Elemental Assassin 03 - Venom (5 page)

Against my side, Finn’s chest twitched with laughter just the way Xavier’s had a few minutes ago. Finn was trying to stifle a chuckle. He recognized sarcasm when he heard it, even if I was merely mumbling the words, instead of delivering them with my usual dose of dry, sardonic acid.

Bria’s blond eyebrows shot up. “You fell? Onto what? Somebody’s fists?”

“I fell,” I repeated again.

Xavier stepped closer to Bria. “Let it go, detective. Just for tonight. Gin needs to get some help. I’ll vouch for her and Finn.”

Bria glanced at the giant, then at Finn, and finally back at me. She realized we were all aligned together, but she didn’t rage and rail against us the way I thought she might. Instead, she gave a curt nod of her head. “All right, Ms. Blanco. You fell—for now. But don’t think this is over. I’ll have some questions for you in a few days when you’re feeling better.”

“Does that mean we can go now?” Finn drawled.

Bria’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, you can go now. And if I
find out your sister hasn’t gotten the best medical treatment in Ashland, I’ll be charging you with abuse. Got it, pal?”

Finn flashed her a wide, toothy grin. “Oh, I’ve definitely got your number, detective.”

Bria snorted and turned on her heel, much the same way Mab Monroe had done earlier in the evening. She moved off and started talking to the security guard who’d found my supposedly dead body. I couldn’t hear what she was saying to him, but the guy didn’t seem pleased by Bria’s short, clipped words. He scrunched his neck down into his jacket, a turtle pulling its head back into its shell. Looked like my sister was all grown up now—and something of a badass herself.

I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad—or what I was going to do about the whole situation. Too many questions, not enough answers. Not to mention the relentless pain pounding through my body like a red-hot sledgehammer.

“Xavier, you have our thanks,” Finn murmured to the giant. “I’ll take good care of you the next time I’m at Northern Aggression. Promise.”

Xavier nodded. “No problem. I helped you with your situation tonight, you can help me with mine tomorrow.”

The two men exchanged a long look that was just a little too meaningful for my liking. What was that about? What kind of problem did Xavier have that he couldn’t take care of himself? That he needed Finn’s help with? The giant didn’t strike me as the kind to hide money from the IRS, which was one of Finn’s specialties. But I was in too much pain to puzzle it out tonight.

Finn nodded and carried me toward the yellow crime scene tape. Xavier lifted up the flimsy barrier for him, and we left the bloody, frosty grass of the quad behind.

“It’s okay, Gin,” Finn whispered in my ear. “I’m taking you to Jo-Jo’s. She’ll heal you up, and then we can figure out what to do about Bria being in Ashland. You can relax now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Even though it felt like my own bones were stabbing me, I turned my neck, looked over Finn’s shoulder, and stared at Bria. She was still busy berating the security guard, so she didn’t see my pained gaze. My eyes landed on the primrose rune she wore around her neck. The blue and red lights made the silverstone metal gleam like a small moon in the semidarkness.

I never thought I’d see that rune again—much less my baby sister. But seventeen years later, seventeen years after the brutal, fiery murder of our mother and older sister, Bria was back in my life. The tightness in my chest swelled up again, stronger, colder, and harder than before.

The delicate primrose was the last thing I remembered seeing before the world went black.

3

I felt like I was on fire—from the inside out.

Hot needles stabbed up and down my body in a slow, relentless, agonizing path. My raw face, my broken jaw, my cracked ribs. The needles swept over everything, like I was some sort of warped voodoo doll come to life. The hot tingles made everything hurt even worse than it had before.

I whimpered and thrashed, trying to get away from the horrible, burning sensation.

“Hold her still, Sophia,” a voice commanded. “Or her nose is going to look like something from a Halloween shop. You too, Finn.”

A pair of iron hands tightened around my shoulders, immobilizing me. A larger but lighter set of hands clamped around my ankles.

“Hmph,” someone grunted.

For some reason, it sounded like she was saying
go ahead.

The burning continued a moment longer, then abruptly ceased. The sour stench of my own sweat filled my nose, and I panted with relief. A gentle hand smoothed back my damp, bloody hair, then cupped my cheek.

“Go to sleep now, darling.” This time the voice was low, warm, sweet, soothing. “Just sleep, Gin.”

So I did.

The next time I woke up, I was stretched out in an oversize salon chair that had been laid back like a recliner. Much better than lying on the cold grass of the college quad—or on a steel slab at the morgue.

My eyes drifted over the white and blue, cloudlike fresco painted on the high ceiling. Familiar as always. I knew where I was, of course. Jolene “Jo-Jo” Deveraux’s beauty salon. This wasn’t the first time I’d woken up in one of the cherry red chairs staring up at the cloud painting after being healed. I didn’t think it would be the last time either.

Something rough and wet and warm scraped against my right hand. I craned my neck to one side. Rosco, Jo-Jo’s pudgy basset hound, had dragged his fat, lazy ass out of his wicker basket in the corner long enough to come over and lick my hand.

“Good boy,” I murmured and rubbed one of his long, floppy ears between my blood-spattered fingers.

Rosco grunted out a huff of pleasure and collapsed in a brown and black furry heap next to the chair. Walking the thirty feet across the room to me had plumb tuckered him out. I smiled and rubbed the hound dog’s other ear.

“About time you came out of it,” a feminine voice drawled off to my left.

A pair of bare feet strolled into view next to Rosco’s inert form. Bright fuchsia nail polish covered her toes. Only one person I knew still padded around without socks in early December. I looked up to find Jo-Jo Deveraux looming over me. Well, as much as a dwarf who topped out at five feet could loom. Then again, Jo-Jo was rather tall for a dwarf.

Although she was two hundred fifty-seven and counting, Jo-Jo didn’t look a day over one ninety-nine. She always reminded me of a Southern magnolia, aging ever so gracefully. Tonight the dwarf wore a long, fuzzy, pink flannel robe, topped off with a string of gravel-size pearls. Jo-Jo never went anywhere without her pearls. To her, they were the ultimate symbol that she was a true Southern lady. Even though it was getting late, Jo-Jo’s bleached-blond-white hair still stood tall, teased, and proud in its usual helmet of curls, and her eye makeup looked as fresh as if she’d just applied it. Gloss covered her pursed lips. Strawberry, from the smell of it.

Most people would have thought Jo-Jo was just another aging debutante, still trying to be the belle of the ball and clinging to her youth despite the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. They would have been wrong.

Everybody knew Jo-Jo Deveraux was an Air elemental who used her beauty salon and magic to help folks stave off the ravages of time on their faces, breasts, legs, and asses. Pure oxygen facials could do wonders for even the most stubborn crows’ feet. But few people knew the dwarf was also the best healer in Ashland, capable of curing
everything short of death. Even then, you had a better chance of Jo-Jo finding some way to bring you back to life than with anyone else.

Jo-Jo Deveraux had been fast friends with my mentor, Fletcher Lane. When I’d started doing the assassinating instead of the old man, Jo-Jo had transferred her healing services over to me. Of course, I always paid for her time, expertise, and magic, but the dwarf was family to me now. So was her younger sister, Sophia, who was a cook down at the Pork Pit, the barbecue restaurant Fletcher had left me upon his death. Sophia was also rather handy at disposing of the many bodies I left in my wake.

“How are you feeling?” Jo-Jo asked in her low, easy voice that oozed like warm honey.

“Like I got beaten by a giant.”

Concern flashed in her pale gaze. Except for the pinprick of black at their center, the dwarf’s eyes were almost colorless, like two cloudy pieces of quartz set into her middle-aged face.

“Sit me up, please,” I asked.

Jo-Jo nodded. She moved behind me and hit a lever on the chair. The back tilted up, moving me into an upright, seated position. I shifted around, wiggling my fingers, toes, and jaw. I felt tired, but that was to be expected. The body could handle only so much trauma, and going from being well to being severely injured to being well again in the space of a few hours always left me feeling drained and lethargic. It took my brain a while to catch up to the fact that I was still breathing and not six feet under like I should have been.

Dried blood still covered my clothes and hands, but everything
else was in pain-free, working order once more. I sniffed. Jo-Jo had even fixed my drippy nose and purged the flu from my system. Humpty-Dumpty had been put back together again. Despite all of Mab Monroe’s men.

My eyes scanned over the salon, which took up the back half of Jo-Jo’s massive, antebellum house. It looked the same as it always did. Lots of padded swivel chairs. Several old-fashioned hair dryers. Counters cluttered with hairspray, scissors, pink sponge rollers, nail polish, makeup, and gap-toothed combs. Pictures and posters of models with various hairstyles taped to the walls. Piles and piles of beauty and fashion magazines everywhere. I drew in a breath. The air smelled the same too—chemicals mixed with coconut oil from the tanning beds in the next room.

Jo-Jo plopped down in the chair to my right. On the floor between us, Rosco actually expended enough energy to roll over, so the dwarf could rub his pudgy stomach with her bare foot.

“You want to talk about it?” Jo-Jo asked.

I shrugged. “Not much to talk about. Jonah McAllister got Elliot Slater and two of his giant goons to jump me at the community college. McAllister thought I might have info on his son Jake’s murder. Since I didn’t want to blow my cover, I had to let them beat me. End of story.”

Jo-Jo stared at me, a reproachful look in her pale eyes. The dwarf had known me long enough to realize when I was fudging the truth.

I sighed. “And Mab Monroe was there too.”

Jo-Jo opened her mouth to ask a question, but Finn chose that moment to pop his head into the salon.

“Is she finally awake?” he asked.

“Finally?” I groused, looking up at the cloud-shaped clock on the wall. “It’s barely after ten. I only got the shit beat out of me a couple of hours ago. I’d say I was recovering nicely, all things considered.”

“That’s what you think,” Finn said.

He leaned against the door frame, a mug of chicory coffee in his hand. Finn drank the stuff at all hours of the night and day, but the caffeine seemed to have little effect on him. Or perhaps he’d just become immune to it. Fletcher Lane had drunk the same kind of coffee.

I breathed in again, this time tasting the caffeine fumes in the air. The warm, comforting scent always reminded me of the old man. I wished Fletcher had been here tonight, to talk to me about the attack and seeing Bria again. I wished a lot of things about the old man that were never going to come to pass.

Heavy, plodding footsteps sounded, and another person entered the salon. Sophia Deveraux, Jo-Jo’s younger sister. Where Jo-Jo was all sweet pink sunshine, Sophia was the heart of darkness—as in Goth. Sophia wore her usual black jeans and shit-kicker boots. Her T-shirt was actually a girly pink tonight, although images of decapitated doll heads dotted the light fabric. A black leather collar studded with plastic pink hearts ringed Sophia’s neck. A bright pink gloss covered her lips, but her cropped hair was as black as black could be. It stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin.

Sophia was an inch or so taller than Jo-Jo and had a much more muscular figure than her big sister did. At a hundred and thirteen, the younger Deveraux sister was in
her prime, instead of firmly entrenched in middle age like Jo-Jo was. Sophia plopped down in the chair to my left and nodded at me. I nodded back.