Frost stood outside of the boardinghouse in the drizzling rain. With water running down his long black coat and dripping steadily from the brim of his black fedora, the gunfighter could have been a statue placed there to commemorate the crime and decay in the city. Almost. He blinked. His right ear twitched slightly. With his right hand, his left holding something under his coat, he reached into a pocket and withdrew his flask. He took a drink and replaced it.
His job was a little more complicated than he'd been led to believe. He was supposed to be dealing with the rivals of Mister Sweet's operation, yet here he was being dragged around for the second time to go on a pointless ride with his handler to conduct business Heller and the Creole siblings could easily handle themselves. It was obvious that none of the gangsters in this town were as professional and well-organized as the ones he usually worked for. They were more like the moonshiner gangs he'd double-delt in Tennessee, or that sloppy cabal of thugs in Louisville. Sweet had an air of legitimacy, but even his own people didn't. Except Heller, but by now, Drake was fully convinced that the analytical underboss was playing his own game beneath his boss' nose.
Nico was alright, but more of a wheelman and muscle…a necessity, but a pawn nonetheless. Serafine…Frost frowned. She was a liability. She worshipped ghosts, and what's more, he'd seen her type before. She was the kind who probably reached her peak while killing someone. Not a professional killer, more of a hobbyist, a devoted aficionado of murder. This made him feel a small sense of disappointment. She was charming in her way, and could have been very good…if she weren't screwy. His mind turned back to his mission.
Eliminate Lackadaisy. It seemed simple, and perhaps it would be. Now that he knew how to gain entry to the speakeasy, it would be easy enough to pay them a visit one night, kill the doorman, enter the room and bump off everyone in the club, down to the last witness. That sort of performance had its drawbacks though. If he went full-clip on the speakeasy, it would be a massacre. Massacres usually attract the kind of attention from the law that Frost was trying to escape from. It would blow his odds at having Saint Louis as a place to cool off. Plus, it was messy. Killing gangsters and rumrunners was one thing. Killing innocent people and causing collateral damage was something else. Something Frost refused to do if possible.
So what were his options? His head cocked from one side to the other as he stood in the light rain, pondering this question. A valid strategy came to mind: attrition. He had yet to see their true numbers, but numbers alone usually meant little. The members of the rival gang of bootleggers seemed sloppy and amateurish so far. If he could track their movements in the city, locate their dwellings, their haunts, Frost could easily pick them off one-by-one. He could possibly even destroy their suppliers and their vehicles, crippling their operation bit-by-bit until they either had to leave town in fear, or attempt a foolish and suicidal attack on the better equipped Marigold gang. He grunted in assent with this plan. Just like that, it became his new strategy. Headlights approached. The Marigold Gang's Cadillac pulled to a stop, and Frost threw open the back door, tossed in his bag of magazines, and slid in, pulling his BAR from under his coat.
"Ugh…you're wet." Heller groused immediately. Drake glanced over at the tuxedo cat.
"It's raining." He replied.
"Have you not heard of an umbrella?" Mordecai continued as Nico pulled onto the road. "A brolly perhaps? A bumbershoot if you enjoy whimsical terminology…"
"I saw your enemies." Frost stated. Heller fell silent and stared at him a moment.
"What?"
"Yeah. Went to their little club. Had a look around." Drake answered. Heller opened his mouth and moved his jaw, but no words came out.
"Please…tell me you didn't do something idiotic…" The Marigold Lieutenant finally said.
"If I did idiotic things…I would not be in business." Frost retorted. He explained his original plan to goad someone into a fight in order to make the incident look like self defense, to get the police involved, and told of everything that happened in The Lackadaisy. When he was finished, the car was silent for a few moments.
"Woo! Cher, you went in there all by your lonesome?" Serafine commented. "That's bold. All kinds a' crazy, but bold."
"And now they know who you are." Heller added.
"No." Frost countered. "They believe I am nothing but a drunk accountant. Think I got mad…started a fight. Could pass them on the street. Only get dirty looks."
"Still…" Mordecai continued. "I told you to consult me before you act. Did I not make this abundantly clear, Frost?"
"Or maybe…" Serafine purred from the frost seat, twisting herself around to grin at the both of them. "It has somethin' to do with Frost here thinkin' he don't work for you, cher." She winked at the hitman. "Idn't that what you said?" Heller gave Frost a deadly look.
"I don't." The reply came. "I work for Sweet. I was hired to eliminate his competitors. You three are a distraction."
"Yes well, this little game comes with it's own set of rules." Mordecai clarified. "Mister Sweet as well as myself have a few people in that operation whom we would like to see left alive."
"You want them kidnapped."
"No…no we…ugh…" Heller massaged the bridge of his nose. "No, you are not to harm, kill, injure or otherwise bring calamity on a select few members of The Lackadaisy gang."
"Why?" Frost asked in a low voice. Serafine narrowed her eyes.
"Y aknow, I'm wondering the same thing." She declared. Mordecai stared out of his window in silence a moment. He shook his head.
"Fine." He spat. "But this goes no further than us. Should any of you speak of this to others, I will personally ensure that the consequences will be dire." Serafine searched her boss' eyes for a moment.
"Absoulement." She finally said.
"If it keeps me alive, I didn't hear anything." Nico spoke up from the driver's seat. Frost gave a slow nod.
"Very well." Mordecai began. "A long time ago, Mister Sweet was partners with a gentleman by the name of Atlas May. You two have probably heard that name, but for Frost's sake, let me fill you in. Atlas was Mitzi May's husband. Yes, the Mitzi who operates The Lackadaisy. That was in those…days of yore when I worked for them." Frost stared at Heller as he spoke. Questions that he'd had were starting to be answered.
"They had a…disagreement, a fallings out between them, and their business partnership as well as their friendship was ended. Atlas opened the Lackadaisy and did a brisk business…up until his death. I only tell this little story because I wanted to give you some history between the two organizations, so you would better understand why Mister Sweet does not want any particular harm to befall Mitzi May. I do hope you have all been paying attention thus far."
"Oui. I'm followin'." Serafine said. "A little intrigue makes a story more appealin' anyway."
"Indeed." Mordecai said sarcastically. "To be perfectly honest, I could care less what becomes of that speakeasy or most of its employees or clients. But Mitzi May shall be allowed to live. Furthermore, I personally would rather you…or none of you…harm the young girl."
"Ivy." Frost stated. Heller's eyes flicked over to him.
"I see you've met."
"Yes. And I had no designs on killing her. She's just a kid. She's no threat."
"You ain't seen the way she drives." Serafine laughed. "Though I'd say she's more a danger to herself an' her passengers than any of us."
"All the same. Those two must not be harmed." Heller stated. Drake closed his eyes. It was almost a relief. The two people amongst the enemies of his client that he didn't want to hurt were the ones he didn't have to…
"They won't be harmed." Frost said dogmatically. "You have my word, Heller."
"Good. Now that that matter is settled, let us move on to your next course of action." Mordecai lectured. "Do you have anything resembling a plan?"
"I have…a strategy."
"Elaborate." Heller instructed.
"Hunt them down. One by one. Take my time. Take their business apart brick by brick. Make them bleed. Slowly. Painfully. The coolies…over in China…guess they call it death by a thousand cuts." The three gangsters sat there, blinking, taken aback by his brutal tactics.
"Frost…" Serafine finally said, shaking her head. "Just what in' th' Hell is wrong wit you anyways?"
"A lot..." The gunman said simply.
"Somebody done kick your dog or somethin'?" She added.
"Had a dog. Long time ago. It died." Frost grumbled.
"Damn if you ain't creepy as Hell, ami." Nico sighed. Drake looked over at Mordecai.
"Where are we going?" He asked.
"A while back, we had some suppliers of good standing. Moonshiners who ran a pig farm outside of the city. They ran afoul of our competitors and were summarily killed. Mister Sweet was able to buy their farm, and the newest residents took up the occupation of their predecessors. We are going there to ensure that everything is operating smoothly."
"You mean…to make sure they aren't double crossing you." Frost countered.
"Is there a difference?" Heller asked.
They turned onto a small country road as they left the city, and after a couple of miles, turned again onto an even narrower dirt lane. They parked behind an old Ford TT truck near a two-story farmhouse. Heller and the Savoy's stepped out of the car as a pair of rustic-looking cats exited the house. Frost sighed and got out, standing by the car boredly as Mordecai met with the two hillbilly moonshiners. After concluding some terms, the hayseeds gave the mob lieutenant a small wooden box containing six quart jars. Obviously to Frost, it was liquor from a new batch that Heller was going to test for purity and quality. The box was handed off to Nico, who placed it carefully placed it in the rear bumper trunk. They all climbed back into the car, and started back.
"You did not need me." Frost finally commented.
"No." Heller replied tersely.
"You asked me to come along…because you do not trust me."
"And why, praytell would I not trust you?" Mordecai responded. "Could it be that my superior hired you with no knowledge of your background, abilities, loyalties, or even your real name? Or could it possibly have any connection with you being a rabid animal who keeps their own employers in the dark as to your methods and devices?" Heller narrowed his eyes. "To be frank, I myself have my doubts about your abilities as an assassin. Insofar, all I have seen you do is wave that large firearm around and imbibe alcohol like the nation's supply will run out tomorrow."
"Mm." Drake grunted. "Thought an…intellectual like you…would have researched me. Dug deep. Read the papers and…consulted my references." This somewhat cornered Mordecai. He had, in fact, been trying to find out more about this mysterious and seemingly unhinged gunman but so far, all he had managed to learn was a few jobs attributed to Frost, as well as a few the mercenary was suspected of being involved in. So…this was to be a chess game…
"You killed a few gangsters in a warehouse in Chicago." Heller stated, as if reading it all from a history book. "You ambushed a rival gunman in the alley behind a client's office. Purportedly, you also played Edward Teach and disembarked a boat full of rival bootleggers on Lake Michigan. I'm convinced that was a monumental feat, seeing as they were all probably unarmed and unsuspecting." Frost narrowed his yellow eyes. "You killed a likewise unarmed prosecuting attorney on a street with a Thompson Submachine Gun, then departed in a waiting car. That must have been rather difficult, even for a seasoned professional such as yourself. More strenuous had to have been you riddling an informant with bullets from same weapon as he stood in a telephone booth."
"What are you trying to say?" Frost growled. Mordecai ignored him. Serafine was sitting sideways on the front bench seat, watching the exchange quietly.
"Now, onto the work attributed to you but not wholly proven one way or the other." Heller stated, adjusting his eyeglasses. "Like a bank robbery in Gary Indiana in which someone of your description provided a much-needed distraction by dismantling two police vehicles and killing three officers. And then there is the case where an independent contractor played both sides of a moonshiner war in Western Tennessee, nearly obliterating both gangs. What else has been ascribed to you now…oh yes…a jailbreak, another bank robbery, and the killing of another gun for hire. Except those three took place only days apart, and in three states. Am I approaching any uncomfortable truths, Frost?"
"I never said that was me." Frost stated as the car turned onto a lonely dirt road paralleling the Mississippi River.
"Oh, but it helps the myth take on a life of its own nonetheless, does it not?" Heller pressed. "You, the ghost…the legendary assassin who can do any job at any price? You don't fool me. Anyone with that level of talent would be working for someone full-time, living in a suite somewhere and eating like a civilized person. Not cavorting about like a hobo, subsisting on table scraps." They passed by a large clump of vegetation on the side of the road, only to have a black sedan bearing a gold star on the door turn on its headlamps and pull out behind them.
"I hate to stop a good fight…" Nico remarked, "…but it looks like we got us a little bit of a problem." Mordecai looked back, then slumped his shoulders with an irritated sigh.
"Marvelous…" He uttered. Nico pulled the car to the side of the road. Serafine's eyes drifted from the squad car behind them to the face of the gunman in the backseat. His left hand was clenched around the foregrip of his large machine rifle, and his eyes met hers. He gave a brief nod, and she snarled a crooked smile. As soon as the Cadillac came to a stop, Frost threw open his door and with a billowing of his long coat, he was out of the car, his BAR mounted to his shoulder.
The young city police officer didn't even have time to open his door. Frost pulled the trigger, emptying the entire 30 round magazine of his weapon in four seconds. All of his rounds hit the car, and half of them passed through the windshield, striking the officer in the head and upper body. The gunfighter immediately released the magazine, and reloaded with a 20 round one from his pocket, and racked the charging lever. He walked forward a few paces, firing the rifle into the officer until this magazine too was depleted. Then leaning the BAR up against the back of the Cadillac, he drew one of his 1911's with his right hand, walked to the shattered driver's side window of the patrol car, and fired twice into the officer's head.
Serafine had hopped out of the car with her own rifle shortly after Frost, but it was obvious that he needed no assistance. She stood, watching with morbid curiosity at the pure, calculated destruction he visited upon the copper. It had an air of grotesqueness, even for her, and as Frost opened the driver's side door, her eyes widened as blood ran out of the car like a waterfall in miniature. The gunman caught the officer's body before it could tumble out of the car, shoved it back onto the seat, and pulled the cop's revolver from its holster. He reached further in, moved the shifter to reverse, and closed the door. With an emotionless expression, Frost guided the car with the steering wheel, finally letting it go and allowed the car to reverse itself over the embankment and into the waters of the river below.
"C'est quoi ce bordel…" Serafine gasped. By now, Nico and Mordecai had both exited the car, and watched as the police vehicle hit the water and started floating downstream, slowly sinking in the process. Serafine shot a smirk at Mordecai. "You…you stand corrected, cher?" Frost picked up his spent magazine and stuck it in a pocket, then grabbed his rifle and put it back in the car. Then he slid in and closed the door as if nothing had happened. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.
"Nico…get us out of here at once." Mordecai ordered as he climbed back in the car.
"Dun have to tell me twice." The Savoy brother returned and jumped in behind the wheel, put the car into gear and took off.
"What do you think you're doing?" Heller asked confrontationally. "In what manic part of your fractured psyche did you think that was a good idea?"
"He would have found the liquor." Drake growled. "And the guns. I fixed the problem."
"You killed a police officer. Do you realize what kind of attention that is going to draw?!"
"No attention…if there are no witnesses." Frost replied. His head twitched. "Kill them...no witnesses. So...does that answer your question?"
"What question?" Mordecai shot.
"You have seen me fire a gun. You seen me kill. Are you happy now…or do I have to chop up someone else to get you to shut up?" Nico turned onto another road, still driving rather quickly. "Stop the car."
"What?" The large cajun cat asked.
"Stop the fucking car." Frost ordered in a growl. Nico hit the brakes, pulling the car to a stop near a fenced-in lot. Frost opened his door, leaned out of the car and threw up. He held onto the door frame with shaking hands. "Fuck…" He snarled in agony, then another round of vomiting overtook him. He unsteadily wiped his mouth on his sleeve and fell back into his seat, closing the door. Nico pulled out and started driving again.
"Frost…" Mordecai began.
"Shut up." Frost commanded coldly. He pulled out his flask, turned it up and chugged the contents before speaking again. "I'm going to destroy Lackadaisy. Who killed your pig fuckers?" Heller was leaned almost against his door, his ears laid back, and his right hand partially inside of his coat.
"I do not know for certain." He answered. "I think it was the young man…"
"The boy in green." Frost stated. He turned up the flask and shook it towards his mouth, but when nothing came out, he growled and threw it to the floor or the car. A bottle was shoved toward him. He looked up. Serafine was reaching him a brown pint bottle.
"Take it, cher." She said in an unusually gentle voice. Frost turned it up and drank half the contents.
"Ugh. Orange hair. I saw him at the club. He's a runt. A half pint."
"He's also the lil' punk who shot up our machine with a chopper an' took a few potshots at Mister Heller here with an itty-bitty derringer." Serafine pointed out. "That one…he got reeaaal mean streak when the mood hits 'im."
"Who's their dumbest person?"
"The musician who goes out on runs for them." Heller answered. "He wears a blue suit." Frost drained the bottle. He looked over at Mordecai, who still cautiously held his hand inside of his coat.
"No need for that." Drake advised. "You want them all dead…except for the doll and the moll. I'll make you a deal. I'll do it, and do it soon. Wanna be the boss? Fine. I am your arm of execution. I am the trigger of your gun. But no more lollygagging. No more games, Heller. Aim me and pull the trigger if you want it done. Then my contract is complete. I get my money. I'm gone, and you three won't see me again." They stared at each other for a moment.
"Agreed." Mordecai said, removing his hand from his holstered pistol. "And no more skullduggery from you either. I want you to tell me what you're doing and when you're going to do it."
"Agreed." Frost stated.
"And for the record, I still do not trust you." Heller added.
"Good." The gunman said back. "Because I don't trust you either."
They pulled into the parking lot behind the Marigold, and took the elevator up to the top floor. Once there, the Savoy's returned to their own suite while Mordecai led Frost into the office space used by Sweet. The crime boss was sitting behind his desk, obviously in the middle of some paperwork, and Heller started off by giving a positive report about the moonshiners at the farm, and vowing to have a quality report on their newest batch by the next evening. He then shot a glance to Frost.
"We did have a small incident on our return trip." He said. Sweet raised an eyebrow.
"What kind of incident? Spit it out."
"We were pulled over by a local police officer." Heller explained. Sweet laughed.
"What did he do, write you a widdle ticket?" The gang leader jested.
"Not exactly." Mordecai returned. "Frost, in an attempt to keep the liquor we had in the vehicle, as well as out operations clandestine, shot the officer." Mister Sweet narrowed his eyes and jabbed his cigar toward the gunman.
"Oh you did, did you?" He growled. "Well I hope you had the common decency to dispose of the evidence, son."
"The evidence…" Frost answered. "Is in the river. All of it. Well on it's way to New Orleans. Won't be a problem." Sweet snarled and sat back in his chair.
"Not a guy to be trifled with, are you, Frost?" He muttered. "Makes no nevermind. Any updates on what I hired you for?"
"Yes." Frost replied stoically. "I have learned all I need about them. I am going to move on your competitors soon. End it quickly. When I'm done…nobody else will operate here."
"Good…" Mister Sweet mused. "You know who to leave out of it? Heller fill you in on that?"
"Yes sir."
"Then I'll let you to it." Sweet nodded. "Seeing as you're not one for…lengthy conversations."
"Yes sir." Frost said again. He gave a short nod to Mordecai. "Good night." With that, he left the office and started down the hall. He made it halfway to the elevator when the door to the Savoy's room swung open, revealing Serafine wearing her white trousers and thin white teeshirt. Her curly black hair was down, and only restrained by the white cloth she wore as a headband.
"Weellll…your meeting with the big man go nice and smooth, Shadowmaaan?" She purred. He paused at the door.
"Yes." Frost answered. "We are on the same page now. I am returning to my quarters."
"Why so soon, cher?" The white-furred femme-fatale asked. "The night is young. Woncha come in for a drink. On me."
"I think I prefer my drinks neat." He responded. "No ice. No peppers. No chicken blood." Serafine laughed.
"Ha! That was jes to clear any…possessive qualities you might a' had." She said. "Promise it'll be straight firewater this time." He frowned a little deeper, and she opened the door wider. He entered the room to find it lit only by the string lights and a few candles. She caught his wandering eyes. "I thought the room could use a more déclassé sort a' atmosphere." She poured a couple of glasses of liquor from an expensive-looking bottle, and handed a glass to Frost. She stood a little too close for his comfort.
"Where is your brother?" Drake asked, looking about the dimly-lit room.
"Oh…don't ya be worrying about him, cher. I sent him out to run some errands. Right now, it's just you an' me." She gave him a smirk and a half-lidded stare.
"You did not invite me here just for a drink." He stated.
"Oh, you're always noticin' things, aren't ya, Frost?" She returned. "Non. I wanted to say that I may a' been wrong about you. You ain't no Shadowman, are you?"
"No." He replied, and took a drink of the high-end bourbon.
"I liked your work tonight." Serafine cooed. "Liked it a whoollle bunch. The way you shot up that copper on the road? MM-mmm. You a stone-cold, blood-thirsty criminal alright, a reg'lar Jessee James, ain't ya?" She took a long sip of her whiskey and stared up into his eyes.
"No." He replied. "Some people think he was a hero." Serafine drew herself even closer to him.
"The way you handle a gun cher…way you don't take shit off nobody…mmm…you could be somebody's hero." She commented. "Ya know, I prefer the company of the fairer sex…but sometimes I love to make an exception." Drake boredly took another drink.
"I'm sure." He muttered. Serafine narrowed her yellow eyes and she grabbed him by the lapel with her free hand.
"Looka here, Frost." She growled, her tail swishing. "You expect me to beg, I ain't gonna. We could make us a reeaaal good team, know what I'm sayin' cher? Roll on outta here, shack up an' light up together, and we could have us some fun. You, me an' a course Nico. Do me right, I'll do ya better." He took another drink.
"Sera…"
"C'mon, ma cher. Ain't just the adventure neither, or what I can do to ya when we're in the bedroom, non. I can show ya things, Frost. Show ya the old ways. You can be adopted by Maitre Carrefour like me an Nico was." Serafine ran her hand up his chest. "You can be part a' somethin' for once. Part a' us. We could be together. What do you say, hero?" She bit her lower lip. Frost turned up his glass and drained it.
"Miss Savoy…" He replied. "I'm not what you're looking for. I work alone." She forcefully pushed herself away from him.
"Oh yeah…mister tough guy. You work alone." She spat. "Out dere wit no friends…no gods…no yesterday an' no tomorrow. Livin' alone and killin' alone. Betchu gonna die alone too, ain't ya?" He sat the glass down on an end table.
"Likely." He stated. "Thank you for the drink. Good night." With that, he walked out of the room.
Frost opened the door to his little room in the boarding house and stepped inside. He locked the door and grabbed a bottle off his writing desk, bit the cork out and took a long drink. His stomach rumbled, and he slammed the bottle down, grabbed a piece of pilot bread and bit off a chunk of the hard, thick cracker. He gnawed on it a few times, then washed it down with another swig of whiskey. He sat down on the bed and finished his dinner of hardtack and alcohol. The events of the night ran through his head, and he tried to force them out, to forget.
For some reason, he thought of the girl…Ivy. Why was she even involved in this world? Why had a bright child like her gone and dipped her toes in a pool of blood and gunpowder that at every turn swallows hard men and wretched monsters yet never ceases to be hungry for more? It was like that policeman he chopped up. That kid probably had a mother. Friends. Hopefully, he had known what he was getting into when he'd decided to pin a badge on his tidy little uniform and strap a gun on his hip. He hopefully knew the game that he'd gotten himself involved in. If he did it on purpose, that at least made killing him a little less damning. He took another drink.
A person takes a risk when they pick up a gun, he reflected. They take a risk of thinking it gives them the power of a god, that this tool of steel and wood somehow makes them invulnerable. They wager their morals, their health…their lives. Pick up a gun, you'd better be willing to deal with the consequences of using it. But that was the cost of doing business in this world. Always was. Because guns were power. Power to save lives, to defend what's yours…to take what you need to live and hold and horde it from everyone else who wants to take it for themselves and leave you destitute and dead. And if you get really good at that…
He looked at his hands. He'd become good at it. At surviving. At clawing his way out of muddy trenches, piles of bodies and city gutters. At pulling the trigger before the other guy could. And here he was, sitting on a valise full of money, a trunk full of guns and a car full of gas. It was all anyone really needed in this world, wasn't it? Frost took another sip of whiskey and let out a sigh.
Serafine was right. He had no friends, no gods, no attachments. He had no yesterday. It was easier to live that way though, wasn't it? Never have anything you can't walk out on. It was like dying every night, and being born every morning. When your life was reduced to the barest ember balanced on the head of a pin, it made things a lot simpler. It stripped living down to its barest, meanest core, but at least that was something to hold onto. Something warm. He turned up the bottle again. He hadn't felt warm in so long. It was as if he just realized that. Had that ember died? Had it gone black and cold somewhere along the road, and he hadn't even noticed? Was it buried in some field in France…was it laying beside some poor sap's cold body in a dark alley somewhere…or had it been discarded in the bottom of an empty bottle?
"Fuck." He spoke aloud, and the sound of his voice almost startled him. He looked around the room, at the peeling wallpaper, the dull hardwood floors, his trunk that contained enough firepower to outfit at least a squad. Another drink. Maybe it was the alcohol, he thought. Maybe that voodoo woman had gotten under his skin, but he suddenly got a strange feeling that nobody should live this way. He laughed morbidly. Oh his father would have had a field day with that one, and Frost could hear the old bastard now;
"A man's gotta man up boy. Stop snifflin' or I'll beat it the hell outta ya." Drake turned the bottle up and thought he'd spilled the liquor on himself. He wiped his cheek and found wetness there.
"Now that is a damned lie." He said. "Stop that shit. Ain't nobody made money off of tears." He cleared his throat. He looked around the room again. Of course people lived this way, he told himself. It sure beat dying all to Hell. Frost felt tired, and his eyes wouldn't stay open. He woozily sat the bottle down on the floor and lay back on the bed.
Hmm...it appears that Frost might have something going on inside that head of his besides the business of death and destruction. And what...Serafine, Miss Murderkitten herself was putting the moves on him? The story gets curiouser and curiouser. What did you think? Let me know in the reviews! I'll have another chapter up soon unless my power gets knocked out by the hellacious winter storm we're supposed to get in a couple of days. That said, tune in next time for the next installment. So long and goodnight!