Page 21 of Jack Frost
They're so pretty. My fingers twitch toward my phone, longing to capture the moment, but the wraiths probably wouldn't show up in a video to anyone without the Chill or True Sight or whatever.
I slink closer, easing the soles of my sneakers down so as not to make a sound. But my shoe grazes the edge of a stray can, causing a rasp of metal on pavement. The ice wraiths spin around and hiss with alarm.
"Wait!" I hold out both hands. "I'm not going to hurt you. I was just watching. It's very beautiful, what you're doing."
The wraiths glance at each other. Their elfin faces are bluish ice, carved into the semblance of features, with frosty patches along the cheeks. They're like little ice fairies, and I can't help being enchanted.
They float toward me, uncertain but curious. Their whispers are faint as smoke, and even if they were speaking English I'm not sure I could make it out.
I hold out one hand, as I might to a stray dog or a skittish horse—though honestly I feel more like kneeling in awe. One of the wraiths trails its sharp icicle fingers along my palm, and my skin frosts over briefly, but it doesn't hurt.
The touch and my answering smile apparently convince them that I'm not a threat, and they begin dancing around me, stirring up sprays of snowflakes. They're laughing, or singing, high and thin and far away. A wondering laugh slips from me, too. Why was I so vehemently against the idea of seeing these creatures? Of course they make no scientific sense, but the delight I feel in their presence is all too real.
A harsh voice breaks through the tinkling song of the wraiths, disturbing the delicate spiral of their dance.
"Hey there, girlie!" It's a male voice, slow and stupid and growly with drink. "Whatcha doin'? You looking for somebody?"
"No, I'm—just out for a run." I slide one hand into the pocket of my sweatshirt, finding the familiar shape of my phone. The wraiths rise into the sky, but they don't leave. They spin slowly, watching us.
"You were laughin'." The man sidles nearer. He's a big guy, young and rawboned, with reddish hair and a goatee. He's wearing dress slacks and a collared shirt.
"I—um—I was talking to a friend." I waggle my phone in the air.
"I forgot my phone. And they took my keys." He starts digging his fingers into his pockets.
"You need me to call you a ride home?"
He just stares at me, swaying a little. "You live around here?"
"Listen, I'm going to call someone for you." The police are my best bet, I think—I don't want to saddle some poor lift driver with this drunken dude.
When I raise the phone to my ear, he lunges forward and knocks it away. It bounces and skims across the pavement, and I grit my teeth, willing the screen not to break.
"That wasn't nice," I tell the guy firmly. "I'm trying to help you, but if you can't behave, then I won't, okay?"
"Okay." He nods.
Backing slowly away, I lean over to pick up my phone. The protective cover did its job, and there doesn't seem to be any damage. Maybe a small scrape.
The ice wraiths are still hovering, watching.
"How much you charge?" mutters the guy.
"What do you mean?" I blow the dirt off the screen and trace the unlock pattern on my phone again.
"That's rude. Lookin' at your phone when someone's trying to ask you a question." He lurches toward me again, but my grip on the phone is better this time.
I knock his hand away. "Okay, that's it. You have a nice night."
I back up swiftly, then turn and walk toward the street. I'll go around the corner and call someone from there. This man is probably decent when he's sober, and I don't want him stumbling into traffic or anything in this state.
A hand grips my upper arm, jerking me around. "I said, how much?"
"I'm not a hooker." I reach toward my pocket for the pepper spray, but the man seizes my other wrist. Swiftly I drive a knee upward to his crotch, but he pivots aside. There's a gleam in his eye that sparks panic in my stomach. Maybe he isn't as drunk as I thought. Maybe this situation is getting more serious.
I twist and duck under the drunken man's elbow, throwing my back against his arm and breaking his grip. This time I don't try to be firm, or polite, or helpful—I run.
The man's steps pound after me, chasing me toward the street, but a few seconds later I hear a heavy thump and a grunt, as if all the breath was blown out of his chest—and at the same moment a fragrance of sea-ice, mint, and wood-smoke suffuses the air.
