, he clutched his robe tighter and followed the