Page 22 of Jack Frost
When I turn, my pursuer is trying to scramble to his feet, but his shiny dress shoes can't get any purchase on the sheet of gleaming ice that now covers half the parking lot. Several feet away lies a figure with pale hair, one hand splayed clawlike against the pavement. From that hand races a jagged ridge of living ice that crawls up my attacker's shoes, ankles, and calves, locking him firmly in place. He's caught in a sort of runner's starting position, his hands seamed to the ice-covered lot and his back arched, one leg bent and the other splayed out. His screams echo across the parking spaces until one of the ice wraiths darts down and paints his mouth shut with a gorgeous spray of frost.
I'm equal parts grateful and horrified. But I'm more concerned with why Jack doesn't get up.
"Jack?" I hurry toward him. "What are you—oh my god."
His clothes have been partly scorched off, and the skin under them is mottled with red and black burns. His skin is steaming; tendrils of smoke curl from his blistered feet and hands. Smears of soot mark his face, and ash is caked through his hair. The whites of his blue eyes are pink from smoke exposure.
"I went to your place," he croaks. "You weren't there."
"What happened to you?" I don't know where to touch him without causing him pain. "What can I do to help? 911—I can call 911."
"Sure, you do that. I'm sure they know exactly how to care for supernatural beings like me."
"But you need a doctor." I stare at him in helpless horror.
The wraiths descend to Jack, stroking his cheeks and chest with their tiny hands. He sighs, as if the cold touch is a relief.
"Can they fix you?" I ask.
"No, but they can help a little. When I couldn't find you, I went to the nearest wraiths I could sense—and here you were." He coughs, ragged and shuddering. "Making new friends, huh?"
"These two are delightful. That one, not so much." I jerk my head toward the partly frozen man.
"I could freeze his dick for you," Jack wheezes. "He'd be peeing snowflakes for a week, if he managed not to break himself off." His shoulders jerk with painful laughter. "Break himself off—get it?"
"You're foul."
"I really am. You love it."
"I absolutely donot, and you shouldn't be making jokes right now! Can you spiral yourself to Antarctica? Seal yourself up in that ice cocoon to heal?"
"I'd be out for weeks. No. We need a different solution."
"Okay, so then—can you spiral us to my apartment? If you won't go to a hospital, you at least need a bed."
"A bathtub full of ice would be better."
I chew my lip, nodding. "I think I can make that happen. Will the wraiths come along?"
"They don't like being indoors, but they will if I ask them. Oh hell." His face contorts, breath hissing between his teeth. "This is the worst it's been yet. But I drove her back for a while, I think. Not for long. Not long enough."
"Jack, focus." I place my hands along his ribs, over the remnants of his tattered shirt. His stomach contracts, each muscle hardening in a paroxysm of pain. "Jack, take us to my place. Right now."
"Hold me tighter," he whispers.
Gingerly I slide my arms farther under him. "I don't want to hurt you."
"I already feel better, being near you."
"That doesn't make any sense. Shut up and spiral already."
The world spins away, devolving into a storm of snow and I am nothing again, except that I can feel Jack this time, the core of him, the soul of him, shining with impossible force. Then he shudders, flickers. Almost fades.
If he fades now, in this liminal space of transference, we will both die.
I can't scream because in this particulate form I have no mouth, but I thrust everything that I am toward him, twisting my will with his, shoring it up. His energy resurfaces with a bright pulse, and then we're sprawling onto the floor of my living room, a tangle of cold faces and smoke-seared limbs and the stickiness of wounds.
The wraiths came with us, but they look smaller and unhappier now. They mewl anxiously in their tiny faraway voices.
