Jack found his wife in their hotel room, flinging clothing into her suitcase, a scowl stamped on her face. He leaned against the door frame to watch, casually crossing his arms over his chest, amused.
"Going somewhere?" he asked pleasantly.
"I'm moving to Florida," she answered, viciously jabbing a pair of Jimmy Choos into a corner. "I hate snow." She paused, groping for another item to abuse. "And I can't ski worth a damn," she added, wadding a pair of insulated ski pants unceremoniously into a ball and jamming it into the recesses of the bag.
"You skate beautifully," he risked stepping into the bedroom of their suite, his long legs reaching her in less than two strides. He plucked the ski pants out of the suitcase and shook them out. "And you look cute in snowdrifts. You know I don't mind skiing alone." He hung the pants in the closet as she stuffed an Irish wool sweater into the suitcase.
"I can skate in Florida. They have indoor rinks, and it's warm outside."
"Honey, it's our job," Jack said patiently, taking out the sweater and folding it neatly. He stowed it in the dresser as she heaved an armload of lingerie willy-nilly on top of the designer shoes. He groaned inwardly. If she was packing her underwear, she was more serious than usual. Still, it was always fun to sort through her amazing collection. He started carefully pulling out the bits of silk and satin and lace, admiring the colorful assortment as he piled them into a tidy stack. He barely managed to duck aside as she launched a pair of fur-lined Uggs at his head.
"It's your job," she snapped, nodding in satisfaction as the boots toppled sideways into the suitcase. "I quit."
"You can't quit," Jack said reasonably, tucking the panties into a drawer. "It's less than a week 'til Christmas. Your father would skin me. And then exile you to the South Pole until the next millennia."
"He can try," she snarled, shooting a spike-heeled silver shoe in his general direction. He caught it one handed, and batted aside its mate as it sailed toward him.
"Sweetheart," Jack soothed, ducking flying footwear as he inched toward his furious wife, "you always threaten to quit during the holidays. You always manage to get through it, and we laugh after New Year's. You love Christmas, remember?" He caught her arm, poised to heave a fistful of belts, bolo-style. His large hand circled her wrist, gentle but implacable, and squeezed. She met his gaze for a long moment, eyes spitting fire. Then the angry façade cracked, and she suddenly burst into tears, dropping the belts and sliding to the floor in a soggy heap. He knelt with her, holding her close as she cried.
"I just want to be warm," she wailed.
The vase of hothouse flowers, delivered only that morning, wilted and spit petals over the dresser as Rose, the only child of Nicholas, the Great Lord of Winter, sobbed. Jack wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin.
"I know, baby," he rocked her gently, her tears soaking his silk shirt. "Right after Christmas, two weeks in the Bahamas. I promise."
"You can't take two weeks in the tropics," Rose The Ever Perverse argued.
"I'll wait for you in Alaska," Jack shrugged. "You need a break."
"What will you do while I'm gone?" she asked, sounding equal parts woebegone and hopeful.
"Ski," Jack said promptly, nudging her with an elbow and kissing her nose. "You hate it anyway."
"I'm tired of ice, and snow, and being in Australia in June," she sighed deeply, but it was obvious her meltdown had passed. Jack let himself relax, and helped his wife to her feet. "I'm sick of hotels, too. Why can't we have a home, like Dad does?"
"There's only a few places it's cold enough, love, you know that," Jack answered for the hundredth time. "And our work is hands-on; we travel so much it's pointless."
After three hundred years wed, the conversation was pretty much rhetorical. Jack pulled Rose into his arms, his mind more on her curves than her misery. Three centuries of loving her, and he was still bemused at the intensity of his adoration. Jonathan Frost III, Jack to his friends, had fallen head-over-heels, face-first into a brick wall, in love with the most beautiful and gifted Winter Sprite in a thousand years. From the first time he laid eyes on her, he had surrendered his soul without a whimper. He was quite aware that he was the luckiest of men - a besotted husband that was adored by a loving wife who shared his life's work with a passion equal to his own.
Except for his beloved's occasional PMS from Hell, life was just about perfect.
Ah well, Jack thought as he scooped Rose off her feet, his mouth most effectively distracting her from any last vestiges of bad temper, every relationship has its problems.
***
Jack nearly ran over the woman who appeared out of nowhere on his ski run. A quick flick of his hips and he slewed around, spraying powder everywhere, and rapidly stopped behind her. She merely turned and glared at him, filmy green gown blowing around her lithe form, hair the color of sunset waving away from a perfect oval of a face. Familiar violet eyes glared him up and down. Jack went from startled - to irritated - to angry.
"Rose, what that hell are you doing?" He snapped. "If you need me, there's better ways to call than almost making me cause an avalanche!"
The woman grabbed his hand, yanked off his glove and slapped something cold, flat, and round into the bare palm, all the while glowering`.
"It has come to my attention, Frost Lord, that you have been allowing my daughter to die in stages for the last three hundred years," the woman that looked remarkably like his wife snarled. "I will make this brief, as I am a danger to any that are not Mine. Take this talisman and find Lord Ra. He should be in Hawaii this time of year."
Jack gaped at her in sudden understanding. "You're Calliope," he managed. "Rose's mother."
"Callie, Nicholas calls me." The Muse shrugged. "It is my regret I could not raise my daughter, but never think I have not kept tabs on her. Except for the gross neglect you've displayed, I approve of your marriage. She loves you, Frost Lord."
"And I her," Jack said, confused at the flood of emotion that didn't seem to belong to him, and the cryptic comments of his mother-in-law. Then something she said registered. "What the hell do you mean, my neglect?" he demanded, suddenly panicked. "And Rose is dying?" He felt fear crawl up his throat and clog his breathing. "How? Why? What did I do?"
"All it not lost," Callie said gravely. "I should have realized that Nicholas would forget his daughter's needs. One of my sisters inspired his compulsive list-making years after I had to leave, to help keep him organized. Unfortunately, it did our daughter little good. Rose will be fine, Frost Lord, if you do as I say."
And then she explained.
***
Jack hated Hawaii as much as Rose hated snow -- and more. He was a Lord of Winter, for crying out loud; all this sun and sand and warm sapphire ocean made him faintly nauseous and wish feverently for a tall mountain and a pair of skis. Or even a boogie board - anything but this unrelenting heat and sunshine.
I wonder if this is how Rose feels all the time, Jack thought suddenly. I feel like I'm going to melt from the inside out in this climate. Does she feel like she's carrying ice shards in her gut most days?
It was a sobering thought. He glanced around, the idea of Rose suffering any further spurring him to locate Ra as soon as possible. A quick scan yielded nothing except a new appreciation of how sunny climates tended to produce better scenery than his own habitat. Despite his desperation, it was difficult to concentrate on locating a Sun Lord when confronted with so many luscious women in so little clothing. With a supreme effort to concentrate on the task at hand, he shut his eyes, counted to ten, and firmly set his mind on finding Ra.
"C'mon, how hard can it be to find a Sun God in Hawaii?" Jack muttered to himself, checking the amulet Callie had given him. It was glowing brightly, a miniature heatless sun in his palm. Ra couldn't be far. He rotated slowly, squinting to try and catch any change in intensity. When the thing shocked him, he yelped involuntarily, and nearly dropped the talisman. His gaze jerked up. Not ten feet away was a low-slung beach chair, a tuft of golden hair visible over the high canvas back. Jack couldn't make out more than one darkly tanned hand holding an iced cocktail with a pink umbrella sticking out of it.
On approach, he didn't look much like a Lord of anything. Jack estimated his height about the same as his own six-two, but it was difficult to judge when the subject was sprawled carelessly in a canvas chair. He was clad only in baggy, eye-searing, orange and purple board shorts and pair of Terminator sunglasses. A swath of neon yellow sunblock decorated his straight, but a shade too long, nose. As Jack drew closer, the fellow picked up his drink and took a long, leisurely sip. The guy actually used a straw. Jack winced.
Rose will eat this joker alive, spit him out, and use the compost in her garden.
Still, it wasn't entirely fair to judge by first impressions. It was possible Ra was playing a part, keeping a low profile, as most Immortals do among the humans. Like Clark Kent.
Yeah, right.
