A Soul As Cold As Frost (The Winter Souls Book 1)

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He backed away from the window into the shadows, the reflection of the sign’s deep purple letters on the glass the only thing that remained. Sixteen-year-old Helen Bell understood tragedy better than most kids growing up—she knew what it was like to wear clothes from donation bins and be mocked by the beautiful girls in school. My eyes crept over, and sure enough, there was that weighty sphere in my hand, clear as crystal, encompassing an ivory and gold haze that glowed ever so slightly like the active molten core of a planet.

Spinning, I caught a streetlamp to steady myself, several more words dripping towards the tip of my tongue when the man waved back in apology.She is the normal girl (a bit older than some of the other fantasies) who slips into another fantastic world. I approached sluggishly to keep it from springing away, and I crouched to study the specimen while my mind raced with explanations based on things I’d read in books. I hope you’re getting into the holiday spirit, and if not, then you’re about to, because the 12 Days of Bookish Christmas Blog Hop is here! Jennifer Kropf spent her college years bored to death (nearly) in marketing and advertising classes, and graduated only to discover once and for all that her true passion is telling stories.

When there were no cars passing by, I took off back the way I’d come; back to my side of the street, back to where my aunt was waiting, back to where everything had been normal a moment ago.But when I conquered the fresh ice patches on the sidewalk, I realized she was already sprinting down the street as fast as a light-footed racehorse.

It was a stifled muffle through her facemask as she cast one last look at me and slapped the medallions together. I'm the author of The Fair Queen, a YA fantasy novel and the first in a complete trilogy, The Fair Chronicles. I got the strangest impulse to turn and run—a nervous reaction to her husky, outlandish blabbering and harsh features.After dinner, Uncle Ralf read a Christmas poem as we gathered around the large stone fireplace in the living room and tried not to ogle at Aunt Sylvia’s horrendously fat spruce tree, held together with gold ribbons, crystal teardrop ornaments, and ropes of tiny white lights. The evening shadows and the glare off the glass encompassed most of his body, but I could see a boy watching me. The descriptions are vivid and make you feel like you're freezing, trudging through snow, or drinking the best hot chocolate of your life. A rainbow of autumn tones adorned the table, and the whole room fogged with the sweet smell of cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, sizzling turkey, hot cocoa, melting butter, and a hint of crackling wood from the fireplace. Buildings hosted glassy bouquets of scarlet, green, and gold ornaments, but it was difficult to enjoy the splendour of the season in this bitter flash-freeze.

Pointy ears and long noses protruded from their heads, hidden only when they sipped from their steaming mugs.

Grandma squeezed her lips to mute a chuckle, and if I had to guess, I’d say the old woman found a bit of pleasure in seeing Aunt Sylvia so stressed. Aunt Sylvia’s voice boomed over the street from where she stood outside the bakery, her bare legs trembling from the cold beneath her pencil skirt. Slush leaked through the holes in my coat, brushing a shudder up my spine and blossoming a mushroom-cloud-cough of visible carbon dioxide over my face as a near-silent gasp squeaked out.