Frozen: A Winter Romance Anthology

by Melange Books, LLC

  “No, leave this horrible village and come live with me,” he said, his mouth still touching hers.

  Cara couldn’t comprehend what he was asking while her body was screaming for something more. She didn’t know what; she only knew she needed Ben.

  “I can’t bear the thought of leaving you behind. I don’t want to go the rest of my life without knowing you, tasting you, being with you,” he whispered, his lips searing the skin at the base of her throat. Reaching down, he unbuttoned her coat, ripping it off as quickly as he could. Reaching between them once more, he pulled on the hem of her outer shirt, bringing it up and over her arms and head in one fluid motion, leaving Cara with only one shirt remaining. Normally she would be chilled with just one shirt, but now, her body screamed to be free of all her clothing so she could feel Ben’s body with nothing but her skin.

  “Come with me,” Ben urged again, pulling her shirt collar down and kissing the area just below her throat. “I need you.” He moaned, licking her skin as he traveled further down.

  Somewhere in her sensual fog, Cara registered his words. It took her a few moments more to process their meaning. When she finally realized what he was asking, she almost cried. Leave this place of torture and all the bad memories that go along with it, to live with the man of my dreams? Does he honestly expect me to say ‘no?’

  “I know we just met, and we’re still getting to know each other, but already my heart belongs to you.” At this, Ben pulled away, releasing the hold that he had on her shirt and stared into her eyes, begging her to understand his feelings.

  Cara saw the desire, an emotion she had only read about, and knew how he felt. She felt the same way. Bringing her hands up, she caressed his face lovingly, knowing this was a face she would gladly spend the rest of her life getting to know. She smiled tentatively as she ran a finger lightly over his swollen lips, evidence of the passion that they shared.

  “When do you want to leave?” she asked shyly.

  “Is that a yes?” Ben asked uncertainty in his eyes.

  Bending down so that her lips hovered just above his, she breathed, “Yes,” before her lips met his again, letting him know exactly what her feelings were on the matter.

  * * * *

  Cara awoke with a sudden jerk. The coldness of the world froze her to the very bone and made her body feel numb. She looked at the blankets that were heaped up on the floor, having been tossed there during the night. Cara rolled over onto her side, tears streaming down her face, landing gently on the pillow under her head, as the images that had been so real just moments before began to fade away, leaving nothing behind for her to cling to.

  Sobs shook her chest, and she curled up, making herself as small as possible. The pain and agony of being alone, of being tortured for sport, of never having a friend in the world that she knew and hated were suddenly ten times worse in her waking moments. It was in that moment that she realized the one person who found her amazing and even beautiful, the one person she would have gladly spent the rest of her life with, was just a dream.

  THE END

  To be continued in the fantasy novel

  'A Land Without Snow'

  Coming soon from

  Fire and Ice Young Adult Books

  www.fireandiceya.com

  About the Author

  Elena Kane lives in a small town in Ohio where she teaches preschool. She absolutely loves it because she is free to be herself.

  Elena has three children, two boys and a girl, and they are the light of her busy life.

  She loves the Green Bay Packers and swimming, is determined to live on a sunny beach someday, and—most importantly— she loves to read! Reading is her way to relax and forget her worries. She love getting on her treadmill with a good book!

  Visit Elena Kane on Facebook

  https://www.facebook.com/elenakanewriter

  Her Frozen Heart

  by Tara Fox Hall

  For Eric, who helped me see some “limited” good in winter

  It was the flowers that Alaric noticed first: big burnt-orange poppies, their centers inky black. They appeared almost overnight at the edge of his most favored path for walking, reaching forth grasping for the sun’s faint rays.

  Alaric was certain they were fake. Some hunter’s odd way of marking their trail in and out of the woods, he thought, as he reached out with a gloved hand to touch the petals of the nearest flower. On impulse, he plucked at the petals. But instead of hard, thin plastic that resisted his efforts, the blossom tore into pieces, falling through his fingers to land on the snow.

  For it was full-fledged winter now, certainly not the time for blooming poppies. Today was the winter solstice in fact, the day Alaric treasured most of the year. He looked forward to his first winter walk during spring, summer and fall, for winter was his favorite season. By December 21st, the trees here in the North were usually bare skeletons, the earth covered in a thin white snug blanket, and his woods still and quiet. Just the way he liked them.

  A real flower growing here in the snow was wrong. Further, it was an affront to his perfect crystalline afternoon. This had to be someone’s idea of a practical joke. He looked quickly around, expecting to see a CritterCam strapped to a tree, recording the moment. Yet there was nothing there but trees, snow and the offensive plants. Grimacing, Alaric reached for the flower grouping to pluck it out, then stopped.

  The flower was not on his land. It was on his neighbor’s. The posted sign hanging just to the right of the blossom was tattered by the passing of more than a few years, but Alaric knew by the faded yellow color that it wasn’t one of his. Plus the flower wasn’t a native species. Someone had planted it there as a seed, likely a bird via its droppings.

  It must be some kind of hardy poppy that can take early snows. Alaric glared at the flower, pursing his lips. I walk this way several times a week. Even with a good snowstorm, I’m going to have to look at that gaudy thing for a few more days if I don’t get rid of it.

  Alaric crouched, gathered up an armful of snow and dumped it on the plants. The flowers burst through the snow as if struggling for life. He dumped a few more armfuls of snow on the poppies, covering them completely. With a satisfied snort of triumph, he walked on his way, enjoying his winter wonderland.

  * * * *

  The very next day, Alaric cautiously approached where the poppies had been. They were missing, the snow and earth disturbed with footprints.

  There was a crackle of a branch. Alaric looked up, catching a glimpse of a woman in a bright green coat and long yellow scarf, slowly winding her way through the trees, a large pail in her hands. The poppies rode happily in the bucket, leaves waving to Alaric with every motion of the woman’s legs, as if to say Ha! You failed! I live!

  “Hi,” Alaric called politely.

  The woman stopped, then slowly turned. Her bright blue eyes fixed Alaric with a cold glare. “You tried to kill my flowers,” she accused.

  “Um, I...I tried to bury them to protect them,” Alaric said lamely, glad his scarf covered his flushing neck. “It’s winter. It’s not the season for flowers.”

  “It is always the season for flowers,” the woman said haughtily. She dropped the pail and came striding back to him, kicking laboriously through the light snow, as if it were knee high brush. “Flowers are life itself.” She held up a small green furry bud in her left palm, then passed her right hand over it. The bud sprang into life, the vibrant poppy bursting forth to blossom fully in her palm.

  This is that odd woman, the one who owns the florist’s shop in town and is never seen with a man...or any friends, for that matter. What the hell was her name? Damn it! “I’m Alaric. I’m one of your neighbors.”

  “Cassandra,” she replied, her tone losing some of its frostiness. She held out her right hand. “It’s good to meet you. I can finally give your posted signs a face.”

  Alaric found himself smiling. “You, too, Cassandra.” He waited for her to tell him to call her Cassy or Cass or some kind of
nickname, but she was silent, looking at him. It was a bit unnerving, actually. Can she see I meant to end that stupid flower? She is obviously a witch, but what level? “It’s good to meet someone else who is...um, a fellow practitioner.”

  Cassandra snorted. “I’m not sure it’s so good,” she said loftily, though she still smiled. “You probably do necromancy or something.”

  Now it was Alaric’s turn to be affronted. “I certainly do not. I prefer the study of potions.”

  “Poisons,” Cassandra interjected.

  “Potions,” Alaric insisted. His gaze fell to the flower in her hand. “You’re one to accuse, witch. Your beloved flower is known to be deadly and addictive. Beauty is not always innocent.”

  A measure of respect flickered in Cassandra’s eyes. “So you know your plants, Alaric. But for what ends do you search your dusty spell books? Power? Influence? Just for the hell of it? Tell me that.”

  What should I say? In the hope of being renowned for something amazing? Because I’m lonely, in spite of having several good, close friends? Nothing came to mind that likely wouldn’t anger Cassandra, and he couldn’t even try for the line about it being a family tradition, being self-taught as he was. “Because I’ve always had a passion for magic,” Alaric said finally, hating that he sounded hesitant, then glad of it, because she’d likely be nicer hearing that sentiment in his tone.

  Alaric’s lowering of his guard worked. Cassandra’s features softened, and she nodded respectfully. “I was the same way. It called to me, the magic.” She flushed prettily. “I’m an instinctive witch.”

  “I’ve heard of those with a talent for magic that comes from inside and isn’t learned,” Alaric said in wonder, gazing at Cassandra. “Is it true that you don’t need to speak spells or even think them?”

  Cassandra nodded, biting her lip. Then her stern face broke into a wide smile that transformed her from merely pretty to starkly beautiful. “It helps to focus my will to better channel the magic if I have some words ready,” she admitted. “But it’s not necessary.” She touched the flower in her hand, stroking the petals. “I only thought bloom at this, and it was enough.”

  Alaric was stunned, still trying to form words. A witch, right on my own street! His nearest friend Alexander who practiced was close to an hour away by car and only into sorcery for the major holiday of Beltane, something Alaric rolled his eyes at. But looking at Cassandra, Alaric suddenly thought that Beltane might be something he would want to celebrate this year.

  “I can’t do bigger life, like trees yet,” Cassandra went on. “I want to be able to heal them, like I can heal most any plant. But I’m working on it.” A shadow passed over her face. “It takes a lot out of me though.”

  “I guess there’s no hope you’ve found a cure for Earth Day then,” Alaric quipped.

  Cassandra’s smile disappeared in a fast-forming frown and a furrowing of her brow.

  “I only meant that it’s too bad there isn’t a way to cure the Earth through magical means,” Alaric said quickly. “It would be a faster recovery.”

  “And more likely to happen than a manmade one,” Cassandra said solemnly. Her fingers closed over the poppy protectively.

  “Want to have dinner with me?” Alaric blurted out, then closed his eyes, feeling the flush run not just up his neck but all the way to his cheeks. Suave, very suave.

  There was no reply.

  Alaric opened his eyes tentatively, daring a hopeful glance at Cassandra. She was looking at him, her eyes misty. “I would like that,” she whispered, each word loud in the silent chill air. “But it’s better not to, Alaric.”

  “Why not?” he persisted, his embarrassment fading at her admission of interest.

  “Because you’re winter, and I’m summer,” she said almost tenderly, with more than a trace of regret. “The two can never exist together. They’re opposites.”

  “But we’re both magic lovers,” Alaric said, reaching out his hand, hoping his touch would reassure her.

  Instead, she pulled the flower to her chest and stepped back from him. “You tried to kill it,” she said bitterly. “Just like you would kill me if I gave you an opening.”

  She’s insane. Is there anything more dangerous than a witch off her rocker? “Of course I wouldn’t,” Alaric said gently. “I just want to get to know you, Cassandra.” He gestured around him at the still woods. “We’re the only ones who do magic for miles! Why wouldn’t you want to see what we could do together?”

  Cassandra shook her head, blinking her filling eyes. “I’m not for you, Alaric,” she said brokenly. “I’m not for anyone.” She turned and fled, struggling through the snow to the pail. She hefted it, then pushed on through the trees.

  Alaric watched her go, his resolve building. Not if I have anything to say about it.

  * * * *

  “It’s not a far, far better thing you have found,” Alexander said drolly, sipping from his flask. “She’s clearly damaged goods, Ric, even if she does look like the epitome of a peasant conjurer out of a novel. You don’t want to mess with that, not when you could have some sweet little co-ed instead.” He looked Alaric up and down. “Sure, you’re not twenty anymore, but you’re still on the right side of forty. You’ve got all your hair. Everything works on your body, you own your own home, and you’ve got a good job. Why let yourself in for trouble you don’t need?”

  Alaric gave his friend a steely gaze through lidded brown eyes. “She’s a witch is why. So what if she’s a little shy? I think she’s worth the effort.”

  Alexander raised his silver flask in a toast, the engraved pentagram on it flashing visible when it caught the light before disappearing again. “Say she is. Okay, so you’re going to make a play for her.” He took a long sip, then capped the flask. “How are you going to go about that, lover boy? Something tells me the usual romantic chocolates and jewelry is not going to work on Cassandra.”

  Alaric gazed at his friend, considering his next words. Alexander—never Alex, Lex, Xander or any other nickname that would appear less than elaborately magical—was not someone he wanted to offend. His fellow sorcerer was far more worried about looking the part with his shoulder length black hair, his all black clothes and his many trappings of magic than actually performing any real mystical thrills out of thin air. What Alaric had told Cassandra in the woods had been true. Alexander was the only other local practitioner. Because of that, Alaric often put up with more than a little teasing from his friend, even though the never-ending ribbing bothered him.

  “Well?” Alexander persisted.

  Alaric drew himself up in his chair and threw his shoulders back. “I’m going to bring her a gift,” he said boldly. “A potion to help her grow her plants.”

  “She can likely do the same thing with a single word,” Alexander said with contempt. “If she couldn’t just use fertilizer in the first place.”

  Alaric sipped his own scotch from a glass, debating if he should reply. Failing to hold back his words, he shook his head. “You don’t get it,” he said with a thread of disgust. “I want to do something for her that she finds value in. This is all I know to give. It’s a peace offering.”

  “And if she doesn’t want peace?” Alexander challenged.

  “Then at least I’ll know I tried,” Alaric answered. “And you’re right that the normal romantic gifts won’t work.” He stood up. “I’d better get to it in fact, Alexander. Sorry, but we’ll have to call it a night.”

  Alexander looked at Alaric in complete surprise, then shrugged and stood. He slipped his flask inside his coat. “More power to you, Ric, for not giving up,” he said, clapping Alaric on the shoulder. “Goodnight.”

  Alaric saw Alexander out, then headed upstairs to his second bedroom, which held his makeshift workshop, complete with two long tables for formulating potions, various harvesting and storing surfaces and equipment and wall to wall shelves that held all manner of ingredients.

  Good she can’t see this. Not yet anyway. Cassandra
was right. Most of the potions found in spell books were for poisons or worse things. Even innocent spells often called for some pretty bad ingredients. There were more than a few of the latter mixed into the simply labeled boxes, sealed plastic totes and Ziploc bags that crammed his shelves. But Alaric stayed away from the more horrible things, like bat’s wings and newt’s eyes unless he was able to loot some no longer needed body parts from an already deceased creature. There was no point in killing a living thing for a part, not when there were alternatives that could be used.

  Alas that any substitution takes so much trial and error. Alaric let out a sigh, looking at his latest project on the far table, still in the infant stages. He was trying hard to formulate a spell to grow wings. It was for personal pleasure, so was relegated behind the more useful projects on his list like the creation of a new, floating, light bulb for reading at night.

  The remaining ingredients for the charm, including the half-formed mesh ball, sat on the closest table. These useful objects were usually called glowballs, slang in most of the tomes, and could be used anywhere by simply speaking a passcode to light them. The hardest part was infusing them with energy to make them light, something that took a long time with repeated “chargings” that consisted of murmured spells, a mixture of burnt herbs and live rays of the sun captured via mirror. But they were fun to make, simply from the variation in colors that were possible with just a little experimentation. Alaric had found spells before for yellow, blue and white glowballs, but had created his own green, purple and red with misty pink swirls with just a little testing. This time, I’m trying for red with misty blue swirls.