Chapter Three
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Tessa
The ice symbol is stillthere when I wake up.
I tell myself it’s impossible.Ice doesn’t last overnight even when the porch is sheltered and the temperature is above freezing.But when I open my front door at four in the morning, mug of coffee in hand, there it is, the intricate pattern of crystalline lines etched into the wood like someone carved it with a frozen blade.
I set my coffee down and crouch to examine it more closely.In the dim light from my porch lamp, the symbol seems to shimmer, catching reflections that shouldn’t exist.It’s beautiful in a terrible sort of way with spirals and geometric patterns that hurt to look at for too long, like they’re pulling at something behind my eyes.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, and go back inside for a scrub brush and a bucket of hot water.
The moment the bristles touch the symbol, pain lances through my fingers.Not hot—cold.A searing, bone-deep cold that feels like frostbite and fire all at once.I jerk back, dropping the brush, and stare at my hand.
Red marks streak across my palm and fingers, angry welts that look like burns but feel like ice.
“What the hell?”
I try again, using gloves this time, but the same thing happens.The cold radiates through the rubber, through my skin, straight into the bone.It’s not natural.It’s not possible.
After the third attempt leaves my hands cramping and numb, I give up.I throw a doormat over the symbol, grab my keys, and head to the café.
I’ll deal with it later.Maybe it’ll melt on its own.Maybe I imagined the whole thing, or I’m losing my mind.
Betty’s Café is busytoday, which is exactly what I need, enough customers to keep my hands moving and my mind occupied.I pour coffee, flip pancakes, wipe down tables, and pretend everything is fine.
Hannah slides into a booth during the mid-morning lull, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, Grace’s carrier bag on the seat beside her.
“Rough night?”she asks, eyeing me with that knowing look she gets sometimes.
“Something like that.”I pour her a coffee without asking.“How’s Grace?”
“Thriving.She tried to murder a sock this morning.”Hannah wraps her hands around the mug, studying me over the rim.“You look exhausted.Are you sleeping okay?”
“Fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t believe me, I can see it in her eyes, but she doesn’t push.That’s one thing I love about Hannah.She knows when to leave things alone.
“So,” she says instead, her voice dropping to a more playful tone, “I saw your vampire this morning.”
My hands still on the coffee pot.“He’s not my vampire.”
“Uh-huh.That’s why he stares at you like you’re the only person in the room.”She grins.“That’s why he tips you twenty dollars for a three-dollar-fifty coffee.”
“He tips everyone well.”
