Venom

9

“Are you sure he’s in there?” I asked.

Finn grinned. “Baby, would I lie?”

I stared at him.

“Okay, frequently,” he admitted. “But you can trust me on this. Elliot Slater’s in that restaurant, along with Jonah McAllister and Mab Monroe. According to my sources, they’re having their weekly powwow. Talking business, counting their money, discussing the latest body count.”

“The usual, then,” I murmured.

I stared through the window of Finn’s silver Aston Martin. It was just after eleven, and we sat parked across and down the street from Underwood’s, Ashland’s most exclusive and expensive restaurant. Underwood’s was the kind of place where a glass of tap water cost ten bucks. More, if you wanted ice. The restaurant was located in one of the city’s older brick buildings, a classy, three-story affair in the financial district. Much of the stone had been stripped from the top floor and replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave the restaurant’s patrons an impressive view of the Aneirin River that curved through this part of downtown. A crimson awning bearing the eatery’s name stretched out into the street, and valets hurried forward to open the doors on the steady stream of limos that pulled up to the curb.

Finn reached over and tapped the manila folder on my lap. “According to my info, the Three Musketeers should be ordering dessert about now. Tiramisu for Mab Monroe, pear cheesecake for Jonah McAllister, and a whole chocolate fudge pie for Elliot Slater.”

I opened the folder and flipped through the sheets of paper. As soon as Roslyn and Xavier had left the Pork Pit, Finn and I had gone to work. I’d left the restaurant in Sophia Deveraux’s capable hands for the rest of the afternoon, while Finn had fired up his laptop, reached out to his many sources, and started compiling all the information he could on Elliot Slater and the best and quickest way I could kill him.

Just like Fletcher Lane would have done, if the old man had still been alive. Finn even used the same type of plain-Jane folders that Fletcher had. Made me all nostalgic.

Nothing obvious had jumped out of the file, so we’d decided to tail the giant to see if we could spot any potential weaknesses. A bar he liked to frequent, a bookie he did business with, a mistress tucked away somewhere. It was one thing to just walk up to Slater and stab him to death. I could do that easily enough. It would be quite another to make his death look like a random bit of violence on the mean streets of Ashland and not have it traced back to me or Roslyn Phillips.

After Finn had worked his computer magic, we’d swung by Fletcher’s house to pick up some supplies for the evening. More silverstone knives for me, an extra laptop battery for Finn, and ski masks and dark, anonymous clothes for both of us. Normally I didn’t care if my targets saw my face before they died. It wasn’t like they were going to blab about my real identity where they were going. But I wasn’t taking any chances with Elliot Slater. Especially since he already knew me as Gin Blanco. It would be just my bad luck to get interrupted before he died and then have him point the finger back at me before he took his last, blood-soaked breath.

I closed the file, placed it on the floor, and leaned my head back against the seat.

“Speaking of files,” Finn said. “Did you ever look at that info on Bria that I compiled for you?”

“No.”

Finn stared at me with his bright green eyes. “Why not? I thought you’d be eager to see what your long-lost baby sister has been up to the past seventeen years.”

I sighed. “Part of me is. But part of me wonders if I should even bother.”

“Why?”

“Because Bria’s a cop, Finn,” I replied. “A real straight arrow, just like Donovan Caine was. I don’t think she’d be too thrilled to learn that her big sister has killed more people than the common cold.”

Finn looked at me for a moment. “Once again, you underestimate yourself. If Bria can’t understand why you’ve done the things you’ve done, then she doesn’t deserve to know you. Just like Donovan Caine didn’t deserve you.”

I tried to smile, but I don’t think it came off very well. “Sweet of you to say, but we both know that’s not true, don’t we? I can’t blame Donovan for leaving, not really. It’s one thing for a guy to want to sleep with me. But hanging around long-term with a former assassin? That’s not the kind of thing that makes a man rest easier at night, especially when he’s in bed next to me and I’ve got a knife tucked under my pillow and another one on top of the nightstand.”

Finn opened his mouth, probably to argue with me some more, but a movement across the street caught my eye. One of the valets hurried to open the door, and Mab Monroe strolled out into the dark night. The Fire elemental wore a stylish black trench coat, and her coppery hair glistened like wet blood against the dark fabric. Jonah McAllister exited next, followed by Elliot Slater. Both men wore suits, somber ties, and wingtips. I could see the gleam of their shoes even across the street.

Elliot Slater jerked his thumb at the two valets on duty. The kids paled, then hurried around the corner to retrieve someone’s car. Slater rejoined Mab and Jonah McAllister, and the Three Musketeers, as Finn had dubbed them, stood on the sidewalk talking. Finn rolled down his window to see if we could hear any of their conversation.

“… don’t care about the consequences. Just get it done,” Mab snapped to the other two.

“Perhaps you’re being a bit hasty…” McAllister began in a fainter voice. He turned around to watch Mab pace back and forth on the sidewalk, and the rest of his words were lost to me.

Mab whirled around on her heel and glared at the silver-haired attorney. “I’m never hasty, Jonah. Elliot and his men need to take care of it. Tonight. Am I understood?”

McAllister nodded his head. So did Slater.

A limo pulled to a stop at the curb in front of them. Mab said something else to her two flunkies, but the rumble of the engine drowned out her voice. The Fire elemental slid into the back of the limo, and a moment later it sped away into the night. One of the valets brought another car around, a late-model Mercedes. Jonah McAllister slipped into the driver’s seat, whipped a U-turn, and raced away in the opposite direction.

That left just Elliot Slater standing on the sidewalk. The giant pulled a slim cigar case out of his jacket pocket and lit up a Cuban with the help of a heavy silver lighter. Slater leaned against the brick of the restaurant and puffed away. The giant enjoyed two more cigars in rapid succession, but he made no move to leave.

“What is he waiting for?” I murmured. “Christmas?”

“I don’t know,” Finn replied.

We sat there and watched Slater smoke. About five minutes later, a black Hummer stopped in front of the restaurant. Slater crushed out his cigar and climbed into the back of the vehicle. Finn and I slid lower in our seats as the Hummer roared down the street past us.

Finn let the driver get a block away before sitting up and cranking the Aston’s engine. He turned to me and grinned. “Care to follow the white rabbit down his hole?”

“Sure,” I replied. “Let’s see what kind of late-night errand the giant is doing for Mab Monroe — and how we can fuck it up.”

*

Finn hung back at a discreet distance, and we followed the Hummer through the downtown district. The vehicle took one of the on ramps to the interstate, so Finn was able to blend in with the rest of the evening’s traffic.

“Looks like they’re headed for Northtown,” Finn murmured.

Ashland might sprawl over the mountainous region where Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina met, but the city was really divided into two sections — Northtown and Southtown. The Pork Pit and Ashland Community College lay close to Southtown, which was home to the disenfranchised, down-on-their-luck, and dregs of society. Junkies, vampire hookers, and homeless bums wandered the Southtown streets, along with menial, blue collar workers barely eking out a living.

Northtown was a different story with its cutesy subdivisions, cookie-cutter homes, and sprawling estates. That was the part of the city that the white-collar yuppies and moneyed, social, and magical elite called home. But that didn’t make that part of Ashland any less dangerous. I’d rather face down a dozen junkies than have to put up with a self-important yuppie snob who thought he was better than me just because he had little logos on his polo shirts and chinos.

“It’s not terribly surprising that Slater’s headed to Northtown,” I told Finn. “Northtown folks are the only ones rich and dumb enough to make trouble for Mab Monroe.”

“Yeah, Mab just ignores Southtown trash like us.” Finn snorted.

I smiled. “Going to be the death of her. One day real soon.”

Finn stared at me out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, he shook his head and returned my sly smile.

The Hummer carrying Slater and his cohorts got off the interstate. Finn slowed down and followed the black vehicle. The Hummer rumbled past a couple of cobblestone shopping malls filled with pretentious bookstores, overpriced coffee bars, and designer clothing shops. There was just enough late-night traffic to keep us from being spotted. Not that I really cared if Slater realized we were following him. If the giant stopped and confronted us, well, I’d solve Roslyn Phillips’s problem on the pavement, witnesses be damned.

But the giant was far too busy plotting his foul deed for the evening to notice us tailing him, because the Hummer never slowed down or did any sort of evasive maneuvers. After about twenty minutes of driving, the massive vehicle turned into a subdivision. A spotlight on the brick entrance highlighted the name — Paradise Park. Finn waited until the Hummer had made the turn into the subdivision before killing the lights on his Aston Martin and following.

I peered at the houses we passed. Mostly two-story affairs with wide porches. Roomy enough for a family, but not enormous. Swing sets, plastic castles, and other toys littered most of the sloping lawns.

“Not as nice as I’d expect for someone causing trouble for Mab Monroe,” I said. “These are middle-class homes, not McMansions.”

Finn shrugged. “Doesn’t matter either way, does it? We’re here to watch Slater, not Mab’s target.”

I returned his shrug. “Not really.”

A block ahead, the Hummer’s taillights flared red in the darkness. The vehicle made a final turn, coasted halfway down the street, then stopped. I peered out my window. Unlike the other jam-packed avenues in the subdivision, this one only featured two houses sitting on opposite sides of the corner. The Hummer sat several hundred yards away from each one. What was going on? Did Elliot Slater need his exercise or something? Was the giant going for a jog out in the suburbs?

“I wonder why they’re stopping here,” Finn murmured, voicing my silent question.

“No idea. Let’s find out.”

I picked up a pair of night-vision goggles from the dashboard and peered through them. The Hummer doors opened, and Slater slipped out, along with four other giants. Elliot Slater ran his hands down his suit jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles. Then he jerked his head at his men. But instead of walking back down the street in our direction, Elliot Slater and his men tromped through the grass to the right of the Hummer. I scanned over and spotted a modest house hidden behind a thin row of freshly planted trees. It looked like it had just been built, given the amount of loose dirt, cement blocks, and two-by-fours that still ringed the structure. The house was the only one on its block, and more than a half mile from the next-closest building.

“Looks like they’re slipping up on a house on the next street, Jasper Way, according to the sign at the end of the corner. Going in the back instead of the front,” I said.

“Jasper Way?” Finn asked. “What’s the name of this subdivision again?”

“Paradise Park,” I replied. “Why? Does one of your many conquests live around here?”

“Probably, but the name sounds familiar for some other reason.” Finn frowned and tapped his fingers on his thigh, trying to remember something important.

I peered through the goggles again. A light burned in one of the downstairs windows of the home, but the curtains were drawn, so I couldn’t see inside. A gleam of white caught my eye, and I looked to the right.

“The name on the mailbox says Coolidge.” I frowned. The name tickled my memory for some reason.

“Coolidge?” Finn asked.

“Yeah, Coolidge.” I snapped my fingers. “I remember now. After Elliot Slater finished beating me that night at the community college, I heard Mab talking about someone named Coolidge. About how Mab wanted him taken care of — the sooner the better. Must be why Slater and his men are paying him a late-night visit. I wonder what the poor guy did to piss off Mab.”

Finn sighed and closed his eyes for a second. “Not him, her,” he replied. “Coolidge is a her, Gin.”

“How do you know that?”

Finn stared at me, his green eyes flashing like emeralds in the semidarkness. “Because it’s in that file of information I gave you.”

A hard knot formed in my stomach. “Which file?”

“The one on Bria,” Finn replied. “Bria Coolidge. That’s the name she’s using now.”

Oh, fuck.