The Darkest Frost: Vol 2 of a 2-part serial (TDF, #2)

by Tanya Holmes

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  THE SCRIBE’S OATH: A CHRONICLE

  OF THE SECRET RACES

  Yoreck and The Tree, cont…

  So He drove the man out and at the

  east of the Garden of Eden. He stationed

  the cherubim and the flaming sword,

  which turned in every direction to guard

  the way to the Tree of Life

  —Genesis 3:24

  ….none so shrouded in mystery as the Yoreck. However, most scholars agree humans first took note of them at or around 1650 BC. Though differing accounts of their mythological origins surfaced over the years, the epic fall of the great cherub Umiem ²¹ remains the most popular, this likely due to the story’s romantic bent.

  Unlike the chubby, baby-faced depictions in Renaissance paintings, true biblical cherubim were no less than seven feet tall. They were giant, winged warrior beings, having powerful bodies, and—

  ------------------------------

  A sharp knock at my door startled me. I slammed the book closed.

  Reluctantly.

  “Hello?” Ms. Pierce called from the hallway.

  “Oh, not now,” I muttered. “I was just about to—”

  “Miss Knight?”

  My stomach pitched. She’d called me by my real name, which meant she knew everything.

  Ms. Pierce knocked again. “Miss Knight? Are you there?”

  Damn! I gave the book one last wishful glance, before shoving it into my suitcase and scrambling to the mirror. Saying I looked like death warmed over would’ve been a compliment. I smoothed a hand over my hair and went to face the music.

  “Uh…hello…” Ms. Pierce began after I tugged the door open. She examined me from shoulder to head, her Stepford smile falling as her gaze ascended. “Are you feeling all right? Your cheeks are flushed.”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  She didn’t seem convinced. “May I come in?”

  Jealous as I was, I so wanted to hate this woman, but I genuinely liked her. “Please,” I said, stepping aside.

  She zeroed in on my suitcase as soon she crossed the threshold. “Oh, dear.” She looked back to me. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  Double damn. I’d meant to leave sans explanations. “How much did he tell you?”

  “Enough.” Absent her usual poise, she sat awkwardly on the bed and sighed. Her lips were a grim pink line as she patted the mattress. “May I call you Denieve?”

  All I could do was nod. With my mind still bouncing between the sentences in that creepy old book, and this surrealistic encounter, I was on autopilot. It didn’t help that as soon as I settled in next to her, she lobbed a verbal missile at me.

  “I could drone on and on about the deceptive tactics you used to worm your way into this house and into our lives, but what would be the point?”

  Wow. Not that I didn’t deserve her ire, but it still stung.

  “Just tell me one thing.” Her gaze met mine in challenge. “Are you in love with him?”

  I blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  Well, so much for a drama-free day. I didn’t know what their relationship was, but I couldn’t lie any more. “Yes. I’m very much in love with him.”

  “Then look me in the eye and tell me you won’t ever hurt him again.”

  I swallowed hard, feeling bewildered. “I won’t. I promise.”

  She searched my face and gave a curt nod. “I believe you.” Her gaze turned sharper. “Now, since time is of the essence, I won’t waste any. Yes, I know everything. That you slept together and—”

  “Hold on….” An inferno erupted in my stomach. “He told you that too?”

  “Even if he hadn’t, I would’ve known.”

  The fire leapt to my face. I looked away. “Really, Ms. Pierce—”

  “Call me Angela.”

  I closed my eyes. “Fine. Listen…Angela, there’s nothing—Braeden and I…our relationship isn’t—”

  “The point, Denieve, is that my relationship with Braeden is strictly platonic and it always has been. So tell me you’ll stay.”

  I should’ve been overjoyed, relieved, but her words were of little comfort. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have questions, but he doesn’t do questions. He dodges them. I’m going to assume he told you everything else, namely what I found out about him.”

  “Yes, he did,” she said, her voice resigned.

  “Okay, good. So now you understand what my issues are. Granted, the stuff with the hit man in the cemetery is circumstantial, but there’s no explaining away what happened in that library. Or the Nowak photo. Add to that, the myriad of other lies and inconsistencies...” I shook my head. “Fact is, I’ve reached saturation level.” At her helpless look, I said, “No, Angela, I’m not asking you to betray his confidence. If he wanted me to know, he would’ve told me himself.”

  “Denieve…”

  “He doesn’t trust me, and why should he after what I’ve admitted?”

  She took my hands in hers. “After his patients started dying, he couldn’t do a thing to stop it. He was helpless—a hard place to be for a man so proud and addicted to control. It only got worse when everyone turned on him. Friends and colleagues treated him like a leper. Even Mrs. Higgins deserted him. He was devastated.” She squeezed my hands. “I don’t agree with how he’s handled things, but I understand his reasons. He’s very complicated, but you’ve touched and hurt him. More deeply than he’s willing to acknowledge.”

  “There. You said it yourself. He doesn’t know what he wants.”

  “Oh, he does. And it terrifies him.”

  I pulled my hands away to massage my temple as confusion and doubt swelled. My head hurt, my thoughts were crashing into each other. I was hot, tired, frustrated. Hell, I just needed to leave so I could think straight. “Listen, I appreciate your candor, but—”

  My cell phone cut me off. Not having to guess who it was, I immediately made a grab for it. “Excuse me one second.” I hit Talk, and said, “I’m walking out the door. I should be in my room within the hour,” then I hung up.

  Her expression turned bleak. “So you’re still leaving?”

  Yeah, I really was. And I felt so bad. Like I’d let her down, let myself down. Then there was Braeden. God, how I wished he’d met Denieve Knight first instead of the fictional Danielle Reed. I also wished I could’ve met the doppelganger in the video—the one with the soulful voice and carefree grin—rather than the paranoid, deceitful, evasive…

  Oh, forget it.

  If I didn’t go now, I’d lose my nerve. I shoved to my feet and grabbed my purse. “I’m sorry, Angela.” My eyes welled again. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. Even now after all I’ve done.” I stuffed my phone in my pocket. “Please understand. I have to leave.”

  “Braeden will never forgive me if I let you walk out of here.” She shot up and blocked my way. At my incredulous look, she flashed both palms. “Give me a moment to think.” She glanced off, seeming to weigh her options and their possible consequences. From her tortured expression, she obviously didn’t like any of them. Finally, she gave a resigned sigh and grabbed a pad and pen off the nightstand. “I won’t stop you from leaving,” she said, scribbling, “but I will point you in the right direction.” She pressed the paper into my hand. “He’ll be at Tidewater S&L, but you have to hurry.”

  I stared down at the address, then back up at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “You want the truth? Well, if you go there now, he’ll have no choice but to give it to you.”

  * * *

  THE TAYLOR GROUP BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Milton, The Late Lonnie G’s Antsy Client

  ____________________________

  The stench hit him the moment he entered the underground parking garage. Heat and humidity never failed to crank the funk up a notch. Yesterday had been forty degrees. Snow
flurries the other week. Today the temps topped sixty. It was November for God’s sake. This weather was crazy. He glanced to his left and to his right. Middle of the day and it was damn near pitch black in this sinkhole. What the hell happened to all the lights?

  Milton headed for his car, keeping breathing to a minimum. He could taste the piss. “Fucking lowlifes,” he mumbled. “You’d think the place was their own personal Porta—”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Vogel.”

  He spun around and his keys flew from his hand, out of sight. “Who’s there?” He scoured the shadows, but found nothing but empty parking spaces and a few scattered vehicles. “I said, who’s there!”

  Muffled footsteps answered, their slow rhythm unrelenting. Milton inched back, fear crawling over his skin like a nest of spiders. When his ass bumped the driver’s side door of his Impala, he fumbled with the handle. It was locked.

  “I’ve got a gun!” he lied.

  A man came from behind a minivan, but only half his face was lit. The other half remained veiled.

  Milton almost shit himself. “Frost?”

  “In the flesh.” With a satchel slung across one shoulder, he stepped into the light, dangling a set of keys from a gloved finger. “I believe these belong to you.”

  At six-four, Frost towered over his five-feet-five inches. Weight-wise, the two men were even more disproportionate. Frost had to have at least eighty pounds on him. Milton darted a look around the darkened perimeter. It was late Saturday afternoon. The private garage was deserted. No one would hear him scream.

  Acid burned a path across his stomach. “How’d you g-get in here?” he asked, amping the bass in his voice to mask his fear.

  “A better question would be, ‘how do I know you’ve been trying to kill me.’”

  Oooooooh, shit. “Huh?”

  “Let me help jog your memory. You drive a bus for Montgomery County Public Schools. On weekends, you clean office buildings like this one.” His unblinking eyes pierced Milton. “You make but forty K a year. The sixty grand you wasted on assassins depleted your savings and retirement fund.”

  “Listen mister…y-you got the wrong guy. I don’t know nothing about—”

  “Do the names Omar Stacks and Lionel Gubczyk ring a bell? The latter went by the alias John Smith. You paid them both thirty thousand each to put a bullet into my skull.” He tilted a brow. “How’s your memory now, Mr. Vogel?”

  Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh SHIT!

  “You’ve also had a recent visit from a private investigator,” Frost added. “He said his name was Dathan Teale.” His right brow lifted. “That’s not his real name.”

  Hairs on the back of Milton’s neck prickled. “What do you know about him?”

  “That he looked about sixty years old. That he told you he was my estranged uncle. That he believes I killed his wife and yours. That he has a ‘client’ who wants to join him in filing a class-action lawsuit against me on behalf of all my patients’ relatives.”

  Despite two shaky knees, Milton gave his chin a haughty lift. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m meeting him and his lawyer next week.”

  “Keep that appointment, Mr. Vogel and you won’t see another birthday.”

  “Y-you threatening me?”

  “No. I’m merely stating facts.” Frost tossed the car keys at Milton, which he caught in his fist. “‘Mr. Teale’ disguised himself. Had you looked closer, you would’ve noticed he bears a striking resemblance to me, but that’s where the similarities end.” Frost half-smiled. “I’m afraid he’s not a very reasonable man.”

  Milton slipped a hand behind his back and thumbed through the keys, but he dropped them in his haste. They crashed to the concrete. Shit!

  “Mr. Teale’s lawsuit is a ruse,” Frost said. “There is no case, and he has no client. He’s working for himself and he plans to kill you.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Actually, I’m trying to help you.” Frost considered him in icy stillness. “Your first assassin, Omar Stacks is alive and living in the south of France. Sadly, Lionel Gubczyk—I mean, Mr. Smith, wasn’t so lucky.”

  Milton’s heart raced. “I know he’s dead. It was on the news. Are you saying this…this Teale guy killed him?”

  “No, but your name was among his personal effects. By the way, do you have an alibi for the night of the big storm?”

  “Alibi? What the—” Milton’s face burned. “There was no murder! Smith died of a heart attack.”

  Frost’s left brow inched up. “So they said.”

  “Hey! I-I still got Teale’s business card. I got everything! And I’ll go straight to the cops with it.”

  “Which brings us back to the reason I’m here.” Frost crossed his arms. “How do you suppose we found you? Surely you don’t think I’m psychic.”

  Dirty cops? He hadn’t thought about that. “Somebody at MCPD is clean.”

  “Yes, but who?” Blue ice floated in Frost’s eyes. “Here’s how the situation will unfold. In a few days the MCPD will hand the Gubczyk case over to the feds. They’ve found links between him and dozens of unsolved murders across the country. You see, it took them a while, but they finally decoded Gubczyk’s little black book, and you’re in it, Mr. Vogel. Soon you’ll be named a person of interest. Only the feds won’t find you because Mr. Teale would have ground you up into bite-sized pieces by then. Do you know he’s got huge aquariums filled with piranhas in his house? Sharks and box jellyfish too. He keeps them as pets.”

  Terror stabbed Milton again, but instead of masking it, he lashed out like a wounded animal cowering behind a growl. “So kill me. I’m nothing without my Octavia!”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  Frost covered the distance in a millisecond, slamming Milton’s back into a column. A woman’s gasp echoed from somewhere in the garage. The man didn’t seem to notice. Milton had his full attention.

  With one gloved finger, he lifted Milton by the chin as if he were no heavier than a cotton ball. The toes of Milton’s work boots dangled several feet above the ground while his legs sawed the air. Though he struggled to free himself, he was paralyzed.

  Frost’s tone turned savage. “Still feeling brave, Mr. Vogel?”

  “W-what are you?”

  A cruel smirk eased across his mouth. “Extremely hard to kill.”

  Frost’s hand clamped around his neck and there was no mercy in the man’s eyes. They were as cold as death itself. Terror sliced through Milton like a chainsaw, jolting his heart into a staccato of disjointed beats. Endless moments passed, and once his vision dimmed, a still, small voice—ghostly and incessant—whispered across his mind, drawing him away from death’s door.

  ‘If you die now, where will you go, my love?’ Octavia asked.

  Stars exploded before his eyes.

  ‘Heaven or Hell? Up…or down?’

  Fear gored his chest.

  ‘I once heard someone say that in Hell the police are German, the cooks are English, the tourists are American, and the drivers are French.’

  “No!” Milton gasped. “I don’t—”

  “You don’t what, Mr. Vogel?”

  ‘Tick tock, my love.’

  “Please….” Tears gushed from Milton’s eyes as piss flooded his pants. A quiet tinkling sound echoed.

  Frost glanced at the mini lake between them and his powerful hand loosened, allowing Milton to fill his lungs. The biting odor of ammonia amplified the stench in the muggy garage. Even so, it was the sweetest breath Milton had ever taken.

  As he wept, his teary gaze locked on Frost. The dead ice he’d seen floating in those cold eyes moments ago was gone, replaced by two warm pools teeming with compassion. Milton blinked in bewilderment.

  “Seems you’re not ready to die after all,” Frost whispered, his voice kind. He lowered him to the ground, setting his feet away from the pool of urine.

  Milton’s cheeks burned. “Alien. Monster. Ghost. Demon—what the fuck are you?”

  “Someone who�
��s very sorry for your loss. And if there was a way to change what happened—”

  “You murdered my wife!” Milton sank to a crouch. Air from a nearby duct breezed past him cooling the wet warmth in his pants. He glowered up at Frost through his tears. “But you’ll never admit it.”

  “Am I responsible for her death? Yes. Did I murder her? No. Murder implies malice and premeditation. Neither of which are applicable in my case. If it’s any comfort to you, her memory will haunt me until my dying day, and that, Mr. Vogel won’t be for a very long time.” The emotion flaming in Frost’s eyes doused, like he’d flipped a switch. Clearing his throat, he looked askance as sounds of the city filtered in from outside. “I’ve broken Protocol with you today. So listen very carefully because your life depends upon it. Tell anyone of this, what you’ve seen, what you’ve heard, and I won’t be able to protect you. Do you understand?”

  Milton gave a sullen nod and staggered to his feet.

  “You won’t seek me out ever again,” Frost continued. “In person or by proxy. If you do, I’ll hand you over to Mr. Teale and his aquatic pets.” He slipped the satchel from his shoulder. “You can’t stay here. If the police don’t arrest you, my associates will surely put you in the ground.” He tossed the satchel and Milton caught the strap clumsily. The bag must’ve weighed five pounds.

  “What’s this?”

  “A lifeline.” Frost slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. “There’s fifty-thousand dollars in cash, a Centurion Card, a birth certificate, and other documents bearing the name of your new identity—William Towson. I’ve also included a number to a burner phone of one of my associates. His name is Jim. Call him as soon as we part ways. He’ll give you instructions regarding a passport and the private plane I’ve chartered for your safe passage out of the country. Once you reach your destination, you’ll receive a substantial bank account. The money will allow you to live comfortably.” Frost regarded him. “I cannot bring Octavia back, but as we’ve already seen—” He looked at the wet mess darkening Milton’s overalls. “…You’re not ready to join her yet.” Frost gave him his back and walked away saying, “Have a good life, William Towson. Godspeed.”