A Fistful of Frost: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Madison Fox Adventure Book 3)

by Rebecca Chastain

  Every instrument in the marching band bleated and banged at once, kicking off a tune I didn’t recognize and all but drowning out Alex’s next words.

  “Where are you? Are you at a concert?”

  “I wish. It’s actually a high school marching band competition. Some, um, friends invited me.” I pressed the palmquell to my free ear, using the weapon as a clumsy noise blocker. Halfway across the stadium, drones circled Jamie like hyperactive vultures, but Pamela and Summer ignored them to pick off those that remained above the crowds. Peeved, I sighted over their heads, aiming for the drones closest to Jamie. My white bullet ripped through the tip of a drone’s wing. Success! Sort of. The drone didn’t slow or even acknowledge the hit, but having the palmquell pressed to my skull improved my aim.

  Realizing I’d been silent too long, I blurted out, “I, ah, just wanted to call and tell you what a good time I had last night.” When my words registered in my brain, I squeezed my eyes shut and willed the concrete beneath my feet to open up and swallow me. Seriously? I couldn’t have sounded more corny if I’d tried.

  “I had a good time, too.”

  My eyes sprang open. “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you called. We haven’t set up our next date yet.”

  “No, we haven’t.” Grinning this hard made talking difficult.

  “I’m busy tomorrow, but would you be up for meeting me for lunch on Monday?”

  “Monday?” I fired another dozen shots, each one almost on target. Take that, Summer. You can shove your professionalism comment where the sun doesn’t—

  My gaze collided with Pamela’s and my whole body froze. I hadn’t realized a person could pack such wilting disapproval into a single look.

  “Unless that’s too soon. Or you don’t get a lunch break,” Alex added.

  “Um.” Chatting on the job didn’t even fall close to the goal of impressing Pamela. How much more could I lower her opinion of me?

  “Or you don’t eat lunch . . .”

  I forced a laugh, cringing at the fake sound. I needed to get off this call, but I couldn’t just hang up on Alex, and Pamela’s censorious gaze sapped my brain cells. Staring at my feet helped.

  “I was trying to picture my schedule on Monday. Lunch sounds great.” If tyver were our priority, and they hunted at night, I should be free for a midday date.

  “What time works for you?” Alex asked.

  I pretended to have the same lunch hour as him, leaving it as a happy coincidence and not explaining my open-structured job, since that would lead to too many unanswerable questions.

  “I should get back to my friends,” I said after we made plans to meet at a restaurant near his practice.

  “Right. Have a good time. And thanks for giving me something to look forward to.”

  “My pleasure.”

  My smile died the moment the call ended and I caught sight of Jamie. Plagued by a scourge of drones, he descended the stadium’s far stairs toward the baseball fields, his posture more appropriate for a man walking to the gallows. I pulled the lead out of my feet and rushed after him, but Pamela stepped into my path, stopping me short.

  “Was that Brad on the phone?”

  “Uh—”

  “A personal call?”

  “Yes.”

  “That you initiated?”

  “The drone . . . I wasn’t thinking—”

  “That’s why you don’t let your focus drift while hunting drones.” Pamela pinned me with a stare, waiting.

  “It won’t happen again,” I promised.

  Jamie’s pooka magnetism had drawn all but two drones from the smorgasbord of norms, and Pamela picked those off with rapid-fire accuracy. I took the opportunity to passcode lock my phone, turn it off, and stuff it in the inner zipper pocket of my coat, in case I got another uncontrollable urge to call someone. I pretended not to notice Summer’s smirk.

  When we exited the stands, Pamela kept our pace slow, gesturing for Jamie to hustle ahead. He plodded deep into the baseball fields, turning at Pamela’s order toward the darkest corner. Only then did she let him stop.

  “Hold them,” Pamela instructed.

  Jamie’s eyes sought mine, and I read his anger loud and clear across the twenty feet separating us. Shards of lux lucis and atrum collided in his soul, piercing each other again and again. When I didn’t countermand the inspector’s order, he folded his arms over his chest and tipped his head back to watch the drones. They milled in the air above him, fifteen or twenty swooping and diving around him, probing him with their sharp proboscises.

  “Their fascination won’t last,” Pamela said. “Take them out quickly.”

  As if her words were their cue, a handful of drones split from Jamie, most angling for us and a few zipping back toward the crowd. Counting on the shadows to hide me from the norms, I planted my feet and extended the palmquell in a thoroughly conspicuous manner, determined to improve my aim.

  And relative to my atrocious beginnings, I did. Over the next hour and a half, I hit my targets a total of eleven times. However, those shots were scattered among several drones, and my kill total remained unchanged at one—the drone I’d slain with my pet wood.

  Having witnessed Pamela’s shooting prowess in the stadium, I had no doubt she could have wiped out the entire horde of drones herself. Instead, she worked on the fringes, killing those that angled back toward the stadium and leaving the rest to Summer and me, including all newcomers trickling in from the northern horizon. Like everything else with the inspector, the drones were a test.

  Summer passed. I didn’t.

  I got struck five times for every drone hit Summer took, her superior marksmanship saving her from all but the most devious attacks. The first three times a drone stole my inhibitions, I ran straight to Jamie, apology on my lips. Each time my head cleared before I reached him, and I retreated to my inspector-designated distance, apology unvoiced, telling myself I was doing the right thing. I needed to wrestle control of the bond before it ruled me. I needed to harden my heart against Jamie’s sunken posture and mutinous expression. I needed to do what was right for the both of us, and according to Pamela, coddling him would cost us both our lives—or at least our lives as good people.

  I pictured forming a shield around my heart to protect it, but the defensive walls only succeeded in amplifying my guilt back to me.

  Kill the drones. Kill the drones. Killthedrones.

  Chanting helped keep me focused, as did locking my vision on the sky so I couldn’t see Jamie. Freed of one emotional distraction, I acted out in different idiotic ways when drones sucked away pieces of my soul—like chucking my palmquell in fit of rage and collapsing to my knees, screaming my frustration and pounding my fists into the frost-tipped grass, or chasing after drones, jumping and leaping like a demented terrier, trying to catch them with my bare hands.

  Pamela observed it all, judging and finding me lacking.

  With a steady stream of new drones replacing those we killed, the fight might have continued all night if the drones hadn’t abandoned the field. In eerie synchronization, the scattering of remaining drones lifted straight into the air, their spindly legs flopping loosely beneath them like jagged kite strings. Pamela cursed and fired a blur of lux lucis, downing three in quick succession and proving my theory correct: She’d been holding back to observe our aptitude. But even the esteemed inspector’s palmquell had a limited range, and two extra-strong drones zoomed over the high school toward the northern horizon.

  Pamela had her phone to her ear before they’d disappeared from view.

  “Brad, it’s Pamela. Where are the drones headed?” she demanded. Then, after the barest pause, “Already? Any others?”

  Tugging off my soggy glove, I bent to trail my left hand through the trampled grass and absorb its lux lucis. Ideally I would have recharged on larger, stronger plants. As a rule, I tried not to take too much energy from any one plant. They all sacrificed their lux lucis unreservedly; it seemed poor repayment to kill t
hem for their generosity. A dozen darkened circles around the field already stood testament to the lux lucis I’d absorbed and the lawn I’d killed during my tantrums, but I couldn’t muster empathy for the fragile blades dying beneath my fingertips as I walked to Jamie.

  “Thank you, Jamie. You did a great job.” Far better than I had done, even if he’d only had to stand there.

  His hateful glare speared through my heart; then he turned away, staring after the drones.

  I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Pamela was an inspector with decades of experience. She’d witnessed successful pooka-enforcer interactions. I’d be a fool to ignore her advice. Jamie and I would get through this adjustment period and all would be okay again.

  The rationalization didn’t make me feel better.

  I swiped my wet fingers on my jeans, adding a thimbleful of moisture to pants already soaked from my knees down. A breeze skimmed the field, sinking glacial thorns straight through my saturated jeans and thermals to my icy legs. Uncurling the fingers of my right hand from the palmquell took concentration, the numbed digits slow to respond. I thrust the weapon into my jacket pocket, stowed my wet gloves on the opposite side, and chafed my hands together. When I’d kindled a faint heat, I stuffed my hands in my armpits. Despite all my layers, the cold imprint of my fingers chased goose bumps down my ribs.

  “Let’s go,” Pamela said. She angled for the far exit, circling behind the stadium. Summer trotted obediently after her, irritatingly perky. She didn’t have a drop of moisture on her pants.

  “Good job tonight,” Pamela said when Summer caught up to her.

  “Good job tonight,” I mimicked in a snotty voice, careful to keep it a whisper. Jamie might have smiled. Or it might have been my imagination.

  “Come on. We don’t want to fall behind Ms. Perfect.”

  Glaring holes in Summer’s back, I stomped after them. Twin blisters on my heels brought me up short, and I adjusted my gait to an ungraceful hobble. I’d purchased the boots this morning, and there hadn’t been time to break them in properly. Fortunately, Jamie appeared fine in his equally new boots. He tagged along, keeping five feet between us. The pointed separation rubbed more painfully than the blisters.

  Couldn’t this night be over already?

  “We’ve got tyver incoming and Madison can’t hit the broadside of a lorry,” Pamela said, phone once again pressed to her ear. “Do you have time to do some training?”

  I strained to hear the other end of the conversation or even the tenor of the other person’s voice, but between the echoes of the marching band bouncing off the brick walls of the classrooms on our left and the clomp of our footsteps on the concrete path, I had to settle for eavesdropping on only the inspector.

  Crossing my fingers, I sent up a small prayer. Please let her be talking to Niko.

  “Exactly. Have you given any thought to my offer?” The crowd’s cheers drowned out Pamela’s soft laugh. “That’s precisely why I need you. How about I pretend you haven’t answered, and you take another night to think on it.”

  Pamela ended the call but made me wait until we reached the parking lot before she filled me in.

  “You’ve got marksmanship training with Doris tomorrow.”

  Of course. I should have expected it would be Doris. My first night on the job, she had taught me the basics of how to use lux lucis. The retired enforcer seemed to be the local go-to choice for training incompetent new hires.

  “She’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at seven.”

  “Thanks,” I forced myself to say, nixing my fantasy of sleeping in. Doris was the only octogenarian I knew with more energy than the average toddler. She’d probably show up early.

  “Any sign of sjel tyver?” Summer asked.

  “Last sighting was near Dutch Flat. They’ll likely be here tomorrow or the next night,” Pamela said.

  I needed more time. One day of target practice—two, if I was lucky—wasn’t going to cut it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a say in the matter.

  “Where to next?” I asked.

  “We’re done for tonight. The drones fled this region, but they’ll be back tomorrow.”

  I didn’t hear much past we’re done, her words eclipsed by the gratitude and dread seesawing in my empty stomach. Considering the imminent tyv invasion, spending more time training tonight would have been prudent. However, between the strain on the bond and my battered confidence, I welcomed a reprieve.

  Pamela added a few admonishing words of caution and several pointed looks I guessed to be about Jamie before she and Summer slid into Summer’s sedan. The moment her door whooshed shut, a weight fell off my shoulders.

  Jamie and I continued down the row to my Civic and crawled inside. I turned the heater on full blast and celebrated the view of Summer’s car departing the lot. Tipping my head back, I closed my eyes and welcomed the ringing in my ears, which almost drowned out the muted, incessant pounding of the current marching band. Jamie shifted beside me, his jacket rustling against the seat, and I cracked an eye to check on him. He stared out the side window, as if pretending we weren’t close enough to brush elbows. In Primordium, I couldn’t see his reflection in the glass, but the sloshing lines of his soul signified a lessening of tension in him, too.

  I closed my eyes again. The serenity pervading my thoughts had all the signs of the bond manipulating me, but I already knew it fostered a desire for proximity with my pooka, and this was the closest we’d been in over an hour. If it also helped lift Jamie’s mood, so much the better. I couldn’t stand it if he remained mad at me.

  When the vents began to fan lukewarm air against my cheeks, I stirred myself into action. Stripping off my beanie and scarf, I tossed them into the backseat and blinked to normal sight. I tugged my seat belt on and waited for Jamie to follow suit before I put the car in gear.

  I didn’t attempt to breach the silence. I didn’t know what to say. But I had to fix the rift between us. If nothing else, I wanted to see a smile on Jamie’s face before the end of the night, which is why instead of heading straight home, I detoured to Dairy Queen.

  I hadn’t had time yet to introduce Jamie to many of the best things in life, but I had made sure he knew the pleasure of brand-new socks, soft blankets, and ice cream. Of the three, ice cream ranked highest on Jamie’s list of favorite things, which was why when the drive-through cashier handed over two Blizzards—both half Oreo, half M&M’s, one small, one large—he perked up enough to turn toward me and snatch the large from my hand. His eyes flicked to my face and away so fast I wasn’t sure he saw my smile. I set the small in the cup holder and scooped a spoonful before easing out into traffic.

  Jamie ate in silence, pausing every so often to clutch his forehead to soothe a brain freeze, but otherwise not slowing until he scraped the bottom of the paper cup. After his fifth wistful glance at my barely touched ice cream, I licked my spoon clean, set it in the center console, and handed him my Blizzard.

  “Go ahead,” I said when he hesitated.

  With more dignity this time, he accepted the offered dessert. If I hadn’t been watching so closely for it, I would have missed the faint curve of his lips.

  Finally.

  When I pulled into my parking space in front of the three-story apartment complex we called home, Jamie bounced out of the car, racing toward the stairs before I’d swung my feet to the pavement.

  “Jamie, hang on.”

  With obvious reluctance, he stopped on the walkway.

  “You’re going to need these.” I tossed him the keys. My blistered feet weren’t up for a sprint up two flights of stairs, and I didn’t want to make him wait.

  Jamie caught the keys and took off. I draped my scarf across my shoulders, stuffed my beanie in my pocket, and retrieved my purse from under the driver’s seat. Doing my best not to aggravate my raw heels, I hobbled up the long walkway to the stairs.

  Tranquility cocooned the complex despite it being a Saturday night. A few days into December, we were i
n the sacred window between Thanksgiving and Christmas house guests and family gatherings, when everyone either hunkered inside, recuperating and practicing calming mantras for the stresses yet to come, or fled to the bars and the embrace of liquid freedom. Next weekend would be soon enough to panic over last-minute Christmas shopping and meal planning.

  A ping of alarm jolted through me when I contemplated my holiday plans. As always, they included packing up Mr. Bond and driving thirty minutes to Lincoln City to spend Christmas with my parents. Adding our new kitten, Dame Zilla, to the mix would fall under “the more, the merrier.” But I hadn’t considered how Jamie would fit in. He would come with me, of course, but how was I going to explain a shape-shifting pooka to my parents? Not by telling the truth, that was certain.

  My parents didn’t know anything about the crazy my life had turned into. To them, I was squandering my potential at yet another temporary job, this one a sales rep for a bumper sticker company. I’d never had specific career ambitions, as evident in the revolving doors of my employers. When I took this job, I’d gotten my first taste of what people meant when they talked about finding their calling. Being an enforcer gave me a true sense of purpose—despite the dangers, weird hours, secrecy, bizarre coworkers, and daily run-ins with evil. However, considering my parents would commit me to the nearest psychiatric facility if I told them I could not only see souls but could also use mine as a weapon against evil creatures they couldn’t perceive, I shouldered their quiet disappointment without complaint.

  My mind drew a blank on a reason my parents would find credible for me to be living with a teenage-looking male roommate. Maybe I could take him to Christmas as a Great Dane.

  The thought arrested me, one foot raised above the first stair, disaster after imaginary disaster unfolding in my mind’s eye. My parents’ strong belief in spaying and neutering all pets would be the first catastrophe, especially if Jamie understood what they’d propose to do to him. How would they react when Jamie wanted to eat at the table with us? If I had to insist Jamie eat on the floor, how would he react? At the very least, my parents’ house wasn’t Great Dane–tail proofed. Oh God. Dad’s model train sets. No. Jamie had to come as a human, and I had to think of a plausible explanation.