They excel at the art of distraction, but after a few sips of tea, I’m ready to buckle down even with Earl Grey nearby. I’ll have a full house in a couple of days, and I still have to clean and prep for them. I’m curious who has taken up my offer to stay at my house. Mayhap I should have only offered it to a smaller, curatedgroup, but I wouldn’t want anyone to feel unwelcome. After draining my cup of fortifying, highly caffeinated tea, I muster the energy to check my email inbox reserved for town council business. I’m met with a flurry of responses to the message I sent right before I went to bed.
The tea instantly curdles in my stomach as I open the first one. “Fire burn it to ashes!” I curse loudly, earning me a sidelong glance from my cat who then promptly falls right back to sleep. It’s as if the stars above have turned their back on me.Again. Out of the massive group of recipients, the first to claim a spot in my house is none other than Norrell Snowstrider. My former mate. The most unforgettable male I have ever met and the one I most wish never to see again.
Eighteen Years Ago
I don’t bother stifling my yawn as I sit in the academy library late at night, completely alone, poring over yet another tome on the alchemical properties of precious metals. Their value in the human world is truly a reflection of how complicated and exacting it is to magickally transmute them. I have created so much fool’s gold—and the equivalent in silver and platinum—it boggles the mind.
As I’m nearly ready to lay my head down on the increasingly blurry page, I startle awake by the sound of the entry doors creaking, followed by their latch loudly crunching shut. I must not be the only night owl who likes the peace and quiet of a late-night study session. That jolt is enough to keep me up a little longer at least, so I focus on the book again, picking up where I left off.
Heavy footfalls thud across the library’s stone floors. Strangely, they sound like they come from something bigger than a witch. Of course, there are other magick-wielding Whispered Folk at the academy, but l wonder who this is and why they’re here so late. The footsteps move toward the stacks, presumably to retrieve a book and leave, so I may not get to see their source tonight. No matter, I probably spend equal time here and in the experimental magick lab, so I’ll likely run into them eventually, though my curiosity is piqued in the moment.
Minutes go by without another sound. Mayhap they already left without my noticing. So it goes, I guess. I should probably do the same. I’m about to nod off. There’s nothing in this book that can’t wait until tomorrow.
I close the book with a thump, cut off my reading light, and start to gather my belongings. I’m not silent as I do so, but I also don’t try to draw attention to myself. The sound must carry far enough that my fellow night owl hears me. The footsteps resume, steadily growing louder, heading toward the long reading tables where I’m still sitting.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, it occurs to me that if I were outside the academy walls, encountering a stranger late at night while alone in a darkened building might mean I’d be in for a little trouble. But not here. This stranger is more of a novelty. I wonder what book would entice them to come in so late.
Moonlight cascades through the tall windows, creating long pools of light that paint stripes across the floor, shelves, and tables. It’s bright enough that I can still see what I’m doing as I get ready to leave. The footsteps grow closer but slow down, taking their time. They might also find simple joy in being alone in the library. Well, I won’t rob them of that. As I stand up from my chair, I finally catch sight of who it is.
The stranger… he… is stunning. He glows like a specter as he steps through those stripes of moonlight. He’s shirtless, allowingme a glimpse of his physique. His light blue skin—what’s not covered in a thick layer of glistering silvery-white pelt—looks lustrous in the nocturnal spotlight. I have no idea who he is. What he is. I’ve never seen anything like him in all my years living in a diverse community of Whispered Folk.
He pauses, standing still, assessing me just as closely. Mayhap he thought he was alone, that I’m just a lonely apparition haunting these halls on an endless search for a book she’ll never find.
“Hello,” I venture, softly, as we are in a library.
“Hello.” His impossibly deep voice rolls through me. I can feel it as much as hear it.
“I didn’t think anyone stayed up reading as late as I do. I think more clearly alone, working into the night. Tonight though, my book seems to be putting me to sleep faster than any nonmagickal remedy I’ve tried. So, you’ll have the place to yourself as soon as I put it back,” I tell the stranger, feeling inexplicably bashful.
“That is a pity. I would not mind sharing a table,” he responds, sounding faintly disappointed.
“Oh, I guess I can stay for a little while longer then,” I offer, my curiosity about him a compelling enough reason. Sitting back down, I switch on the lamp again and put my notebook and pen back on the table.
He sits facing me, though at the other end of the table, leaving ample space between us. Carefully opening the aged book, which he must have just plucked from the shelves, he scans a page near the front and then his large, clawed hands deftly leaf through the pages to an interior chapter. His gentle handling of the book mesmerizes me. Watching him from the corner of my eye is much more engrossing than my own book. I only scarcely pretend to continue reading it, instead focusing on him in my peripheral vision, angling my book for a better view.His harsh, masculine profile and the delicate way his claw curls under each page are riveting.
“What is your name?” he asks unexpectedly after some time has passed, not looking up from the book, as if he’s only half-listening.
“Ada Mayweather. What’s yours?” My eagerness shows.
“Norrell Snowstrider,” he states, finally looking up at me. I do the same.
I repeat his name slowly. “Do you come from somewhere north?” I wonder, trying to piece together who he may be.
“Yes, far from here, where very few humans dare go.” It’s a clue, but I still can’t be sure.
“This is the coldest place I’ve ever been,” I remark without exaggeration. I finally summon the courage to fully meet his eyes. The icy blue stare pierces me.
“It is very cold here in the dead of winter,” he agrees.
“What brought you to the library?” It might not be any of my business, but I’d regret wasting this opportunity on a discussion about weather, so I attempt to steer us back. I need to know more about him.
“It is peacefully empty late at night. I am asked fewer questions when alone.” His resonant voice sounds warm, like he’s teasing me.
“Oh,” I breathe. “I see. I suppose I should recognize a fellow night owl and respect his wishes.”
“A nightyeti, not owl. This place has made me more nocturnal than usual,” he discloses, a smirk tugging at his tusk-framed lips as he returns his attention to his book.
A thrill runs through me as he volunteers this information, even though I suspect he’s intensely private. Why a yeti would be at the academy in the first place is anyone’s guess. His kind is rare. I’ve heard of them, but beyond that I know very little. They are secretive, withdrawn. They purposely live away fromothers, in the coldest, most desolate parts of the world. If others here knew a yeti was in their midst, the gossip would spread like wildfire, and he’d be a spectacle. It would probably drive him away. His secret is safe with me, though. I won’t spoil it for him. But I hope this isn’t the last I see of him.
