Page 24 of Jack Frost
It's such a horribly typical, human thing to say. Like he is inserting himself into a role he's pictured—carving himself a place in my life. I can't stand it.
"What is wrong with you?" I snap, throwing down my bag. "You shouldn't be up. You almost died."
"I'm healed, see?" He slides off his oven mitts and parts the robe a little, exposing his upper chest, smooth and ice-white as ever. "My energy is still low, but my body is better than ever, thanks to you. I'm telling you, Emery, you've got a magic of your own."
"No. I don't have any magic. I'm tired, I'm starving, and I probably don't smell too great because I couldn't shower this morning because someone was occupying part of my bathroom."
"You wanna shower now, or eat first? Because it's almost ready."
I want to resist, but my muscles are practically melting with desire for the source of that magnificent smell. "Eat first," I murmur. "What did you cook?"
"Nothing much. Just some onions, potatoes, garlic, butter, flank steak, spices—"
"Oh god." I sink to the floor, onto a cushion. Jack has placed two pillows on the living room carpet, in roughly the same spots where we sat and ate our omelets last night. There's a towel spread out between them by way of a tablecloth.
"I need to buy an actual table. And chairs." I'm so tired I feel as if a very long tunnel connects my brain to my mouth—it's hard to keep the words intact as they make the journey from one point to the other.
"I don't mind the floor." Jack flashes me another smile. His sharp canines give the expression a wicked glint. "It's kind of fun."
"Of course you'd think that." I ease my arms out of my coat. I wore it just for show, not because I need it as a barrier anymore. But I figured if I went to work in a thin blouse when it's freezing outside, people might notice, and wonder.
There's a chilly breeze in the room, and when I glance up at the thermostat on the wall, I see that Jack has set it to 50 degrees Fahrenheit. My electric bill is going to be ridiculous this month if he sticks around. Which he shouldn't. Now that he's healed, I have to get him out of here, away from me. Back to his usual haunts, and his ongoing battle.
He did almost die, though. And if he died, what would happen? This invisible battle of supernatural forces is clearly intertwined with human carelessness, and it's all having a devastating effect on the planet. With Jack out of the picture, unable to hold back the fire goddess and the effects of global warming, would the world really end?
Jack is standing beside me, holding two plates and staring down at me. A faint flush colors his pale cheeks.
"What?" I frown at him.
"Nothing." He swallows, sets a plate in front of me, then seats himself on the other cushion. "You look good."
I glance down at myself, confused—and then I realize that I removed my blouse as well as my coat, and I'm sitting there in my tank top. It's what I usually do when I get home; I must have done it without thinking. The tank top is thin, but I'm wearing a bra under it. Still, it definitely sags at the neckline, and when he was standing above me the view of my breasts must have been a generous one.
Without meaning to, I glance at his crotch area. Does he have actual man parts? I mean, he's a frost elemental, so technically he wouldn't need them. The robe he's wearing shifts tantalizingly as he gets comfortable on the cushion, opening to expose part of his inner thigh—white carved muscle like a marble statue. If it would only open a little more—a little higher—
A swirl of frosty blue and white glides between us, blocking my view of Jack. The dainty ice wraith touches my cheek lightly, and though the cold doesn't hurt, my skin stiffens, frozen for a second. A second wraith whisks above my head, showering me with snowflakes.
Their touches are clearly a greeting. Elated, I smile at them. "Hey there, pretty things. Did you take good care of Jack for me?"
I've barely finished the question when two more wraiths glide straight through the closed window into my apartment. They hang back for a second until the first pair draws them forward to meet me. As they dance around me, Jack snatches my steaming plate of food out of the way of the drifting snowflakes.
There are subtle differences between the wraiths—slightly longer hair on one, larger eyes on another, tiny blue horns on a third. According to Jack's tale, each one of them used to be a powerful goddess of ice and frost.
"Okay, girls. That's enough." Jack waves his hand dismissively, and they swirl around him briefly before sailing through my living room window into the night. Jack hands me my plate, shaking his head, but his wide mouth curves in a half-repressed smile. "They don't often get to meet new people. They're excited."
"So they've met others that you've—that you've—"
"There have been one or two others to whom I've given the Chill, as a life-saving thing. But so far I'd say you're the favorite. They sense it too. There's something different about you."
"Hm." I snort. "So I'm 'not like other girls'?"
He tilts his head, eyeing me. "What do you want to hear? That you're just like everyone else? That you're not special, or unique, or important? That you mean no more to me than any other girl? That I would have the same connection with any other man or woman who had stumbled into my castle and breathed me awake?"
The bite I just took sticks in my throat. Of course I want to believe that I'm unique, and special. "There's only oneyou," as the children's books say. I want to believe—toknow—that I'm not just one of the milling crowd. That I could be important. But it seems self-centered to admit that, so I don't.
Jack hasn't moved—he still sits cross-legged, hands splayed against the carpet—but his entire body is rigid, his jaw set and his eyes blazing at me like blue stars. He looks like a white tiger, tense and ferocious, ready to pounce.
I force down the bite of flank steak. "I don't know what you're talking about," I rasp. "You helped me out, and I helped you out. There's no connection, just the facts, and what unfolded out of necessity."
