Muggers were a married couple. Vera and Eddie Jones. Please find out what you can about them. Mosley was the target. See what enemies he might have as well.
Less than thirty seconds later, my phone buzzed with a new message.
Finally! Thank you. Getting started right now.
I sighed again and shook my head, although I was still grinning. Silvio was dedicated to the extreme, and no doubt he would have a full, thorough, and lengthy report for me first thing in the morning. But I had my own resources right here at home, and I decided to utilize them. Besides, I was too restless to watch TV or go to bed yet.
Not when Mosley might still be in danger.
I locked the front door behind me and headed into Fletcher’s office, my office now, and flipped on the lights. An old, battered desk, some wooden bookcases, several metal filing cabinets. It looked like your typical home office, but it was really a treasure trove of information, far more valuable than any stash of diamonds or gold, since it helped keep me prepared and alive.
Fletcher had spent years meticulously compiling information on criminals in Ashland and beyond, especially those heavy hitters who might be a threat to him as the Tin Man, back when he was actively working as an assassin. And it was a tradition he’d continued, even after I’d taken over the family business as the Spider. So this was the perfect place to start looking for information on Vera and Eddie Jones.
But I wasn’t holding out much hope that I would find anything. The two muggers had seemed competent enough, but neither one of them had had any powerful elemental magic or other special, deadly skills that would have put them on Fletcher’s radar. Over the past few months, Silvio had been helping me update the old man’s information, but I didn’t recall any mention of anyone fitting Vera’s and Eddie’s descriptions. Still, I wanted to check the files anyway, just for my own peace of mind.
I grabbed the relevant files, sat down at the desk, and got to work. Truth be told, it was a nice way to unwind after the earlier fight. Oh, I didn’t enjoy going through the documents and photos nearly as much as Silvio did, but seeing Fletcher’s handwriting and scribbled notes made me feel like he wasn’t completely gone, like he was still here guiding me, in whatever small way he could.
I didn’t find anything in the files about Vera or Eddie. No surprise there, since muggers were a dime a dozen in Ashland. But I wasn’t ready to give up, so I poured myself a glass of gin, then toasted the picture of Fletcher that was perched on the corner of the desk. I sipped my drink, relishing the cool slide of the liquid down my throat before it transformed into that slow, sweet burn in the pit of my stomach. More gin for Gin. I’d definitely earned an extra round or two tonight.
While I enjoyed my drink, I stared at Fletcher’s photo. Seeing the old man’s walnut-brown hair, green eyes, and tan, wrinkled features as he looked out over the scenic landscape of Bone Mountain always comforted me. But the longer I stared at his face, especially his sly, knowing grin, the more I wondered what he would have done in this situation.
At the beauty salon, I had told Mosley to think about what Fletcher would have wanted him to do, and I decided to apply the same logic to myself. And I realized that I should be thinking not about what Fletcher would have wanted me to do but rather what the old man might have already done himself.
So I finished my gin, went back over to the filing cabinets, and started searching through the folders for one specific name.
Stuart Mosley.
And sure enough, I found a folder with the dwarf’s name scribbled on the tab, neatly filed away in its proper place. Now that I was staring at it, I vaguely remembered Silvio mentioning the file to me when he had gone through this drawer, although neither one of us had looked at it at the time.
The file hadn’t surprised me then, and it didn’t now either. Fletcher’s enemies as the Tin Man weren’t the only folks he’d kept tabs on. He’d also tracked those who might be a threat to the people he loved. Like Deirdre Shaw, Finn’s Ice elemental bitch of a mother. Or Harley Grimes, the Fire elemental who’d kidnapped and tortured Sophia Deveraux, Jo-Jo’s younger sister.
Given how powerful, dangerous, and influential the Circle was, it made perfect sense that Fletcher would have kept a file on Mosley too. It would have been his way of protecting and watching out for his friend, especially since he’d given Mosley the treacherous task of safeguarding those safety-deposit boxes full of information on the evil group.
I took the file over to the desk and sat back down. Then I poured myself some more gin, opened the folder, and started reading.
Most of it was pretty standard stuff. Various loans, real estate, and other business deals that Mosley had made, who had profited and been hurt by them, some threats he’d received, and all the people who might want to take their anger against him to the next, deadly level. Several pages also dealt with the murder of Joanna Mosley and Fletcher’s search for information on who might have killed her. I set those pages aside to add to my own file on Bruce Porter, the Dollmaker.
I was almost to the end of the file when I came across a photo of a beautiful woman with long black hair, green eyes, and perfect skin. In the picture, the woman was wearing an emerald-green evening gown and smiling wide as she clinked her champagne glass against Mosley’s, as though the two of them were best friends. Fletcher had scribbled a note on the bottom of the photo—AE?—but for once, I knew exactly what he meant, since I recognized the woman.
AE were the woman’s initials, and her name was Amelia Eaton.
I was so surprised that I lost my grip on my glass, and it thumped down to the desk, sloshing gin onto the wood. I reared back in my chair, blinking and blinking, wondering if I’d looked at the photo or read the initials wrong.
But I hadn’t.
Amelia Eaton was a name I hadn’t heard in years, but looking at her smiling face brought back all sorts of memories—none of them good.
I forced my shock aside and peered at the bottom of the photo again, then flipped it over to look at the back, wondering if Fletcher might have scribbled down any other notes, but he hadn’t. I also sorted through all the information in the file again, but her name and face didn’t appear anywhere but in this one picture.
So what had Amelia and Mosley been celebrating? I didn’t know, but the photo looked like it had been taken at a party quite some time ago, given the fancy but outdated gown she was wearing. And Amelia seemed perfectly happy with Mosley, given the way she was beaming at him. So why had Fletcher included this picture in the file? What potential threat had he seen in her?
The more I thought about it, the more puzzled I became. Because I knew with absolute certainty that Amelia hadn’t sent those two muggers after Mosley. She simply couldn’t have.
Amelia Eaton had been dead for years—and I was the one who’d killed her.
Chapter Six
I studied the photo for several more minutes, but I didn’t glean any clues from it.
Amelia and Mosley were the only people in the shot, holding their champagne flutes and standing in front of an enormous fireplace. Bookcases flanked the fireplace, indicating that they were in some sort of study or library, but the knowledge didn’t narrow down the location. The picture could have been taken at any party at any mansion at any time before I’d killed Amelia.
By this point, it was creeping up on midnight, and I was out of information and ideas, so I downed the rest of my gin, wiped up what I’d spilled on the desk, and slid Mosley’s file back into the appropriate drawer. Then I turned off the lights and left the office.
I took the photo with me, though. Maybe Silvio would see something in it that I’d missed. Or maybe Mosley could tell me when and where it had been taken and what he and Amelia had been discussing that had made her so happy.
I took a long, hot shower to help myself relax, then put on my pajamas and went to bed. I fell asleep almost immediately and drifted along in a calm, empty, soothing blackness. But eventually, a memory bubbled up to the surface of m
y mind, and the blackness vanished, replaced by swirling shadows that slowly morphed into shapes, lights, colors, and sound…
“I don’t like this,” Fletcher muttered. “I don’t like this at all.”
“Relax,” I said. “We’ve been studying our target for weeks. We know everything there is to know about her. What could possibly go wrong?”
The old man sighed. “Now you’ve done it. You’ve jinxed us, Gin, plain and simple.”
I grinned at his grumbling. “And here I thought that you didn’t believe in jinxes. You always tell me that people, especially assassins, make their own luck.”
He huffed. “And I’ve also told you time and time again that Lady Luck is a fickle bitch. You might make your own luck with all your planning and preparation, but never forget that she can screw you over at any moment. Just because she can. Just because she feels like it. Just because wants to see you squirm.”
Still grinning, I raised my binoculars to my eyes and looked out over the landscape.
Earlier this afternoon, Fletcher and I had left the humble confines of the Pork Pit behind for the grand expanse of the Eaton Estate. We’d parked his old white van on the side of the road and stuck a plastic bag in the window to make it seem as though we’d had engine trouble. Then we’d grabbed our black duffel bags full of supplies and hiked three miles through the woods, avoiding the giant guards and skirting around the fences that ringed much of the estate.
Now we were safely ensconced in a thick patch of pines, hidden back in the shadows. A sandy shore started at the edge of the trees and ran down to the man-made lake that one of the Eatons had added to the estate a few generations ago. The evergreen trees, white sand, and blue water created a picture-perfect scene, made even more so by the sun streaking the sky with its orange-sherbet rays as it slowly sank behind the forested ridges on the far side of the lake.
I scanned the shoreline, but I didn’t spot anyone walking along the water. No surprise there, given the dozens of Private Property, No Trespassing signs posted in the forest and along the surrounding roads. The Eatons didn’t take too kindly to folks traipsing onto their land, not even for something as innocent as a summer swim. Once I was sure that Fletcher and I were alone, I turned my attention toward the estate’s crown jewel: the Eaton family mansion.
Well, calling it a mansion was a bit of an understatement. The Eaton ancestral home was a mammoth chateau-style structure made of sleek gray granite that soared five stories tall. Picture windows and balconies covered much of the structure, which was perched on top of a wide, flat hill to take advantage of the views of the lake and the forested valley below. Despite its massive size, the mansion still maintained a delicate, elegant air, with its intricate carved stonework, carefully crafted crenellations, and steep gabled roofs.
I dropped my gaze from the upper levels and focused on the enormous stone terrace that jutted out from the back. Small round tables covered with emerald-green linens lined one side of the area, along with an impressive buffet and several towers of champagne glasses. White twinkle lights lined many of the tables and were strung up like electrified spiderwebs on the mansion’s windows. A wooden parquet dance floor took up another section, and a string quartet was tucked away in the back corner. No one was dancing yet, but the soft strains of classical music floated through the air, punctuated by sharp trills of laughter.
Guests dressed in lightweight summer suits and cocktail frocks milled around on the terrace. A faint breeze offered a bit of relief from the evening August heat and made the women’s skirts billow out, like they were colorful butterflies twitching their wings and fluttering from one group to the next. Waiters wearing white shirts and pants with emerald-green bow ties and tuxedo vests circulated through the cliques, offering champagne to everyone.
But the most notable things were the roses.
Dozens of crystal vases boasting perfect white roses perched on all the tables, including the buffet ones, and even more vases were lined up along the low stone wall at the edge of the terrace. Strands of roses wound through many of the glasses in the champagne towers, and white rose petals had been scattered all over the dance floor. The breeze made the silky petals twirl through the air, adding to the dreamy, romantic scene.
My nose twitched, and I had to hold back a sneeze. Normally, I found roses to be a pleasant enough scent, but so many of them covered the terrace that they gave off an overpowering and sickeningly sweet stench, one that I could smell all the way over here in the trees. Or perhaps I thought the aroma was foul because I knew what dark, rotten things lurked underneath the glitz and glamour.
I lowered my binoculars, stuffed them into my duffel bag, and turned to Fletcher. “How do I look?”
After our hike through the woods, I’d shucked off my usual black assassin clothes and changed into a blue sundress with spaghetti straps and a flowing skirt that fell to my knees. The silky fabric skimmed my body, highlighting my curves without weighing me down. Jo-Jo had dyed my hair a bright, coppery red and curled it into loose waves. Silver shadow coated my eyes, which had been tinted a dark brown thanks to a pair of contacts, while an innocent pink gloss covered my lips. A small diamond solitaire on a thin silver chain rested against my throat.
All put together, the dress, red hair, brown contacts, makeup, and jewelry formed the perfect disguise. I looked like a completely different person from my usual low-key self. No one would ever connect this young woman with Gin Blanco, college student and barbecue waitress.
But I wasn’t here as Gin tonight. No, tonight the Spider had come out to play.
The only things that didn’t go with my party-girl outfit were my shoes, which were unfashionably flat, sturdy, black leather sandals with straps that wound up past my ankles. But if I truly had jinxed us like Fletcher claimed and things went wrong, I would be leaving the party in a hurry, and I would definitely prefer function over fashion in my footwear then.
Fletcher’s green gaze sharpened, and he gave me a critical once-over. “You look good. Real good. Just like you belong with all those rich folks. You got your knives?”
I held up my black purse. “Locked and loaded, just like always.”
In addition to the knife in my bag, I had two more strapped to my thighs underneath my sundress. But I shouldn’t need more than one blade to do this job.
The old man nodded and looked back over at the terrace through his own binoculars. After a few seconds, he sighed, lowered the lenses, and ran a hand through his dark brown hair, which had more than a little gray in it.
“I still don’t like this, but you’re right. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the party. So I guess you should go join the fun.” He winked at me. “But don’t worry. I’ll be here watching out for you.”
I grinned back at him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I left our observation spot behind and melted into the surrounding woods. I took a long, winding route through the trees and came out in one of the paved lots where the guests’ cars were being parked, as though I’d left my vehicle behind and was making my way across the grounds with everyone else.
I fell in step behind an older couple, chatting them up, and walked right on past the bored-looking vampire guards who were manning the wide, arching trellis covered with twinkle lights that marked the party entrance. The guards were supposed to be checking invitations, and I had a fake one in my purse, but the men weren’t taking their jobs seriously, and they didn’t give me a second glance.
Fletcher had been wrong. I hadn’t jinxed us, and this job was going to be smooth sailing.
I said good-bye to the old couple, then grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and wandered around, as though I was admiring the views of the lake and the woods. In reality, I was scanning the crowd, searching for my target. And I quickly spotted her, holding court less than thirty feet away.
Amelia Eaton, the current owner of the Eaton Estate.
Amelia was a beautiful woman, with long black hair th
at had been wound up in an elaborate braided bun. Her eyes were a light, bright green, and her skin was as pale, smooth, and flawless as marble. Unlike the other women with their simpler frocks, she was wearing a floor-length, sequined, emerald-green ball gown that looked like it had cost more than some of the diamonds the other people were sporting, including my own. And her jewelry was even more impressive. Even from this distance, my Stone magic let me easily hear the proud murmurs of the square emeralds that made up the choker around her neck. Each jewel was practically shouting about how large, pretty, and expensive it was.
Amelia was standing in the center of the terrace, a glass of champagne in her hand, surrounded by a flock of fawning admirers, all of whom laughed at some joke she made. She threw her head back and laughed too, her red lips parting to reveal the pearl-white fangs in her mouth. I couldn’t hear her words, but her light, sly tone carried on the breeze, and everyone was paying complete, rapt attention to her. She was the belle of the ball, the perfect picture of society grace, beauty, and elegance.
But there was nothing pretty, prim, or proper about her bloodlust.
Amelia Eaton was a vampire, but instead of drinking regular old bagged blood, or even nipping a few pints from the necks of willing donors like many rich vamps did, she preferred to be a little more old-fashioned when it came to getting her required nourishment. Amelia liked to hunt down her dinner, snap its neck, and drink its blood.
And her prey of choice was other humans.
Rumor had it that her vampire ancestors had built their estate in the middle of all this forested land so that they could still have their modern creature comforts while they were chasing down their dinner way out here in the woods. Supposedly, the bones of the family’s victims, from the first Eaton to the current generation of Amelia, littered the surrounding forest like dry, brittle leaves. I believed it, given what Fletcher and I had uncovered during our investigation.
Venom in the Veins Page 6
