Frost: Keith Murphy Urban Fantasy Thrillers, #2

By Peter M. Ball

Rule one for surviving Ragnarök? Don't piss off a Valkyrie.

 

Ex-hitman Keith Murphy sold his services to a demon in order to stop an apocalyptic cult. Now he's stuck fighting a gang way against a local biker gang who knows far too much about magic for a pack of mortals. A routine hit turns into a mystery, and that mystery leads to a series of deaths with a very unexpected source. Something has crossed over from the darkest parts of the Gloom, and it seems like Keith sold his soul to delay Ragnarök instead of stopping it.

 

The last, long winter frost before the end of the world is setting in, and the only man who can stop it is a pissed-off, well-armed assassin with nothing left to lose…

Equal parts John Wick and John Constantine, the Keith Murphy series is an apocalyptic thrill ride that blends the thriller with urban fantasy.

 

PRAISE FOR THE KEITH MURPHY SERIES

 

"All the grit and growl of the golden age detectives let loose upon the monsters and magics that keep us fascinated (and occasionally afraid) as we curl up on the couch at night. Ball is masterful in his use of tension, with a knack for keeping readers glued to the screen or page. His ability to showcase emotional connections and complications without devolving into self-pitying monologues or poetic meanderings give the stories an action movie vibe that adds tension and focus to the stories." Kylie Thompson, HushHushBiz

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brain Jar Press
• Release date: Nov 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215644027

Peter M. Ball

Peter M Ball is the author of more than fifty short stories and six novellas, along with essays, RPG material, articles, and poetry. His short stories and non-fiction have appeared in venues such as Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, Shimmer, Dragon Magazine, Writing Queensland, and Apex Magazine, and has been included in several Year’s Best anthologies. He’s previously taught creative writing at Griffith University and the Queensland Writers Centre, spent five years as the manager of the Australian Writers Marketplace, and convenes the biennial GenreCon writing conference in Brisbane, Australia.

Book preview

Frost

FROST

A KEITH MURPHY URBAN FANTASY THRILLER

THE GOLD COAST RAGNARÖK TRILOGY

BOOK 2

PETER M. BALL

Brain Jar Press

CONTENTS

Declarations of War

Debrief

Ineffective Coping Mechanisms

Protocols

Hell, Mid-Renovation

The Outsider

Looking Into A Very Dark Place

Bad Choices

The Underpass

Life Lessons

Shazza

Road Trip

Sixteen Years, Nine Months

Protective Colouration

How To Play Things Cool

Roaches

Alone, In The Gloom

Armed And Dangerous

Prisoners

Protections

The Valkyrie

Aftermath

CRUSADE

Keith Murphy Urban Fantasy Thrillers

About the Author

Also By Peter M. Ball

Thank You For Buying This Brain Jar Press Ebook

DECLARATIONS OF WAR

The hit on Eli Penny went sour at 12:01 AM, right after a cool spring Monday gave way to Tuesday morning. Problem was, we didn’t know it yet, so we kept on playing it like things were going smooth. I crouched in the Sailboat Cafe’s kitchen, a loaded Mossberg shotgun clenched in a two-handed grip. Ready to back up my partner, Finn, when Penny finally arrived.

I could hear Finn pacing the floorboards of the dining room. Heavy footsteps rendered louder by his penchant for motorcycle boots. Finn’s role in the plan was simple: lure Penny into the café and get him talking. Stay clear of the kitchen door. I’d step out and pull a trigger, and Eli Penny would bother our boss no more.

Unfortunately Finn’s nervous pacing suggested his human half wasn’t as comfortable with the scheme as the demon who shared custody of the biker’s mortal flesh. I’d seen it before in Sabbath’s newer guys, the restless irritation when the prick of a mortal conscience comes up against the new inhabitant’s desires.

Part of me almost felt sorry for Penny, because Finn’s demonic tenant would make him pay for those little moments of human frailty when the violence started.

A bad feeling settled over me as the seconds ticked by. I couldn’t place the reason: I figured the job for a cakewalk, even if Finn Caylin was equal parts amateur liability and demonically possessed wildcard. Finn could fuck up, and odds were things would still come up roses for us.

I mean, hell, Penny and his Rebels weren’t supposed to know he’d joined up with Sabbath’s crew. They sure as hell shouldn’t know what Sabbath’s crew really were.

That’s the problem with working for demons, I guess. They get so goddamn cocky when they’re picking fights with mortals, and I got cocky right along with them.

There was a bar out front, and Finn helped himself to a bottle of Absolut. Unscrewed the cap and hammered down the first mouthful like he wanted to quench an internal fire. Poor bastard didn’t yet know how little alcohol affects the demonically possessed, so I doubted the vodka did much for him. The clock ticked past 12:10, and Eli Penny was officially late.

The Sailboat’s kitchen wasn’t the most comfortable place to wait for a target. They built it galley-style, a single counter and a stovetop. Just enough space to cook bar food at speed, and toast the occasional sandwich. The grease-traps lent a thick aroma to the tight confines, and the taps leaked into the sink. Water plinked against the stainless-steel basin five inches from my head. Regular as a metronome, each drop followed by three seconds of silence as the next beaded on the rim of the faucet.

At 12:16 we caught the sound of Eli Penny’s Harley approaching. Finn heard it first, human senses honed to a predatory acuity by the demon’s presence beneath his skin. His gait changed, and the Absolut returned to its shelf behind the bar. He called a warning to me seconds before the growl of the engine registered.

Penny came down Thrower Drive and pulled into the Sailboat’s shared lot, his bike rolling to a halt in front of the bait and tackle place next door. I flexed my fingers and adjusted my grip on the Mossberg. Inhaled and exhaled, counting to three each time, staying cool despite the adrenaline flowing through my system. Outside, the idling engine of Penny’s motorcycle pushed away all other sounds. The snarl of it blocked the dripping tap and the clomp of Finn’s angry gait.

I took a second breath. Three seconds in, three seconds out. Penny’s engine continued to rumble. Finn’s silhouette flashed past the circular window set into the kitchen door.

I counted another three seconds.

And another.

Eli Penny’s motorcycle engine showed no signs of cutting off, and my bad feeling turned into a strong suspicion the hit was going wrong. I got traction on the cold tile floor, rose to my feet with the Mossberg held high. The dining room of the Sailboat was empty except for the tables and stacked chairs. Finn was out on the wide deck, raising his voice to invite Penny in for a drink. Focused on the plan, luring his ex-boss inside so my shotgun could end his life.

They came at me while Finn and Penny were jawing at each other, trying to play it cool. I caught sight of looming shadow passing by kitchen window, registered the creak of a floorboard as someone big and sneaky made their way along the Sailboat’s back deck. Out front, Finn called Eli Penny a damned suspicious cunt, which seemed to coax the other man into accepting the offer of a drink.

Finn strolled back to the bar with the jaunty step of a guy convinced he’d done good, unaware of the shitstorm bearing down on him. I repositioned the Mossberg to cover the rear door, caught the soft click of a crowbar being wedged against the doorjamb. These boys weren’t going for subtle. I was betting they’d come in hard-and-fast when they got the signal. Out front, Eli Penny rolled across the front deck, stopping at the open doorway leading into the dining room.

The biker’s big, rough voice asked a single question: You really think we wouldn’t know, Finn?

Then a gun spat twice in the tight confines of the café. Shots fired at 12:24, and it flushed away any hope of the hit going right.

Judging by the sound, Penny came armed with a small calibre handgun. The kind of weapon it’s easy to conceal when your target is looking for weapons. With Finn’s new, demonically possessed strength and metabolism, close range shooting from a .22 was more likely to piss him off than deal grievous injury.

Meanwhile, I’d scored a few playmates of my own. A deep voice shouted on the far side of the outside door, and someone threw their weight against the crowbar nestled against the deadbolt. The lock gave with a crack of splintering wood, giving me a clear shot at Penny’s backup coming in through the rear. Two blokes, big men in leather jackets, beards so long you could lose a boy scout troop in their tangled depths.

My presence caught them by surprise, but the first bloke raised the crowbar and charged. Guess he missed the Mossberg pointed his way, given the thick shadows of the kitchen. I jerked the trigger and the big gun kicked against my shoulder. Nothing accurate about it, but that’s part of the Mossberg’s charm. Pack enough shot into a twelve-gauge shell, and accuracy ceases to be a factor. You point, you shoot, and anything caught in the blast gets turned into hamburger. Crowbar took his fair share in the chest, fell back against the bench. A beam of moonlight illuminated his bearded chin, streaked with blood, and Crowbar clutched at the counter to hold himself up.

I pumped the action, ejected the empty shell. Ducked the desperate, half-arsed strike that sent the crowbar at my head. The biker pushed himself upright and lurched forward, toughing out the pain. It wasn’t really fair. Crowbars are a decent weapon if you’ve got space to work with, but the tight confines of a galley kitchen are hardly ideal. He couldn’t get the velocity he wanted on the swing. The Mossberg handled the tight confines just fine. It kicked in my hands, spat a storm of lead into the biker’s stomach. He was a big guy. Flab over muscle. The second shot put him down, punched a messy hole in his guts and blew his viscera across the fridge.

The other Rebel jumped me. Came flying in over his dying friend, crash-tackled me to the floor. He cinched a beefy arm around me neck, grabbed the Mossberg in a meaty fist and jerked it to the side. I fought back, but his grip made it impossible to use the shotgun without hitting myself. His other hand pounded away, hard jabs to my ribs. They hurt like hell, because he’d looped a chain over his paw. Not trying to take me out, just softening me up so I struggled less and let go of the weapon. Then the chain-wrapped strikes would abandon the well-protected flanks and hammer into my face a few times.

I battled to keep his attention on the gun—unlike Finn, I’m not the kind of guy you send into a fistfight. In my line of work, going hand-to-hand is a clear sign all the shit’s making contact with the fan. The biker wasn’t a supernatural, but his reach and strength gave him the advantage. Big hands closed over the Mossberg barrel and reefed it out of my grip. I brought my knee up into his privates, a desperate shot that probably saved my life. The biker fumbled the Mossberg, and it skittered across the tiled floor. Its absence didn’t bother him. The biker wrapped a forearm around my throat. Tightened. Squeezed. Cut off my oxygen. His breath hot against my ear, the word motherfucker repeated over and over as the adrenaline dump hit. I grabbed at his arm, trying to wrench it free. When that failed, I tried to budge it an inch and suck down a frantic gasp of air.

He stopped punching once he secured the choke, confident I couldn’t break out. Legs wrapped around my waist and clamped shut, forcing my lungs to empty. The Rebel met any attempt to claw my way loose with an iron resolve, his forearm cinching tighter. My vision blackened, and he fumbled for another weapon. No chain this time. Something small. Something fragile. He smashed it against my chest, big hand smearing the glass across my shirt. Shards bit into skin. Water soaked into the cuts. The Rebel grunted like he’d done good, ended the fight on his terms.

He let me go. Stood up and produced a knife, backing up to survey his handiwork. I inhaled fast and through the adrenaline haze the whole thing made a terrible sense. Someone had tipped them off about Sabbath and the nature of his thugs, sent them in expecting demons and hand-picked the easiest weapons for an inexperienced mortal to deploy.

I would have laughed if I had the breath to spare.

The biker loomed over me. Called me a cocksucker again, but this time he put some force behind it. Buried his steel caps into my ribs. In his mind the fight was over. He’d slapped me with holy water. Burned a hole in my chest. Weakened the demon inside me just enough for the knife to do some damage. In his mind, I’d be writhing in agony.

Pity for him the possessed asshole was out in the bar, trading gunshots with Eli Penny. My Rebel had locked horns with the stupid human motherfucker, one of the few goons in Sabbath’s employ who got by on wits and charm and a little preternatural talent for peering into the Gloom. A demon might have writhed at the touch of holy water, but I reached for the backup piece.

I slipped the SIG free of its holster and jammed it against the big biker’s stomach. The first shot surprised the hell out of him. He teetered, unsure whether to fight or fall.

The next three shots took that choice away from him for good.

I lay on the cold tile, chest heaving. My ribs ached. Every breath hurt like a motherfucker, but I didn’t much care. I kept trying to breathe deep, wincing against the pain.