Frost Line

by Linda Howard

  “Cookie?”

  “No.”

  “They’re really good,” he said, lifting the box so it was a bit closer to her.

  His brown eyes looked hopeful, as if it was somehow important to him that she take the cookie he’d offered. She reached inside the box and took one, examining it with a bit of curiosity. It was brown, with pieces of something darker inside. Tentatively she took a bite, a bit uncertain about eating something brown. There were no drab foods on Aeonia. Hmm, not bad. The texture was crumbly, and the taste very sweet. It wasn’t as delicious as the small lemon sweet cakes her cook made for special occasions, but she could see the appeal.

  Elijah sighed and put the box on the table. He seemed to have lost his appetite. Finally he looked up at her and asked, “Is she still in there?”

  Lenna shook her head. “No.”

  Elijah’s eyes lit up. “Maybe she wasn’t really dead! Maybe she’s at the hospital!” He slipped off the chair and turned to take the same path Lenna had taken earlier, but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Elijah. You were right. Your mother is gone.”

  He didn’t turn to face her. “Where is she, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His thin shoulders shook as he began crying again. She wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how. How did one go about soothing a child who had lost his mother? She understood emotion, but after so many years of living distant from the worlds which were like Seven—uncertain, dangerous, and populated with humans who were short-lived—she found she couldn’t truly empathize. She had never lost someone she loved, much less a mother. The beings of the Major Arcana had been created, not born. She could, however, see where the mother/child bond would be strong.

  As helpless and inexperienced as she felt, she wanted to comfort this child. She wanted to take away the pain, but that was something she could never do. He would carry this pain for the rest of his life, because she couldn’t undo the past.

  She was saved from uttering words that might or might not help. A man opened the kitchen door and stepped inside without invitation. Lenna was startled, but she wondered if that was a custom here, if the man was a friend or a neighbor. The large man looked at Elijah and then at Lenna.

  Abruptly she stood straight and faced him. The same senses that allowed Lenna to feel pain and death in this house whispered to her … Beware.

  Chapter 5

  Derek Wilson had one rule: get the job done. He wasn’t picky about the jobs he took—understatement—because money was money, but some jobs he should have charged twice his already hefty fee just for the idiot factor. This was one of them. He’d taken care of some problems for State Senator Robert Markham before, but nothing on this level. It wasn’t anything he balked at, but he was aware of the high risk level.

  The stupid fuck had killed a woman last night. It was bad enough that the asshole couldn’t keep his dick in his pants; he had to lose his shit and kill his sidepiece—with her kid in the house. Now the kid was a witness, one that Markham wanted eliminated.

  High risk aside, this was also an opportunity. He shouldn’t complain. The ordinary jobs Derek took as a legitimate private investigator made him a living, but that was about it. Retirement, or even modest luxuries? Forget about it. On the other hand, cleaning up the messes of the rich and famous so they didn’t have to get their own hands dirty? That was pure gold. That was where the high fees came in.

  He was fifty-three, looking at retirement in the next few years. He needed every dime he could get. He didn’t want to spend his so-called golden years still taking shitty jobs and worrying about maybe having to eat cat food.

  Find the kid, Markham said. Did he have a picture of the kid? That was a big no. How old was the kid? School age, Markham said, but little. Seven, eight, nine; how the hell did he know? Color of hair and eyes? Dark hair, yeah, but Markham had blanked on the eyes. State Senator Robert Markham was, without doubt, the least observant client Derek had. All of his attention was focused on himself and his precious career.

  Derek needed a picture of the kid, because he sure as hell didn’t want to kill the wrong one. That would be all kinds of messy. Markham said there were a bunch of pictures in the house where the woman and kid lived—drop by and get one. Like that was easy, and without risk.

  But here he was, parked as discreetly as possible, because what choice did he have? None. He’d taken the precaution of smearing mud over his license plate in case people were up early instead of sleeping late while they could.

  He sat a minute to scope things out, and damn his luck, here came a woman and a kid walking down the street. He scooted down in his seat, so his head was below the headrest, so maybe they wouldn’t notice anyone in the car. In his experience, people were generally unobservant, anyway. Derek cautiously watched them, ready to duck completely out of sight if they looked his way. What were they doing out walking this early on such a cold morning? Who were they visiting? Who else was up this early?

  To his alarm, they went up to the front door of the house he was watching. What the hell was going on? Was this maybe the kid, Elijah, and someone he’d gone to for help? That didn’t make sense. Too many hours had passed for someone to just now be showing up.

  The woman and kid didn’t ring the doorbell, or knock. The woman tried the knob, but the door was obviously locked. Then the two headed around the house to the back door. He was parked at an angle, so he was able to see the kid bending down and coming up with what was obviously a key, because the woman took it from him.

  The likelihood that the kid was Elijah shot way up, though if the kid was Elijah, who was the woman? Not his mother, obviously, because she’d have known her own house was locked, and where the hidden key was, not to mention that she was dead, which was the reason why he was here in the first place. But if the kid had gone for help, why hadn’t the woman called the cops? This place should be swarming with them, but instead it was as quiet as a church on a Monday night. Something didn’t add up.

  But he wasn’t being paid to do math; he was being paid to clean up Markham’s mess.

  After waiting several minutes to see if anything happened, Derek got out of the car, turned up the collar of his overcoat against the icy wind, and walked toward the house. He kept a sharp eye out as he went, but as far as he could tell no one else on the street was stirring yet. That would change soon, and he needed to be gone before then.

  The element of surprise was a good thing. He walked up to the kitchen door, opened it, and went in as if he belonged.

  The two of them—the woman and the kid—were there in the kitchen. That kind of surprised him; he hadn’t exactly expected that, but they had to be more surprised and he could use that to his advantage. He had to make sure he had the right kid. He also wanted to make sure this Elijah could actually cause a problem for Markham. Derek loved a big payday, but he had never hurt a child before. He didn’t want to do it now, if there was any other choice.

  They both turned toward him, expressions a little shocked at his intrusion. The kid had big brown eyes. The woman was a looker, on the smallish side, with long blond hair and big blue eyes that seemed to see right through him.

  He shoved away the chill those blue eyes gave him, and pulled the fake badge from his jacket pocket, flashed it at them. “Detective George Benton,” he said as he slipped the badge back in his pocket. The kid would be fooled, but it would be best if the woman didn’t look too closely. Judging by the set of her mouth and the spark in her eyes she was suspicious enough.

  The boy looked up at the woman and whispered, “9–1–1.”

  The blonde narrowed her eyes at him, not the reaction he’d expected. “You are a police officer?”

  Derek nodded. “One of Lawrenceville’s finest.”

  The kid took a deep breath. His eyes went wide and his hands started to kind of flail. “Uncle Bobby killed Mom! I saw him, and then I ran, but I couldn’t find a phone and Zack wasn’t home, and …
”

  Well, shit. This was Elijah, after all. He was a cute little kid. Too bad. Derek dropped down on his haunches so he was face-to-face with Elijah. “Can you identify this Uncle Bobby fella?”

  It was a perfectly reasonable question, but the woman got all spun up about it. She grabbed Elijah’s hand and pulled him away, shoving him behind her. Her gaze locked on Derek and her posture changed subtly. Another man might’ve missed it. Man or woman, that was a ready-to-fight stance. She was balanced, muscles tensed and ready to move. He looked up at her, caught her eye as he slowly stood. Yes, she was ready to fight, but she was also almost a foot shorter than he was and maybe a hundred pounds lighter.

  “I’m really sorry …” he said in a calm tone as he reached inside his jacket for his shoulder holster and the gun there.

  She pushed Elijah toward the door, then exploded upward and kicked. Derek had good reflexes—this was not his first fight, far from it—but she took him by surprise and she was fast. Weird fast. Her foot slammed into his midsection and threw him back with more power than he’d have expected from someone who barely topped five-three, if that. He crashed into the edge of the kitchen counter, hard, the force of impact pushing a loud grunt from him. His hip and side set up a howl of protest, one he ignored as he launched himself at her. He had to take her down, and take her down fast.

  She yelled at the boy, “Run!” then whirled back to meet Derek’s attack. This time when she kicked he was prepared; he grabbed her ankle and jerked upward, intending to dump her on her ass, but she … she did a kind of sideways whirl that jerked her ankle free, and she kicked him again—in the balls.

  A guttural howl tore from his throat as paralyzing, nauseating agony shot through him. He collapsed on the floor, rolling around and holding both hands over his nuts. All he could think was that they were ruptured, the pain was so bad. He was only vaguely aware that she shot past him, following the kid out the door.

  Derek rolled onto his back, seeing double, trying to get himself up so he could chase that damn blonde and repay her for putting him down. He could barely breathe, much less move. Did the woman’s damn boots have steel toes?

  He should get up and chase her, but it was all he could do to keep from vomiting. He lay there in a cold sweat, feeling the icy air rushing through the open kitchen door, and wondered what the fuck he was going to do now. The woman and kid would be long gone by the time he could get to his feet, plus he had to allow for the possibility that she had already called the cops.

  He needed to get out of here. His chance of catching the kid was small and getting smaller, while his chance of getting caught by the cops was getting bigger by the minute. He’d leave the kid for now, go after the mechanic who’d been screwing the senator’s whore. Make it look like a suicide, the senator had said, like that was easy. This was a fucking soap opera, and he’d signed on to make it go away.

  He’d get right on that … as soon as he could walk. As soon as he didn’t feel as if he’d puke his guts up if he uncurled from his protective ball. He’d take care of Sammy the mechanic, then he’d come back for the kid—and he’d make the woman pay.

  He was already planning on instituting a “busted nuts” surcharge.

  The three Hunters stood in the shadows of a child’s playhouse and watched as Lenna and a small boy ran away from the house, toward the line of trees set well back from the row of houses that were so much alike. The woods were thick but also narrow, as forests go. Lenna might feel safely concealed there, but she would be wrong.

  She had been easy to find. Hunters had many talents, and one of them was the ability to home in on the energy of the Major Arcana when they were out of their place. It didn’t happen often—had not happened in thousands of years—but still, the call was strong. Even if those woods were a hundred miles deep, they would be able to locate her again.

  In preparation for this job, all three of the Hunters had dressed as residents of Seven might. Their weapons were concealed. Not that the three of them—especially all three together—would blend into any human crowd. Nevan and Stroud were too tall, too imposing, to be ignored. Hunters were often mistaken for military men, in this or any other world. That was appropriate, Esma supposed. She herself was tall, for a woman, and she had never learned how to put on the mask of serenity, to pretend that she was anything other than what she was: a Hunter.

  “Does she have the Alexandria Deck on her?” Nevan asked.

  “How the hell are we supposed to know?” Esma snapped. Really, Nevan was strong and he was deadly, but he wasn’t all that bright.

  She should be hoping that Lenna would gladly hand over the deck. They could return Strength to her place in Aeonia, Tower would be happy, and Esma would move on to the next job. She loved the excitement of being a Hunter, of being feared on all the planes of the universe—by those who knew of them, of course. Some planes, such as this one, still worked in ignorance of how things were really ordered.

  Veton had hinted that Esma might take Lenna’s place, if the current Strength met a violent end during her time on Seven. For a Major Arcana to die was unprecedented, but if Esma knew one thing, as a Hunter, it was that everyone could and did die. Some were harder to kill than others, but no one was promised true immortality. In truth, Veton didn’t have any idea what would happen if Lenna was killed. No one did.

  If it was possible for Esma to take Lenna’s place, would she? Could she? It was tempting, she’d admit, but there was enormous panache attached to the Hunters. Whenever a Hunter swaggered into a bar, everyone else stepped aside. That was just the way it was. Would she be happy if she gave that up? There were only a few female Hunters, but she had learned to keep up with the strongest of men. She was well known, and well respected.

  Esma would not waste her time on “what ifs” and “maybes.” She had a job to do.

  She said to Nevan, “We need to find the deck, fast, before Caine arrives. Strength might have it in that bag she’s carrying, but she might have hidden it somewhere. She had several hours in this world before we arrived.”

  “How can we find out?”

  Stroud, who was smarter than Nevan, had remained silent throughout the exchange, but it was he who said, “We need to separate. One of us will have to confront Strength, overpower her, and search the bag while the others spread out and keep watch for her next move in case she escapes. If the cards are in the bag, our job here will be an easy one.” He sighed. “Whoever manages this task will probably be a favorite of Veton’s for a long while. If Strength decides to resist … she will be formidable. Not every Hunter possesses the ability, or the will, to destroy a Major Arcana. I should be the one to take the risk—”

  “I’ll do it,” Nevan interrupted, holding his head high and winning the argument Stroud had fully intended to lose.

  Esma looked doubtful. “I don’t know—” She was going to say she didn’t know if Nevan could accomplish such a task, but she bit the words off. He would know what she intended to say whether she finished or not, be appropriately insulted, and insist on taking on the task just to prove them wrong.

  As Stroud had no doubt planned, Nevan said fiercely, “I am more than capable. Leave it to me.” He turned his back and abruptly she realized he was about to teleport; she grabbed his arm.

  “Not here!” she said urgently. “Someone might see!” There were too many houses about; Strength hadn’t seen them, but that didn’t mean someone else wouldn’t. The Hunters went to some lengths to keep their powers hidden in the lands that didn’t know of them.

  Nevan gave a curt nod and began to run toward the tree line; once he was hidden from view, he could safely teleport to Strength’s location.

  After a few moments, Stroud shook his head. “No matter the outcome of this task, I doubt Nevan will have a long career as a Hunter, as we have.”

  “No. He’s strong enough, he has the physical skill, but he doesn’t have the proper mental makeup to embrace this job and succeed.” As with any race, some Hunters exc
elled at their task, and some didn’t, but even a weak Hunter was a force to be reckoned with. Others, like the legendary Caine, were practically one-man armies. Nevan was nowhere close to Caine’s skill and capabilities.

  Lenna, as a Major Arcana, would have special abilities; they all did, in some form or another. There had been no time to study her properly before setting out, in order to arrive before Caine, so they had no idea what those abilities were. She might be able to fight back against the fiercest Hunter, and win. Best to let Nevan test the waters; if he succeeded, that would be excellent. If he failed—better him than her.

  “He’s far too gullible.” Stroud slanted an assessing look at her, raking her from head to foot. “If you are elevated to Strength, I will happily serve as your personal Hunter and consort, if you so desire.” One eyebrow quirked.

  “Perhaps,” she said coolly, though she smiled.

  Stroud was handsome, and they had enjoyed one another’s company often, in the past. She liked him well enough, and a Hunter who was loyal to her would always be welcome, so long as she never forgot that all Hunters were mercenaries.

  Nevan disappeared into the trees, near where Lenna and the child had done the same.

  “Who will emerge from those woods, I wonder?” Stroud asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

  “We shall see,” Esma murmured.

  Once they had run far enough into the trees that they were hidden from view, Lenna halted and knelt down to study the child’s face. He was pale; his eyes were wide with shock. He had seen too much, was far too traumatized.

  “Why did we run from the policeman?” Elijah asked, breathless. “He could’ve arrested Uncle Bobby. He could have—”

  “No,” Lenna said. Her inexperience with children troubled her. She knew of no way to soothe him; she could only offer the truth. “That man, policeman or not, meant to do us harm.” She could not explain how she knew that to be true, not to any human, and certainly not to a child. If she had waited for the man to make a move, to draw his weapon or grab Elijah, it might’ve been too late. Was George Benton—if that was indeed his name, and she had her doubts—truly with the authorities? If he was, then she could not take Elijah to the police. She could not trust them.