Web of Lies (Page 30)

He was a giant, and he was vampire. One who wanted to drink my blood to replace his own.

Panic filled me. Before he could sink his teeth into my neck, I wrested the knife out of his massive chest and plunged it into his body again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over I stabbed him, blood and tears and mucus covering me like a second skin. Someone was screaming. Me.

Douglas let go of my hair and slid to the floor, but I didn’t stop my assault. He kicked out, catching my leg. My knee buckled, and I stumbled back, grabbing the edge of the cash register for support. My shoulder burned with pain, just like my palms had when the Fire elemental who’d murdered my family had tortured me by making me hold onto my own spider rune medallion. The giant vampire flopped on his stomach and crawled around the counter. Some small part of my mind realized that he wasn’t fighting me anymore, that he was actually trying to get away from me.

But I still went after him.

I threw myself onto his back and plunged the knife in between his shoulder blades. With my weight behind it, the weapon sank up to the hilt in his flesh. This time, Douglas didn’t scream. Something seemed to give in his body, and he stilled. I raised the knife and stabbed him again –

Rough hands settled on my shoulders. I flailed against them, but they were stronger, pinning my arms to my sides.

He pulled me close to his chest, and the smell of chicory coffee washed over me, penetrating the coppery stench of fresh blood.

"It’s over, Gin," Fletcher said in my ear. "It’s over. He’s dead. You can quit stabbing him."

Fletcher crooned soft words into my ear, still cradling me in his arms. The knife slipped from my cramping hand and clattered onto the floor –

The sound might have only been in my dream, but its sharp echo woke me. So suddenly, that I was standing in the middle of my bedroom headed for the door before I realized it was only a dream, another one of my ugly memories manifesting itself. For a moment, I felt that hysterical rage burning through me, that gut-deep, primal need to survive no matter what the cost or consequences.

The instinct that had dictated so much of my life.

I sighed and rubbed the gritty crud out of the corners of my eyes. My psych professor at the community college would have said the dreams, the flashes of my past, were my psyche’s way of dealing with the trauma. Of healing.

Quack. To me, the dreams, the memories, were tiring trials, like Marley’s ghost rattling his heavy chains at Scrooge. I’d lived through the events once already. I didn’t need the Technicolor replay at night.

And I certainly didn’t need to dwell on them now.

So I crawled into bed, snuggled back into the warm spot underneath the flannel sheets, and forced myself to relax. To let my body sink into the mattress. To unclench my jaw, uncurl my fists, and forget about the night I’d so brutally killed a man inside the Pork Pit. One of many.

But despite my best efforts, it was still a long, long time before I drifted off to sleep once more.

Chapter Thirteen

"This is getting to be an annoying occurrence," I said.

Just before noon the next day, I stood in the storefront of the Pork Pit. Once more, the restaurant was as empty as a church on Saturday night, except for Sophia Deveraux, who was at the back counter mixing white vinegar, sugar, mayonnaise, and black pepper to make the dressing for a batch of coleslaw. The Goth dwarf had lightened up her wardrobe a bit today. Instead of her usual black T-shirt, she wore one that was blood red – and decorated with lacy cutouts of white coffins. The collar around her neck resembled a thick garnet snake, with chunky square rhinestones for scales.

My eyes flicked over the empty booths, the abandoned tables, the deserted stools. Normally, Wednesday was a busy day, with people coming in to get their midweek barbecue fix. But not today. I knew Jonah McAllister was Mab Monroe’s number two guru, that he was a slick, powerful, corrupt lawyer in his own right, but he must have had more influence than I’d realized, if he could convince people to stay away from the Pork Pit two days in a row. I wondered how long the lawyer could keep up the pressure – and what I could do about it. Other than kill the bastard. Which would only cause more problems for me, in the end.

"Did you send everyone home with pay already?" I asked. "Is that why there’s nobody here but you?"

"Um-mmm." Sophia’s grunt for yes.

The Goth dwarf started stirring the dressing into a mound of chopped green and purple cabbage and carrots, even though there wasn’t going to be anyone around to eat it. A shame, really.

Finn wasn’t due to show up for a few more minutes, so I decided to fix myself a plate of food while I waited. Nobody else was going to be clamoring for barbecue today.

A barbecue beef sandwich, baked beans, iced blackberry tea, some coleslaw from the dwarf ‘s metal vat. I took my food and sat at one of the tables in the middle of the restaurant, so I could watch for Finn coming down the street and still talk to Sophia.

I was halfway through my food when the bell over the front door chimed. I looked up, expecting to see Finn.

The man wore an impeccable business suit and polished wingtips, but that’s where his resemblance to Finnegan Lane ended.

His gunmetal gray hair was parted on the side, with a thick doo-wop that curled up, down, and around his forehead like a scoop of vanilla soft serve. Given the gray hair, I would have put his age at around sixty. But he had the face of a much younger man – smooth, clean-shaven, and curiously free of wrinkles, even around the corners of his brown eyes. My guess? The finest Air elemental facials and skin treatments his hefty retainers could by.

Debutantes and trophy wives weren’t the only vain folks in Ashland. He’d left his hair au natural, though. Probably thought the silver color made him look more distinguished.

Still, for all his youthful vigor, the man radiated awshucks charm the way a snake-oil salesman might. Shake his hand, and you’d be wiping the grease off yours for the next ten minutes. And wondering where your wallet went. I recognized him from his many pictures in the newspaper and Fletcher’s thick file on Mab Monroe and her flunkies.

Jonah McAllister, Ashland’s slickest attorney and personal counsel to Mab herself, had just walked into my restaurant.

And he wasn’t alone.

Jake McAllister strutted in through the door behind his old man. Rock-star jeans, vintage T-shirt, heavy boots, a black leather coat that skirted the floor. Another punk getup.

Two giant bodyguards also stepped inside the restaurant, taking up all the available space by the front door.

The goons were probably on loan from Mab Monroe, via her other number-two man, enforcer Elliot Slater, who was a giant himself. Even if I’d had a customer today, she wouldn’t have been able to get inside with the two behemoths blocking the entrance.