Etched in Frost (Hallowed Harbingers #1)

by L.R. Friedman

If that isn’t enough fodder for their gossip, the deep scars along my shoulder and back will no doubt catch their notice once the warm-up layers come off. Eleven months have passed and even I still find it hard to ignore them when I see myself in the mirror.

This used to be second nature, like putting on a second skin. Now my fingers are clumsy, fumbling over the ribbons.

the pain slicing up my left thigh as I come back up from the floor. Mistress Maral eyes me with hawk-like scrutiny. They may know about the accident and that I wasn’t asked back to the Institute, but they don’t need to know about this. Never about this. Not even this injury can hold me back from making the most of this second chance at my ballet career.

A flash of movement from outside the window snags my attention. Two prismatic eyes watch me intently. A silver-and-white wolf peers over some park bushes across the street. The more I look, the less I believe it’s a wolf. It couldn’t be, could it?

My fellow Frosts, immortal harbingers that bring winter to the world, had always said how much it hurt when Fate etched it into our skin. But the moment I awoke from my hibernation, it was already there, seared into my sternum.

Realization began to sink in, but I didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t see me because my mate, the one I’d waited my lifetime for, destined to be mine, was mortal.

The pain of that moment still haunts me, even now, but it doesn’t stop me from coming here whenever I can.

No one seems to have any answers for me. Part of me wonders if letting me out this season was to stop me from asking more questions. Anytime I’ve tried, I’ve been met with a clipped response, sent off to do another task, or reminded how I am so close to earning enough frost marks to become a Lead Albidus like my fathers.

While there aren’t many rules when it comes to being a harbinger, there is one very important creed we must follow: Never interfere with the affairs of mortals. It doesn’t stop me from envisioning what it would be like to be seen by her. To know her.

Whatever I do, though, I can’t risk banishment from the mortal world. Not when that would cut me off from her. Not when she’s finally within reach. There’s just one problem… She doesn’t believe I exist.

My fingertip traces the faint silver scar between my ribs. It glints under the dim light, feathering out in a whorl. It’s the only one I have that I consider beautiful.

While I’m grateful for this second chance at my dream, there’s a little voice in my head that nags at me. How long will my injury allow me to continue to do what I love?

I’m firmly in camp Rory should have picked Jess,

Two bright eyes stare back at me, silvery with winking flecks of iridescent blues. They glitter like shattered glass, so beautiful that I can’t look away.

I stare down at the colorful sketches of eyes spread through the pages. No matter how I try to draw them, I can’t get the shades right. They’re always too silver or too blue, and they never glitter enough. Not that they could be real… Nevertheless, they haunt me.

As a man, his ballet career is set up for exponentially quicker promotions.

Sounds about right, freaking patriarchy

“That’s stress relief, which is important.” Grabbing my coffee, I quickly bring it to my lips, taking a big gulp. “So, no,” Lark replies for me, and she and Delilah exchange smug that’s-a-man-for-you glances.

She brings her voice down to a gentle whisper, laying her palm flat on my leg. “You will see that spotlight. But that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with you.”

“It was your first day. Give yourself some grace,” Lark says, standing up and taking her coffee over to the sink to rinse out the mug. “It’s going to take some adjustment.” “You’re right.” But it still sucks.

I’ve served over fifty winters outside hibernation. Waited decades. And by some horrible stroke of luck, I’ve been bewitched by a mortal.

I know better than to interfere, but every time I return, I try to learn as much as I can about her. Every fragment of information I glean shoots a boost of serotonin through my veins. She’s a compulsion I can’t shake. An addiction I’m desperate to feed. A high I never want to come down from. The farther I am from her, the worse I feel.

My body responds despite the pain of knowing she was with someone else. Her prince, as he’s referred to in her journal. In reality, he’s some jerk who doesn’t even deserve her attention, much less her devotion.

I’d have her whimpering, bringing her to the edge until her breaths grew ragged and she quivered in ecstasy. How incredible would it be to have her eyes locked with mine, her tight heat clenched around my knot. I’d fill her over and over.

It’s lonely enough to wander this world each season, hours and weeks of delivering invisible tender care to the world that goes unnoticed. Unappreciated.

My soul is tied to someone who doesn’t know I exist. It’s torture. Even to just be seen by her, to be able to hold her through the night, to feel how it would be to have her skin pressed against mine… I’d give anything, pay any price, for that.

Disappointment floods my veins. I couldn’t give a fuck about the rest of the world. But her? I’d give anything to be seen by her, if only for a moment.

What would she see? I spend so much time alone, or in my beastly earthside form, it’s easy to forget what I look like. We don’t use mirrors in Nivea, only catching quick glances of our reflections in the ice.

My form shimmers, pale blue and silver frost marks adorning my arms and chest, starting to skim my hip. Each winter I earn more of them, a badge of honor among the Frosts, each one a step closer to Lead Albidus.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to show her how beautiful she is, and she’ll fill these pages with her joy—not scribble them half-heartedly at the end of a spiral of doubt and self-deprecation.

Over the next hour, I read every entry, piecing together the fragments of her like a puzzle I’m desperate to figure out. I need to understand how they fit. How she can possibly fit with me. She fucking has to.

“That’s the problem, Jolie. You’re trying too hard.” What?

People underestimate how cutthroat the ballet world can be. They see graceful, delicate, poised dancers. In reality, there is always someone waiting in the wings, calculating if your failure is their next opportunity.

I know this, but I've also watched multiple dance themed shows

Two eyes peer up at me from the page, striking deep in my soul, along with the words that accompany them. Where did you go? Something I’ve wondered countless times. I sigh, shutting it and sticking it back into the drawer

Thick streaks on the mirror catch my attention, and I cross my arms over my naked body before I rip the towel from its hook. I wrap it around myself, glancing into the bedroom. A chill spins down my spine. My heart races. I manage to take a deep breath and turn my gaze back to the big letters outlined in fog. I’m here.

I didn’t think Jolie could steal my breath away any more, but her brushing against me outside tonight knocked the wind from my lungs. Playing with her long, dark tresses, skating along her exposed skin, my magic’s starved for her as much as I am.

Apparently, my extra visits haven’t gone unnoticed. Weather reports of extended cold fronts have finally caught up with me. Now we’ve been ordered to do extra duty up north and avoid this area. Oops.

I can’t tell if she’s more scared or curious. Curiosity I can work with. Fear won’t do. I’ve observed enough seasons to know that far too many people rely on fear to get what they want. I never will. Not when it comes to my mate.

“J – A – X.” I halt my movements and wait. Just say it. Please. I’m fucking begging. “Jax?” Frost blasts from my lips, and the Ouija board flies across the room, cracking in half against the wall. “Oh my god!” she said, cowering.

Shit. I couldn’t help myself, though. While my full name is Jaxon, the idea of her calling me Jax, like I’m something close to her, someone close to her, does something to me.

Taking a pen in her hand, she writes my name in big letters across the next page of her journal. My heart twists in my chest. The sensation is painful and equally glorious. It’s everything. Every-fucking-thing. If only she could see me.

I imagine floating with her on the breeze, dancing with her. Claiming her. Then the only invisible forces between us would be the bond and our love. Not this veil hiding me in plain sight. I’d take her into my arms and love her beyond this world, beyond time, beyond a fickle fate that keeps her away from me.

There has to be a way. There just has to. Maybe they’ll make an exception for us since my mate is mortal? I haven’t gone back since winter started. We aren’t really supposed to…but I’m de...

She stands from the chair and slowly approaches my message. Her delicate fingers trail the frost, and every stroke of them against my magic is as if she were touching me directly.

My brows scrunch together and I clench my fists. I’d freeze the world before she could anyway. No harm comes to my mate. Not ever. I’d trade my immortality before that would ever happen.

She hangs up, phone shaking in her hands as she backs away and climbs into the bed, pulling the covers around her. Her breaths release in shallow pants. I follow her, halting by her bedside table, hating to see her fear. Fear over me.

But no matter how far or how fast my feet carry me, I can’t outrun the fear that thrums in my chest…and the painful realization that comes with it. Convincing Jolie I’m real might be the worst fate I can give her.

Once the words are out, I try not to panic, though there’s no good segue into I think I’m getting messages from a ghost that may or not be a childhood myth.

“I’m dancing with Ballet Potomac now.” “Ah! When’s your next performance?” Bryon asks with a grin on his face. I miss seeing them before rehearsals. If I could squeeze in a coffee, I loved starting my day with JJ’s.

“I’ll be one of the wilis.” When they stare at me with confusion, I clarify, “They are the lost spirits of betrayed women that haunt the forest, luring men to dance to their deaths.” “Oh,” Bryon croons, raising his brows a few times. “Sounds fun.”

“Well, keep us updated and put us down for two tickets for opening night.” They come around the counter and give me hugs before handing me the coffees and walking me to the door.

Aww