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Meg Smitherman writes science fiction, fantasy and horror books (all of which involve kissing). She studied Creative Writing at Brunel University London, where she obtained both her MA and a staggering amount of student loan debt. When not writing, Meg spends her time playing video games, reading fan fiction and couch rotting. Based in Los Angeles, she shares her life with a chihuahua, a cat and a handsome Englishman.

By Meg Smitherman

The Frost Queen’s Blade Thrum

PENGUIN BOOK S

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The blackness of darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in that mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and stillness, and night were the universe.

The Pit and the Pendulum by Edgar Allen Poe

The lawyer slides a sheaf of papers across the wide leather seat. ‘The NDA,’ she says. ‘Initial each page, and sign at the end.’

Unseasonal summer rain drums on the car roof. A fluorescent street light flickers in staccato as if it’s Morse code, spelling out a message from the electric ether.

A steady drip from my trench is working hard to ruin the upholstery and soak into my skirt at the same time. In a deeply uncharacteristic move, I’d gone out into the downpour to wait for the car to pick me up fifteen minutes earlier than I needed to, convinced that if I was a second late, they’d change their minds. Usually, I’m late for everything.

‘You did read the NDA?’ the lawyer prompts, tapping the paper with a square burgundy nail. She studies me through a pair of wire-frame glasses, her gaze shrewd. I wonder if she disapproves of me, of this whole thing: the fact that some random twentysomething is being invited into the inner sanctum of our country’s wealthiest and most reclusive man.

If I were Ian De Leon’s lawyer, I would disapprove. ‘Yeah,’ I confirm, flipping through the contract. Well . . . I’ve skimmed it. Mr De Leon’s team advised me to have my lawyer look it over for my protection. Yeah, sure. My lawyer. Let me just hop in my private jet and go pick him up; we’ll eat caviar and sip Dom Perignon while we peruse the NDA. Understanding the contract won’t make a difference to me anyway. I’m signing this thing no matter what. No freelance writer in her right mind would refuse an offer to write a book for Ian De Leon, no matter what the NDA says. This book is going to be a guaranteed bestseller, and that’s an accolade I can ride for at least the next couple of years. Maybe even get an offer from a real publisher. One of the Big Two. And then? I’ll be set. No more couch-surfing between one-night stands. No more bottle girl gigs; I don’t give a shit how high they tip. For a second, the reality of it all hits me, and I hesitate, fingers curling the corners of the NDA. Not for the first time, an insidious doubt nags at me. There’s no way Ian De Leon meant to reach out to me with this job offer. He probably meant it for someone else. I write crackpot quantum physics theories on my blog, not biographies. I mean, I have a solid following, and occasionally, I get to write a paid article for some conspiracy theory site – worth it for the money, though a permanent knock to my ego – but how the hell did Ian even hear about me?

But there’s no questioning where I am right now, the NDA in my hands. And there it is, my name typed right on the page, ‘The Undersigned’: Katherine Fox.

‘You don’t want to keep him waiting,’ the lawyer prompts. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, a black bob that seems to defy gravity, sculpted into one solid wave.

‘It’s just . . .’

She raises her brows.

‘This interview is for a book. It’s going to be published. Widely. People will read it eventually.’

‘Yes. But as you know, due to the highly sensitive nature of the product you’ll be discussing, Mr De Leon has final say in what you include in the manuscript. If he wants to cut something, you will cut it. Our in-house publisher will also be under NDA. So, as agreed, since the manuscript will be approved by Mr De Leon and his legal team before publication, the contract stands. Nothing you see or discuss for the next three days will leave the premises without explicit permission from Mr De Leon.’

Fair enough.

I initial each page. I sign and date at the end.

‘Thank you,’ she says, gathering the contract and sliding it into a cream leather briefcase. ‘I’ll email you a copy for your records.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, buzzing with nerves like I’ve chugged three espressos in a row.

‘Remember,’ says the lawyer, ‘from the moment

you leave this car, you’re under NDA. No calls, texts, or photos. You’ll be turning over your phone upon arrival. Mr De Leon will return it when you’re finished.’

‘What if there’s an emergency?’ I ask.

The lawyer looks at me in a way that says this was explicitly outlined in the contract, which I would have known had I read the fucking thing. She purses her lips. ‘Mr De Leon has his own phone.’

‘Okay.’ The answer doesn’t soothe me. I stare out the window, still dragging my feet for no reason. It’s impossible to see anything through the rain-fogged glass but blurred flares of street lights and neon signs, and, above that, the looming dark monoliths of skyscrapers.

‘Don’t keep him waiting,’ the lawyer says.

‘Right.’ I smile tightly and open the car door.

Rain pelts down from the gloomy evening sky. I grab my duffle and slide from the car, slamming the door behind me. I hurry across the pavement to the building doors, shivering in the cold wet. When I try to open them, I find they’re locked. I glance over my shoulder, ready to ask the lawyer for help, but the car is already gone, the street empty and glistening with rain and reflections of light.

There’s a buzzer by the door. I press it, and nothing happens. I see a reception desk inside, but nobody’s there.

‘Great,’ I mutter. I take out my phone, flipping it open. Surely I’m allowed to call the lawyer. I hem and

haw in the fluorescent glow of the building entrance. Then something catches my eye, right at the periphery. A figure stands at the corner across the street, their silhouette illuminated by a street light.

A chill runs down my spine, and it has nothing to do with how cold I am. It’s quiet for a Friday evening in downtown LA. This place should be crawling with traffic. Craning my neck, I look up at the towering building. It’s so tall it may as well be jutting into space, its apex obscured by rainfall. Purple lights brighten its edges, but it’s otherwise dark; there are no yellow-lit windows to indicate anyone’s there. For all I know, this building is completely empty except for the penthouse, where Ian De Leon lives.

And then it occurs to me that this building looks familiar. I remember it being built not too long ago. A few years, maybe. So many mega skyscrapers have sprung up all over LA that I can’t keep track. It’s like an entire skyline of Burj Khalifas. But something about this particular building pulls at my curiosity, drawing me in.

I press the buzzer again. A sudden lance of fear cuts through me: Am I in the right place? Is this an elaborate scam? There’s been a spate of disappearances lately in downtown LA – am I about to be the next? What if I just willingly human trafficked myself?

Heart in my throat, I turn, looking for I don’t know what – a street sign, the lawyer’s car, something to anchor me.

The figure across the street is still there, a tall black silhouette. My breath catches. But as I watch, the figure seems to flicker, dissipating in the rain.

What the fuck? Did I imagine it?

A sound distracts me, pulling my attention back to the building. A square-shaped panel has opened above the buzzer, revealing a clear black plane of glass. I slap my palm on the glass for a fingerprint read, and a red light scans across my splayed hand.

The buzzer emits a loud, abrasive beep, making me jump.

Then nothing.

I glance over my shoulder. The figure is gone. A chill grips my chest, and I place my hand on the black glass again. The red light scans me, beeps loudly, and doesn’t do anything.

‘Let me the fuck in,’ I mutter, unable to stop the fight or flight response my body is deciding I need right now. Then I realize it might not be a hand scanner.

I lean forward and line up my eye with the black glass. The red light almost blinds me as it scans across my vision.

The glass flashes.

Bzzzt! The door unlocks.

Tingling with adrenaline, I hurry through the door and let it slam shut behind me, the lock clicking decisively into place. I turn to look back into the street, searching for that figure again.

The street is empty, wet, reflecting an impressionistic painting of the cityscape.

‘Jesus,’ I murmur under my breath. ‘I need to stop watching horror movies before bed.’

I see an elevator bank to the right and head toward it, choosing not to view the disappearing figure as a bad omen. All that woo-woo shit can be bad for you in high doses; I choose to keep mine confined to my blog. At the elevators, I press the up button and become painfully aware of my bare, chewed-up nails. I should have had them done before I came. The lawyer’s nails were pristine, shiny, and rich. Ian De Leon is going to take one look at me and throw me out.

‘You can’t even afford rent, Kit,’ I say aloud, chiding. ‘Let alone a manicure. That’s why you’re here.’

But if I’m being honest with myself, I would have taken the gig for free. Anyone would. My writing career is about to take off in a way I could never have done on my own. In reality, I should have had to fight off thousands of award-winning writers and journalists just for a chance to write this book for Ian De Leon. But he came to me. He wanted me. Ding!

One of the elevators opens.

I step inside, pressing the button for the penthouse. My trench drips steadily on the floor as I ascend 153 floors.

It’s utterly quiet in the elevator but for the low hum

of upward movement. I’m trying to wring the water out of my coat when an uncanny sensation comes over me. For a second, I feel like I’m having a déjà vu. Like I’ve been here before, in this very elevator, my pale fingers twisting the dark green fabric of my second-hand trench. But not just that – I feel like I’m going underwater, like I’m falling, sinking deep, my eyes and ears filling up. And for a split second, I almost think . . .

I almost think the whole world flickers out of view. As if every light in the universe had gone dark, and –My ears pop painfully.

The sensation is gone.

And the elevator comes to a smooth, almost imperceptible stop. There’s a soft chime, and the doors slide open.

I hesitate for a breath, disoriented. I’m not used to riding in such fast elevators. The altitude change really did a number on me. But I’m here. And that excitement, the reality of it, washes away my anxiety.

I step out of the elevator onto plush carpet and immediately freeze. Glancing around at the living space, the first word that occurs to me is pristine. I’ve never seen a living area so large and so visibly untouched. It’s open plan, all chrome and dark wood and strangely shaped cream sofas that almost look like art installations. On the far wall, facing west, is a single floor-to-ceiling window through which the facades of nearby skyscrapers, glittering with animated ads, glow neon in rain-blurred smears.

God, everything in this place is so clean. I’m going to ruin Ian De Leon’s penthouse with rainwater and street grime. Here come my nerves, back again to play. But I refuse to let them. I’m supposed to be here. I signed a contract.

No one is here to greet me, though, except a seemingly empty penthouse.

‘Hello?’ I say, bending down to unlace my boots. There’s no way I’m tracking water and dirt all over a billionaire’s house.

‘Yeah, come in,’ comes a voice from around the corner of the elevator bay.

Anticipation licks my skin. I know that voice. It’s one of the most famous voices in the world, and also one of the wealthiest.

Awkwardly, I shake my boots off. Should I just leave them by the door? What about my duffle?

‘Mr De Leon,’ I say, ‘where can I put my wet things?’

‘There’s a closet to the left, in the hallway. Come in, come in.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ I reply, feeling incredibly awkward. Shouldn’t he have a butler? And where is his Eros model, if not here to greet me? Maybe he’s saving the reveal for later.

I find the closet, but not without leaving a dripping path in my wake. The closet is empty except for a line of slippers in various sizes on the floor. I hang up my damp coat, delicately place my boots and duffle in the

far corner, and then stare hesitantly at the slippers. Should I put some on? Is that what they’re for?

After a moment of waffling, I finally slide my feet into one of the smallest pairs. Then I remember I’m supposed to turn in my phone and pluck it from my handbag before hanging that up, too. I close the closet door.

My heart is hammering. Now that I’m out of the rain with dry feet, it’s starting to really hit me: I’m alone in a sky-high penthouse with Ian De Leon.

Ian De Leon!

‘Found it?’ my host calls, probably wondering why I’m taking so long.

‘Yeah, sorry!’ I follow his voice to the other side of the elevator, where a kitchen and bar open up in warmly lit hues. And there, standing behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, is Ian De Leon.

He smiles, and I already know he’s going to be a problem for me. ‘What are you drinking, Katherine Fox?’

Ian De Leon is shorter than I thought he’d be. I’ve only seen him in photographs from before he made all his money, or in the official-looking headshots they use in the news. Not a single paparazzi shot of him exists, and he doesn’t do interviews. Not since the Eros model debuted. In fact, for years he’s said he would never appear in public or give an interview again.

Until now.

He’s older than his most recent photo by about a decade, putting him . . . mid-forties, I’m guessing. His thick black hair is marked at the temples with streaks of silver. His jaw is stubbled with five-o’clock shadow, which I suspect is by design. His collared white shirt hangs open at the throat, revealing a thin gold chain and a hint of chest hair. A pair of round, gold-framed glasses hang from his shirt pocket. Everything about him is perfect, clean, curated – just like the penthouse.

Ian De Leon is much better looking in person. And even though I try to ignore it, my heart rate absolutely can’t. He is definitely going to be a problem.

Rain patters the floor-to-ceiling window behind me.

Ian watches me expectantly with dark brown eyes. And as I move closer, pulse pounding, something in his gaze makes my gut tighten. He looks like the men I used to serve at cocktail bars: polite at first, even respectful, but deep down I recognize a glint of hunger there. He clears his throat.

I realize he’s waiting for my answer. I try to relax; I need to chill the fuck out if I’m going to spend the next three days with him. ‘Whiskey’s fine.’

He raises a dark eyebrow. ‘Straight?’

‘Oh . . . uh, no.’ I’m so off my game. Usually, I’m a pro at acting cool and casual, no matter what emotions are scrabbling for purchase underneath. ‘Sorry, I thought . . . because you had the bottle –’

He leans over the bar, forearms resting on the countertop. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing a gold bracelet partially obscured by thick dark hair. ‘Tell me what you’d order from the bar,’ he says with a half-smile. His mannerisms are disarming, intimate, and a little too sexy.

I almost blurt out my actual order – a shot of tequila – like I’m sixteen with a fake ID. But Ian De Leon doesn’t need to know how cheap a date I really am, how easy it is to get me into . . . well. In any other circumstance, I’d fall into his bed stone-cold sober. But in this case, I’m trying to be a professional career woman; a person who drinks fancy cocktails. And I’m ashamed to realize I have no idea what drink I should