I giggled. "Yeah, with me, silly."
The guard let himself look a second longer, then shook his head. "Sorry. This is another meeting. You're going to have to leave."
I pouted. "But Finny and I always have a date on Sunday nights. I'm his after-hours girl."
The guard didn't say anything, but his gaze kept flicking between my br**sts and legs.
If he did that any faster, he'd give himself vertigo. I pouted a moment longer, then widened my gray eyes and smiled, as though the most amazing thought in the world had just occurred to me.
I stepped forward. The guard stiffened, but he didn't back away. I looked at him through my lashes and trailed my fingers down his broad chest. He wasn't wearing anything underneath his blue pinstriped shirt. No vest, no protective gear. Bad for him, good for me.
"Well, what about you, sugar? Can I interest you in sampling some sweet, sweet Candy tonight? A girl's gotta pay her rent, if you know what I mean." The guard opened his mouth, but he never got a chance to respond. Because I brought my right hand up and shoved the knife I had palmed there into his chest. His eyes bulged with surprise. I clamped my hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming, wrenched the knife out, and stabbed him again.
The guard should have shot me the second I stepped out of the elevator. Never mind the mistake of letting me within arm's reach. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. But a pretty girl is a pretty girl, and men always want to look at and talk to and f**k those. Even if his boss had warned him to watch out for any woman who came near him tonight.
The guard's eyes glazed over, and he quit struggling. I eased his large, heavy body to the floor and retrieved my knife. I also rifled through his pockets, pulling out his wallet and cell phone, and putting them on the walnut table for pickup later. He wasn't wearing any jewelry, not even a watch.
Underneath my feet, the light, dainty murmur of the marble floor took on a harsher note as puddles of blood sluiced on top of it. Another sound I was familiar with.
Once I had the guard taken care of, I turned my attention to the apartment door.
Since the walls themselves were constructed of metal and wood instead of stone, I couldn't use my elemental magic to sense what waited behind the barrier. But I wasn't leaving without discovering what was happening, or had happened, to Finn. I'd just have to take my chances.
I turned the knob and opened the door a crack. Voices drifted out to me, faint, low, indistinct murmurs. They must be in the living room.
I slid inside the door and paused. Finn's apartment was shaped like a large F. The elevator led to the narrow antechamber, which in turn led to the hallway where I stood. The hall flowed all the way to the back of the apartment before taking a right turn and opening up into a wide living room. The master bedroom and bath were located at the far end of the living room. Halfway between here and there was another right turn, which led into the kitchen.
I tiptoed forward, knives in both hands now, and eased into the kitchen. Appliances, marble countertops, a couple of sinks. I passed them all, hugging the wall and moving farther into the room.
I paused when I came to the cutout that connected the kitchen to the living room. A mirror glinted on the back wall of the other room. The pane of glass gave me a clear, if backwards reflection of that area.
They had him tied to a straight-backed chair. Finnegan Lane was very much his father's son, with ruddy skin, a thick, muscular body, and dark, walnut-colored hair.
Sturdy Scots-Irish stock, just like me and so many other folks in the Appalachian Mountains. His eyes would have been a merry green, if they hadn't been mostly swelled shut. Cuts and bruises showed on his face, and blood dribbled down his chin, spattering on his white dress shirt, black pants, and polished shoes.
Anger filled me at the sight of Finn's battered face, but I pushed it aside and kept staring at his body, looking for missing pieces of skin and other signs of torture. I didn't see any, and the stench of ripped flesh didn't contaminate the air. The Air elemental who'd tortured Fletcher wasn't here-yet.
Finn looked like he'd been out on the town before he'd been tied up. He might have even been at the opera tonight. Finn enjoyed those sorts of social functions, mixing with rich people who had even more secrets than he did and would do anything to keep them.
If Finn had been at the opera house, it would have been easy enough to grab him in the confusion and bring him back to the apartment for a more private conversation.
It would also explain the delay in having tortured and killed him by now.
I studied the guards. The first guy was almost seven feet tall, with wide, powerful shoulders, pale, milky skin, and oversize, buglike eyes. A giant, and definitely the muscle, which is why I didn't see any bulges under his loose-fitting suit. Who needed a gun when your fists were the size of bowling balls?
The other guy was shorter, a human. His skin was dark, like polished ebony, and he wore a set of square, gold- frame glasses. He carried a gun-one under either shoulder.
As I watched, Shortie stepped forward.
"Just tell us where she is, and this can all be over with," he said in a pleasant voice. "I promise we'll make the end quick. Three in the back of your head. You won't feel a thing."
Finnegan raised his head and stared at the guy through his bruised, swollen face.
"Here's what I think of you and your f**king promises."
Finn spat blood into Shortie's face. The scarlet spittle hit his glasses, spewing over the lenses like windshield washer fluid. Shortie straightened and removed his glasses. He jerked his head at Tall Guy, who slammed his fist into Finn's face. His nose popped and crunched like cereal. Despite the beating, I had to smile. Finnegan Lane never lacked for defiance or style.
Tall Guy finished his latest round of punishment, and Finn sat there coughing up blood. Shortie drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned his glasses. Once the lenses were back on his face, Shortie circled Finn, trying his tactic again.
"Surely you see how pointless this is. Your father is already dead." Fletcher. Hearing the words out loud was a bitch slap to my heart. I gritted my teeth against the pain and focused on what was important now-Finn.
"No one is coming to save you," Shortie continued. "Certainly not the assassin. She jumped off a two-hundred- foot balcony at the opera house. If the fall didn't kill her, she's probably on her way out of town-if the police don't catch up with her first." I frowned. Police? I didn't like the sound of that. Especially the way Shortie referred to them as if they were his own personal force. This had morphed from a mere setup into a full-blown conspiracy. I wondered how long Brutus, Shortie, and their compatriots had been planning this-and how Fletcher, Finn, and I had been so sloppy as to get caught in the middle of this sticky spiderweb.