Chapter 3
Shawna
“Iam Jakfros.” The spirit’s soft voice slides over my senses in a pleasing way that is very distracting, but not so much that I miss the odd familiarity of the name.
Surely it is a coincidence, but it brings a smile to lips, regardless. “Jack Frost?” I repeat, just to be sure that I heard right.
There is a weighted silence, as if rendering judgement, but it is followed by a breathy chuckle. “If you like.”
I thought so—or at least close enough, maybe? Stories aren’t always exactly true to reality. Folklore always exaggerates things. I nod and sip my cocoa, and then nearly moan as the taste hits my tongue. There is a hint of mint and something else. It is like what I would have imagined hot cocoa at the North Pole to taste like. Stardust, moonbeams, and magic.
“What’s in this?” I ask, and a soft chuckle greets my question.
“Magic.”
A smile curls my lips. “I thought so. Nothing that tastes like this can be anything but magical.”
There is a pause of silence, and then another soft chuckle follows in response. “I cannot tell if tasting magic pleases you or not.”
I shrug in response and take another sip, savoring it. It is like all childhood fantasies and holiday magic converging in theflavor that slides over my tongue. Truthfully, it brings a sense of nostalgia and simple, carefree happiness and wonder that I haven’t felt in years. I don’t recall the last time the holidays didn’t feel like one large, overdone explosion of stress and anxiety while trying to balance work expectations and family obligations? Wasn’t that why I was driving home for the holidays late at night at the last minute? And yet the magic in this cup makes all that fade away.
I lean back in the plush chair with a content smile. “What’s not to like? The only thing that might make this better is if it was spiked with a bit of something.”
“Indeed,” the voice whispers with a hint of amusement. “Eat more, and I will procure something even better for you.”
I pick up the gingerbread man that I had discarded back onto the plate at my elbow and take a bite from it. I half expect its frosted face to contort and change with the magic, and I giggle to myself as I take another bite and then another. I demolish three more smiling little men without a thought, savoring every crunch of them as I also sip on my cocoa. It is delicious but not quite satisfying.
“Join the feast and be merry,” the voice whispers, sending a shiver up my spine.
“What feast?” I mutter as I glance at the crumbs on the plate.
Surely the small plate of gingerbread men doesn’t qualify as a feast. Not that they weren’t tasty. They were actually the most delicious thing I’ve tasted in a while. In fact, I am halfway tempted to lick the crumbs off the plate, except that I’m not sure if I can stomach any more sweets. Not without something more substantial on my stomach first.
“This feast, of course,” the voice hisses, startlingly close to my ear. It sends a strange shiver quivering through me, plucking at my nerves erotically.
That... was unexpected.
The reason seems obvious enough, however. Clearly, the fact that I am starving is what is making the... er, spirit... attractive on a primitive level. It could be some primal response to another bringing home the kill so that you can eat and be happy and fat. Sure. Why not? I get it. Having a strange attraction to a disembodied voice providing me with snacks and promising me a delicious spread like this certainly makes said voice quite attractive. It makes sense when put in that context.
A chuckle teases my ear as if amused by my cluelessness, and warm breath brushes against my ear for only a moment before retreating. Then there is a tinkling sound as if my visitor is wearing tiny bells that jingle as they dance away from my side. Curious, I half-turn in my chair, but then I catch a savory aroma that teases my nose, drawing me to my feet. I wander away from the cozy atmosphere of the living room, following my nose as I continue to nibble on the cookie. And I quickly find exactly what I’m looking for. Back by the stove there is a rectangular table trimmed with a red tablecloth, and it is loaded with platters and bowls filled with the most fragrant, mouthwatering food. In the center of the table there appears to be a roasted goose on the table rather than the turkey I grew up eating on the holidays, but all around it I see bowls filled with breads, several more with various steaming vegetables, sweet potatoes, and some kind of pudding.
My nose twitches as a sweet-spiced scent teases my senses, and I glance to my left to see a tankard that appears to be filled with mulled wine. It seems that the holiday spirit has indeed provided me with something a bit harder for my drink. I pick up the tankard and take a sip as I lower myself into the chair.
“This is a lot of food for one person.”
My observation is followed by silence. Despite that, I don’t feel as if my host has abandoned me. Instead, it feels likethey are waiting and watching. For what, though, I haven’t the foggiest idea.
