She laughs again, and the sound sparks something within my chest, adding to the weight. It is not unpleasant, but the sensation is a new one, and it has dulled my own hunger with its distraction.
“Sure. One could say that mortality and the specter of death looming near is a whetstone upon which we sharpen our blades. That is to say, that all this merriment and celebration, which the miser Scrooge rejects as wastefulness in equal portion tohis unfeelingness towards the needs of others, exists because of that.”
A thoughtful look crosses her face as she taps a finger on the book. “It brings to mind Saturnalia. Sure, it gets a bad rap for the all the drinking and feasting, which is also part of traditional Christmas celebrations until more recent history, but also for an equalization between the poor and the wealthy because the ancient Romans believed that there was once a Golden Age, ruled over by Saturn, in which all people enjoyed plentitude with hunger or death, or concepts of rich and poor. To celebrate this is to celebrate in the face of all the misery of human existence while celebrating all the joys. And that is a common theme to be found across most winter celebrations, I believe. This book just reminds us how precious these things are and how they are not to be forgotten in idle hunger and ignorant frivolity. These are things that Charles Dickens depicts as a pair of children: the girl Want and the boy Ignorance.”
“I see,” I murmur, admittedly a little unsettled but also with a new hunger of my own.
Frost demons, by nature, feed recklessly without consideration. I am certain that it is why Mother scoffed at any talk of love and romance. All of this is just the bait to lure in the one who would provide our feast. But all of this atmosphere of merriment conjured by my magic suddenly feels very empty. What exactly am I celebrating? Demons can die, though it is very rare and death is a fluid thing for our kind. We can know hunger and sorrow. Many demons also know the close connections of family and loved ones... if they belong to practically any species other than a frost demon. I have nothing to celebrate, no joys of my own. I steal the joys of others and their mortal warmth.
And I intend on doing exactly that to Shawna. It is practically a necessity for my own survival rather than face merely existing in a state of pain and endless hunger after the long winter drainsall of my strength to paint my magic everywhere that frost exists. I will need her joy because I have none of my own.
“Would... would you like me to read it to you?” she asks hesitantly, and my heart thumps with an enthusiastic leap of pleasure.
I am perfectly capable of reading every word of it myself, but I am not ashamed to jump at the chance to enjoy a moment of closeness with her and the soft cadence of her words. Just the thought of it fills me with undeniable pleasure.
“Would you?” I breathe.
A delicate pink hue climbs to her cheeks, and she nods as she flips the pages back to the beginning. I move quietly so that she does not notice and take a seat on the giant fleece rug beneath her feet. She clears her throat endearingly before she finally begins.
“Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed—”
I listen to her sweet voice as I very lightly rest my head on her leg. I am certain she notices because she pauses for a moment as if surprised before dismissing the sensation and continuing with the tale as if nothing is amiss. But for me, this is the sweetest of moments, and I enjoy the way the firelight reflects off her coppery hair and the way it bathes her skin and makes her appear luminous. If anyone deserves to be a holiday spirit, it is Shawna. Not only is she clever and kind, but she smells delicious, better than any sweet that I have conjured. I am feeling positively drowsy as I listen to her read, and yet I do not sleep. The world ensnares me, drawing me into its sad but lively world. I am a spectator of this world playing out within my imagination until the last syllable of the final word falls from her lips, and even so, I do not want to move.
But I do. I rise and busy myself with another feast. However, this feast is different from the others. This time I am inspired,and I can feel my magic enriched with something a bit more as I set to work. For the first time, I find myself hungering not for a feast, but to share such a simple connection with another that is worth celebrating. And I want that with her.
Dark lords and ladies, help me.
Chapter 7
Shawna
I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but Jakfros is feeling a bit more... more than spiritual, if you get my meaning. So much so that I am certain that I felt physical contact yesterday when I was reading to the spirit. I tried to remain outwardly oblivious to it all, certain that it was just my imagination, but there is really no denying it. I know I felt something! I swear I could feel the heat of their cheek against my lap, and every exhalation of their breath over my inner thigh and mons. I can’t even say that spirits even possess a breath or if it is all just my imagination. All I know is that it sent a heat plunging so deeply through me that it took every bit of self-control not to squirm right there on the chair. Thankfully, my host didn’t seem to notice my growing arousal.
Still, I cannot understand how a spirit of the winter holiday season is so ignorant about the main themes of a number of human celebrations this time of the year. That is something I puzzle over as I walk over to the window on my third morning in the cabin, only to sigh as I stare at the giant snowflakes spinning in their rapid descent. It looks like I’m stuck here for another day. I rub the back of my neck tiredly. I must admit that I’m a bit worried. As charming as the spirit is, and their unflagging enthusiasm to play my host, I can’t help but think ofmy abandoned car. Did someone find it and report me missing to the proper authorities? Gods, did someone inform my family?
I groan and bury my face in my hand. My mother would absolutely lose her shit. I doubt she would even let me leave her house once I am miraculously recovered from the woods. She hated the fact that I took a job as an art teacher two states away to begin with. She had gone on and on about how my much younger siblings that she had recently had with my stepfather would miss out on growing up without their older sister present in their lives, and how my older brothers would miss me. Then there were the customary family dinners every Sunday and the holidays throughout the year that I would miss. I wasn’t entirely surprised when she called me up to tell me that I was expected to show up for Christmas.
Of course, now she will never let me live down ruining Christmas for everyone. Isn’t that why she demanded that I come home from two states away? What did it matter if my own holiday plans were already ruined? She insisted that I come for the full two weeks that I am on holiday break from my regular class schedule for a “proper celebration.” And knowing Mom, she had planned out every single day. She always went overboard with Christmas.
I sigh as I stare at the snowflakes. In just a few days’ time it will be the eve of winter solstice. I should have been cozy in my apartment baking gingerbread and sipping cocoa like I planned while I organized what I would need for the Yule meal. There were even a couple of witches that I had befriended in town that I had invited to share the mid-winter feast with me. And I’m missing out on all of it and am stuck here in the middle of nowhere because of Mom guilt-tripping me into coming home. My decision to drive aside, I didn’t even want to go to begin with. Not that I am complaining about my current five-star luxury cabin in the woods, but this all feels surreal. Like it can’t bereal. And that is setting off a nervous tick behind my eye and a sensation of unease and wrongness filling me as the minutes pass. I am missing something that I cannot put my finger on, and I don’t like it one bit.
“You are quiet,” my invisible host observes.
A shiver runs up my back, my skin prickling with how near they sound. Once again, I am pretty certain I can feel the faint brush of their breath, but this time it fans over the sensitive skin of my cheek. Maybe I am losing my damned mind. Maybe I am wandering half-frozen through the woods or dying in a snowdrift somewhere. Maybe I am already dead, and I’m no longer even in New York.
