Two — “A Kiss of Frost” copyright Michele Hauf 2008

Kate sat outside, across the road from the cabin, her equipment set up near the sharp needle border of a snow-frosted blue pine.

Her microphotography setup included a digital camera, microscope objective, aperture, field lens and color filters, all securely mounted in a portable hardshell case she could lug around as a backpack.

Her work uniform was a white Arctic Cat snowsuit, Thinsulate gloves and a ski cap. Underneath, she wore thermal long underwear, a thin sweater and jeans. Layers, the only way to go.

The day was bright and brisk, a balmy twenty-two degrees—perfect temperature for capturing the larger and photogenic plate snowflakes. She could sit out here for at least an hour, snapping away, before a warming trip inside was required.

Yet no work could be done until—

It started to gently snow.

Kate tilted back her head to catch the first flakes upon her smile. Cold kisses melted and trickled over her skin.

Thrilled with her luck, she held out a chilled microscope slide to catch a few flakes. Using a small artist’s paintbrush, she pressed the specimen firmly to the slide to reduce air pockets. Placing the slide immediately under the microscope and choosing red and blue color filters, she then began to snap away.

She was photographing snowflakes. Or so that is what Frost guessed after observing her strange machinations.

What did this mean? On an earth-threatening scale he couldn’t determine the danger. Did she use harmful chemicals in her processing equipment? If so, it could hardly be enough to threaten more than a few square feet of air space. Nothing when compared to a giant shipping rigger dumping oil in the Atlantic Ocean and killing tens of thousands of wildlife and contaminating the water and shores.

There had to be something he was missing. Perhaps this activity was merely a foray, an aside from what she really did. Yes, he must continue to observe. Soon, the woman would reveal herself—and her evil deed—to him.

That sweet scent still lingered about her like a frothy mist of ice crystals that form after laughter in below-zero air.

Frost did not allow himself to be intrigued by mortals. Not much. The few needs he decided were emotional—lust, humor and challenge—were met by his folk.

Thinking of which, where were his frost faery underlings, his folk? He didn’t sense them near, and they should be everywhere with the bright sun and the low temperatures.

He blew into the air, which produced hundreds of tiny beings, each a glint of frost sparkling in the sun.

Get to work, he mentally commanded, and then parted the heavy pine fronds to continue observation.

The woman shivered as his folk landed her shoulders and skated over her face. She rubbed a gloveless hand across her cheek, then held it there a moment.

“It’s cold enough for frostbite,” she muttered. “‘Spose it is time to take a break.”

It took her a while to pack up the elaborate camera system and hook it onto her back. Soon enough she made the road, her fur-trimmed boots clomping down one of the frozen tire tracks.

Ready to dash from her path, Frost saw the box balanced on top of her stack slide. In frost form, yet human shape, he dodged to catch it mid-air. But he overlunged, and caught a hand against her throat.

Something bit him. No, not a bite, but the jolting touch of mortal warmth.

They both toppled and went down in the snowbank edging the road. Boxes and equipment sank into the plush snow.

The woman let out a yelp and landed, sprawled on her back, her body sinking in the snow. “What the hell? Where’d you come from?”

Realizing with a start the touch of her had warmed his frost to human flesh, Frost quickly worked a glamour to clothe himself in appropriate attire. Gray ski coat and leggings, hat, gloves and—cross-country skis would serve an excuse.

“Sorry,” he said.

The sound of his voice, spoken in the mortal realm, and rarely used, always startled him. He cleared his throat and straightened, jamming both ski poles into the snow. “I saw your things start to fall and tried to help. Guess my skis got in the way.”

With no stable surface to push off, each press of her hand into the snow sunk her in deeper. He thought to offer help, but the idea of touching her again perplexed. He shouldn’t allow a mortal to see him like this. Yet, to dissipate to frost would startle her even more.

Finally, she rolled forward, crawled a bit, and then stood.

“Don’t get many skiers down this way,” she said. “Are you lost?”

“Maybe.” He frowned. Entirely too much conversation. And yet, how else to discover her evil truth? “Is that your cabin?”

“Yes.” She studied him, from the tight-fitted ski cap all the way down to his boots. The look on her face wasn’t exactly accepting. Wary? The chevron arch of her brow captivated Frost.

“You’ve some snow on your cheek.” She pointed to his face.

He touched his cheek, but felt only human flesh, which was entirely too warm for his taste.

“Maybe not. Looked like ice. Anyway! I’d suggest backtracking a couple miles and heading east.” She gestured over her shoulder. “That’ll take you to the trail that circles the lake. It’s a beautiful trek when the sun is shining.”

“Great.” But he wasn’t about to leave until he learned more. “First I’ll help you pick up your equipment. It’s the least I can do. What is all this stuff?”

“Photography equipment.” She knelt and inspected the boxes, no doubt checking for damage. Then she turned and offered a gloved hand. “Kate Wilson, resident snowflakologist.”

“Vilhjalmur Frosti,” he offered in return.

“Now that’s a Scandinavian name if I’ve ever heard one.”

“So it is. Please call me Jal, Kate.” He bent to gather the largest box from the depths of loose snow. It was surprisingly heavy, and he wondered how the delicate woman could handle the weight. “And do explain what a snowflakologist does.”

“It’s a self-titled profession,” she said.

The smirk in her voice made him smile—slightly. Curious how her mood changes manifested as his own. He never smiled. It wasn’t necessary.

“I went to school for meteorology but could never get into tornadoes and summer droughts. I’m a cold girl.”

“You are?” His kind of woman.

“Yes, I mean, I prefer cool temperatures. I do research and studies and write related papers to make it all look good, but it all comes down to me, a camera, and snow. I take pictures of snowflakes.”

“Huh. That’s all?”

“What, you think I’m crazy like the rest of my family and friends? There’s nothing whatsoever wrong, eccentric, or even boring about studying snowflakes. Someone has to do it.”

“Perhaps so.” Jal left the skis stuck in the snowbank near the road and, both arms grasping a box, walked behind Kate. “Doesn’t seem all too threatening to the environment, your work.”

“Why would it be?”

“Do you use harmful chemicals?”

“Nope.”

“Do you raze large areas of forest to pursue your profession?”

“Nada. Are you a tree hugger, Jal?”

He matched her pace. “Can’t say I’ve hugged any trees lately. But I am concerned for the environment.”

“Well, don’t worry about me. I wouldn’t harm a snowflake. Er, beyond the induced melting that occurs from the lighting I use. There’s bazillions of flakes to go around, so a few here and there—ah heck. I reduce, reuse and recycle more than most.”

They arrived at her front door and she held it open with a hip.

“If you’ll set that box inside,” she prompted.

Jal paused over the threshold. The air inside must be fifty or sixty degrees warmer than outside. Certainly he could survive warmer climes. He ventured to Florida to cling to bright, sweet oranges on occasion. Yet he’d never tested heat in this human form.

That wasn’t what kept him hugging the crisp, icy kiss of winter. What stalled him was the thought that beneath the slim-fitted white snowsuit Kate wore pink lace. Maybe?

He could hope.

What are you thinking, Jal? This isn’t like you. Do the job. Now’s your chance.

“I don’t bite,” she offered, and left him standing against the open door to set her stuff down on a woven rug. “Have time for some hot chocolate before you head back out?”

“Hot chocolate?”

“Are you sure you’re from this planet, Jal?”

“Of course I am. What makes you think I’m not? I know hot chocolate.” Maybe. He knew chocolate; it was a sweet mortal treat. So the hot version must be…hot and sweet. Ah, so that is the scent he detected on her. “I thank you for the offer, but I shouldn’t intrude.”
“Got to get back to the trails?”

“Probably. Well, surely.”

She took the box from him and set it aside on a table that stretched before the window. “Well, then, you’d better get going before you let all the cold air in.”

Like him? Even now, as he appeared in the flesh, he knew his body was of chilled air, not blood or skin or hair, as she was.

He was a god. She was human.

Suddenly the differences between the two of them became incredibly painful. He located the strange ache in his core. Jal clutched his chest.

“Jal?”

“Sorry. Right. Cold air. Wouldn’t want to mix with your warm. Shouldn’t. Can’t, really. Uh, fine then.”

What in perma-freeze was wrong with him? He didn’t do conversation with humans.

“You ski this area often?” she asked.

“Probably.”

She smirked and shook her head. “Well, if you get a hankering for hot chocolate, you know where to find me. Thanks for helping me with my stuff.”

And the door closed on him. Jal stared at the solid wood door, but he didn’t see anything because his senses were deluded with the mixture of Kate’s sweetness, the dry warmth of the smoke that had clung to the corners of the room, and the intriguing fruity smell he could guess had been on her hair.

“Woman,” he said. “Nice.”

And though his vocabulary had taken a strange plummet, Jal could hardly care. This mission had taken a strange turn. He didn’t want to kill the mark.

He wanted to learn her.