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 the flavor 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 like they are waiting and watching. For what, though, I haven’t the foggiest idea.
“Okay then,” I mumble to myself as I pick up the knife and fork set at either side of my dinner plate. “I guess there is no standing on ceremony. I’ll just help myself.”
Leaning over the table, I cut into the goose and nearly moan as the delicious scent releases upon the steam escaping the bird.
The meat appears to be very tender in contrast to its very crisp skin.
Cooked to perfection, I would say. Truthfully, everything on the table appears perfectly prepared.
It looks like a professional banquet rather than the average holiday meal.
Not even my mother makes it look anything like that.
.. and I am pretty certain she is a perfectionist.
Cutting some meat from the goose, I turn to the next dish and begin spooning out healthy scoops to add to my plate.
Pretty soon my plate is overfilled, and I am piling on a homemade cranberry sauce that looks like it came from a magazine ad rather than the can that is offered every holiday season in my family.
I am not entirely sure when I picked up my fork, but I’m still standing as I begin to shovel the food in my mouth as if I hadn’t eaten for days.
I don’t know where this ravenous appetite has come from, but I’m so hungry, and everything I eat is just even more delicious than the last. The meat practically melts on my tongue, and smooth and creamy dishes delight my senses even as more than one dessert sings over my tastebuds.
.. desserts that I hadn’t even initially noticed.
Is it my imagination, or is the feast growing on its own and multiplying with new dishes quicker than I can taste them? What is really strange, however, is the feeling of excitement building in the air, but I can’t tell if that is simply my gluttony or something else.
It is not until I settle back in my chair with a contented sigh that I hear my host speak again in soft, rasping tones that roll over my senses deliciously.
The voice is still very androgynous, but there is a hint of something masculine that I can’t put my finger on.
Call it an instinct, perhaps, but this level of heavy, silent focus feels like something of an erotic dance.
.. one that I’m not even sure I want to join in.
“You have eaten well and quite jovially. Rest now. The nights are cold and long these days. Find your comfort sleeping beneath the quilts.”
I glance back toward the hall leading back to the bedroom and bite my lip uncertainly. Having a good sleep does sound exquisite, but I was raised with better manners than to go to bed and leave such a mess sitting out all night.
“What about all of this?” I ask.
The voice laughs again quietly, and there is a tinkle of bells that makes me wonder if the spirit has an invisible hat with numerous bells sewn into it that shake every time the spirit laughs or moves its head.
“Leave it. It will be seen to. Now off to bed with you,” the voice chastises almost sweetly.
I shake my head in amusement, but I’m not about to complain about escaping clean-up duty.
What’s more, I should be uncomfortably full as I stand, and yet I am not.
I merely feel satiated. I don’t comment on it, however.
Instead, I walk to the back room, climb into the bed, and tuck the quilt around me.
It is such a blissful feeling that my jaw immediately cracks with a wide yawn.
Just one night of indulgence. Tomorrow I will find a way home. Tomorrow.