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

like someone talking to a particularly dense and partially deaf foreigner. Ben bore it patiently, nodding enthusiastically in places, asking for repetition in others.
    “Okay,” he said, “so our friend here—Razelfran, not Stumpy—says only a few of them have access to the chamber, something akin to their military officers, I think. Razelfran’s just a low-level private. The guards will attack if he crosses the entryway.”
    “Right,” I said, “so we’re screwed.”
    As though to emphasize my point, the approaching pack of ice gnomes chose that moment to send up a war-cry. Close now. Too close. They’d hemmed us in; gnomes behind, death trap ahead, and no way to backtrack. The shrieks came again, and I could hear foot-falls in the snow.
    “Can you make a veil good enough to hide us from the spriggans?” I asked.
    “Probably.”
    “Probably? I need a yes or a no here.”
    Ben shrugged apologetically. “Probably is the best I can give you.”
    I sighed. Just perfect. “Okay,” I said, “longshot’s better than no shot, I guess. Look, I have a plan. Sort of. Get the weaves ready for the veil, and be ready to move when I tell you.” He looked a little green, but nodded his head in understanding. “And Stumpy”—I turned toward the gnome—“you stick close to my side. No noise, no unnecessary movement. ‘Kay? ‘Kay.”
    I sent my probing lash back out, searching the intricate sigils again. Swirling strands of spirit and air all bound together in ice and reinforced with cables of dark energy—the unwilling sacrifice of something formally living. A delicate, pulsing lace extended up from the strange markings and fed into the fae guardians, carved with similar markings.
    “Yancy, they’re coming,” Ben whispered, lips nearly pressed against my ear. “They can see us!” he squealed, voice tight with barely restrained panic.
    Laughter, sharp and crazed, followed by a round of crooning hoots and the shuffle of feet over ice.
    “Oh my God, I think I know which one has the keycard.”
    I glanced back, just for a second. Bringing up the rear, a beastly creature three or four times the size of his brethren, easily the world’s tallest gnome. Coarse white fur running over thick muscle, built for tearing apart lesser creatures—like puny humans, maybe. Blue face with the same wispy hoarfrost beard, though its lower jaw hung open revealing rows and rows of crooked, yellow fangs. A massive set of curling ram’s horns protruded from either side of its shaggy head. And, of course, a pointy gnome hat, which really kinda ruined the killing-machine badass thing it had going. Still, I bet no one would knock this guy over if he was sitting on the front lawn.
    Right, double screwed, so back to work.
    There! I found the strand responsible for the primary directive. Basically, the sigils and runes carved and painted around the room summoned and held the spriggans in place, but they also supplied the creatures with a rudimentary set of orders. Namely, smash anything that doesn’t have the correct keycard. I couldn’t dispel the working, but I could disrupt the programming. Shove a stick into the bike spokes, so to speak. Sure, I couldn’t make something like this, but busting it up? Yeah. Breaking something really intricate is a lot easier than making something really intricate.
    I hardened my probe into a scalpel of spirit, and, with surgical precision, severed the minuscule strand responsible for the basic orders.
    I pulled Ben into the chamber, Stumpy trailing behind.
    “Now, do it now!” I hollered.
    Several things happened at once:
    First, the gnome death squad tore into the chamber a few steps behind us, beady eyes focused, clubs and rough ice-sickles—not the same as icicles—swinging back and forth in anticipation.
    Then, Ben’s illusion snapped into place with a barely audible pop and the world around us became a little hazy and slightly distorted, like seeing through a dirty fishbowl.
    Finally, the