"Nobody moves or he dies!" I hissed.
He was going to die anyway, but they didn't need to know that. Gordon Giles didn't move. Donovan Caine's hand fluttered over the gun in the holster on his hip. Cowboy.
The would-be assassin jerked against me, trying to break my hold. More hot pain blossomed in my shoulder, but I ground my teeth together and shut it out. I jabbed the knife tip into his throat to dissuade him from further movement.
"Who are you working for?" I snarled in his ear.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, mixing with my own. He stank of garlic.
"Bullshit. You were assigned to kill Giles if I didn't."
Giles gasped, and his ferretlike face paled. Donovan Caine's hazel eyes narrowed, and his mouth flattened into a hard line.
"Tell me who you're working for, or I am going to cut your throat right here, right now. Brutus isn't coming to help you."
The man stiffened at the mention of the other assassin's name. For a moment, I thought he might tell me, might give me the information I needed, but he arched his back, and I knew he'd made the wrong decision.
"Go to hell, bitch," he spat out the words, along with a mouthful of blood. "You first." I cut his throat. Hot, sticky blood spurted out onto my hands. The man gurgled and clutched at the open wound. Gordon Giles screamed once, a high-pitched, girlish sound better suited for an enthusiastic cheerleader than a middle-aged man. He swayed back and forth. His eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and the accountant toppled over in a dead faint. Donovan Caine had a stronger stomach. The detective went for his gun.
Before Caine could get his weapon free of his holster, I shoved the dying man forward, sending him into the detective. Then I turned and sprinted out of the box.
I ran back the way I'd come, pounding up the stairs to the executive floor, grabbing the cello case, bursting through the doors, and running out on the balcony. As soon as I stepped onto the stone patio, I hurled the cello case over the side into the river and rushed toward the hidden rope.
I'd heard Donovan Caine's heavy footsteps in the stairwell below me. No time to be cautious, to be safe. I'd have to climb down the side of the cliffs and hope Caine was a lousy shot or didn't cut the rope before I reached the bottom-
"Stop right there!" a male voice boomed.
I froze and looked over my shoulder. Donovan Caine advanced on me, his gun leveled at my chest with the steadiness of a man who knows he's an excellent shot. I turned and raised my hands, even as I took a step back toward the balcony.
"Who are you?" he snarled. "Who are you working for?"
"I honestly don't know," I said in an even voice. "Things have gotten a little complicated this evening." His eyes glinted like smoky topaz. "Complicated how?" He wasn't shooting me on the spot. Good for me, sloppy on his part.
"Somebody set me up," I said. "I was supposed to kill Giles and walk away, but somebody had other ideas. They wanted to kill me before I did the job, then blame me for his murder. If you check up on the catwalk, you'll find a dead man. His name is Brutus. He's an assassin. Goes by the nickname Viper."
Caine took another step forward. "I don't believe you."
"I don't care what you believe. The point is Gordon Giles is still in danger. I'd be more worried about him than me."
The detective thought about it, his black jacket struggling to contain the strength of his coiled muscles. His features were rough and rugged in the shadows. Patches of darkness painted his cheekbones, but the moonlight frosted his dark hair and outlined his thick lips.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, I thought about those lips against mine. His heavy tongue stroking my own, then moving down my body one sweet, slow inch at a time, before plunging into the curls at the junction of my thighs. Mmm.
"You're coming with me," he said.
With his free hand, Caine reached inside his jacket pocket and drew out a pair of silverstone handcuffs. He tossed them on the balcony between us. The metal clinked to a stop at my booted feet.
"Put those on."
"Handcuffs. Kinky. But I prefer to have a bit more freedom during sex. Don't you?" Caine jerked as though I'd yanked the gun out of his hands and shot him. His eyes flicked down my body, going to my breasts and thighs, before coming back to my face.
Yeah, he was thinking about it. All the distraction I needed.
"There's no need to bother with those because you aren't taking me in, detective."
"Where are you going to go?" Caine asked. "You're trapped up here." I smiled. "Me? Trapped? Never."
Using my legs, I turned, leaped up onto the balcony wall, and launched myself over the side into the darkness below.
Chapter Six
I managed to propel myself far enough out from the balcony so that I missed the sharp, jagged rocks of the cliffs below. The wind screeched in my ears before my body plunged into the murky depths of the Aneirin River.
I flipped over during my descent and hit the water feetfirst. The force of my fall ripped the weapons from my hands and knifed me down to the rocky riverbed, fifty feet below the surface. The black water was so cold I felt like I'd been flash-frozen.
The icy, cruel shock of it stole precious air from my lungs. But I didn't flail or try to struggle to the surface. Instead I let the current catch me in its rough embrace and drag me downriver. I started counting the seconds in my head. Ten, twenty, thirty ...
When I reached forty-five, I kicked up. My waterlogged clothes and boots weighed me down, but I broke free of the water. I gasped in a breath and sank back under the surface. Ten, twenty, thirty ...
When I reached forty-five, I kicked up again. This time, I stayed up. I treaded water and looked back at the opera house. Lights blazed on the balcony, from which I'd jumped. Figures moved back and forth on the ledge, but I was too far away to see who they were. I wondered if Donovan Caine was still on the balcony. Or if he'd gone back to Gordon Giles to hustle the accountant to safety.
But I couldn't think about them right now. I had to reach Fletcher. Even though Brutus was dead, news of the botched assassination attempt would start leaking out-along with the fact Giles was still alive. Whoever had hired Brutus would start cleaning house, killing everyone who might be able to point the finger of guilt at him, including Fletcher.
I turned my head and swam for shore.
It took me twenty minutes to reach the opposite side of the river. By the time I plodded up the sloping, muddy bank, I'd drifted half a mile downstream from the opera house. Blue and red police lights flashed in the distance, and a bloodhound bayed at the moon. His brothers and sisters joined him in a low, throaty chorus. The sound echoed across the river to me, then bounced back. They weren't assuming I'd drowned. Too bad.
Despite the Ice magic in my veins, the frigid water had taken its toll. My teeth chattered, and my short fingernails had blued out from the cold. The groove in my shoulder where the bullet had grazed me felt tight and numb, and my kidneys ached from Brutus's blows. So did my left arm where he'd sliced it with the knife. And worst of all, I smelled rotten, like catfish.
But I forced myself to keep moving, to put one foot in front of the other. I increased my puttering pace to a swift walk, then a jog. I had to move. Had to keep warm until I could get some dry clothes.
While I jogged, I unzipped a pocket on my vest and fished out my cell phone. Thanks to my waterproof case, I still had a signal. I dialed the number for the Pork Pit. The phone rang and rang and rang. Fletcher should have been there. He always waited for me at the barbecue restaurant after a job. He should have answered.
I tried Finnegan's number. No answer. Dread flooded my body, adding to my misery, making my chest hurt, weighing me down. But I pushed it aside and forced my feet to move. Faster. I had to go faster. Water squished out of my boots with every quick step.
I ran two miles in the dark, stumbling most of the way. I stayed just inside the dense row of shrubbery and fir trees that lined the highway. Cars whizzed by on the four-lane, but I didn't dare try to stop one of them or hail a cab. A wet possum looked more appealing than me right now. Smelled better too.
Up ahead, I spotted a sign for one of the Sell-Everything superstores that dotted the city like cavernous zits on a teenager's face. One of Mab Monroe's many business interests. For once, I was grateful to see such a blatant symbol of southern corporate America. Because all of my knives had gotten ripped away from me when I'd hit the river, and I'd need new weapons to save Fletcher and Finn. Dry clothes and shoes too, or I ran the risk of hypothermia. Despite my jog, my teeth still chattered and my hands shook from the cold water. Hard to cut somebody if your fingers were too numb to wrap around the hilt of your knife. As much as I hated a second's delay in getting to Fletcher and Finn, I needed some supplies before I went after them.
Or we'd all be dead.
I trudged into the parking lot and headed for the fall garden section, deserted except for the day's fading pansies and bags of mulch that hadn't sold. I slipped past the low wall of cinder blocks that separated the flowers from the parking lot. Rows of rakes and leaf blowers hung on the makeshift peg-board walls, and the whole area reeked of fertilizer. The door to the store itself was still open, and I headed inside. All around me, the cheap concrete of the building beeped and chimed like a cash register.
An empty cart, abandoned by some wayward shopper, stood by the entrance. I pushed the squeaking metal contraption to the women's section and grabbed the first clothes that looked like they might fit. Jeans. A bra. Panties. Long-sleeved black T-shirt. Matching fleece jacket. Socks. Boots. A black baseball cap with a red primrose rune stitched on it. The symbol for beauty. Because baseball caps were so beautiful in and of themselves.
My next stop was the pharmacy, where I grabbed antibiotic ointment, gauze, superstrength aspirin, and more medical supplies. I did a drive-by in the beauty section, picking up deodorant and body freshener to try to smother my catfish perfume. Then I went to the outdoors aisle and dumped several packs of chemical hand warmers into the cart. My final stop was the kitchen section. Several large knives went on top of my pile of goods.
I pushed the full cart to the self-checkout lane in the front of the store. I fished a credit card with a fake name out of my soggy vest and paid for the items. A clerk stationed by the registers gave me a bored look, then went back to her magazine.
Since I was merely wet and cold, and not strung out and jonesing for blood like the vampire hookers who shopped late at night, I didn't merit her attention.
I took my items to the bathroom in the back of the store. I locked the door behind me and stripped off my wet clothes, shivering all the while. Using the supplies I'd just bought, I cleaned the wound in my shoulder and the one on my bicep, glued them together with liquid skin, and covered both with gauze bandages. The injuries still throbbed and pulsed with heat, but they weren't deep enough to need stitches. The bullet had just grazed my shoulder, instead of punching through it.
Of course, I could have gone to Jo-Jo's and had her take care of me. A few minutes with the Air elemental healer, and I would have felt like I'd spent a week being pampered at a ritzy spa. But I didn't have that kind of time.
Not if I wanted to get to Fletcher and Finn before they got dead.
I tried calling the father and son again as I hosed myself down with the deodorant and body freshener, changed into the dry clothes, and cracked aspirin between my teeth. No answer.
I ripped open the hand warmers and stuffed them into the pockets of the jacket and jeans, and down into the space between my boots and socks. The bloody clothes got tossed into the trash. No point in hiding them. They were generic clothes you could find in any store. It wasn't like I'd stitched my name inside them: Property of Gin Blanco.
Besides, if Donovan Caine was smart, he'd check every store, gas station, and cab company in a five-mile radius of the opera house. Sooner or later, he'd get the surveillance footage from Sell-Everything. He would know I'd come in here to get cleaned up.
But that was all he'd know.
I ripped open the plastic covering the knives and tested one with my thumb. Not as sharp as I liked; the balance was off, and the wooden handle was slick as hot shit in the summertime, but it would do the job. Just about anything would, if you put enough force behind it. I tucked two knives up my jacket sleeves. One went against the small of my back, and two more slid into my boots, nestled next to the hand warmers.
Brutus had already paid for double-crossing me. Now it was his mysterious employer's turn and anyone else who got between me and Fletcher and Finnegan. I hoped Donovan Caine and the rest of the police force were stocked up on coffee and doughnuts and approved for overtime. Because the body count in Ashland was about to go up tonight-way up.
Hidden in the shadows, I stared at the front door of the Pork Pit. The neon pig glowed in the dark night, its pink lights taking on a blood-red tinge. Or perhaps that was just my thoughts darkening at what I might find inside the innocent-looking storefront.
I checked my watch. After ten. More than two hours since the botched assassination attempt at the opera house. I'd been crouching here three minutes, hoping for a sign of life inside. Nothing. Using my cell phone, I'd called the restaurant again, but Fletcher still hadn't answered. I'd tried Finn again, too. No response.
They were both probably dead already.
Brutus's employer would want to know about me-where I'd go, what I'd do, who I'd talk to. Fletcher and Finnegan could give him that information. Two hours was a long time to be in the hands of the enemy. Two minutes was enough to break most people.
Even without magic.
