Frost

Description

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

WHAT READERS ARE SAYING

★★★★★ “Equal parts violence, noir and magic. Also manages to capture the feel of the Gold Coast.”

★★★★★ “a thoroughly entertaining noir-flavoured urban fantasy, where our hard-bitten but basically honourable protagonist tries to stay one step ahead of a multitude of past mistakes (while making a few more along the way). I’m definitely looking forward to seeing the other Keith Murphy books”

★★★★★ “Myth-heavy hard-boiled Gold Coast pre-(assorted)-apocalyptic fantasy. It resonates with the parts of my mind where American Gods took up residence.”

READ A SAMPLE

e 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.