Free Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) by James Hunter

parted, allowing me to pass through unsinged, before melting back into place. I crashed into the floor near Ben, and though the snow wasn’t exactly freshly fallen soft powder, it was still a damn bit softer than concrete or granite. My face-first landing hardly hurt at all. Nothing compared to the fire in my ribs.
    I pushed myself back to my feet, shaking my head to clear the specs of white floating in my vision. Must’ve knocked something loose there, because I was seeing things. Flanking either side of Old Man Winter lurked a pair of abominable snowman, presumably conjured up to beat Ben and I into meat paste. Great. And these fellas weren’t your typical yetis, and absolutely nothing like the brooding and tragically misunderstood Bumble, who might just help you hang the star on the Christmas tree.
    No, these guys were mindless fae war machines. No thought or feeling. Just big, mean, ugly, fearless, sons of bitches. Towering beasts of solid snow and razor-honed ice—not to mention they were probably immune to most types of Vis attacks. True, out in the real world, I could probably turn these fellas into a couple of tepid puddles, but at the heart of winter? Naw, my fire wouldn’t do so good here—I wasn’t slinging fae power like Ben.
    Ben kept up the wall of Spring flame containing the baddies on the other side, while the orb in his other hand—a token of the South Wind, and the Springlands—gusted out, blanketing the room in an unnatural heat, making sure Old Man Winter and his cronies weren’t operating at full capacity. So at least there was that.
    “You okay?” I shouted to Ben.
    He nodded, eyes still locked on Winter. “Just get Michael.”
    “On it,” I said.
    Looked like it was up to me. Also looked like we were gonna have to do this the hard way—because, let’s face it, my life sucks and I always end up doing things the hard way. I slipped my hands into my pockets, pulling on my second ace in the hole: fae beat-down gloves. Really, they were just fingerless biker gloves, with a bit of padding along the fingers and knuckles. I’d added a few extras though—a little steel plating crafted into place over the finger padding, short silver studs protruding from the knuckles. These puppies were perfect for tangling with fairies or shape shifters.
    Kind of like Lex Luthor’s Superman-killing kryptonite gloves … well, Lex’s gloves if he were a gambling degenerate instead of a highfalutin corporate billionaire. And fighting fairies instead of spacemen … yeah, kinda not the same at all, I guess.
    I wiggled my hands into place, the gloves cold and rigid, iced over in spots and fighting against me. Damn it, why hadn’t I put those in a Ziploc too? Idiot. This would’ve looked a lot cooler in the movies—hands go into pockets and come out decked in spiked-gauntlets of badassery. Instead, I just stood next to Ben and spent a good five seconds wiggling the things into place over my winter gloves, feeling pretty stupid the whole while.
    At last, I got my gear into place. “Cover me, Ben,” I shouted as I ran toward Winter, toward the abominables, toward Michael.
    Ben just grunted his response, his face stiff with concentration. The shifting wall of orange opened once more to admit me into the fray before snapping closed. I had to give the guy props, keeping a group of ice fae at bay in the middle of their seat of power wasn’t small beans and birthday balloons.
    As I waded back into the thick of things, the first abominable—Frosty the Unfriendly Snowman—swung a colossal fist which I ducked under with ease, darting in and throwing a series of quick jabs to the creature’s midsection. Bright flares of light flashed with each blow, the crack-hiss of a static burst, followed by the scent of ozone.
    I danced under another sweeping blow, keeping in tight, circling toward the outside, keeping my gigantic sparring partner squarely between me and the second abominable. The creature lashed out with a low