1
Another Christmas Eve Alone
Fiona
Thewrenchslipsinmy grease-slicked fingers for the third time, and I bite back a curse that would make my grandmother roll over in her grave. Christmas Eve, and here I am, elbow-deep in the guts of Mrs. Gracey’s ancient Ford while the rest of Frosses Ridge is probablygathered around warm fires, exchanging gifts and pretending to like each other’s cooking.
The engine block stares back at me like a mechanical accusation—another project, another problem I can solve with enough time and the right tools. Unlike people. People don’t come with repair manuals or troubleshooting guides. They don’t respond to a firm hand and quality parts. They want things I’ve forgotten how to give.
Behind my toolbox, a dog-eared copy of Kidnapped by the Alien Chieftain peeks out from where I shoved it when the radio started crackling. The cover shows a massive red-skinned warrior holding a woman against his chest, both of them looking like they’ve discovered something worth fighting for. Not that I read sci-fi romance. Definitely not during work hours. And absolutely not while fantasizing about being whisked away by males who know exactly what they want.
Males who don’t make small talk about the weather or ask if I need help lifting things. Males who take one look at a woman and decide she’s worth claiming.
The radio crackles from its perch on my workbench, cutting through the steady drum of sleet against the garage’s metal roof. “—another Jack Frost sighting reported near Mile Marker 47. That’s the third one this week, folks. They’re saying he’s walking the mountain roads, bringing that killing cold with him. Temperature’s dropping to twenty below with wind chills that’ll freeze exposed skin in minutes—”
I snort and adjust the trouble light, casting harsh shadows across the engine block. The fluorescent bulb flickers, threatening to die and leave me in the dark with nothing but the small Christmas tree glowing in the corner. Three strands of white lights wound around a tabletop pine, the only concession I make to the holiday. No ornaments, nostar, just light pushing back the darkness that’s always waiting to swallow everything whole.
“Jack Frost, my ass.” The words echo in the empty garage, bouncing off tool-covered walls and coming back to mock me. Because here’s the thing about small towns—they love their folklore almost as much as they love their gossip. And Jack Frost? He’s their favorite winter boogeyman.
Every winter brings the same stories. Something tall moving through blizzards that should make travel impossible. Eyes that glow like winter stars. Jack Frost himself, they whisper, come to claim the mountain roads as his domain. Survivors found where there should only be frozen corpses. The locals eat it up like communion wine, desperate for something mysterious in their ordinary lives.
All of them found somewhere between the main highway and my garage.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I spend my days fixing broken things while something out there supposedly protects broken people—saves them from Jack Frost’s killing touch and delivers them to safety. Maybe whatever’s walking these mountain roads and I have more in common than the locals would like to think. Both of us working in the cold, both of us misunderstood.
The dispatch radio squawks to life on a different frequency, cutting through the local news station. “Davis Automotive, you copy?”
I wipe my hands on my jeans—a habit that’s left permanent stains on every pair I own—and reach for the handset. The metal feels cold against my palm, another reminder of how alone I am in this concrete box I call home. “This is Davis. Go ahead, Tom.”
“Fiona, sweetheart, you should be home with a bottle of wine and a good movie, not working on Christmas Eve. They’re saying Jack Frosthimself is walking the roads tonight, bringing that old killing cold with him.”
Tom Keller has been trying to charm his way into my bed for two years now, ever since his wife left him for a traveling salesman who promised her adventure beyond the county line. He’s not terrible to look at—sandy hair, decent shoulders, the kind of reliability that makes women think of mortgage payments and dinner parties. But he’s got that needy quality that makes my skin crawl. The kind of man who’d want to fix me, change me, make me into someone who bakes cookies and hosts dinner parties.
Someone soft. Someone who needs protecting.
“Some of us have bills to pay, Tom. What’ve you got?”
“Nothing official right now, but keep your radio on. This storm’s building into something nasty, and with all these Jack Frost reports...” He trails off, and I can practically hear him shaking his head. “Just be careful out there. People are starting to get spooked.”
Spooked. Like whatever’s out there in the storm is something to fear instead of something that’s been keeping people alive. Like Jack Frost bringing salvation instead of death is somehow more terrifying than the alternative.
“You too, Tom? I thought you had more sense than the rest of these idiots.”
“Hey now, I’m just saying there’s been a lot of strange activity lately. People found safe after being lost in storms that should have killed them. No frostbite, no memory of how they got to shelter. Hell, old Pete Garrison swears he saw something moving through the blizzard last month—tall as a tree, eyes glowing blue as winter ice.”
Pete Garrison also swears he was abducted by aliens in ‘97, so his testimony isn’t exactly reliable. But Tom’s not wrong about the pattern. Every winter for the past three years, the reports have been the same. Impossible rescues in weather that should mean certain death. People turning up safe when they should have been found come spring thaw.
Three years of miracles in a world that stopped believing in them long ago.
“Mass hallucination brought on by too much holiday eggnog,” I mutter, but my eyes drift to the window. The storm is getting worse, snow swirling in thick curtains that make it impossible to see more than a few feet. The kind of storm that turns the familiar landscape into an alien world.
The kind of storm that brings legends to life.
“Maybe. But Fiona?” Tom’s voice drops, becomes more serious. “If you see anything out there—anything that doesn’t look right—you call me immediately. Don’t try to handle it yourself.”
The concern in his voice should be touching. Instead, it just reminds me why I prefer my own company. Twenty-nine years old, and everyone still thinks I need a man to handle the scary stuff. Never mind that I’ve been handling myself just fine since I was seventeen and inherited more debt than assets along with this garage.
“I’ve been handling myself just fine for years, Tom. I think I can manage one more night.”
