Page 9 of Jack Frost
"I explained why I—you know what? Forget it. I'm not even sure why I'm here, talking to you."
"I'm not sure either." I cross my arms, but the gesture is less impactful since my arms are basically puffy coat sausages right now.
We're awkwardly close. My eyes are shielded with sunglasses, a protective measure against the Antarctic glare, but his eyes are naked and furious. No, not furious exactly. Pained. They hold all the angry frustration of dying hope.
A trickle of sympathy runs through me. I would much rather he just disappear, so I can pretend he doesn't exist; but with him standing here, smelling of burnt forests and despair, I can't feign ignorance, or indifference. "Can you—can you get some help for this war you're fighting?"
His anger recedes, softening into sadness. "I used to have help. I suppose maybe I could recruit someone, but—it's complicated. There's magic involved, rituals—"
"Magic." I shake my head. "This is—this is crazy."
"I find that word offensive."
"Sorry. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around all of—" I wave my hand wildly at his entire being. "I had nearly convinced myself that you were a piece of my psyche, a personality I invented to get me through the trauma of being lost in the blizzard."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"I'm not exactly disappointed." Oh god, did those words just pop out of my mouth?
Jack's face melts into a brilliant smile. "Aw, thanks. So nice to feel seen and wanted."
"I wouldn't go that far."
He flicks his hand, and a snowy armchair emerges from the ice shelf we're standing on. Jack sits sideways, legs crossed over one arm of the chair. His pants leave sooty marks on the snow. "You must have so many questions for me. What do you want to know?"
Nervously I glance over my shoulder, toward the camp. At this distance, my team members are tiny dark silhouettes against the glacial landscape. "I really should go back. We're leaving tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, soall of this will be over and done with." I'm glad of it, honestly. I can't handle the continuation of actual magic in my real life. The scientist in me is ravenous for answers, but it's my affinity for logic, for crisp categories and defined data, that holds me back from asking more questions. Knowing more about Jack Frost means opening a door to a wild, uncertain reality that I don't want to face. Right now the door is only open a slim crack. I'd prefer to leave it that way. "I think the less I know about you, the better."
Jack's face settles into icy lines. "Fine."
"It's nothing personal."
"Weird, because it felt really personal when you were breathing into my mouth while I was sleeping."
My cheeks flame instantly. "I had tried everything else! You wouldn't wake up!"
"Right. That's the only reason."
"Itwasthe only reason! Hot guys are all the same—you think you're so irresistible—"
" 'Hot' doesn't seem like the right word for me." His teeth glitter like icicles when he smiles.
"Whatever. You're just like the rest of them."
"Hmm." He narrows his eyes at me. "When people say that, they are usually thinking of one or two specific individuals."
Declan. Sam.Their faces float in my memory, one outfitted with a cold sneer and the other contorted with anger.
"I'm not thinking of anyone in particular." But I can't help shifting my gaze from his when I say it.
"Interesting." He reaches out again, fingers rippling, and a couch surges from the ice. It's crafted with exquisite detail, from the piping along the cushions' edges to the fringe of the snow-sculpted throw pillow at one end.
"How—" I take a step toward it, intrigued, before I remember that I am not getting involved with this. No questions, no connections. "Never mind. I'm going back to base before they come looking for me. You should get rid of this ice furniture before someone sees it."
"What does it matter if they see it? They'll just reason it away, like you're trying to." Jack disappears from the chair and reappears on the couch. He looks incredibly tall draped along its length. Tucking his hands behind his head, he grins at me.
