Elemental Assassin 04 - Tangled Threads

men and women stared in Roslyn’s direction, hoping to attract her gaze to their own hungry eyes.
    I carefully examined her lovely features, but no marks of Slater’s final, vicious attack on her remained, thanks to Jo-Jo Deveraux’s healing magic. But I knew that Roslyn had scars on the inside—raw, ugly, fresh scars that might never, ever heal. Just like the spider runes on my palms would forever remind me of the night that my family had been murdered.
    I stared at Roslyn a moment longer before turning and gesturing at the closest waitress. “Gin and tonic. And go easy on the tonic.”
    The waitress nodded and moved off into the crowd.
    Finn took a drink of his martini. “About time you showed up. I’ve been here almost an hour already.”
    I shrugged. “I had to work late at the Pork Pit. We were slammed with party orders.”
    A few days before Christmas, and every business in Ashland was rushing to cram in their office party before everyone took off for the holiday. Sophia Deveraux and I had been cooking nonstop today, whipping up dozens of barbecue beef and pork platters, gallons of beans, mounds of French fries, buckets of coleslaw, and more. In addition to serving our regular walk-in customers.
    I loved cooking, loved playing with the never-ending combinations of sweet and salty and sour. The simple process of stirring ingredients together to create something new soothed me the way that mixing bright colorswould a painter. But as much as I enjoyed cooking and running the restaurant, even I was a little sick right now of peeling potatoes, shredding cabbage, and making vats of Fletcher Lane’s secret barbecue sauce.
    The waitress came back with my drink. I tasted the gin, feeling the cold liquor slide down my throat before it started its slow, sweet burn in my stomach.
    Finn, Roslyn, and I sipped our drinks. The music of the club thumped around us, and the smell of smoke, sweat, and sex filled the air.
    “So,” I said after I’d drained the rest of my gin. “How are you, Roslyn?”
    The vampire arched one of her perfect eyebrows. “You’re actually pausing and making small talk first? Instead of immediately demanding to know everything that I know about Vinnie Volga? You’re getting soft in your old age, Gin.”
    I winced. I hadn’t always been kind to Roslyn in the past, mainly because I’d been too upset about Fletcher Lane’s murder to cut the vampire much slack. The vamp talking about my being an assassin to the wrong people was one of the things that had led to the old man’s death. But we’d bonded while I’d been plotting on how best to kill Elliot Slater, and I’d started thinking of Roslyn as a friend. I didn’t have many of those, so each one was important to me. Looked like she didn’t feel the same way, though. The knowledge stung a little more than I thought it would. So did the sharp bit of longing that went with it. It wasn’t an emotion I often experienced, mainly because it always made me feel weak and needy—two things that I absolutely hated.
    “Sorry,” I mumbled. “If you want to get right down to things …”
    A small smile lifted Roslyn’s lips. “Relax. I’m just teasing you, Gin.”
    Her soft voice somehow made me feel even worse than before.
    The vampire took a sip of her blood and leaned back against the booth. “As for how I’m doing, okay, I guess. Still trying to figure things out. Some days, I’m fine. Others, I can’t even breathe. And nightmares. I’m having a lot of nightmares. Most of them involve Slater walking through the front door of the club, grabbing me, and beating me to death on the dance floor.”
    Roslyn’s voice was cold, flat, and calm, just the way it had been the day that she’d told me that Slater was stalking her, that the giant was making her pretend to be his girlfriend while he worked himself up to raping and killing her. It made my heart ache for her that much more.
    I knew all about nightmares. I’d had more than my share over my years, but especially since Fletcher’s murder a few months ago. Living on the streets, Fletcher taking me in, my earliest days with the old man and Finn. I’d dreamed about all that and more. It was like the old man’s death had opened up a floodgate of emotion deep inside me, one that I could close during the day but still had problems dealing with at night—at least until I woke up in a cold sweat, my mouth open in a silent scream.
    “It’ll get better.” An easy lie that I’d