(Elemental Assassin 01) Spider's Bite (25 page)

“You know him?” I asked.

The detective’s mouth tightened. “Unfortunately. Calls himself Chuck or Chuckie C. He’s a small-time hood who likes to pretend he’s bigger than he really is. Drifts from one crew to the next, always on the lookout for an easy score. A real slimeball. I ran into him a few times when I was working vice.”

“Vice?” Finn asked. “Seems more like organized crime to me.”

The detective shook his head. “You’d think so, but Chuckie likes the ladies. A new one every night, the younger the better. He’s a vampire, you know. I think he gets off on the sex as much as he does the blood.”

I nodded. Some vamps were like that. They all needed blood, but lots of them also drew power from sex—or feeding off the emotions of others. Some vamps, especially the old ones who’d mastered their power long ago, were just as dangerous as elementals. Or more so.

“Where does Chuckie C. like to hang out?” Finn asked.

“Northern Aggression,” Caine replied. “The nightclub in Northtown.”

I frowned. That was the second time that name had come up. I flipped through Fletcher’s file on Gordon Giles and scanned the contents. Yep, there it was, “Northern Aggression,” written in the old man’s tight, controlled handwriting. I tapped my finger on the paper. “Giles also liked to frequent Northern Aggression.”

“So they worked and played together,” Finn said.

Caine frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Charles Carlyle is currently an executive vice president at Halo Industries,” I said.

The detective snorted. “That’s got to be a mistake. Chuckie C. knows as much about business as I do. He’s a hood, not a white-collar worker.”

“No mistake, detective,” Finn said. “Carlyle’s financials show a regular paycheck deposited into his account every week from the company.”

We sat there a minute, digesting the information.

“So what’s our next move?” Caine asked.

“I’d like to see what’s on Giles’s flash drive,” I said.

“It’s been two days since the assassination attempt. The Air elemental and her men had to have searched Giles’s office by now,” Finn pointed out. “His house too.”

“Yeah, but they haven’t found it yet. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been asking the detective about it.” I looked at Donovan. “You have no idea where he might have stashed it?”

He shook his head. “Not a clue. Giles was holding on to it for leverage, until I could get the safe house set up for him.”

I nodded. “All right. We’ll forget the flash drive for now. We have Chuckie C., and we know where he likes to spend his free time. We’ll hit the club tomorrow night and see what he’s doing—and who he’s doing it with.”

Finn cleared his throat. “Northern Aggression is Roslyn’s place. Might be good to clear it with her first.”

I snorted. “I don’t need Roslyn’s permission to spy on a guy at her club.”

Caine looked back and forth between us. “Who’s Roslyn?”

“Roslyn Phillips,” I replied. “The vampire who runs Northern Aggression. She’s also one of Finn’s good time girls, which is why he wants to go
clear things
with her first.”

“Good time girl,” Finn scoffed. “I resent that, Gin. Deeply. Roslyn and I happen to have a very loving relationship that’s based on mutual concern and caring.”

“You mean the two of you like to sleep together when you’re both not with someone else.”

Donovan stared at Finn, who grinned in return.

The detective shook his head, as though he was trying to banish the image of Finn doing the nasty from his mind. Something I was all too familiar with. In addition to needling me like a brother, Finn also treated me like a locker room buddy. Nothing more he loved to do than brag about his latest sexual conquest. It really was shocking that some jealous husband hadn’t hired me to kill Finn years ago.

“So that’s the plan?” Caine asked. “Squeeze Chuckie C. and see what pops out?”

“Do you have a better idea, detective?” I asked. “If so, please speak up.”

Our eyes met, gray on gold. Each color hard, flat, unyielding. After a moment, Caine shook his head.

“I didn’t think so,” I said. “But don’t worry, detective. I’ll let you be the good cop. I’m so much better at being the bad guy anyway.” 

17

With nothing left to do for the night, we crashed. I took my bed, while Finn claimed the one in the spare room. Donovan Caine made himself comfortable on the pullout sofa in the den. I rummaged around in the closet next to the spare bathroom, pulling out some blankets and pillows for my unexpected houseguest. Hostess with the mostest, that was me.

I walked into the den and handed the bedding to the detective. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks,” he said.

Caine shook out the blue and green blankets and started making up the sleeper sofa. I drifted over to the front door and pretended I was double-checking the locks. I pressed my hand against the stone, listening to its faint murmur. Low and steady, just like always. Once more, I traced small, tight curls onto the surface of the stone—the symbol for protection. The runes shimmered silver before sinking into the wall and fading away. I sent a burst of magic through the rock to test my magical trip wire. A sharp note of alarm sounded back to me, rising to an ear-splitting shriek. If someone attempted to open the door and enter the apartment, that same sound would wake me.

It would also ring out if someone tried to leave. Donovan Caine and I might have an agreement, but our tenuous partnership might not keep him from sneaking out in the middle of the night. Or trying to. The detective wasn’t going anywhere without me.

Caine put down one blanket and unfolded another. He wasn’t an elemental, wasn’t a Stone, so he couldn’t sense or hear the vibration.

He fluffed out the last pillow and set it on top of the outstretched sofa. He turned to face me. I nodded a good night at him and headed for my bedroom.

“Sleep well.” The detective’s deep voice rumbled out and touched me, like a silk rope flicking against my spine. “If you can.”

I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Why wouldn’t I sleep well? Because my conscience is troubling me? Hardly.”

“It should bother you.”

“Because of tonight?” I shrugged. “I did what needed to be done to save your life, detective. Even you shouldn’t fault me for that.”

“Not because of tonight. Because of Cliff.”

The old, predictable hatred flared in his hazel eyes, and his face tightened with determination. Caine was still counting down the minutes until he could come after me for his partner’s murder.

For a moment, I considered telling the detective exactly what Cliff Ingles had been like. About the protection money he’d extorted from various pimps. About the vampire hookers he’d forced to give him freebies in the back of his city-issued sedan while he was on duty. About the thirteen-year-old girl he’d so brutally raped, beaten, and left for dead. The knowledge would wipe that self-righteous sneer off Donovan Caine’s face. Burn it up like it had never existed.

But I held my tongue. That information was an ace up my sleeve, and I wasn’t about to throw it down just for spite. Let the detective keep his illusions about his partner. I needed him focused on finding the Air elemental—not moping over how wrong he’d been about Cliff Ingles. Caine was so fucking idealistic. Still determined to believe in the good in everyone, despite all evidence to the contrary. It’s going to get him killed one day.

I gave him a flat, cold stare. “I sleep like a rock, detective. Always have, always will.”

I stepped inside my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

My sleep was dark, black, comforting, and free of any troubling dreams or flickering memories of Fletcher. Sunlight slanting in through the window warmed my face and crept in under my eyelids. I sighed, rolled over, and stared at the clock radio by the bed. Almost noon. Time to get on with things.

I crawled out of bed, opened the door, and padded into the den. Finn sat in front of his computer, a steaming cup of chicory coffee by his side. The familiar, comforting smell reminded me of Fletcher, and I felt the sharp pain of his loss. The image of his flayed body flashed in front of my eyes, but I pushed it aside and focused on my last memory of Fletcher—the old man drinking his own cup of coffee at the Pork Pit. I breathed in, letting the rich aroma coat my lungs, pretending Fletcher was warming the apartment with his ghostly presence. Pretending he was warming me.

Finn saw me step into the room. He waved at me, then pressed a finger to his lips and pointed at the sofa. I looked over the back of the furniture. A mound of blankets covered Donovan Caine like the thick layers of a burial shroud. I could just barely make out the top of his head through the fabric. For a moment, I wondered if the detective slept nude. Mmm. Wouldn’t have minded a peek if he did.

Finn pointed to something beside the sofa. I leaned over. One of the detective’s guns lay on the floor within easy reach. I frowned. Despite our truce, Donovan Caine still didn’t trust me. What had he thought I was going to do? Slip out and murder him in the middle of the night in my own apartment? I was ruthless, not stupid.

I walked over to Finn. The mid-morning sunlight slipped through the curtains and highlighted his face, his strong features that were so similar to his father’s. I leaned over and mussed his walnut-colored hair.

“What was that for?” Finn murmured, smoothing down his bed-head cowlick.

“Just because,” I said, trying to hide the emotion that thickened my voice. “Late breakfast?”

“Omelets. Definitely omelets. Pancakes, too?” Finn asked.

I mussed his hair again, moved into the kitchen, and got to work. I pulled several eggs out of the refrigerator, along with cheese, milk, and butter. Packages of frozen strawberries waited in the freezer, and I plucked them out of the frosty depths. Flour, sugar, nonstick cooking spray, and pepper came out of the cabinets. Again, the steady process of cooking, of creating food, soothed me. I chopped tomatoes, onions, green peppers, and ham to put into my southwestern omelets. The berries went into the microwave to defrost. Buttermilk beaten with flour and just a hint of sugar formed the base of my pancakes.

The faint
clank
and
clatter
of dishes woke the detective. Donovan Caine let out a low groan and sat up. The blankets fell away, revealing the same jeans and T-shirt the detective had worn last night. So he didn’t sleep in the buff. A shame, really.

Caine frowned, as though he didn’t understand where he was. He caught sight of me, and the knowledge and memories of last night flared in his hazel gaze. His eyes cut to Finn, then back to me. He didn’t relax.

“Morning,” I said, flipping one of the strawberry pancakes.

The detective grunted something unintelligible. Caine rolled off the sofa and stumbled into the kitchen. He leaned on the counter and stared at the bubbling coffeepot like a teenage virgin would at a stripper.

“Mug?” he mumbled.

I opened a cabinet and passed him a white ceramic cup. Our hands brushed. Once again, that hot awareness of him coursed through me. My breasts tightened, and a pleasant ache pulsed between my thighs. But Donovan Caine was too caffeine-deprived to notice or respond in kind.

The detective sat at the table next to Finn and stared bleary-eyed into his mug. After a few minutes, the caffeine fumes worked their morning magic. The detective blinked and took a sip of his coffee.

“Gah!” He almost spit the steaming mouthful back out. “What the hell is this? Poison?”

“Nope, it’s chicory coffee.” Finn raised his own mug in salute. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

Caine grimaced, but he kept drinking. The detective even poured himself a second cup.

When the pancakes were golden brown, I put them on a platter, along with several omelets. Plates, silverware, and napkins went onto the table, along with a pitcher of orange juice. Once again, I used my Ice magic to frost the container. Donovan Caine didn’t say anything about my power, but his eyes stayed on me. Cool and calculating.

Everyone helped themselves to the food. Still suspicious, Caine didn’t touch anything until after Finn and I had both swallowed several bites. But once he started, the detective ate more than the two of us put together.