Shortie slackened against me, and I shoved him away. The body thumped onto the floor. Lovely sound. "It's about time you got here." Finn's voice came out in a low, pain-filled rasp.

I pulled the knife out of Shortie, then yanked the other one out of Tall Guy's eye. I used the bloody weapons to slice through Finn's bonds, then shoved the giant's body off him.

"And the man outside? Or do I even have to ask?" Finn said. I looked at him.

"Right. Dumb question."

I stared at the bodies on the floor. Blood oozed out of their wounds, ruining the pristine white of the fluffy shag carpet. Still more gobs of blood covered me, as though a bucket of paint had been upended over my head.

But all I could see was Fletcher's body, beaten and flayed and tortured inside the Pork Pit. Broken and dead. My eyes flicked to Finn. His handsome face, reduced to mushy pulp. I didn't often feel rage, but a cold, hard knot of it pulsed in my chest, right where my heart would be.

My thumb traced over the hilt of my knife. Too quick. This had all been too damn quick. These men hadn't suffered like Fletcher had. They'd barely felt a thing. A ribbon of fire, the world fading away, and they were gone. Easy. Fast. Relatively painless.

The knot of rage in my chest twitched, and I wanted to leap onto the guards' bodies, to hack and slash and mutilate them until no one would be sure what part was which or went with whom. To send a message to their boss, just the way she'd sent one to me by brutalizing Fletcher.

But Finn was hurt and needed a healer. Besides, something could always go wrong.

I'd had enough adrenaline for this, but now I could feel the crash coming. My hands and legs twitched from fatigue, stress, overuse. And I still felt cold and clammy from my swan dive into the icy river.

Revenge, justice, retribution, karma, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it, could wait. Keeping Finn safe and breathing, that was my priority now. My mission. That's what Fletcher would have asked me to do.

For once in my life, I was going to do exactly what the old man wanted.

Chapter Eight

I turned my back on the bodies. Finn lowered himself to his hands and knees, rifling through the dead men's pockets, pulling out their wallets and cell phones. He also ripped off their watches and a gold chain from Shortie's neck. Finn started to open one of the wallets, but I took it away from him.

"Later," I said. "We need to get you over to Jo-Jo's. You look like shit warmed over." Finn grimaced. "That bad, huh?"

"Trust me. You don't want to look in the mirror right now. Your ego couldn't take it." Finn snorted. "Please. My ego can take anything." He jerked his head at the bodies.

"What about them?"

"Sophia, of course. You know how she loves this sort of work." I picked up the cordless phone resting on a table and hit the number 7. Like me, Finn had the dwarf programmed into his speed dial. The phone rang twice before she picked up.

"Hmph?" The low grunt was Sophia Deveraux's usual greeting. The dwarf wasn't big on conversation. "It's Gin," I said. "I've made a mess over at Finn's apartment. Need you to come clean it up."

"Hmm." A little more interest in this grunt than the first one.

"Two inside, one before you get to the elevator. Small, medium, and large." Our code for a human, a half giant, and a giant.

"Damage?" Her voice rasped worse than a whiskey-drinking, hard-living chain smoker's would have. When she did deign to speak, Sophia liked to limit herself to small spurts of syllables. Nothing too strenuous. Then again, her dwarven sister, Jo-Jo, talked enough for both of them.

I eyed the blood-soaked carpet. Finn might have thought he was hip having that white shag installed, but now it resembled spaghetti covering the floor-with a couple of meatballs on top. "Let's just say the marble floor outside the apartment will be considerably easier to clean than the carpet inside. You coming?"

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

"Good. And be careful. Small, medium, and large might have some friends come check on them later. We're heading to Jo-Jo's. See you there." I hung up the phone and turned back to Finn. "She's on her way. Go get whatever you need for the next few days. Clothes, your computer, whatever. You're staying with me until this is over." Finn nodded, got to his feet, and took a step. One of his legs crumpled. He stumbled, swayed, and almost fell over the chair he'd been tied to. I hurried to Finn's side, put my shoulder under his, and helped him into the bedroom. Finn sat on the bed while I threw some suits, his laptop, and a few more requested items into a duffel bag, along with the wallets and jewelry we'd taken off the dead guys.

Ten minutes later, the doors on the elevator slid open, revealing the dim parking garage attached to the back of Finn's building. I helped Finn limp out of the elevator.

Dark, dirty concrete rolled out in every direction. Late- model luxury sedans sat waiting in their assigned slips in front of a narrow ramp that angled and turned up to the next level. Fluorescent lights flickered over the vehicles, and a bug zapper hung in one corner. A moth flapping around the zapper decided to land on the glowing, tempting blue surface. The resulting crack and sizzle sounded like a grenade exploding in the enclosed space.

Finn pointed to a set of stairs that ran between the levels, and we tiptoed down them.

The smell of motor oill and trapped exhaust thickened the air. I skimmed the fingers of my free hand against the concrete wall. Sharp notes of worry punctuated the stone's mutter. Not unusual. Everybody got a little paranoid and claustrophobic in parking garages, even me.

The low, growling sound didn't ease my mind. Not after the long, bloody night I'd had. But we made our way down to the second level without incident. I dragged Finn toward the closest car I saw that was his-a flashy silver Aston Martin that would have looked right at home in a James Bond movie. Finn collected cars like other people did knickknacks.

"No," Finn groaned. "Not the Aston. Anything but the Aston. I just got it a month ago.

The blood will never come out of the leather seats. Even Sophia won't be able to get it out."

"What do you suggest then, your highness?" I snapped. He pointed. "Get my Benz. At least it's burgundy inside."

I rolled my eyes but did as he asked. Finnegan Lane might not have been my blood brother, but he annoyed me just like a sibling would. Teasing, nagging, provoking, until I wanted to cut out his tongue and fry it up in a skillet for dinner. Still, I'd do anything for him. Even smear his clotting blood inside the vehicle of his choosing.

I opened the door on the black Benz, dumped Finn in the front, threw our stuff in the back, and sank into the driver's seat. The leather felt as soft as a warm mattress, cupping my ass, straightening my spine, supporting my neck and shoulders. Mmm. It felt so good to just sit still for a minute and not worry about my next move-or who might be waiting around the corner to try and take me out. I could have put my head back on the seat and been asleep in under a minute.

Too bad my night was far from over.

Two minutes later, we exited the parking garage. I turned onto the appropriate street and headed north to Jo-Jo's. My route took us past the Pork Pit. The neon pig gleamed like a beacon in the darkness. I tried not to think of Fletcher, lying in a pool of his own blood in the storefront, but the image of his flayed body, his ruined flesh, filled my mind. For the second time tonight, hot tears pricked my eyes. Damn. I hadn't cried this much since I was a kid.

Finn saw the sheen of moisture. "Hey, hey. He wouldn't want you to do that. You know how he felt about crying."

"A waste of time, energy, and resources."

The words came automatically, the way so many of Fletcher's teachings do. The tears were harder to force back, but I managed.

I always managed.

We rode in silence. I coasted to a stop at a red light and drew in a breath. Time to get on with things. Finn and I needed to talk before we got to Jo-Jo's.

"Tell me about it. Where you were, how they jumped you, why they brought you back to your apartment."

"Sure." Finn moved his beaten body to one side so he could look at me without turning his head. "Dad had told me about the job, of course, so I decided to attend the grand opening of the new wing at the opera house. For moral support."

I raised an eyebrow.

"All right, so my lady friend wanted to go too, and I had some clients to schmooze with," Finn admitted. "Several birds, one stone. Know what I mean?"

"Sure," I said in a wry tone.

Finn continued his story. "So I'm at the opera house, private box, wonderful seats, when I hear a man scream. At least, I think it was a man. Rather light in his loafers if you ask me."

Gordon Giles, after I'd cut the other assassin's throat.

"And I figured you'd done your thing and were on your way out of the building. So me and the lady friend go outside with everyone else to see what the commotion's about. And I spot a guy holding a gun chasing after a slim black figure." Donovan Caine pounding down the hallway after me.

"The news leaks out there's been a murder in one of the private boxes. My lady friend is very, very upset, so I suggest we go somewhere a little quieter where she can calm down." I rolled my eyes again. "You mean where you can get her alone and have I'm-so-happy-I didn't-get-my-throat- cut sex."

A faint grin pulled up Finn's fat, split lips. "We go downstairs to one of the private salons and become otherwise engaged. The door bangs open just as things are getting interesting."

"So they caught you with your pants down."

Finn sighed. "The bastards could have at least let us finish. But they pulled me away, told my lady friend to scram, and drove me to my apartment. I suppose they were hoping you'd show up to save me."

"Did they say anything? Any mention of who they were working for? Why they wanted Gordon Giles dead? Anything?"

"Nothing." Finn shook his head. "They just started hitting me and demanded to know where you were."

I kept driving, stopping at red lights, making the appropriate turns, keeping the car just under the speed limit. The last thing I needed was to get stopped by the police, especially considering the fact Finn and I were both covered in blood. We were almost to Jo-Jo's when Finn asked me the question I'd been dreading ever since I'd stormed into his apartment.

"What-what about Dad?" he asked in a low voice. "What did they do to him?" My heart lurched, but I kept my gray eyes on the road, avoiding Finn's bright, searching gaze. My hands strangled the steering wheel. I wished it was the Air elemental's neck instead.

"Stabbed him to death. I found him in the Pork Pit. He was already dead when I got there."

I left out the part about the Air elemental and the gruesome torture. Finn didn't need to hear about that. Despite his shady deals and occasional need for violence, Finnegan Lane really was a gentle soul. Suits, cars, women, cash, those were the things he enjoyed. Finn was perfectly happy to fuck and drink his way through life, counting his money and scheming to get more. Harmless, by Ashland standards. And the reason Fletcher had trained me to be the assassin and not his son, even though at thirty-two, Finn was two years older than me. I was stronger than Finn. Harder.

Colder. I'd had to be just to survive my childhood.

Finn kept staring at me, wanting to know the rest of the story. I gave him the short, edited version. The fight with Brutus at the opera house. Being chased by Donovan Caine. Swan dive into the river. Making my way first to the Pork Pit, then to his apartment.

"They also sent a guy back to the restaurant in case I showed up," I added. "And what did you do to him?"

I gave Finn a flat look.

"What you do best," he murmured. "Thank you for that, Gin."

I shrugged. "Fletcher was like a father to me. It was the least I could do. I only wish I'd had more time with the bastard."

More time to slash and wound and kill-more time to act and less time to think about what I'd lost tonight. And how much it fucking hurt.

Chapter Nine

Despite the darkness, a noticeable change swept over the city streets as I drove farther away from the Pork Pit. The Civil War might have been over, but a battle of another kind still raged in Ashland-between Northtown and Southtown.

The two sections of the city took their names from their respective geographic locations and were joined together by the sprawling, circular confines of the downtown area. But that was where the similarity ended. Southtown was the rough, raw part of town, where the working poor and blue-collar folks lived in run-down public housing units among the vampire hookers, junkies, and other white trash. The Pork Pit and my apartment were located downtown, close to the Southtown border.

Northtown was a dewy debutante in comparison, home to the city's white-collar yuppies and monetary, social, and magical elite. The area featured themed subdivisions with cutesy names like Tara Heights and Lee's Lament, along with sprawling, plantation-style mansions and estates. But the old-fashioned, antebellum elegance didn't make that side of town any better. In Northtown people called you sugar to your face while they stabbed you in the back. At least in Southtown the decor matched the danger.

Jo-Jo made her home in Northtown, as befitting an Air elemental of her power, wealth, status, and social connections. I made the turn into the Tara Heights subdivision, coasted onto a street marked Magnolia Lane, and steered the Benz up a circular driveway paved with white cobblestones. They gleamed like bleached bones under the pale moonlight.

A three-story plantation house resplendent with rows of white columns perched at the top of a grassy knoll, a diamond queen on her emerald throne. Three steps led up to the wraparound porch, partially obscured by a trellis covered with curled kudzu vines and bare rose bushes. A lone bulb burned on the porch, making the shadows around the house seem a little less sinister.