Elemental Assassin 03 - Venom (9 page)

Finn came back in with the ointment, which I slathered on Xavier’s throat. In addition to healing with their hands, Air elementals like Jo-Jo Deveraux could also infuse their oxygen-rich magic into certain products to give them an extra kick, like antibiotic ointment. Xavier sat still while the shiny grease worked its magic. Less than a minute later, the ugly, purple, fist-shaped bruise on his throat faded, the swelling went down, and his breathing eased into a wheeze-free pattern of inhalation and exhalation.

As soon as he could, Xavier got up and went over to Roslyn, who was still talking to Bria. Or rather still not answering Bria. The vampire had pulled herself up into a booth, where she sat staring off into space. Bria perched beside her, speaking in low tones. Probably talking to Roslyn about Elliot Slater and trying to get the vamp to press charges against the giant. But Roslyn wasn’t answering.

Frustrated by the vamp’s lack of response, Bria got to her feet and paced back and forth in front of the booth for the better part of a minute before sitting back down next to the vamp and trying again. Her mojito and night of clubbing were long forgotten. My sister seemed to take her job as a member of the po-po seriously. As proud of her as that made me, I also knew it was something that could be problematic for me later on—for any number of reasons.

Since Roslyn was otherwise occupied, Owen Grayson drifted in my direction. By this point, I’d moved over to
the Ice bar and ordered another gin. One that tasted even more bitter than my first two. But it didn’t much matter, since Finn had gone out to get his car and take me home. I’d seen what he’d wanted me to see. No more reason to stick around the club tonight. Besides, I’d never been one to stay and gawk at the messy aftermath and cleanup. My former profession as an assassin had precluded that sort of thing anyway.

Grayson took the stool next to me and ordered another scotch. His violet eyes cut to his sister Eva, who was once again grooving with the rest of the folks on the dance floor. After he’d made sure she was okay, Owen turned his gaze to me.

“You know, Gin,” he said. “You never did answer my question.”

Owen Grayson was persistent, if nothing else. I thought of the way he’d been ready to back me up against Elliot Slater—and how he’d caught Roslyn after the giant had shoved her away.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll have dinner with you, Owen.”

A smile stretched across his face, softening the hard cut of his features. “Excellent. One night this week?”

I shrugged. “Sure. I’ll call you.”

“Try not to sound too enthusiastic,” he replied in a dry tone. “Or I won’t be able to contain myself. My ego might get inflated or something.”

I grinned at his sardonic humor. My eyes drifted over his broad shoulders and strong body again. I remembered the way Owen had held my hand—and the surprising warmth it had stirred in me. I finished the rest of my gin and got to my feet.

Then I leaned over and put my mouth close to Owen’s ear. “Actually, I prefer to save my enthusiasm for more worthwhile pursuits—like those in bed.”

“Can I get that in writing?” he murmured.

Owen turned his head so that his lips were an inch away from mine. I stared into his violet eyes, and his scent washed over me—a rich, earthy aroma that made me think of metal. I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his. It was a light, brief contact, and nothing like the frenzied, tongue-driving kisses I’d shared with Donovan Caine. Still, more sparks sizzled to life in the pit of my stomach at the feel of Owen’s mouth on mine, at the warmth of his body mingling with my own. Mmm. Maybe having dinner with Owen would be more fun than I’d imagined. Maybe so would a lot of other things.

I pulled back. Desire brightened Owen’s eyes so that they almost glowed, but I found myself looking for other emotions in his gaze. For the guilt and grief and tinge of fear that had always swirled in Donovan Caine’s eyes whenever he looked at me. But I didn’t find them. Only desire and determination.

“If that’s a taste of what’s to come, I can hardly wait for dinner,” Owen murmured.

“Try not to sound too enthusiastic,” I quipped. “Or I won’t be able to contain myself.”

He grinned. “Can I get that in writing too?”

I laughed. Owen joined in with his own throaty chuckle. Feeling strangely lighter than I had in a long time, I winked at him and strolled away.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Finn drove up a long, snaking driveway that wound up one of the many steep ridges of the Appalachian Mountains that cut through Ashland like rows of sharks’ teeth. We hadn’t spoken since we’d left Northern Aggression. Finn realized I was royally pissed at him for snookering me into going to the club in the first place. He had the good sense not to try to weasel his way out of it. Tonight, at least.

The driveway opened up into a small clearing on top of the ridge, and Finn stopped his Aston Martin in the gravel outside Fletcher Lane’s house.

In addition to leaving me the Pork Pit and a fat chunk of change in his last will and testament, the old man had also bequeathed me his house, a three-story, clapboard structure that had been built before the Civil War. Over the years, the home’s various owners had added on to the original structure in a variety of styles. In addition to its white boards, the house was a mishmash of gray stone, brown brick, and red clay. A tin roof covered the entire structure, along with black shutters and blue eaves. The whole thing resembled a ragged doll’s house that had been constructed with leftover pieces. But it was home to me. Always had been, always would be.

Finn sighed in the darkness. “Gin, I—”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I said, turning to look at him. “When Xavier and Roslyn come to the restaurant for lunch.”

Finn blinked. “They’re coming to the Pork Pit?”

“At two. Be there.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you, Gin.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.”

“But you will,” Finn replied. “And that’s all that matters.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand. Despite the fact I was still angry at him, after a moment I squeezed back. Like it or not, Finn was like a brother to me—and in the end, that was all that really mattered.

6

Finn promised to be at the Pork Pit tomorrow when Roslyn and Xavier showed up; then he drove back to his apartment in the city. But instead of immediately heading toward the house, I stood in the driveway, listening to the gravel underneath my feet to see if I’d had any unexpected visitors today. I might not be the assassin the Spider anymore, but there were still plenty of people who’d like to get their hands on me, including Jonah McAllister.

But there were no sounds in the small, loose stones that shouldn’t be there. No shrieks of danger, no notes of worry, no trills of anxiety. Just the gentle creak of the trees, the light tread of squirrels, chipmunks, and rabbits, the whistle of the wind around the ridge. Soft, soothing murmurs. But the comforting whispers still didn’t stop me from checking the black granite that framed and composed the front door to see if anyone might be lurking inside Fletcher Lane’s house.

I spread my fingers over the cool stone that made up the main entrance. The granite’s hum was low and muted, just like always. No one had been near the sprawling house all day. Good. Even if someone had come up to the house, she would have had a hell of a time getting in through the front door, thanks to its sturdy dead bolts and solid construction. As added protection, thin veins of silverstone ran through the black granite door, and silverstone bars covered all the windows. Silverstone could absorb any kind of elemental magic—Air, Fire, Ice, or Stone—as well as power by folks gifted in other elemental areas, like metal, water, electricity, or even acid. Someone with enough magic could eventually overcome the silverstone and granite door and force her way inside the house, but she’d lose a lot of juice doing it. Which would make her that much easier to dispatch with one of my knives.

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Since so many additions had been tacked on to the house over the years, the interior layout was a bit of a labyrinth. Square rooms, oval ones, even an area shaped like a pentagon, all connected by twisting hallways that curved around, doubled back on each other, and often led to the other side of the house entirely. Another advantage, as far as I was concerned. Even if someone could break through the granite around the front door, she’d have a hard time finding me before I slipped out through one of the many secret passages—or came around behind her. All the elemental magic in Ashland wouldn’t save you from a silverstone knife in the back. Win-win for me, either way.

I tossed my keys into a bowl by the front door, toed
off the stylish, designer Bella Bulluci boots that Finn insisted I just had to have for my birthday, and headed for the kitchen in the back of the house. After I poured myself another glass of gin, I padded into the downstairs den and plopped down on the sofa. As always, my gaze drifted up the mantel, where a series of rune drawings stood. Four drawings total, three that I’d done for one of my many community college classes and another, more recent one.

The first three runes were the symbols of my dead family. A snowflake, my mother, Eira’s, rune, representing icy calm. A curling ivy vine, which had belonged to my older sister, Annabella, symbolizing elegance. And a delicate primrose that had been Bria’s rune—the symbol for beauty.

The fourth rune was a bit different in that it was shaped like a pig holding a platter of food—my own rendering of the colorful neon sign that topped the entrance to the Pork Pit. It wasn’t exactly a rune, not like the other three, but I’d sketched it in honor of Fletcher Lane. In my mind, Fletcher and the Pork Pit were one and the same, and both were symbols of home, comfort, safety.

My eyes skipped over the runes, then settled on the primrose. Bria’s symbol. When we were kids, our mother had given each of us a rune to match our personalities and had them made into small silverstone medallions for us to wear. I couldn’t quite believe that Bria still had her necklace—and that she was wearing it all these years later. I did the math in my head. Bria had been eight years old the night our mother and older sister had died, so she’d be twenty-five now. At thirty, I was five years older.

I sighed, took a sip of gin, and grimaced. Still bitter.

I put the glass aside and leaned forward, staring at a manila folder lying on top of the scarred coffee table, along with a single picture. The photo was of Bria, of course. Blond hair, blue eyes, hard mouth. She looked the same in the color picture as she had in the flesh two nights ago and earlier this evening at Northern Aggression.

Finn had written a single word on the folder’s tab—
Bria
. The folder contained all the information he’d been able to dig up on my sister so far. Her work history, financial records, habits, hobbies, vices. Finn had already read through the information, but for some reason, I just couldn’t look at it.

I wanted—I didn’t know what the hell I wanted. Maybe the chance to get to know Bria as a real, live person, instead of flipping through the neatly ordered pages of her life the way I would when I was scouting out a potential target, trying to figure out how to get close enough to kill him. Maybe even for Bria to tell me all her secrets herself, the way that a true sister might.

I didn’t consider myself a sentimental person. Watching my family get fried to a crisp as a kid and then being forced to fend for myself on the mean streets of Ashland was more than enough to shock the sentiment right out of me forever. But ever since I’d found out that Bria was alive, ever since I’d seen that picture of her that Fletcher had left for me, I’d been daydreaming about what she would be like. About what it would be like when we saw each other again.

I’d even fantasized about Bria immediately recognizing me, smiling, and running over to give me a big
hug—while some sort of uplifting music swelled in the background. Instead, my baby sister had seen me at my worst—playing the part of the victim. I wasn’t sure which one was the greater evil—my twisted fantasy or the harsh, bloody reality.

My fingers traced over Bria’s name, and I hooked a fingernail underneath the tab, ready to flip it open and see what secrets my baby sister had been keeping. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not tonight. Maybe it was sentimental of me, but I wanted to put off more of the harsh realities the folder was sure to contain—at least for tonight.