He was the only one left who cared whether I lived or died.

But what could I do? Douglas wouldn't stop until Fletcher was dead - or he was. He'd said as much, and Fletcher was in no position to fight back. Not now.

In that moment, I knew what I had to do if I wanted to save Fletcher, if I wanted to save myself and the fragile little bubble of life, of normalcy, of security, that I'd built at the Pork Pit.

My gray eyes skipped down to the knife I still clutched, the one I'd been chopping onions with. A strange calm settled over me, and my fingers tightened around the handle until the stainless steel imprinted itself over the silverstone spider rune scar on my palm.

"Leave him alone," I said and dropped the knife below the counter, out of the giant's line of sight.

Douglas stopped rolling up his sleeves long enough to stare at me. "What did you say, little girl?"

I drew in a breath. "I said leave him alone, you fat, ugly, cow-faced bastard."

Douglas's eyes narrowed. "Well, aren't you a feisty one? A shame you're going to die so young - and so painfully."

The giant stepped over Fletcher and started toward me.

Fletcher reached out, trying to stop him, but he was too weak and injured to hold onto the bigger, stronger man. I stayed where I was behind the counter and moved my right arm behind my leg, hiding the knife. Douglas came around the counter and reached for me.

His left hand grabbed my shoulder, yanking me toward him. Something wrenched in my arm, and pain exploded in my body. His right fist was already drawing back to hit me.

Somehow, I pushed the pain away, gulped down a breath, lunged forward, and slammed the knife into his chest as hard and deep as I could.

My aim must have been better than I'd thought, because Douglas's hazel eyes bulged in surprise and pain. But he didn't go down. He staggered back. I kept my grip on the knife, and it slid free from his chest. Blood coated my fingers like hot grease, burning my skin. I wanted to drop the weapon. Oh, how I wanted to drop it. I might have, if Douglas hadn't started laughing.

"Stupid bitch," he said. "You think one little stab wound is going to stop me? I'll enjoy making you pay for that."

He came at me again, fist drawn back, but I didn't hesitate.

Before he could hit me, I lurched forward and stabbed him again. I felt the blade slide off something in his chest.

A rib, maybe, or some other bone. The sensation made me want to retch.

Douglas screamed again, louder this time, and his beefy hand tangled in my brown hair, yanking my head back until I thought my neck would break. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the glitter of yellowish fangs in his mouth. A vampire.

He was a giant, and he was vampire. One who wanted to drink my blood to replace his own.

Panic filled me. Before he could sink his teeth into my neck, I wrested the knife out of his massive chest and plunged it into his body again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over I stabbed him, blood and tears and mucus covering me like a second skin. Someone was screaming. Me.

Douglas let go of my hair and slid to the floor, but I didn't stop my assault. He kicked out, catching my leg. My knee buckled, and I stumbled back, grabbing the edge of the cash register for support. My shoulder burned with pain, just like my palms had when the Fire elemental who'd murdered my family had tortured me by making me hold onto my own spider rune medallion. The giant vampire flopped on his stomach and crawled around the counter. Some small part of my mind realized that he wasn't fighting me anymore, that he was actually trying to get away from me.

But I still went after him.

I threw myself onto his back and plunged the knife in between his shoulder blades. With my weight behind it, the weapon sank up to the hilt in his flesh. This time, Douglas didn't scream. Something seemed to give in his body, and he stilled. I raised the knife and stabbed him again -

Rough hands settled on my shoulders. I flailed against them, but they were stronger, pinning my arms to my sides.

He pulled me close to his chest, and the smell of chicory coffee washed over me, penetrating the coppery stench of fresh blood.

"It's over, Gin," Fletcher said in my ear. "It's over. He's dead. You can quit stabbing him."

Fletcher crooned soft words into my ear, still cradling me in his arms. The knife slipped from my cramping hand and clattered onto the floor -

The sound might have only been in my dream, but its sharp echo woke me. So suddenly, that I was standing in the middle of my bedroom headed for the door before I realized it was only a dream, another one of my ugly memories manifesting itself. For a moment, I felt that hysterical rage burning through me, that gut-deep, primal need to survive no matter what the cost or consequences.

The instinct that had dictated so much of my life.

I sighed and rubbed the gritty crud out of the corners of my eyes. My psych professor at the community college would have said the dreams, the flashes of my past, were my psyche's way of dealing with the trauma. Of healing.

Quack. To me, the dreams, the memories, were tiring trials, like Marley's ghost rattling his heavy chains at Scrooge. I'd lived through the events once already. I didn't need the Technicolor replay at night.

And I certainly didn't need to dwell on them now.

So I crawled into bed, snuggled back into the warm spot underneath the flannel sheets, and forced myself to relax. To let my body sink into the mattress. To unclench my jaw, uncurl my fists, and forget about the night I'd so brutally killed a man inside the Pork Pit. One of many.

But despite my best efforts, it was still a long, long time before I drifted off to sleep once more.

Chapter Thirteen

"This is getting to be an annoying occurrence," I said.

Just before noon the next day, I stood in the storefront of the Pork Pit. Once more, the restaurant was as empty as a church on Saturday night, except for Sophia Deveraux, who was at the back counter mixing white vinegar, sugar, mayonnaise, and black pepper to make the dressing for a batch of coleslaw. The Goth dwarf had lightened up her wardrobe a bit today. Instead of her usual black T-shirt, she wore one that was blood red - and decorated with lacy cutouts of white coffins. The collar around her neck resembled a thick garnet snake, with chunky square rhinestones for scales.

My eyes flicked over the empty booths, the abandoned tables, the deserted stools. Normally, Wednesday was a busy day, with people coming in to get their midweek barbecue fix. But not today. I knew Jonah McAllister was Mab Monroe's number two guru, that he was a slick, powerful, corrupt lawyer in his own right, but he must have had more influence than I'd realized, if he could convince people to stay away from the Pork Pit two days in a row. I wondered how long the lawyer could keep up the pressure - and what I could do about it. Other than kill the bastard. Which would only cause more problems for me, in the end.

"Did you send everyone home with pay already?" I asked. "Is that why there's nobody here but you?"

"Um-mmm." Sophia's grunt for yes.

The Goth dwarf started stirring the dressing into a mound of chopped green and purple cabbage and carrots, even though there wasn't going to be anyone around to eat it. A shame, really.

Finn wasn't due to show up for a few more minutes, so I decided to fix myself a plate of food while I waited. Nobody else was going to be clamoring for barbecue today.

A barbecue beef sandwich, baked beans, iced blackberry tea, some coleslaw from the dwarf 's metal vat. I took my food and sat at one of the tables in the middle of the restaurant, so I could watch for Finn coming down the street and still talk to Sophia.

I was halfway through my food when the bell over the front door chimed. I looked up, expecting to see Finn.

The man wore an impeccable business suit and polished wingtips, but that's where his resemblance to Finnegan Lane ended.

His gunmetal gray hair was parted on the side, with a thick doo-wop that curled up, down, and around his forehead like a scoop of vanilla soft serve. Given the gray hair, I would have put his age at around sixty. But he had the face of a much younger man - smooth, clean-shaven, and curiously free of wrinkles, even around the corners of his brown eyes. My guess? The finest Air elemental facials and skin treatments his hefty retainers could by.

Debutantes and trophy wives weren't the only vain folks in Ashland. He'd left his hair au natural, though. Probably thought the silver color made him look more distinguished.

Still, for all his youthful vigor, the man radiated awshucks charm the way a snake-oil salesman might. Shake his hand, and you'd be wiping the grease off yours for the next ten minutes. And wondering where your wallet went. I recognized him from his many pictures in the newspaper and Fletcher's thick file on Mab Monroe and her flunkies.

Jonah McAllister, Ashland's slickest attorney and personal counsel to Mab herself, had just walked into my restaurant.

And he wasn't alone.

Jake McAllister strutted in through the door behind his old man. Rock-star jeans, vintage T-shirt, heavy boots, a black leather coat that skirted the floor. Another punk getup.

Two giant bodyguards also stepped inside the restaurant, taking up all the available space by the front door.

The goons were probably on loan from Mab Monroe, via her other number-two man, enforcer Elliot Slater, who was a giant himself. Even if I'd had a customer today, she wouldn't have been able to get inside with the two behemoths blocking the entrance.

I stared at the giants, with their big, buglike eyes and black suits that had probably taken a whole field of cotton to construct. No telltale bulges could be seen under their arms. At least I wouldn't have to worry about them shooting me, if things went badly here. They'd enjoy beating me to death more anyway. Giants who worked for Elliot Slater were notorious for that.

And they just might get a chance, the way the hate and magic sparked in Jake McAllister's brown eyes.

Jonah McAllister stood in the middle of the Pork Pit.

But instead of looking at me or even Sophia, McAllister's gaze slid over the blue and pink booths, the faded pig tracks on the floor, the clean tabletops, the ancient cash register. His eyes resembled his son's - flat, brown, hard - but without the fiery glint of magic. Jake must have gotten his Fire power from his mother. She died several years ago, from what I remember having read in Fletcher's file.

Jonah McAllister didn't say anything. I might as well not have even been in the same room with the man for all the attention he paid me. His arrogance annoyed me.

If that was the game he wanted to play, I was more than happy to participate. I sprinkled some more black pepper on top of my coleslaw, dug my fork into the colorful mound, and took another bite. Sweet and sour. Yeah, that's the way things were going today.

Finally, after two minutes of intense perusal, Jonah McAllister turned his head to me. I got the same treatment he'd given the rest of the restaurant. A slow, thoughtful gaze that weighed, measured, and calculated my worth down to the last rusty penny.

"I assume you're Gin Blanco, the owner of this fine establishment," McAllister said in a rich, deep, sonorous baritone voice that would boom like thunder in the closed confines of a courtroom.

I chewed another bite of coleslaw and tilted my head.

"I am. Don't bother introducing yourself. I already know who you are, Mr. McAllister."

Jonah nodded his head back at me and gestured at the chair on the opposite side of the table. "May I be so kind as to take advantage of your hospitality?"

My lips twitched. My, my, my, he was slathering on the charm already, like sweet butter on a hot biscuit. "Sure."

McAllister unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down.

Jake made a move to join us, but his father turned a pair of cold eyes in his son's direction. "In the booth, Jake. Now."

Jake jerked like a dog who'd been whipped so many times all it took to make him cower was the faintest whisper of its owner's voice. But he did as his father asked and slid into a booth by the front window - the same one Eva Grayson and her friend Cassidy had sat in two nights ago.

The two giant guards remained where they were by the front door. Hands loose by their sides, chests puffed out, spines as tall and straight as flagpoles on the Fourth of July. They could have been statues for all the emotion or interest they showed, although their pale, bulging eyes never left me, not even for an instant. Still, sloppy, sloppy of them standing so far away. I could have easily palmed one of my silverstone knives and cut Jonah McAllister's throat before the guards took two steps.

Jonah McAllister turned his full attention to me. A thin smile pulled up his lips, although his face had been so sandblasted by Air elemental magic, no lines appeared anywhere. The curve of his lips did little to disguise the cold, calculating glint in his eyes. Still, he had a presence about him, a commanding sort of air that probably made people promise him their first-born, if only he'd give them a moment of his time. The hard stare made me want to chuckle. McAllister was nothing compared to some of the folks I'd been up against as the Spider.

"Now, Ms. Blanco," he said in a smooth voice. "Let's talk."

"Sure," I replied. "Let's chat."

"Now, I know about your difficulties with my son the other night, but you have to realize that he just wasn't feeling like himself. Were you, Jake?"

Jake McAllister stared at the floor. "No," he muttered and kicked the underside of the booth opposite him.

Jonah nodded his head at the expected answer, no matter how sullen, fake, and reluctant it had been. "As you can see, my son feels terrible about his part in the incident on Monday night. I came here today hoping we could resolve this situation without any further interference by the police or the court system. What do you say?"

For a moment, I just stared at him. The man had a set of silverstone balls, I'd give him that. Jonah McAllister had nerve to spare, coming into my place of business and trying to talk his psychopathic son out of a lengthy jail term. I thought about stringing him along, pretending to be the weak, country bumpkin he so obviously thought I was. Letting him try to manipulate me the same way he did all those juries, all those people who tried to stand up to Mab Monroe. It'd be a hell of a show, if nothing else. But I had other things to do today, other problems to take care of, namely finding out why Tobias Dawson wanted Violet Fox dead. I didn't have the time or more importantly the inclination to go along quietly. Besides, I'd never been good at playing the victim.