Page 54 of Jack Frost
He could do to me what Kheima did to him. Change me into something Other, something new. Someone with ice powers like his. He may not know exactly how to do it, but he must remember something about the process. If we did some research, we could probably figure it out. There's got to be a way to create another ice god—or goddess, in this case.
So what if we could figure out how to do it? Would I ask him to change me?
Would I give up my little apartment, my crappy job, and my non-existent social circle, in exchange for supernatural power and near-immortality?
Um, hellyesI would. No question.
I'd get to actuallyhelpthe planet in a practical way. Sure, I might never enjoy a beach or a hot coffee again, but I've never liked sand anyway, and iced coffee is a perfectly acceptable option.
Plus I'd be withhim—with Jack Frost—for centuries, if not millennia. I'd be his partner, his friend, his lover, and he would be mine. We could have each other's backs in the battle against Auxesia. Neither one of us would be alone anymore.
Am I honestly considering this, after knowing Jack for less than two weeks?
No, I'm not considering it. I'm absolutely certain of it, rock-solid sure at the foundation of my very soul. I've been searching for my place, my purpose, and I have found it. Like the last puzzle piece latching into place, like the final twist of the Rubik's cube, like the ultimate synthesis of lighting and framing in the perfect photo—this is the answer.
This is who I'm supposed to be. What I'm supposed to do.
The light of that certainty floods my body and vibrates through my veins, sending goosebumps all over my skin.
When I glance up from my plate, Jack is looking at me, half-smiling, his head at a questioning angle. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. I just realized something. Tell you later."
"Dessert?" My mother plunks a tin of butter cookies onto the table.
By the time we've played a few rounds of Uno and the cookies are half gone, my mother is also half gone. She's giggling and poking Jack's thigh with her toes, apparently unaware that I can see what she's doing. Finally Jack escapes to the kitchen on the pretense of washing up the dishes.
This is how I remember my mother. And I can almost guess the precise moment at which she will switch from horny to maudlin.
Right about now.
Sure enough, she looks vaguely around for Jack, then leans over the table toward me.
"Did I ever tell you," she says blearily, "about the night you were born?"
She hasn't—or if she did, I don't remember it. "No, you didn't."
"It was January. A cold, cold night. We'd had snow for a day or so, and then there was an ice storm. Knocked out power, took down the phone line. I didn't have a cellphone. So when I felt the contractions, I had no way to call anyone. I put on my coat and I wandered out into the snow in my sneakers." She wheezes a laugh. "The cold went right through my coat. I just had a little sundress on underneath, and of course my big old belly was sticking out—you were a damn heavy baby, Em. Damn heavy. Ain't too skinny now, neither, are ya?"
I roll my eyes. "Okay, Mom. Let's get you to bed now."
"No, wait." Jack steps forward, polishing a plate. There's a keen light in his eyes. "I'd like to hear this. Go on please, Mrs. Caulfield."
My mother snorts. "Miss-us Caul-field?" She draws out the name pompously. "Who is 'Miss-us Caul-field'? You can call me Sandy, sweet thing."
"Sandy," Jack says. "What happened then? You went out into the snow—you were having contractions—"
"Sure, sure, yeah. So I stumbled along. The wind was something fierce—I thought my legs would freeze. I fell into the snow, and this big old contraction just ripped through me. I hiked up my skirts, pushed a couple times, and Emery slid right out into the snow. She was a damn mess, blood and slime everywhere, and she was blue all over. I wasn't sure I wanted her, you see—no money or time for that sort of thing." My mother nods companionably to Jack, as if she thinks he'll understand and sympathize. "So I wasn't too broken up—I thought, if the winter wants her, let it have her. That's what I said, right out loud, to God or Old Man Winter or whoever might be listening."
"You actually prayed that?" Jack approaches the table, raw eagerness in every line of his body. "Then what happened?"
"Well, I had a pocketknife in the coat, and I sawed through the cord. Sat there a minute, too cold to move. And then if you believe it, these wispy blue lights gathered around Em's body—she wasn't moving, see—and they whooshedintoher. Sank right through her skin. The next second she squalls fit to raise the Devil, and well—I dragged us both to the nearest house and they had a cell phone to call 911."
She clutches her wine glass with wavering fingers and downs the rest of it. "I'm off to bed. You two make up some kind of bed out here or whatever."
"We're going to a hotel," I say, but the words feel disconnected from my brain becausewhat was that story?Is it possible that my recent meeting with Jack wasn't my first encounter with the supernatural?
My mother mutters good night and wobbles into the bathroom.
