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

CHAPTER 2

Ms. Pierce took a suitcase. "Come along then. Let's get you settled."

We'd gone halfway across the foyer, when a psychic buzz pulsed from the sterling silver cross around my neck; Caryn's cross. She'd worn it for years as a teen. I shook off a chill and followed Ms. Pierce up a long staircase that overlooked a living room stuffed with mismatched antiques and furniture. All coated in dust. From what I'd seen, the place fell somewhere between a museum and a horror movie set. The view only got worse on the second floor.

Most homes boasted a central theme, but Braeden Frost's twelve thousand square-foot house was a frightening clash of civilizations. Velvet drapes and wool-flocked wallpaper competed with medieval tapestries, Egyptian busts, Grecian vases, African woodcarvings and.... Oh-my-God. I shot a horrified glance behind me.

A suit of armor? Really?

Note to self: that monstrosity has to go.

"This way," Ms. Pierce called, turning a corner.

I hurried to catch up, trailing her down another musty hallway filled with more mismatched ugliness. Against the backdrop of Frost's dreadful décor, the impeccable Ms. Pierce and her alabaster heels stood out like a bonfire. She didn't just outshine the house. I was a bag lady compared to her, but this too was part of my plan. More than a decade had passed since I'd last seen Caryn, so if she'd shown anyone a photo of me it would've been at least that old. Still, I couldn't take any chances, which is why I'd gone to extremes to alter my appearance.

Colored extended-wear contacts turned my peepers from amber to stormy gray, but I didn't stop there. I threw in a hideous pair of horn-rimmed glasses. I also tamed my curly auburn hair with a perm, dyed it mousy brown, then pulled it back into a severe bun. My clothes were similarly dowdy. Shapeless calf-length skirts, heavy support hose, and penny loafers would be my new normal.

Thanks to Luke, I had the best alias money could buy: references, legal and historical documents, as well as a convincing electronic trail. The only evidence pointing to the real Denieve Knight lay tucked away in my purse. A .44 Magnum with enough firepower to drop a bear.

"Here we are." Ms. Pierce stopped at a set of double doors. She pointed toward a stairwell that lay across from us, but the corridor was pitch-black. "That leads to Braeden's private suites on the third floor, and these are your living quarters."

She threw the doors open and headed inside. A queen-sized canopy bed dripping in sheer curtains and overstuffed pillows caught my eye. The room smelled wonderful, like lemons and freshly laundered sheets. Ms. Pierce set my bag down and went for a window, drawing the heavy drapes back. Sunlight raced across the polished hardwood floor, revealing a stunning burgundy-and-beige motif. Put side by side with the other parts of Frost's ugly house, this was the Taj Mahal.

I ran a hand over an antique armoire. "When do I get to meet Dr. Frost?"

"He's out of town," she said, "but his flight is due at ten tonight. For now, come to the courtyard once you're unpacked and I'll give you a proper tour."

* * *

OUTSIDE THE FROST ESTATE

DEARBORNE, MARYLAND

Lonnie G

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Lonnie Gubczyk sat low in his sedan, just like he'd done for the past two weeks. Staking the place out, always alert, ever vigilant, he'd been looking for the perfect opportunity to whack Braeden Frost. So far, he hadn't caught a break.