Elemental Assassin 04 - Tangled Threads

anything, including McAllister’s inflated ego—and neck.
    “No, I think I can handle it. Sophia’s here now, and Finn is on his way. Four really would be a crowd,” I murmured. “Besides, they’re not here to kill me. They want something instead. They wouldn’t have come in through the front door otherwise. And if they knew who I really was, they would have brought some of Mab’s giants along with them for backup, at the very least. Maybe even Mab herself, if she was in the mood to watch.”
    More silence.
    “Will I see you tonight then?” Owen asked. “When it’s over?”
    “Probably not. I have a feeling that I’m going to be busy.”
    Owen blew out a tense breath. “All right. Just—be careful. And call me later, okay?”
    “Okay,” I said and hung up.
    Jonah McAllister’s brown eyes flicked over the store-front, and his lip curled up into a faint sneer, the way it always did when he came in here. With its simple, blue and pink vinyl booths, the Pork Pit wasn’t exactly the expensive, elegant, highfalutin joint McAllister was used to dining in. I doubted that he ever went anywhere where the floor was covered with pig tracks done in peeling blue and pink paint, respectively, that led to the men’s and women’s restrooms.
    Still, the lawyer carefully examined everything before his eyes slid to me standing behind the cash register, which sat on top of a long counter running down the back wall. To my left, a bloody framed copy of
Where the Red Fern Grows
decorated the wall, along with a picture of Fletcher Lane in his younger years. Both were mementoes of Fletcher that I kept in his restaurant as a tribute to the old man.
    McAllister drew off first one of his black leather gloves, then the other, tucking them into the pocket of his long coat before striding toward me. His walk was just as slick and smooth as everything else about him, designed to impress and intimidate at the same time.
    “Jonah McAllister,” I drawled, still holding my silverstone knife out of sight below the counter. “To what do I owe this honor?”
    McAllister gave me a cold, thin smile that didn’t even come close to stretching his tight features or reaching his brown eyes. “Gin Blanco. So lovely to see you again. As for what I want, well, I thought that I’d show my lady friend here some of the sights of Ashland. She’s new in town and trying to get the lay of the land, so to speak.”
    LaFleur stepped up next to McAllister, and I got my first close-up look at the assassin. She wore a pair of tight, black leather pants, topped with an expensive flowing silk shirt done in a dark green. Thin ribbons laced up the front of the shirt, giving it a bit of old-fashioned elegance. A matching green pea coat completed the stylish ensemble, along with a pair of black stiletto boots. A headband made of emeralds kept her short, black hair back off her face. An expensive bauble. I could tell that the gems were real and not just glass, because I could hear the stones whispering of their own proud beauty. A smug, arrogant sound that perfectly matched what I knew of their owner.
    LaFleur had a heart-shaped face that was almost as beautiful as Roslyn’s. The assassin’s skin was as smooth and pale as marble—perfectly flawless. Her eyes were a bright, vivid green—the same color as the lightning that I’d seen her use to blast the dwarf on the docks the other night. Even now, her electrical magic sparked in the depths of her green gaze. Just a hint of elemental power surrounded her, the kind of faint static charge that you felt in the air right before a lightning storm, but it still made the silverstone embedded in my hands itch and burn.
    As for her figure, LaFleur was petite, with a trim, athletic build. She might be thin, but there was a lean,coiled strength to her body that her expensive clothes just couldn’t hide.
    But the most curious thing about her was the tattoo.
    It started at the hollow of her throat as a simple vine that curled up her neck until it unfurled into a single, perfect orchid. The faintest hints of green, peach, and cream-white inked in the tattoo. The artistry was exquisite in its detail, and given the petal-soft quality of LaFleur’s skin, it was almost like looking at a real flower. The steady thump of her pulse in her throat made the orchid’s leaves and petals twitch ever so slightly, like it was constantly blossoming.
    Well, it looked as if Fletcher had been right about LaFleur’s having some