Chapter 1

It's one of those days where the sun is afraid to peek his head out from behind the clouds. The sky is dull and gray on this chilly day in early February. Flurries of snow fall from the clouds, tiny droplets of watery foam that dissolve at the lightest touch. One flurry, slightly larger than the others, lands atop my drawn arrow. It melts the moment it feels my warmth.
Such a lovely day. Men and women and boys and girls all wander about, oblivious to my presence. Couples hold hands. Businessmen make calls. Mothers carry babies. Children try to build snowballs. And that's why I love this park. Because couples hold hands.
I almost feel guilty. So many will feel the warm sting of my arrow. So many will feel the cold sting of its loss. And so few will never feel it at all. Truly there will be no winners.
I turn ever so slightly as a boy catches my attention. Jamie. His brown locks hang down near his eye, but not quite far enough to blind him. He's got good looking features, the kind that will make him a beauty when he grows into them. And this handsome young man is my brand new target.
I draw my arrow back farther. My bowstrings tighten and protest under the stress I inflict, but I still pull. Then, as the brown haired boy sees his good friend Jack, I let it fly. The Winter sprite fails to notice the bright red arrow until it's too late. It drives into Jamie's heart, drawing no blood and invisible to him. He does not feel the pain of a mortal wound, rather the warmth of his first crush. He's only twelve and he doesn't know it yet, but he's felt Love's chillingly warm embrace for the first time.
Jack of course sees me. He stares right at me with those bright blue eyes and knows what I've done. Jack Frost, Guardian of Fun. Well he's about to have my kind of fun.
I draw another arrow from my quiver and take aim. He just looks at me. And Jamie looks at him. And couples hold hands and businessmen make calls and mothers carry babies and children try to build snowballs. And he just stares. He knows I'm not going to fire another arrow. One was absolutely enough. He knows he can't catch me. After all, what's faster than Love?
Certainly not a frozen pixie with a staff.
He's not quite certain how to react. It's quite adorable really, the way his piercing blue eye stare into my ungodly red ones. Then something happens that I don't quite expect. The snow begins falls faster. The fountain in the center of the lake freezes. The melted snow on the sidewalks begins to freeze. I certainly didn't expect him to be so angry about this. All I did was make his biggest fan fall in love with him. Was that so wrong?
Before he can attack me, I make haste out of the park, laughing all the way. My wings carry me as quickly as they can, far away from from Jack Frost and his icy wrath.
With Love's light wings I fly above the clouds. Wind gusts against my face, but it feels like a gentle breeze. The blue of the sky contrasts beautifully against the white of the clouds. The sun has decided to show his face and warm me as I make my way south. The cold is lovely, but I must meet my employer, and he insists on meeting in Florida. Apparently he has a time share there.
It's a short flight for an immortal such as myself. One might expect passengers on passing planes to be frightened when they see a winged man holding a bow flying beside them. But they do not notice me, because nobody can see where Love will come from next.
The Florida heat is absurd. It seems like this state has chosen not to participate on Winter. Not that I have any problems with heat, Love is the warmest emotion, after all.
I land in a decrepit lawn in front of a small, ramshackle house. The door nearly falls off as I enter, but when I do the inside transforms. Instead of the dusty old home a mere mortal would expect to see, I find a strange cross between an old folks home and a nursery. In the corner, Father Time is bent over a crib making faces at the baby inside. His beard stretches down to the floor and his flowered Hawaiian shirt barely covers his pot belly.
When he turns toward me, he immediately sheds a thousand years. His skin becomes taut, removing any traces if wrinkles. His beard recedes into his skin, leaving a short black goatee one might describe as Machiavellian. His pot belly flattens and the shirt suddenly fits again.
"You look ten thousand years younger," I remark.
"And feel it," the younger Father Time says in a voice somehow warm and inviting yet cold and threatening at the same time. "I trust your mission was a success."
"It was," I reply, stabbing an arrow into the coffee table next to me. He looks at the pink, heart shaped arrowhead stocked out of his knee-high table. "The boy is now insatiably in love with Jack. I've also taken the liberty of ensuring that North reveals his true feelings about Toothiana. Oddly enough, Bunnymund will be doing the same thing." A cruel smile snakes its way across my face. I love my job.
"And Sandy? Is he out of the picture?" Father Time asks.
"I was unable to find him," I reply, a frown replacing my smile.
"No matter," he remarks as he begins pacing back and forth. "As the Guardians fall into disarray in the coming months, Sandy will not be our greatest threat."
"What do you mean?" I ask, anticipating the worst.
"She's coming," he says ominously. "She's coming for my child. And she can't have him."
They both looks over to the crib, which has changed into a beanbag chair. Replacing the baby is a teenage boy. His black hair is a tousled mess with a tuff of grey in the front. He's sitting in the chair, playing some handheld game.
"Don't worry," the boy responds, not looking up from his game. "I know exactly how we can deal with her."
"Deal with her?" I ask, growing angry. I'm sure my face is growing red at this point. "Just how do you intend to deal with her?"
"You'll see," the boy replies calmly. "I know how to deal with my mother. Better than anyone."
"In the meantime," Time replies, interrupting his son. "I need you to deliver a message to North. Before Christmas."
"What's the message?" I ask, trying to figure out when Christmas is. I would probably know, but Love can happen anytime, the day doesn't matter.
Time pulls a seal envelope out of his shirt pocket and hands it to me. As I take it, the fabric of the room twists. Suddenly the floor is replaced by a massive sundial. The beanbag chair turns into a giant hour glass, but the boy doesn't seem to mind the change in elevation. And finally, the wall to my left transforms into a calendar. "Christmas is in two days," Father Time confirms.
"Got it," I remark. Why doesn't my house do this? "And what's in the letter?"
He replied with a smile that could warm a heart and freeze a brain, "The gift of Time."
I don't ask for further explanation. It's dangerous to trifle with a Father Time and the last thing I need is a wrinkles face. As I turn to leave, the room begins changing again. I'm out the door before I can see what it turns into. As soon as the door closes behind me, I'm back in the Florida heat, standing outside a ramshackle old house.