Venom

by Estep, Jennifer

  The giant I’d winged crossed over to me in three steps and slashed at me with my own knife. I ducked the wide blow. Even as I lunged down, I slashed his femoral artery on his right leg. Black, arterial blood sprayed in my face, but I ignored the warm, stinging sensation and grabbed a fourth knife out of one of my boots. As I came up, I used that weapon to open up the artery on his left leg. The giant howled again and staggered back. I slammed my boot into one of his knees. The change of tactics surprised him, and he stumbled away and flipped over the lopsided couch. He wasn’t dead yet, but he’d bleed out quick, especially if he kept thrashing around.

  Meanwhile, Bria had crept out of the fireplace. She grabbed one of the long, metal pokers and held it out in front of her like a sword. I could see blood on her face and clothes, but I couldn’t tell how badly she was injured. The giant I’d thrown my weapon at reached around, pulled the knife out of his own back, and advanced on her. I scurried to one side to go help Bria, when a flash of movement caught my eye. I instinctively threw myself to the left. Elliot Slater’s ham-size fist whistled past my cheek, and I turned to face the quick giant.

  Slater regarded me with his cold hazel eyes. “You know you’re going to die for interfering with me.”

  “Really? Tell that to your two buddies that I’ve killed—so far,” I mocked.

  Slater regarded me another moment, then snapped his hand up. I’d been expecting the punch and jerked back, but he still managed a glancing blow to my stomach that forced some of the air from my lungs. It was bad enough that Slater had a giant’s inherent strength and toughness. Why did he have to be so fucking quick too? That just wasn’t fair. Slater came at me again, and I was too busy dodging his blows to lament the fact that he was so much faster than me.

  Another flash of motion caught my eye. On the other side of the room, the front door swung open, and a figure dressed in dark clothes stepped inside. The figure paused a moment, taking in me fighting with Elliot Slater and Bria swinging her fireplace poker at the other giant.

  “Hey, buddy,” the figure called out. “You want some help with her?”

  The giant turned, and Finn shot him in the face four times. Fletcher Lane might not have trained his son to be an assassin like me, but the old man had taught Finn everything he knew about weapons—including how to shoot a gun. Hell, Finn was a better shot than I was. Which is why Finn’s first bullet went through the giant’s right eye and up into his skull. The giant’s head snapped back, and he was already on his way to dead when Finn’s next three bullets shattered his face. Bria flinched as the giant’s blood, bone, and brain tissue splattered on her face and body. But she didn’t scream. For some reason, that made me even prouder of her than the freezer trick.

  And then there was one—Elliot Slater.

  The giant looked over his shoulder at his dead minions and Finn, who was rapidly advancing on us. I wouldn’t have thought him capable of it, but Slater actually did the smart thing.

  He ran.

  I surged forward, wanting to kill him right here, right now, and take care of Roslyn Phillips’s problem. But once again, Elliot Slater was quicker than I was. The giant slammed his fist into my stomach again and shoved me out of the way. Then, he dove headfirst through the nearest window and out into the dark night.

  11

  I just lay where I’d fallen, sprawled halfway over a table. Gun at the ready, Finn rushed over to the window and looked outside.

  “Slater?” I croaked, still trying to suck down as much oxygen as I could. The giant had connected with his last blow, and it felt like he’d broken a couple of my ribs—again.

  Finn drew back and shook his head. “Gone already. He moves fast for a giant.”

  I nodded. I’d gone fist-to-fist with him, so Slater’s speedy getaway didn’t surprise me. Even if it was damn inconvenient. But the giant was just going to have to get dead another night. Right now, I had Bria to think of—and the bodies and blood that littered her house like old newspapers.

  “So now what?” Finn asked.

  “Time to call in the cleanup crew,” I said. “Get both of them over here right now.”

  Although his black ski mask obscured his features, Finn still managed to raise his eyebrows at me. “Both of them? Not just our dark and twisty friend?”

  I nodded. “Both of them.”

  “You’re the boss.” Finn pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of his black khakis, moved to the other side of the living room, and started dialing Sophia Deveraux.

  I drew in a breath and turned to face Bria. My baby sister stood in front of the fireplace, the long metal poker clenched in her hands and propped on her shoulder like it was a baseball bat she was eager to swing at my head. Bria must have been getting ready for bed when Slater and his men had burst through the back door. She wore a pair of faded, flannel, baby blue pajama pants with a matching shirt. Her feet were bare, although her toes were painted a dark magenta. Jo-Jo Deveraux would have approved of the color.

  Despite the late hour, Bria still wore her primrose rune on a chain around her neck. I wondered if she ever took off the necklace. I was guessing no. The silverstone medallion caught the light and flashed at me like a traffic signal. Warning of danger, in more ways than one.

  My eyes flicked over her body, looking for injuries. A couple of rough scrapes marred Bria’s beautiful features, probably from where she’d thrown herself into the fireplace. More cuts and bruises dotted her arms and hands, and the sleeves of her shirt had been ripped and shredded in places. Purple circles of exhaustion ringed her blue eyes, and blood had matted in the ends of her shaggy, layered, blond hair. But what concerned me most was the ever-increasing circle of blood on the right side of her body, parallel with her belly button. She’d been shot, judging from the bullet hole that blackened the fabric of her shirt.

  Anyone else probably would have been whimpering on the floor by now, but Bria stood there, as though the gut wound was of no more consequence to her than what she’d eaten for dinner. Whatever else she might be, whatever secrets she had, I knew one thing—my sister was one tough cookie. Just like me.

  Bria stared back at me. Wariness shimmered in her blue gaze. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?” she demanded, tightening her grip on the fireplace poker.

  The motion made three rings glint on her left index finger—thin bands stacked on top of each other. Silverstone, from the way they caught the light.

  “Saving your ass.” I moved around the couch so that I stood directly in front of her. “Why? What does it look like we’re doing?”

  Her bruised features tightened. “I didn’t need your help.”

  I stared down at the giant in front of the couch, the one whose femoral arteries I’d severed with my silverstone knives. He’d clamped his hands over his legs to try and stem the blood flow, but it hadn’t worked. The giant’s dead, glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling fan.

  “Really?” I asked. “And here I thought you were trapped in a fireplace with three very large, very strong giants just waiting for you to run out of bullets so they could come over and beat you to death. Or am I misinterpreting the situation?”

  Bria’s mouth twisted. Whether it was from pain or annoyance, I wasn’t quite sure.

  “Tell me,” I asked, bending down to examine the giant. “What exactly did you do to piss off Mab Monroe enough for her to send Elliot Slater and his goons out here to kill you? Now, Mab isn’t lacking for flunkies, but she sent her numero uno after you tonight.”

  “That’s between me and Mab,” Bria said in a frosty voice. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  I was mildly surprised that Bria didn’t deny the fact that she’d done something to upset Mab. “In case you couldn’t tell from the bodies, I’ve decided to make it my business. So you might as well tell me.”

  Bria’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not telling you a damn thing. If I were you, I’d think about leaving—right now. I’m a homicide detective, and I’ve already called f
or backup. A couple of units should be here any minute.”

  I finished my examination of the dead giant, got to my feet, and turned to face my sister once more.

  “You didn’t have time to call for help, detective,” I replied. “Because you went for your gun instead of reaching for the phone. Nothing wrong with it. I prefer to take care of my own problems too.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  I shrugged. “Because if you’d used it to call for help, it would be lying somewhere in this mess.”

  Bria’s gaze flicked to the left. A cordless phone sat in a charger on a table that had somehow escaped the battle.

  “Not that calling 911 would have done you any good,” I continued. “Slater probably put the word out for the po-po not to respond to any distress calls in the area tonight.”

  “Elliot Slater doesn’t run the police department,” she snapped.

  I snorted. “No, Mab Monroe does. But since Slater is her number-one enforcer, he can call in any favors he needs any time he needs them. I don’t know how long you’ve been in Ashland, but you need to realize right now that the cops are useless. Your boys in blue don’t care about you. They would have been perfectly content to come out here tomorrow, photograph your corpse, and eat some doughnuts while they were at it.”

  Bria’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t say anything. Looked like she had already figured out exactly how things worked in Ashland. Good. The knowledge, distasteful though it might be, might help keep Bria alive until I figured out exactly why Mab wanted her dead—and what I could do to keep it from happening. I might not know my sister, might not have any inkling as to the kind of woman she was now, but I’d be damned if Mab Monroe was going to murder another member of my family.

  “But my associate and I are here now, and we’ve decided to take an interest in your situation,” I said. “Now, why don’t you sit down and let me take a look at that gunshot wound before you pass out from the blood loss?”

  Bria stared at me. Emotions flashed like icy fire in her blue eyes. Suspicion, mistrust, wariness. No fear, though. Despite everything that had happened tonight, she wasn’t screaming at the top of her lungs, or worse, bawling her eyes out. Her calm demeanor, even when injured, made me admire her a little more. I didn’t know why I felt so proud of my sister every time I saw her, every time I realized just how tough she was. It wasn’t like I’d done anything to make Bria the strong, independent woman she was today. But the feeling was there, just like my love for her was—two things I knew that I’d never be able to quash no matter what had happened between us in the violent, murky past or here in the troubled present.

  But blood had soaked the bottom half of Bria’s shirt by now, which meant I didn’t have time to screw around and keep talking until she decided to trust me. Not that she ever would.

  “Look,” I said in a soft voice. “I have zero love for Elliot Slater and his men, which is why I came to your rescue here tonight. I just want to help you. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. So let me, okay? Nothing else bad will happen to you tonight, I promise.”

  Finn finished his call to Sophia Deveraux and moved to stand beside me. “You should listen to her, detective. She doesn’t offer her assistance lightly or often. And her promises? Better than money in the bank.”

  I looked at him. “Better than money? That’s high praise coming from you, since there’s nothing you love more than C-notes.”

  Finn just grinned at me.

  Bria snorted at our banter. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I have a hard time trusting two people who broke into my house, killed a couple of giants, and are now chatting to me like we’re out having cake and coffee—while wearing ski masks.”

  I shrugged. “You do what you want, but how much longer do you think you can stand there? You can either trust us not to kill you, or you can bleed out in a few minutes. If I were you, I think I’d pick option A. But that’s just me.”

  “Oh, I’d definitely go with option A too,” Finn chimed in. “Because it would be a crying shame to let that sweet body of yours get all cold and stiff, detective.” Finn smiled at her, his white teeth flashing through the slit in his ski mask.

  I rolled my eyes. Here my sister was, bloody, battered, and brandishing a weapon, and Finn was using the lull in the action to hit on her. Sometimes I thought Finnegan Lane had a death wish, thinking with his dick as much as he did.

  Bria glowered at Finn, but she took the fireplace poker off her shoulder and lowered it to the floor, using it as a sort of crutch. By this point, she was having a hard time just keeping herself upright. Her body swayed from side to side, and tremors shook her arms and legs.

  “Fine,” Bria muttered. “But keep your hands where I can see them.”

  She lowered herself down so that she was sitting on the bottom shelf of the fireplace. I jerked my head at Finn, and the two of us moved over to the front door.

  “Keep an eye out for our dwarven friends,” I murmured. “And go around back and see if Slater’s Hummer is still parked on the street behind us. I’m willing to bet that he’s gone, at least for tonight, but I want to be sure.”

  Finn nodded and walked out the front of the house, closing the door behind him.

  “Charming associate you have there,” Bria sniped. “Does he always storm into people’s homes and shoot men in the face?”

  “Not always,” I replied. “Sometimes he just talks them to death.”

  Bria’s mouth twisted again, but this time, the corner of her lips lifted up into a faint smile. Perhaps my sharp wit wasn’t completely lost on her.

  “Now, let’s take a look at that hole in the side of you,” I said.

  I moved over to the fireplace and got down on my knees in front of Bria. Apprehension flared in her face again, and she still had a firm grip on the fireplace poker. But I kept my movements slow and nonthreatening, and she let me lift up the corner of her ruined shirt. A small, neat hole marred Bria’s pale flesh just above her hip bone. Blood leaked out of the wound with every breath she took, but it wasn’t gushing as badly as I’d feared. She’d be all right until Jo-Jo Deveraux could come and heal her.

  “It’s a through-and-through,” Bria muttered. “Bullet’s probably buried in my fireplace somewhere.”

  I knew it was. I could hear the stones’ muttering about the violence that had taken place in here tonight. I nodded and looked around the ruined living room. A pale blue afghan covered with white snowflakes lay among the mess on the floor. Using one of my knives, I cut off a swath of the fabric. It would have been easier to go into the bathroom and find a towel, but I didn’t want to leave Bria alone so she could do something stupid—like call the cops for real. Bria tensed at the sight of me ripping into the afghan, so I tucked the bloody knife into my boot before I approached her again.

  “Here,” I said, showing her the fabric. “Let’s put this against your wound until my friends get here.”

  “More friends? Are they as charming as the other fellow?”

  I shrugged. “Depends on your definition of charming. But one of them is a healer.”

  “Convenient,” Bria muttered.

  I smiled. “Very.”

  Bria leaned back against the outer wall of the fireplace and lifted up her shirt. I carefully placed the fabric against the gunshot wound, then wrapped it around her waist so it would plug the exit hole too. I pulled the fabric as tight as it would go, making Bria grunt with pain, then tied the whole thing together with a neat bow. Bria rested her head against the stone. Her breath came in short pants, and sweat glistened on her neck and forehead.

  “Sorry,” I said. “But it had to be done.”

  She nodded. “I’ve… had worse.”

  She sat there a few seconds, eyes closed, resting, getting her strength back. Once her breathing eased into a more normal pattern, Bria opened her eyes and stared at me again. “Who are you? Why did you come in here after Elliot Slater and his men?”

  Ah, the moment of truth.
I sat down on the floor in front of her and crossed my legs, considering my options. I could lie, of course. Make up some fairy tale about being a good Samaritan who just happened to hear the noise, put on a ski mask, grabbed several knives, and jumped into the fray against five giants and a pissed-off Ice elemental. Not that Bria would believe me. Hell, I’d probably start laughing halfway through a story like that. Finn would certainly get a chuckle out of it. Since I couldn’t think of a somewhat convincing lie, I decided to go with the truth.

  “I have a certain interest in Slater,” I replied. “I’ve been following him all night.”

  “And what would that interest be?” she asked.

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  Silence.

  I sat there and waited for the angry condemnation to fill Bria’s blue eyes. For my baby sister to look at me the disappointed, reproachful way that Detective Donovan Caine always had—like I was a dog who’d betrayed its master.

  Instead, Bria tilted her head to one side and regarded me with a thoughtful expression. “You’re an assassin, aren’t you?”

  Not a huge leap of logic to make, considering what she’d seen me do tonight. I shrugged. No reason to lie now. “I used to be. I retired a while back.”

  “So why go after Slater now?”

  I shrugged again. “An old friend called in a favor, and I owe her big-time. Besides, my retirement’s been rather boring for the most part. I like to keep my hand in things, and my blades sharp. So I help the little people, as it were, every once in a while.”

  Bria snorted. “What are you then? Some sort of guardian angel?”

  “The angel of death, maybe,” I replied. “People who have guardian angels generally don’t need my services.”

  She smiled at my grim humor. We sat there staring at each other. Five seconds ticked by. Then, ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty-five…

  “Why don’t you take off that ski mask?” Bria asked.