Venom Page 5

  The hookers roamed through the club, offering guests trays of free champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries and hinting at the other delights that could be found on the premises. Especially in the private rooms upstairs that were rented out by the half hour—or less.

  Of course, some folks weren’t too particular about their privacy. Couples of two and three and sometimes four or more huddled close together in the club’s booths. Kissing, caressing, licking, moaning. Several of the tables twitched and shook, not from the raucous music but from the people fucking on the floor underneath.

  Finn and I sat in a booth a few feet away from the dance floor, where folks bumped and ground their way through a rocking song by The Killers. Despite my ambivalence toward Northern Aggression and the heavy, sweaty smell of sex that permeated the air, even I had to admit the nightclub had an unabashed, decadent style to it. Crushed red velvet drapes covered the walls, and the floor was a soft, springy bamboo that cushioned your feet as you walked across it.

  But to me, the most impressive thing was the bar that ran down one wall—an elaborate sheet made entirely of elemental Ice. Intricate runes had been carved into the surface of the bar, mostly suns and stars—symbolizing life and joy. Both of which could be found in abundance here tonight if you had enough cash or plastic to pay to play.

  Behind the counter, a man mixed drinks. His eyes glowed blue-white in the semidarkness. The Ice elemental responsible for tending bar and making sure his cold creation stayed in one piece until the end of the evening. Besides the giant bouncers, he was the only staff member who wasn’t wearing the heart-and-arrow rune necklace. The Ice elemental couldn’t take time away from mixing drinks to fuck someone behind the bar. There’d be a riot if the booze didn’t keep coming.

  “Tell me again why we’re here?” I asked.

  Finn’s eyes never left the blond hooker. “To have a good time, of course. Because you got the shit beat out of you, and you deserve a night out on the town.”

  Under the table, I kicked his shin. “And why don’t I believe you?”

  “Because you’re cynical that way.”

  I kicked him again, harder this time.

  “All right, all right,” Finn said, leaning down to rub his leg. “If you must know, I was planning on talking to Xavier about something.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And you dragged me along because…”

  A shadow passed over Finn’s face, and his green eyes darkened. “You’ll see.”

  He didn’t volunteer any more information, and for once I wasn’t in the mood to be curious and pry. I took a sip of my gin and grimaced. For some reason, the cold liquor tasted bitter tonight. Or maybe that was because I was still brooding about Bria.

  Finn had kept his promise to dig into my long-lost sister. Yesterday he’d given me a fat folder of information on Bria and told me that another was on its way as soon as he heard from the rest of his contacts in Savannah. But I hadn’t opened the folder yet. It had remained closed and untouched on the coffee table in Fletcher Lane’s den.

  For once, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to learn someone else’s deepest, darkest secrets by scanning a piece of paper. Part of me—a big part of me—preferred to think of Bria the way that I’d always remembered her. As my sweet little sister. The innocent girl I’d played hide-and-seek with and made countless mugs of hot chocolate for. I didn’t know that I wanted to read about everything Bria had been through, growing up as an orphan. My childhood had been traumatic enough living on the Ashland streets. I hoped Bria hadn’t suffered as much as I had over the years. Either way, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. Because the answers could be… ugly.

  The truth was that I didn’t know how I felt about my long-lost baby sister being in Ashland, much less the fact that she was a cop. A good one, at that. Somebody who actually tried to help people, who wanted to make a difference in a city as dirty and corrupt as Ashland—while I’d spent my entire adult life killing people for money. The idea that we shared the same DNA boggled the mind. Guess there was something to that nurture stuff after all.

  I threw back the rest of my bitter gin. The alcohol slid down my throat and started its slow, pleasant burn in my stomach, but it didn’t improve my mood.

  “Find Xavier and let’s get on with this,” I told Finn.

  His turn to raise an eyebrow. “Cranky much?”

  I smiled. “You’re going to see how cranky I am when I start ordering the most expensive champagne on the menu and guzzling it down like water. After I charge it to your tab, of course.”

  Finn held up his hands. “Fine, fine. Xavier was supposed to swing by our booth, but I’ll go see if I can find him.”

  Finn got to his feet, straightened his tie, smoothed down his walnut-colored hair, and stepped into the swirling crowd. He strutted toward the Ice bar, probably to ask the bartender about Xavier. His path took him close to the edge of the dance floor. The blond hooker he’d been eyeing blew Finn a kiss. He grinned and veered in her direction. Less than three minutes later, the two of them were ensconced at the bar, drinking martinis and making goo-goo eyes at each other.

  I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. A pretty face and tight body could distract Finnegan Lane from his own funeral. I should have just told him I was leaving. I reached for my cell phone to text him that news flash, when a shadow fell over me.

  “Why, Gin, what a lovely surprise,” a male voice murmured.

  I looked up to find Owen Grayson standing in front of my booth. Like Finn, Grayson wore a rich suit, black in his case, with a charcoal gray shirt underneath. The fabric accentuated his compact, sturdy figure, which always reminded me of a dwarf’s stocky physique. But at six foot one, Grayson was far too tall to be a dwarf.

  His glossy, blue-black hair gleamed under the club’s muted lights. So did his eyes, which were a light violet. A white, thin scar slashed down his chin. The faint mark would have ruined the look of another man’s face, but it added a hard, sexy, dangerous edge to Grayson’s features, giving him a roguish, rakish air. So did the crooked tilt of his nose. Or maybe that was just because I liked the rest of the package so much. Owen Grayson knew how to wear a suit very well, and I couldn’t help but speculate what lay beneath his designer duds. Somehow, I knew it would be as appealing as the rest of him.

  Still, despite the slick, expensive threads, Grayson looked like the kind of guy who’d taken more than one punch in his time. A real fighter through and through. The strong, self-assured way he carried himself only made him more impressive to me. I’d always admired confidence—especially when the person actually had something to be confident about. Since Owen Grayson was one of the richest businessmen in Ashland, he had millions of reasons to smile.

  I’d met Grayson a couple of weeks ago, back in November. His younger sister, Eva, had been eating at the Pork Pit when Jake McAllister had tried to rob the restaurant. Grayson thought he owed me something since I’d saved Eva from getting dead.

  “Hello, Owen,” I replied. “What brings you here tonight?”

  He shrugged, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his suit. “Eva wanted to come dancing.”

  My eyes flicked over to the dance floor. Sure enough, I spotted Eva Grayson grooving in between a guy and another girl. Eva had the same coloring that Owen did, which made her look like a real-life version of Snow White. Add her rocking figure on top of that, and Eva attracted plenty of attention. She whirled away from one guy to turn and smile at another waiting at the edge of the dance floor. Eva crooked her finger, and the young man eagerly stepped into the fray surrounding her.

  I looked back at Owen. “And you came along to babysit her?”

  “I like to watch out for her,” he rumbled in a low voice. “Besides, she said I needed a night out of the house. Evidently, running my various business interests and adding to her trust fund isn’t exciting enough for her tastes.”

  I smiled. Like most college-age girls, Eva enjoyed flirting with the opposite sex. Dancing
the night away at Northern Aggression would be right up her alley—even if big brother Owen would be watching her every move.

  “Care if I join you?” Owen asked.

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Grayson unbuttoned his jacket and settled on the opposite side of the booth so he was sitting across from me. He signaled one of the waiters and ordered an expensive scotch. I requested another gin on the rocks, with a twist of lime this time. Maybe that would cut the bitter taste in my mouth.

  Our drinks came back, and I took a healthy pull off mine. Nope, still bitter. I sighed and rubbed my index finger down the side of the glass, leaving a trail in the condensation that had already formed there.

  “Something the matter?” Grayson asked, taking a sip of his scotch.

  I shrugged again. “Just not in the mood to party tonight, I suppose.”

  Owen stared at me with his violet eyes. “Perhaps you and I could go somewhere else. Make our own party.”

  “Let me guess where that party would end… your bedroom?”

  Grayson smiled. “Actually, I was thinking the nearest hotel myself. Why drive that far?”

  “Back to wanting to sleep with me again?”

  Grayson’s smile widened. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”

  I snorted. For some strange reason, Owen Grayson had taken a shine to me. Sure, I’d saved his sister from getting fried extra crispy by a Fire elemental. Sure, I was an attractive woman. But I just couldn’t understand why the businessman was so interested. More than half the women here tonight were hotter, skinnier, younger, and had bigger breasts than I did. Any one of them would have been thrilled to be Grayson’s entertainment for the evening. Hell, just for an hour.

  More importantly, I wasn’t quite sure whether his dogged interest was genuine. Trust didn’t come easily to me, which is why I suspected Owen Grayson had some ulterior motive for wanting to get up close and personal with my nether regions besides the obvious one of simply getting his jolly on.

  But mostly, I wasn’t sure how I felt about him. With his black hair and violet eyes, Grayson was definitely attractive, in a rough, sexy way. But that sort of thing had never much mattered to me. Over the years, I’d had my share of ill-fated flings with the boys at the community college where I took so many classes. Even a grad student and a professor or two. I could do Owen Grayson tonight and forget about him tomorrow as easily as I could wash blood out of my hair. Actually, the blood would be more of a challenge.

  No, the problem wasn’t Grayson and his murky motives, whatever they might be. It was the small fact that he wasn’t Donovan Caine. Despite my best intentions, I’d fallen for the detective, felt something for him. A warm softness in my chest that went beyond mere lust. And when Donovan had left town, when he told me that he was leaving because of me, well, it hadn’t exactly done wonders for my ego. Or made me eager to start up something new with someone else.

  Even assassins needed time to lick their wounds.

  But Owen Grayson stared at me very much the way I had looked at Donovan Caine. With pure, focused interest—and the determination to get what he wanted. Me. Despite my doubts about him, it was… nice to be looked at that way. Instead of with the cold suspicion that the detective had almost always shown me.

  Owen reached over and slipped his hand in mine. His palm was pleasantly cool against my skin, and I felt a little surge of magic brush against the spider rune scar embedded in my palm. Grayson’s eyes brightened, as though someone had struck a match in his violet gaze. In addition to being a successful businessman, Owen Grayson also had an elemental talent for metal. To be considered a true elemental, you had to be gifted in one of the four major areas—Air, Fire, Ice, or Stone. But lots of folks were magically skilled in offshoots of the four elements, like electricity or water. In Owen’s case, his talent for metal, a branch of Stone magic, let him sense all kinds of metal and ore, control them, and even forge them into whatever he wanted.

  “The silverstone’s still in there,” I said in a wry tone. “If that’s what you were looking for.”

  Owen shook his head. “I’ll admit I’m curious as to exactly how you could get so much of the metal melted into your skin like that—especially shaped like a spider rune. And why you carry so many silverstone knives on you all the time. Curiosity is a trait of mine, I’m afraid. But I was much more interested in just holding your hand.”

  “What are you? Twelve?”

  Grayson flashed me another smile. “Sometimes the most sensual pleasures are the simplest ones.”

  I looked at him a moment. Then I threw back my head and laughed. “Wow. That was lame. Do you try that line out on all the ladies? Or just me?”

  Instead of being insulted, Grayson’s smile deepened, and his violet eyes glowed with warmth. “Just you, Gin. You’re the only one who’s ever called me on it.”

  Owen made me laugh, I’d give him that. So I sat there and let him hold my hand instead of telling him to get lost.

  Grayson’s thumb traced over the circle embedded in my palm, the center of the spider rune that marked my skin. A little tingle of interest sparked to life in the pit of my stomach. A small sizzle of awareness, of potential, of possibilities. I regarded Owen a little more closely, letting my eyes drift over his powerful shoulders, thick arms, solid chest. The warm tingle spread out, rippled through my stomach, and drifted even lower. Hmm. Maybe I should take Owen Grayson up on his offer of sex. Maybe that would help me purge these lingering feelings I had for Donovan Caine and get the detective out of my system once and for all.

  “I’ve asked you before, and I’ll ask you again,” Grayson said. “Go out with me, Gin. Dinner, dancing, a movie. Whatever you want. On me. All I ask is the pleasure of your company.”

  I took another sip of my bitter drink. “And what if I’m not good company?”

  He shrugged. “Then we’ll chalk it up to a failed experiment. What do you say?”

  I opened my mouth to say… something, I wasn’t quite sure what, when a woman stopped in front of our booth.

  “Owen! What a pleasure to see you here tonight,” the woman said.

  I recognized her. Roslyn Phillips. The vampire madam and owner of Northern Aggression. Roslyn was a gorgeous woman from head to toe. Full, perky breasts, tight thighs, curved hips, and an ass that looked like it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. With a figure like that, it was no wonder Roslyn used sex to power up, along with blood.

  Some vamps were like that, especially the ones who worked in the Ashland flesh trade. All vamps needed blood, of course, drinking it down the way humans might swallow a daily dose of vitamins. But many vamps also got a similar high off sex—or feeding off the emotions of others. Those who charged for their sexual services experienced the buzz and got paid for their time and expertise. Win-win for them. Which is why a large majority of the hookers in Ashland were vampires. Well, that and the fact they lived so long. Hooking was a skill that would always be in demand, despite the changing times. Always good to have a plan B to fall back on, in case of recession or lousy stock investments.

  Roslyn Phillips was dressed for a night at the club, and the vamp’s silver miniskirt and matching suit jacket showed off all her glorious assets to their ultimate perfection. Now I didn’t look too shabby tonight in my own form-fitting black pants, blue silk shirt, and designer boots. But next to Roslyn’s knockout beauty, I might as well have been a piece of poor white trash wearing a holey potato sack. And the vamp’s face was just as attractive as the rest of her. Eyes and skin the color of dark, melted toffee. Cropped, feathered black hair that just brushed the edge of her jaw. A small, pointed nose. Blindingly white teeth capped off by two perfectly pointed fangs.

  Owen got to his feet and kissed the vamp on her cheek. “Roslyn. Good to see you too. Let me introduce you to my companion. Roslyn, this is—”

  “Gin,” the vamp said in a neutral tone.

  Owen frowned. “The two of you know each other?”

 
I smiled. “Oh, Roslyn and I are old friends. Aren’t we, Roslyn?”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “Of course.”

  Owen sat back down next to me, but Roslyn stood where she was. She regarded me with her toffee eyes. After a moment, she sank her teeth into her lower lip. Thinking about something.

  Roslyn Phillips and I didn’t have the best relationship in the world. Once upon a time, I’d killed Roslyn’s abusive brother-in-law to stop him from beating the vamp’s sister and young niece. I’d done the job on the down low, but Roslyn had still figured out it was me. She’d whispered about my particular brand of services to one of her girls. That information had reached the wrong ears, which had eventually resulted in Fletcher Lane being murdered inside the Pork Pit. At the old man’s funeral, I’d told Roslyn point-blank that she owed me big-time for her loose lips, that anything I wanted or needed, she was going to give to me—or she was going to get dead.

  Roslyn had taken our heart-to-heart seriously. When I’d come calling a few weeks ago, she’d given me everything I’d needed to masquerade as one of her hookers and sneak into Mab Monroe’s exclusive party so I could get close to Tobias Dawson—and she’d held up when Elliot Slater and his men had come to question her after the fact. I figured we were pretty much square now, but I wasn’t about to tell Roslyn that. Especially when she was staring at me like she was considering something important.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Roslyn?” I asked.

  Roslyn chewed her lip for a few more seconds. Then she nodded. “Yeah, actually there is—”

  “I thought I told you to wait in the back for me, baby,” a low voice cut through the crowd.

  Roslyn’s eyes widened, and she froze. Pure, undiluted fear filled her toffee eyes. The emotion rolled off her the way magic might an elemental. I could feel the cold chill of it just like I could the one emanating from the Ice bar several feet away.

  I looked past Roslyn to the man speaking. Seven-foot frame. Pale, albino features. Light hazel eyes. And fists the size of hams. Elliot Slater regarded the lovely vampire with a cold expression that indicated that she’d done something very, very wrong.