Elemental Assassin 03 - Venom (27 page)

The Fire elemental stared at one person after another, daring anyone to challenge her phony words. After a few seconds, all but the bravest souls dropped their eyes from Mab’s and went back to whatever they’d been doing before. Talking, drinking, gambling. Slowly, the noise level returned to normal. Mab pulled Slater toward the back of the deck, where Jonah McAllister stood. The three of them put their heads together and started talking to each other once more.

I waited, but Slater made no move toward the gangplank, and he didn’t summon over any of his men to go chasing after Roslyn. Well, that was something at least.

I tucked my silverstone knife back up my sleeve and turned to Owen Grayson. The businessman’s eyes were dark and hooded, and I didn’t feel like reading the emotions swimming in the depths of his gaze. Time enough for that later. Right now, there was only one thing to do.

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here,” I whispered to Owen.

He stared at me a moment before replying with a single word. “Gladly.”

18

Owen and I walked down the gangplank. After the heated crush of people on board the riverboat, the night air felt cold and empty. Or perhaps that was just my heart after seeing Roslyn Phillips’s raw, naked pain. Only one thing was for sure—Elliot Slater was going to die. The giant would never put his hands on Roslyn—or anyone else—ever again. I’d make certain of that.

I might have moonlighted as an assassin for years, but despite popular misconceptions, I’d never taken any great pleasure in killing people. To me, it had been a job, just like any other. Something I’d been good at, no matter how twisted and wrong and evil it might have been. But this time, this time, I was going to enjoy gutting Elliot Slater. Going to enjoy ripping into him, carving his heart out of his chest, and making him watch while I squished the black, bloody organ between my fingers. Maybe I’d even take a few pictures for Roslyn. The vamp
could use them on her Christmas cards this year. Happy holidays.

Owen and I stepped off the gangplank and onto the riverside boardwalk.

“My car’s this way,” Owen said, heading toward the parking lot where Finn had left his Aston Martin.

I walked by his side, scanning the shadows. The iron street lamps did little to drive back the darkness, and the parking lots stretched out before us like the thick gray slabs you might find on top of graveyard tombs. A few other couples had decided to leave the riverboat soiree early as well, and they waited in small clusters for the tuxedo-clad valets to retrieve their vehicles or for their limos to pull up near the gangplank entrance.

I looked for Xavier, but I didn’t see him lurking around anywhere. The giant should have been long gone if he’d followed my instructions. I did, however, spot Roslyn. The vampire had stopped running and stood about a hundred feet ahead of us on the boardwalk. Beyond her, in the parking lot, I saw the headlights flicker on Finn’s Aston Martin, signaling her. Roslyn hugged her arms to her chest and walked toward the silver sports car, weaving her way around the other vehicles in the lot.

A scuffle sounded, and loud footsteps clacked on the boardwalk behind us in a rapid rush. Someone was running toward us. I looked over my shoulder to see who it was. Her ice-blue dress whipped around her legs, and the silverstone primrose rune bounced up and down against her throat with every stride she took. My sister just didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

Owen heard the footsteps too. He turned, saw Bria
running toward us, and pulled me to one side, out of her way. Bria sprinted past us. Up ahead, Roslyn reached Finn’s car, opened the door, and got inside. A moment later, Finn steered the vehicle out the far side of the lot, away from the pursuing Bria.

Baby sister realized that the vampire had gotten away from her. She slowed to a stop and smacked her hand against the closest street lamp. “Fuck!”

She turned around and saw Owen and me standing on the boardwalk staring at her. Bria reversed direction and hurried our way, her heels spiking into the wood one step at a time. Bria reached into the small purse whose strap she’d looped over her shoulder and pulled out her badge. The gold gleamed like an old coin in the lamplight.

“Detective Bria Coolidge,” she announced. “Did the woman in the red dress speak to you? Did she say where she was going?”

I tightened my hand on Owen’s arm in a warning. He looked at me and nodded. He was going to go along with whatever I said. Smart man. He might just live through the evening.

I looked at Bria. “She didn’t say anything to us. I have no idea where she went.”

Bria must have recognized my voice because she frowned and peered closer at me. She studied my face for several seconds, before her gaze flicked down my dress, then slid over to Owen Grayson. I could almost see the wheels spinning in her mind as she tried to figure out what I’d been doing on board the riverboat.

“Ms. Blanco,” Bria said. “This is the second time we’ve run into each other today.”

“Detective Coolidge,” I replied. “You look lovely. That color really brings out your baby blues.”

Bria’s mouth tightened, as she tried to decide whether or not I was being sincere. “Who’s your friend?” she asked.

Owen stepped forward and extended his hand. “Owen Grayson. Gin’s date for the evening. It’s a pleasure, detective.”

If Owen wanted to keep up the charade of pretending to be my date, fine with me. It gave me a plausible reason to be here in the mix tonight.

Bria shook his hand, then turned her attention back to me. “You don’t know where Roslyn Phillips went? I find that hard to believe, Ms. Blanco. Especially since she was at your restaurant earlier today. The two of you seemed quite cozy then.”

I shrugged. “Lots of people eat at my restaurant, detective. The food happens to be excellent. You should come try it for yourself sometime. I’ll fix you a barbecue sandwich so good, it will make you slap your mama.”

I said the words without thinking, in the joking sort of way I had to so many other people over the years whenever I was boasting about the Pork Pit. But I knew I’d made a mistake the second they were out, because Bria’s face went cold and blank. Of course it would. Mine would have too.

“My mother’s dead.”

Those three simple words each felt like a silverstone knife ripping into my heart. My eyes dropped to the delicate primrose rune around Bria’s neck, then the rings on her finger, and my stomach tightened. Damn. Sometimes I really could be a cold-hearted, insensitive bitch.

Bria shook her head, as if chasing away a bad memory. I knew the feeling.

“You have no idea where Ms. Phillips went?” she repeated her earlier question.

“None,” I replied. “If it makes you feel better, detective, I was just as shocked as you were to hear what she said about Elliot Slater.”

“As was I,” Owen cut in. “As was I.”

I looked at Owen, but his face was just as closed off as Bria’s was.

Bria stared at me again, and I returned her gaze with a cool one of my own. She must have realized she wasn’t getting anything out of me tonight, because she gave me a curt nod.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll track Ms. Phillips down myself. You have my card, Ms. Blanco. If you see Ms. Phillips, please tell her that I’d like to speak to her regarding what she said about Elliot Slater. That I’d like to help her press charges against the bastard, and that I’ll protect her no matter what.”

Bria’s eyes burned with cold, blue fire. The cop in her meant every word she’d just said. She’d protect Roslyn from Slater, even if it resulted in her own ostracization from the police department—or even her death. Finn had been right when he’d pegged my sister as a crusader. I admired the fact that she wanted to help Roslyn, even if I knew nothing would ever come of any charges filed against Slater. Besides, the giant wasn’t going to live long enough for all that. Not if I had my way about things.

Bria gave me another hard stare. “If Roslyn Phillips
is your friend, if you care about her at all, you’ll tell her what I said.”

“Sure,” I replied. “If I see her.”

Bria’s lips flattened into a thin smile. “Sure. If you see her.”

“Now, if you’ll please excuse us, detective, Owen and I were just leaving.”

Bria stared at me a moment longer, then stepped to one side. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ms. Blanco.”

“You too, detective,” I murmured. “You too.”

Thirty minutes later, Owen Grayson pulled his navy blue Mercedes Benz to a stop in the driveway that ringed his mansion. I stared out the window at the building before me. Like most wealthy Ashland businessmen, Owen lived on a sprawling estate, although he was out more in the suburbs than truly being entrenched in the glorified confines of Northtown.

Owen’s place also wasn’t quite as pretentious as I’d thought it would be. The mansion boasted a simple, sturdy facade of only four stories instead of the usual eight or so the rest of the city’s power players preferred. I opened my door, got out of the car, and stood in the driveway a moment, listening to the whispers of the gray cobblestones under my feet and the larger rocks of the mansion above my head. The soft murmurs spoke of pride and power, tempered with wary caution. The sound fit with what I knew of Owen Grayson. Wealthy, strong, cautious. I rather liked it.

Owen walked past me toward the front door. I followed him. He dug his keys out of his pants pocket, and
I eyed the knocker mounted on the front door—a large hammer done in hard, black iron, just like the enormous gate that ringed the house and grounds.

Most magic users in Ashland used some sort of rune to identify themselves, their family, their power, or even their business. Jo-Jo Deveraux, for example, used a puffy cloud to identify herself as an Air elemental. From previous encounters, I knew that the hammer was Owen Grayson’s personal and business rune. The symbol for strength, power, and hard work. A curious choice for a rune. Most people of Owen’s wealth and stature would have gone with something flashier, like Mab Monroe with her ruby and gold sunburst necklace.

Owen opened the door and stepped to one side. “Welcome to my parlor.”

“Said the spider to the fly,” I finished the old saying.

For a moment, I wondered how Owen would react if he knew that I was the Spider and that he was the poor fly caught in my sticky web. I pushed the thought away and headed inside.

Owen led me through the interior of his mansion. He didn’t speak as we walked, and I used the silence to examine my surroundings. One, for practical reasons. I still hadn’t decided what to do about Owen and everything that he’d seen and heard tonight. So I made note of the passageways and potential exits, just in case I had to kill him and leave in a hurry. But I also studied the interior to learn what I could about the mysterious businessman.

Fletcher Lane had instilled a healthy dose of curiosity in me, and Owen Grayson’s behavior over the past few weeks had only deepened my desire to know even more
about him—and if he might be suitable enough to help me start forgetting about Donovan Caine. I liked recreational sex as much as the next gal, but it always helped if my bed partner was someone I wanted to stick around after the fireworks ended.

Just like the exterior of the house, the furnishings were much simpler than I’d expected. Dark, heavy, sturdy woods, thick rugs in cool blues and greens, lots of interesting iron sculptures. I got the sense everything was picked more out of love for the object itself, rather than an inflated desire to be sophisticated and stylish.

Owen led me to a downstairs living room, dominated by an enormous flat-screen television on one wall. Eva Grayson and Violet Fox sat in the middle of an oversize sectional sofa in front of the television, watching
The Princess Bride
and eating a large tub of popcorn. The smell of butter and salt drifted up to me.

The two college girls were best friends—and about as different as different could be. With her black hair, blue eyes, porcelain skin, and tall, lithe figure, Eva always reminded me of a real-life version of Snow White. Violet, on the other hand, was short and curvy, with a mop of frizzy blond hair, black glasses, and bronze skin that hinted at her Cherokee heritage. Both girls sported soft, fuzzy pajamas, apparently in for the evening.