The Darkest Frost, Volume 1 of a 2-part serial (EXCERPT)

CHAPTER 8

THE FROST ESTATE

DEARBORNE, MARYLAND

Denieve

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I gaped at the phone until the voice of reason returned. The call may have dropped, but I did get through. That's what mattered.

With a hard sigh, I crammed the phone into my pocket and found a throw pillow, a comforter, and a blanket in his bedroom. Next, I dug out two large cardboard slabs from the back of the lab. I set both slabs on either side of him and arranged the linens over the boxes. This way, the glass wouldn't cut him if he moved. I filled an empty metal bowl with cold water and snagged a fistful of brown paper towels from the dispenser. Making a place on the pallet, I settled down next to him and drowned the towels.

Dual flashes of lightning blazed across the sky, illuminating every corner of the room. Long enough for me to get a good look at him. With a reverence I didn't understand, I brushed his silken hair back and placed the cool towels over his hot forehead.

Braeden Frost was quite possibly mentally disturbed. At the very least, he was a tortured soul. I remembered how angry he'd made me the first day we met. The horrible things I'd thought...the bits about wishing I could rip his head off and wanting to tell him to go screw himself. I felt so petty and small.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't know."

Given everything he'd endured, who wouldn't be cold, remote, and despondent? He'd lost his practice and his good name, not to mention his colleagues and patients. And his receptionist had been burned alive in an office fire- - -his office fire. Who wouldn't crack under those circumstances?

Thunder rumbled outside as I checked my watch for the hundredth time. Thirty minutes had passed since I'd phoned 911 and still no ambulance. By now, my heart was beating like a caged bird's and my nerves were fried. God help me, but I was getting more agitated by the second.

Meanwhile, Frost's fever spiked and he wouldn't stop trembling. But he was sweating. I didn't know if that was a good sign or not. I just worried. Constantly. Seeing him like this- - -helpless and possibly slipping into a coma- - -fueled my anxiety.

Only now did I allow myself to think about what I hadn't told the dispatcher. An impartial observer might suppose I'd tried to, um, I dunno...cover for him? Okay, maybe so, but I was a psychic, not a shrink. Frost's cut could've happened any number of ways. And while I'd sensed his despair tonight, I still needed more to go on.

Hell, he might have been into self-mutilation for all I knew. Not that skin carving wasn't sick, but it was a far cry from a full-blown suicide attempt. Either way, I'd rather let the professionals draw their own conclusions. That's if they ever got here.

All circuits were busy when I tried the phone again. Fifteen minutes later, a cranky male operator lectured me about patience, tornadoes, downed trees, and blackouts, like I was an idiot or something. Then he spitefully said, "Your boss will just have to wait in line," contempt burning in his voice.

So, fine. I waited twenty whole minutes before I called back. How's that for patience? But the next dispatcher just parroted the same annoying bullshit.

What to do? What to do? I couldn't call Luke, he was too sick, and when I dialed Tommy's number I got an out-of-service recording. In desperation, I tried Angela Pierce. Not that she could help. She was in Canada...or Aruba...or wherever she was vacationing. Bottom line, she wasn't here, but I still needed to talk to someone. Anyone.