Page 8 of Frost
“Thank you for saving me,” I blurt out in a rush. “Not just today but back then too. When we first met.”
Jack tilts his head to the side, looking way too adorable. “Life is funny, is it not? So many years ago, I rescued a little boy with big, curious green eyes. And now I meet him again as a man. Still just as curious too.”
“You haven’t changed at all,” I say, pushing the blanket off me so I can stand. I nearly topple over once on my feet and catch myself on the mantel above the fireplace. When I look back at Jack, he’s closer… as if he rushed forward when he thought I was going to fall. “Why is that?”
“Simple.” Jack grabs an apple from the bowl in the center of the table and examines it. “I don’t age anymore.”
“Why?” My brain must be short-circuiting. I’m having trouble processing not only the fact he’s in front of me but also what he just said. “How?”
He cocks his head again, and a smile curves his lips. “Magic.”
“But magic’s not real,” I point out before stepping toward him. “Right?”
“You tell me.” Jack takes a bite of the apple before tossing it to me.
I catch it and look down as ice starts to form around the fruit, spreading until the entire apple is frozen.
“How did you do that?” I ask, glancing up to find him gone and the front door hanging open. “Jack?”
I rush to the door and look outside, searching the yard for signs of him. No footsteps other than mine are in the snow. It’s as if he vanished.
Or flew away.
“What are you, Jack?” I ask, tilting my head toward the snowy sky. “And why am I so drawn to you?”
The wind blows, and within it, I hear what sounds like a faint, musical laugh. I smile to myself before going back inside.
Chapter Three
Instead of writing like I’m supposed to be doing, I spend the evening researching the mythology around Jack Frost. His exact origin is unknown.
He appears in Scandinavian legends as the son of Kari, a Norse god. Another legend comes from Ancient Greece that connects Jack to Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind. Boreas is believed to be the bringer of winter, and many speculate that Jack Frost and Boreas are the same being. However, the depictions of the god look nothing like the Jack I know. Boreas is illustrated as an old man with long shaggy hair and a beard.
I tap my fingers on the desk as I read over another article.
“What are you reading?”
I scream at the voice and whirl around to see Jack standing right behind me, his face only inches from mine.
“Hello there,” he says with a smile. “Pardon my intrusion.”
“You can’t just pop up like that.” I put a hand to my chest, feeling the hard thumping of my heart against my palm. “You might kill me next time.”
“Don’t be silly.” Jack leans forward and scrunches up his face as he reads the article aloud. “‘Who is Jack Frost? He’s the personification of snow, ice, and winter itself.’ Oh, I like that description. Why are you reading this, little light?”
“Because you won’t give me answers,” I say, my face heating with embarrassment. I never thought he’d actually walk in on me researching him. “How did you get in here by the way? The door’s locked.”
“The window in your bedroom,” Jack casually answers, still looking at the laptop. “Oh, that’s neat. It says right here that some people think I’m Old Man Winter. That old geezer only wishes he was me.”
I close my laptop and turn to him.
“Hey, I was reading that.” His brow furrows. “The next part said I was a mischievous, spritelike character. More on the nose, I guess.”
“You’re really Jack Frost? LiketheJack Frost?”
“I’ve gone by many names over the years,” he answers, walking over and plopping down on the couch. “Jocul Frosti, which means icicle frost, is one of my favorites. It’s catchy and rolls off the tongue. But I like Jack the best.”
“What’s your real name?”
