Dead Of Winter Novel Novels & Stories

Her fingers hammered against the phone, the sharp tapping echoing her irritation. [Say something. Don't act like you're dead.] [If you don't want it, then return it.] Those cold, cutting words dragged me back to that bone-chilling night in the snow. I wanted to tell her that I was already dead—that I had frozen to death in the cheap down jacket she bought me. Winter in the north is brutally cold. So cold that, after failing to secure a hospital bed, I merely closed my eyes for a moment—and never opened them again.

And after this rest, this deep breath of cool fresh air, we are ready for the sweet mischief of spring. Under a dove grey sky the colours of world don Jake's winter coats, each hue darker and richer than before as he looked on the path which sparkles and crunches, like sugar underfoot, and the coolness brings him right into the now, into the moment of life. Though the flowers sleep and the trees show their lofty arms once more, a smile plays upon these cold pink lips of his. For as much as he loved the summertime, he love the winter more. For every perfume of the meadow, there is the earthy loam of the newly-lit forest floor.

The world around me seemed hushed, draped in an ethereal shroud of silence that only winter's arrival could bestow. My senses were tantalized by the aroma that hung heavy in the crisp air—a symphony of snowflakes, each one a delicate note contributing to the grand composition of nature's breath. This was a fragrance unique to winter, a blend of cold purity and untamed wilderness. The snow-laden ground and the towering sentinels of the forest seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the world to awaken from its frozen slumber.

Many things are easy to say, but hard to do. Crimson Hollow had become a ghost town. Sometimes people came, looking for Widow's Blooms, but not year-round. Especially not in winter—once the snow fell, the flowers stopped growing. So all winter long, Crimson Hollow was buried in blinding white snow, and not a soul would come. Waiting alone, from sunrise to sunset, then from sunset to sunrise again—it was a kind of desolation and loneliness that was hard to even imagine. But she had made it through.

I called out. He lowered the leaded glass window, shouting back over the wind, "Get inside! It’s freezing!" I pulled my thick wolf-fur coat tightly around my neck and hurried back through the massive wooden doors of the packhouse. By the twentieth of December, the dark winter had settled deep into Ironvale City. The mountain winds howled like dying wolves outside the stone walls, bringing heavy blizzards that buried the roads under feet of white snow. Late that night, the quiet of the lower quarters shattered.

The winter solstice arrived with a quiet, breathtaking severity. By mid-December, the high alpine ridge was locked in a deep, pristine freeze, encased in thick blankets of white snow that muffled every sound in the forest. The wind howled down from the jagged northern peaks, driving sub-zero temperatures against the thick, insulated logs of the cabin, but inside, the atmosphere was a sanctuary of amber firelight and steady, enveloping warmth.

The city moved at a gentler pace. People bundled in coats hurried through streets. Children built imperfect snowmen. Cars crawled cautiously through intersections. Life continued. Beautifully ordinary. Later that afternoon, Ama found herself walking home alone. Fresh snow crunched beneath her boots. The air carried that unique winter stillness. Not silence. A quieter version of the world. She passed a bookstore. Then stopped. A display window had caught her attention. New releases. Classic novels. Poetry collections. Stories. So many stories. Each one beginning with a choice.

The door closed behind me with finality and I stood on the porch, shaking, the snow coming down heavily, like it was mocking me too. I had nowhere to go. The sky was darkened. Even the moon wasn’t out to shine light. The night was as dark as my world right now. My world was crushed like the snow under my feet. I didn’t know how many hours passed as I stood outside in the pouring snow, staring at my parents’ house as the light of the room went out. One by one, the windows went dark Kira came. “Rosie? How did it go? You’re freezing,” she said the obvious, because I was already covered with snow. My face was white and pale. My lips were trembling and my nose was blocked. Frostbite.

An older and experienced born omega was equal to a gamma so they became seen and referred to as that. I'd caught the bear's smell for the first time since he'd mentioned it, just when he stood up from the settee and announced its presence. Winter wouldn't have recognized and if she had she was sure to make a mental guess of what it was due to how horrible it was. It smelt like a complex mix of burning yet decomposing flesh. I rushed to the window to see, beside Poppa. *** "I'm guessing you don't have a wolf or do you?" I turned to Winter. Though I'd asked, my mind was already concluded on the subject. She didn't have a wolf. City-bred kids rarely did.

“You can call me Gavril. Gavrill Hawthorne.” “Hawthorne? I thought Nolan's last name was Smith?” “He took his mom’s last name.” I nodded my head in realisation. I didn’t even know that. “My name is Winter. Winter Cooper.” He nodded. “You want some bread” he offered. I took the bread and bolted to my room to video-call my best friend, Sicily, to inform her about what had happened. My suitcase lay on my bed as I had begun to repack to go back home.