A thick layer of crusted snow covered the ledge. A strong gust of wind blew up her skirt, pushing it up over her waist and exposing her tiny thong. If any eagle-eyed New Yorkers were watching from below, they’d catch a wondrous view of her arse. Why didn’t I change into trousers first? Her bare knees were freezing against the ice. She’d been too charged up to think this through, as usual.

Another gust of wind blew her hair into her eyes. She wanted to brush it away, but she couldn’t lift a hand from the ledge without slipping.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. As she inched toward the window, she did her best to ignore the auburn tresses slapping her cheeks. She crawled forward, and the ice on the ledge thickened. She glanced down at the street fifteen stories below. The falling snow obscured most of the details, and it looked as though she was peering into a bottomless void. What the hell was I thinking? This is insane. She started to edge backward, but her knee slipped from the ledge, and she scrambled to press herself close against the building.

She gasped, and the knife almost slipped from her teeth. She didn’t want to move forward or backward at this point, but she obviously couldn’t stay here. I really am a first-class idiot. She’d failed at holding down a job, keeping a boyfriend, achieving any sort of education or achievement. Tonight she’d screwed up her hellhound job, and now she was stuck on an icy ledge fifteen stories above Manhattan’s streets. No one would really care if she lived or died. Her only contribution to the world so far was her ability to light things on fire.

Although… A thought sparked in her mind. Maybe she could channel Emerazel’s fire and melt some of the ice.

But how to do it? Before when she’d used the fire, she hadn’t uttered any Angelic to call up the fire. Neither, as far as she could tell, had Kester. It had just sort of been there when she needed it, burning her veins and channeling into her fingers until they glowed, white-hot. Maybe she just needed to envision it.

She imagined her palms burning, her fingertips blazing like candles.

She glanced at her hands. Nothing.

As she closed her eyes, she envisioned a raging forest fire. She peeked at her fingertips, frozen to the ledge. A frigid gust of wind blew up her skirt again. How did you explain to a hospital how you’d got frostbite on your arse?

Bollocks. Imagining fire couldn’t be it. And when she thought about it, she hadn’t even known she had this ability when she’d burned Muppet in Rufus’s club.

Another snow squall whipped by her ears. Her hands were freezing against the stone. Damn it, this had been a terrible idea.