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

by Rebecca Chastain

  My phone chimed. I cracked open one eye and used my toes to pull it to me. In a Herculean effort, I bent forward and retrieved it, opening the message app to Bridget’s picture. Her text was short and to the point.

  Up for company tonight?

  I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even five. Bridget would be at the office for another hour or longer, and we rarely hung out on weeknights because she liked to bring her work home. Mom must have sent up the “Madison needs cheering” flare, and Bridget had faithfully responded.

  I would have scoffed at the transparency of the ploy if I hadn’t so badly wanted to take Bridget up on her offer. Putting my shoes and coat back on and facing another night either aimlessly searching for the tyv or finding her and sprinting around fighting drones sounded as much fun as an ice bath. But the odds of reconnecting with Jamie would be better if I were actively out looking for him or at least keeping him moving around.

  Resigned, I took a picture of my new tacky figurine and sent it with my response. No thanks. My new best bud and I need some alone time.

  Bridget’s text came back fast. Whoa! Say the word and that can be part of an unfortunate accident.

  You’re the best. I hit SEND and flopped back in the chair. The knife pressed into my spine and my ankle throbbed. My eyelids sank until my lashes rested against my cheeks. Mr. Bond meowed from the vicinity of his food dish. I murmured a promise to feed him in a moment. Soft sounds of scratching emanated from the laundry closet: Dame Zilla in the litter box.

  My eyes closed fully. A five-minute power nap was all I needed.

  Mr. Bond yowled and head-butted my calf. Dame Zilla’s enthusiastic scratches switched from the litter to the dryer beside it, her tiny claws squeaking against the metal. I squeezed my eyes tighter and shoved my fingers into my ears. Someone pounded on my door hard enough to rattle it in its hinges.

  I recognized the knock. The same sound had woken me this morning.

  A lead ball sank into my stomach and anxiety fizzed through my extremities. The respite of the last twenty minutes evaporated before the echo of the inspector’s final knock faded. My soul crawled in a purely psychosomatic anticipation of a purity test, and I chafed my forearms. My disappointing reality settled back on my shoulders: I wasn’t “normal Madison,” who could hole up in her apartment with her cats and her books and a soft blanket. I was a failed pooka bondee, the untrusted, unimpressive enforcer wearing a tracer anklet who needed to get off her butt and prepare to fight a soul-stealing creature.

  Pamela pounded on the door again. I closed my eyes, searching for the serenity I’d almost attained, but it had fled. Wallowing in its loss wouldn’t help me.

  I heaved to my feet and peered through the peephole. Pamela shifted on the welcome mat to survey the sky above the stairs, no doubt looking for signs of Jamie. Or maybe she thought I hid the tyv on my roof. My nails dug into my palms. Resting my forehead on the cool metal door, I took a deep breath through my nose and let it slowly out of my mouth. Pamela was an ally, not an enemy, no matter what she thought of me. Grasping the doorknob, I jerked the dead bolt open and swung the door wide.

  Pamela strode inside, assessing me, then my apartment with her cool gaze.

  “You’re due at the office.”

  “I know.” I blinked to Primordium, preparing to make a net.

  Pamela didn’t slow, walking past me down the hallway to check the bedroom and bathroom, as if Jamie might be hiding in the closet or behind the shower curtain.

  I closed the door and stayed on the welcome mat, arms crossed.

  “Any pooka sightings?” she asked from my bedroom.

  “Not since the last time you asked an hour ago.” I didn’t attempt to moderate the irritation in my tone.

  Usually Mr. Bond was the first to greet a new guest, but Pamela’s intense energy had sent him running for the dining room table, and he sat tall against a leg, eyes wide and ears tracking the inspector’s decisive steps. Dame Zilla took her cue from Mr. Bond and hunkered between the recliner and the wall, slinking down the hall to the bedroom when Pamela came back to the front room.

  “You need to draw the pooka back to you,” she said.

  “I know.” But how? I didn’t voice the question. If Pamela had the answer, she would have given it to me by now.

  Without asking or giving me a warning, Pamela shoved her hands inside the lux lucis net I’d created over my heart, and my thoughts scattered. Her foreign energy pulsed through me, and I swayed in place, clinging to my soul when it attempted to scatter. When she withdrew her hands, my soul undulated and bile lapped up the back of my throat. I braced against the half wall and closed my eyes until my stomach settled. It wasn’t my imagination; each test left me worse off than the last. How many more would I have to suffer through before the end of the night?

  “Satisfied?” I asked, rolling my shoulders to alleviate tension cording my neck.

  “For now. Let’s hope your plan worked today and we find the tyv before it decimates your region. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  On that cheery note, she let herself out. I threw the dead bolt and collapsed back into the recliner. Nausea churned in my stomach, and not all of it could be blamed on the purity test. I was sick at heart. Sick of trying so hard and failing. Sick of Pamela’s tests and Pamela’s mistrusting attitude. Sick of fretting over Jamie—where he was, how he was doing, and what trouble he was creating for me to clean up. But most of all, I was sick of worrying about the veracity of his prophecy and if I’d have to choose which of us lived.

  The last thought doubled me over. I couldn’t do this. Not tonight.

  My cell phone was in my hand and I’d dialed Brad before I’d finished thinking it through.

  “Why aren’t you here?” my boss demanded.

  “I’m not coming in. I’m not feeling well.”

  “Since when?”

  Oh, how to answer? I had so many options. Since my parents’ visit had reminded me that my body wasn’t supposed to feel torn apart by tension. Since Pamela’s umpteenth purity test had unmoored my soul from my body. Since the bond reinserted its pressure, wringing anger and worry together into a tight knot in the back of my head that wouldn’t let me rest.

  The next time we meet, one of use will die. You will be the one to choose who lives.

  “Jamie hasn’t corrupted me,” I said, answering the true question my boss was asking. “Pamela can verify it; she was just here for yet another purity test.”

  “‘Yet another’?”

  “She’s been testing me hourly.”

  Brad didn’t respond, and the muted sounds of arguing prajurit filled the silence.

  I knew I was ruining his plan. If I stayed home, Jamie would get to rest, and all my efforts today would be for nothing. But if I stayed home, Jamie would be confined to the tether’s range around my apartment. That had to be worth something, and Brad and Pamela would have to figure out how to make it work for them.

  “You need to come in, Madison.”

  “Not when you’ve got Summer there. She’s all the enforcer you need.” Bitterness curdled on my tongue. Pamela had made clear her high estimation of the other enforcer, just as she’d made clear—in actions and words—how little she respected me.

  “Toffee on a turkey’s tush! That’s not how this works!” Brad shouted.

  “It’s how it works tonight,” I said, and hung up.

  I tossed the phone to the floor and bounced to my feet, agitation fueling my actions and burning through my earlier fatigue. Pacing the front room, I wondered if I’d gotten myself fired, then laughed, the bitter sound dying quickly. Brad couldn’t fire me. Not so long as I was tied to a pooka, no matter how loosely. More likely, he would show up on my doorstep and drag me to work. Or Pamela would.

  Screw that. I was taking tonight off. No one was telling me otherwise.

  My inability to sit still, the nervous thrumming of my fingers against my thigh, my to-hell-with-the-world attitude told me I wasn’t i
n my right mind, but only so much of my agitation could be blamed on the bond messing with me. The rest was work, plain and simple. Impossible demands, forced responsibility over outcomes I had no control over, repeated god-awful purity tests—what did Brad and Pamela expect I would do? Did they think all this pressure would mold me into the perfect, well-behaved little enforcer? Well, tough. Their plan backfired, and all I wanted to do was rebel.

  I snatched up my phone and called Alex.

  22

  I'm a Woman. What's Your Superpower?

  “Hello, this is Alex.”

  His deep voice shot a thrill of energy to my already overcharged nerves.

  “Hey. It’s Madison, and I’ve got an unorthodox proposal for you.”

  “Oh?” His response came a half beat delayed. I’d caught him off guard. Or maybe I sounded as crazy as I felt.

  “Want to go dancing?”

  “Right now?”

  “Tonight.” When he didn’t say anything, I prompted, “You do know how to dance, don’t you?”

  “I have rhythm,” Alex responded with mock affront.

  His words sparked a vivid image of his body pressed to mine. “Perfect,” I said, and the word rolled off my tongue with an unexpected purr. I bit my lip, but since he couldn’t see my blush, I pretended the sultry tone had been intentional.

  Alex cleared his throat. “Are you sure there’s somewhere open on a Tuesday?”

  “I know of a place. What do you say? I’ve got a short skirt and a lot of energy to burn. And I won’t bring a mannerless dog.” A short skirt? My mouth was out of control, and I couldn’t rein it in.

  “Well, with a proposal like that, how could I say no? What time should I pick you up?”

  “Seven.” The club wouldn’t get busy until nine, but I couldn’t wait that long.

  I hung up, shoved my feet into my shoes, and rushed from the apartment before I’d finished zipping my coat. After locking the door, I leaned over the railing to make sure no one was headed up to drag me to the office. The tracker squeezed my ankle, reminding me that no matter where I went, Brad or Pamela could find me.

  I considered cutting the device off but dismissed the idea just as fast. If the tracker went dead, Pamela would assume the worst: that Jamie had gone dark and taken me with him. She would call in Niko to kill Jamie, and then she would come for me. Instead, I decided to make hunting me down as onerous as possible. If anyone had a problem with it, I could always claim I was doing my part to keep Jamie busy.

  Invigorated by self-righteousness, I jogged to my car. My new rebellious attitude couldn’t completely drown out a tiny voice of reason, which pointed out I was going to regret thumbing my nose at my boss and abandoning my responsibilities, but it only made me more determined to enjoy now.

  With indulgence as my compass, I selected my favorite frozen yogurt shop for dinner, leaving with a tub of chocolate soft serve loaded with toppings. I ate it while I drove uptown to DSW, where I purchased some slouchy boots with impractical heels and peep toes that also did the trick of hiding the tracker. My last stop took me back to East Roseville and my favorite consignment store, Sei Bella, where I purchased the promised short skirt—a cherry-red number cinched at the waist but with oodles of extra fabric to flare when I twisted. When I returned home, I changed into the skirt, paired it with a slinky off-the-shoulder black top with tiny white polka dots, tucked Val into the closet with an audio book, dumped all my weapons into a drawer on my desk, and surveyed myself in the mirror.

  Damn, I looked sexy. Not sweet, not pretty, but sexy. Not even the soul breaker, the one weapon I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house without, marred the look.

  If I spent more than a handful of minutes outside in this minuscule outfit, I’d freeze. Good thing I planned on being indoors. Checking the clock, I dabbed gloss onto my lips, swiped dark eyeshadow onto my eyelids, and added an extra layer of mascara. I left my hair down, but I brushed it until it glistened.

  My bed got a quick cover straightening, and I stuffed Jamie’s bed out of sight beneath it. Halfway back to the front room, I froze, realizing what I’d just subconsciously planned for. Then I lifted my skirt and checked my underwear. Bland tan cotton. This wouldn’t do. I exchanged them for a seldom-worn pair of lacy black. Much better.

  I ignored my dirty work coat with its duct-taped sleeves in favor of my fanciest jacket, a belted red pea coat several shades darker than my skirt, and as I sashayed to the door to answer Alex’s knock, I admired the way a few inches of skirt kicked up below the heavier coat panels.

  When I opened the door, Alex’s eyes fixed on my bare legs, his eyebrows lifting. I smiled and stepped out, closing the door behind me. Freezing air hit my exposed legs, eliciting instant goose bumps that did nothing to quell the renewed energy humming through my body in response to Alex’s appreciative look.

  “Hey,” he said, backing up to give me room to lock the door.

  “Hi.”

  “Are you sure you’re going to be warm enough?” In light gray slacks and a heavy coat, he looked winter-scrumptious and far more prepared for the night’s temperatures.

  “If I wore anything more, I’d be too hot.”

  “That would be a shame,” Alex murmured, and his grin warmed me to my partially exposed toes.

  After a discreet check over the railing confirmed we wouldn’t run into Pamela on her way up, I trotted down the stairs to Alex’s Volvo. He held the passenger door open for me, and I slid into the interior, appreciating the residual heat lingering on the leather seat beneath my bare thighs.

  Alex removed his coat before sliding behind the wheel. Beneath it, he wore a fitted dark blue button-up, and he self-consciously patted invisible wrinkles from it when he caught me staring.

  “I don’t do a lot of dancing. Am I dressed appropriately?”

  I laid a hand on his forearm to draw his attention from his chest, and he stilled.

  “You look”—I let my eyes drift down his body—“really good.”

  “Really?” He leaned closer.

  “Really.”

  Our lips met in a soft press, and I leaned into it, teasing my tongue across his bottom lip. He made a soft, surprised sound and deepened the kiss. The heat of his mouth and the velvet of his tongue against my lips speared pleasure southward in a dizzying rush. The center console gouged into my abdomen as I tilted into the kiss. He tasted of mint and Alex, and I couldn’t get enough.

  Alex shifted back in his seat, breaking the kiss and leaving me panting. Using his forefinger, he brushed my hair back from my face, the gesture a tender juxtaposition to his intense expression. His hand slid along the side of my neck, then retreated, and I shivered from the caress and again from its loss.

  Releasing a deep breath, Alex started the car. Heat swirled from the vents and the chug of the engine filled the silence.

  I leaned back in my seat and caught my lower lip in my teeth. I’d come on too strong, but my arousal, fed by the recklessness spurring my actions this evening, had surprised even me.

  “So, where am I going?” Alex asked as he put the car in reverse. He had to clear his throat first and even so, his voice came out rough. Good to know I wasn’t the only one affected by our kiss.

  A charged silence and stolen glances filled the drive to the club, neither of us sure how to act after our intense greeting. Refusing to allow the awkwardness to cement around us, I popped from the car as soon as we were parked, grabbed Alex’s hand when he came around the bumper, and bustled us into the warm interior of the club. I shed my coat at the door, handing it to the coat check boy.

  “I’m definitely underdressed,” Alex said, passing his coat to the waiting attendant without taking his eyes off me.

  “I think you look delicious. Come on.”

  Peppy, bass-fueled music filled the dim interior. We’d arrived as a salsa class was winding down, and the patrons at the bar and tables tapped their feet and swayed along, watching the beginners stumble through the steps. I dragged A
lex to the edge of the dance floor, and we did our best to mimic the steps of the students, laughing at our clumsiness.

  With each carefree shuffle, my stress unraveled, and I savored Alex’s warm hands in mine, my feet moving to a rhythm. I abandoned myself to the heavy beat, allowing it to align my brash energy into a single focus: this moment. Nothing else mattered, not the frustrations of my job, not my failings with Jamie, and not the future ramifications of blowing off the inspector. I gave the incessant, wild drive of the bond only one outlet—my body—and it lit through my nerve endings, turning every touch into a caress, every step into a seduction.

  Alex proved to have a gratifying amount of hip movement for a white guy, and more important, a willingness to attempt the dance’s sensuous steps. He spun me around with confidence, and while I may not have managed the correct foot placement, I gyrated my hips with gusto, each sensual twist grounding me in my body, reminding me it was much more than just a vessel for lux lucis.

  The class ended and the music blasted louder as the dance floor opened to everyone. Most of the students stayed, breaking into partners, and everyone on the sidelines filled in the empty spaces on the floor. Alex steered us toward the center of the dancers, rolling up his sleeves to reveal sun-kissed muscular forearms. I fluffed my hair, smiling when Alex’s eyes darted to the temporary gap between my shirt and skirt.

  For another song, we mimicked the salsa dancers around us as best we could, but the limited hand-to-hand contact wasn’t enough. I wanted more. Pulling Alex to a stop, I stepped into his personal space and settled his hands on my waist, then wrapped my arms loosely around his neck. Less than a hand’s span separated us, and my sides tingled beneath the heat of his palms. Better.

  Alex stared down at me, a question in his eyes. I smiled and rolled my hips, prancing through the same steps as before, and Alex followed. He slid his hands from my waist to my hips, subtly taking lead. Much better.