Venom

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.

Owen leaned over the back of the sofa and ruffled Eva’s hair.

“Are you watching that again?” he said, his voice light and teasing. “If I’d known you were going to make Violet watch it every time you girls had a movie night, I would have bought you something else.”

“It’s not my fault you have no taste in movies,” Eva teased back.

I stood off to one side and watched them. Their good-natured squabbling reminded me of my own relationship with Finn. And the sort of easy camaraderie that I longed to have with Bria someday.

But then Eva spotted me lurking in the shadows. “Gin? Is that you?”

I stepped forward. “In the flesh.”

“Gin, it’s so good to see you!” Eva got up on her knees, leaned over the back of the sofa, and hugged me.

“It really is,” Violet echoed.

Violet put down the popcorn and also got up on her knees and hugged me. I accepted the girls’ greetings. Eva had considered me a friend ever since I’d saved her from being fricasseed by Jake McAllister when the Fire elemental had tried to rob the Pork Pit a few weeks ago.

Violet also considered me a friend but for another reason — I’d killed Tobias Dawson, the dwarf who’d sent his brother to rape and murder her when her grandfather, Warren, wouldn’t sell his land to Dawson. Doing pro bono work had some perks. Saving Eva and Violet from getting dead had been two of them.

Once we got the hugs out of the way, the two girls sat back down on the sofa.

Eva gave me a critical once-over. “You look smoking hot tonight, Gin. I didn’t know you were Owen’s date for that boring riverboat thing.”

I looked at Owen. “Oh, it was sort of a last-minute arrangement.”

His lips twitched. “Very last minute.”

“Well, it’s about time you went out with my big brother,” Eva said. “Even if he wouldn’t know a good movie from a hole in his head.”

I laughed. “I’m glad you approve, Eva. How come you’re not out on the town this evening?”

Violet answered me. “Finals are over, and we decided to veg out.”

“Totally,” Eva agreed.

I nodded at the screen. “With The Princess Bride, I see. A classic. I approve.”

I chatted with Violet and Eva a few minutes, asking them about their classes and finals, before Owen finally cleared his throat.

“Sorry, girls, but Gin and I need to talk.” He mussed Eva’s hair again. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Eva rolled her eyes at her brother’s instructions. Violet just snickered.

Owen and I left the living room, and he led me to the back of the house. A heavy wooden door sat closed at the end of a hallway. It bore the same simple hammer rune as the front door. Once again, Owen opened the door and stepped to one side. I entered the room, my gaze sweeping over everything. Big desk, leather chairs and couches, books, maps, crystal lamps, a stone fireplace. Your typical office.

Except for the weapons.

They adorned one entire wall of the room, mounted there in a simple display. Swords, axes, hammers, the occasional mace, and knives. Lots of knives. Some of which could have been carbon copies of my own silverstone instruments. As a former assassin, I always admired well-crafted weapons. Even across the room, I could tell that these were all finely made. Hmm. So Owen hadn’t been lying when he’d once told me about his interest in crafting weapons. The businessman became more interesting by the minute.

I walked over to the wall and gestured at a long sword, one of a matching set. “May I?”

“Of course.”

I took the weapon from its perch and examined it. Light, lethal, strong, perfectly balanced. Besides size, the only real difference between the sword and one of my own knives was the small rune stamped onto the hilt — Owen Grayson’s hammer. No doubt every silverstone weapon on the wall bore the same rune, the mark of its maker. Evidently Owen was quite the craftsman. He’d probably made the iron sculptures I’d seen throughout the house as well.

Owen had much more than a modest elemental talent for metal, if these weapons were any indication of his skill. I knew I could take any weapon off the wall and use it with the utmost confidence that it wouldn’t bend, break, or shatter the first time I shoved it into someone’s chest. To me, that was the real sign of a master craftsman. I’d always been practical that way.

“Do you like it?” Owen asked, moving to stand beside me. “You should. It’s just a bigger version of the two knives you have hidden up your sleeves, the other two you have strapped to your thighs, the two more hidden in your boots, and the one in your purse.”

Owen’s violet eyes glowed with a faint light, and I felt the faintest bit of magic trickling off him. A cool caress, not unlike my Stone magic. Not surprising, since metal was an offshoot of Stone. He was using his elemental talent for metal to scope out how many silverstone weapons I currently carried on my person. Couldn’t blame him for that. Not after everything that had happened this evening.

Owen leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. He regarded me with a cool gaze. “So,” he said. “You finally want to tell me what you were doing on that riverboat tonight? With all those knives on you? Because I’m guessing you didn’t go just to play poker.”

I put the long sword back into its slot on the wall, then turned to face him.

“No,” I replied. “I wasn’t there to play poker. I was there to kill Elliot Slater.”