My eyes drifted over the white and blue, cloudlike fresco painted on the high ceiling. Familiar as always. I knew where I was, of course. Jolene "Jo-Jo" Deveraux's beauty salon. This wasn't the first time I'd woken up in one of the cherry red chairs staring up at the cloud painting after being healed. I didn't think it would be the last time either.
Something rough and wet and warm scraped against my right hand. I craned my neck to one side. Rosco, Jo-Jo's pudgy basset hound, had dragged his fat, lazy ass out of his wicker basket in the corner long enough to come over and lick my hand.
"Good boy," I murmured and rubbed one of his long, floppy ears between my blood-spattered fingers.
Rosco grunted out a huff of pleasure and collapsed in a brown and black furry heap next to the chair. Walking the thirty feet across the room to me had plumb tuckered him out. I smiled and rubbed the hound dog's other ear.
"About time you came out of it," a feminine voice drawled off to my left.
A pair of bare feet strolled into view next to Rosco's inert form. Bright fuchsia nail polish covered her toes. Only one person I knew still padded around without socks in early December. I looked up to find Jo-Jo Deveraux looming over me. Well, as much as a dwarf who topped out at five feet could loom. Then again, Jo-Jo was rather tall for a dwarf.
Although she was two hundred fifty-seven and counting, Jo-Jo didn't look a day over one ninety-nine. She always reminded me of a Southern magnolia, aging ever so gracefully. Tonight the dwarf wore a long, fuzzy, pink flannel robe, topped off with a string of gravel-size pearls. Jo-Jo never went anywhere without her pearls. To her, they were the ultimate symbol that she was a true Southern lady. Even though it was getting late, Jo-Jo's bleached-blond-white hair still stood tall, teased, and proud in its usual helmet of curls, and her eye makeup looked as fresh as if she'd just applied it. Gloss covered her pursed lips. Strawberry, from the smell of it.
Most people would have thought Jo-Jo was just another aging debutante, still trying to be the belle of the ball and clinging to her youth despite the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. They would have been wrong.
Everybody knew Jo-Jo Deveraux was an Air elemental who used her beauty salon and magic to help folks stave off the ravages of time on their faces, br**sts, legs, and asses. Pure oxygen facials could do wonders for even the most stubborn crows' feet. But few people knew the dwarf was also the best healer in Ashland, capable of curing everything short of death. Even then, you had a better chance of Jo-Jo finding some way to bring you back to life than with anyone else.
Jo-Jo Deveraux had been fast friends with my mentor, Fletcher Lane. When I'd started doing the assassinating instead of the old man, Jo-Jo had transferred her healing services over to me. Of course, I always paid for her time, expertise, and magic, but the dwarf was family to me now. So was her younger sister, Sophia, who was a cook down at the Pork Pit, the barbecue restaurant Fletcher had left me upon his death. Sophia was also rather handy at disposing of the many bodies I left in my wake.
"How are you feeling?" Jo-Jo asked in her low, easy voice that oozed like warm honey.
"Like I got beaten by a giant."
Concern flashed in her pale gaze. Except for the pinprick of black at their center, the dwarf's eyes were almost colorless, like two cloudy pieces of quartz set into her middle-aged face.
"Sit me up, please," I asked.
Jo-Jo nodded. She moved behind me and hit a lever on the chair. The back tilted up, moving me into an upright, seated position. I shifted around, wiggling my fingers, toes, and jaw. I felt tired, but that was to be expected. The body could handle only so much trauma, and going from being well to being severely injured to being well again in the space of a few hours always left me feeling drained and lethargic. It took my brain a while to catch up to the fact that I was still breathing and not six feet under like I should have been.
Dried blood still covered my clothes and hands, but everything else was in pain-free, working order once more. I sniffed. Jo-Jo had even fixed my drippy nose and purged the flu from my system. Humpty-Dumpty had been put back together again. Despite all of Mab Monroe's men.
My eyes scanned over the salon, which took up the back half of Jo-Jo's massive, antebellum house. It looked the same as it always did. Lots of padded swivel chairs. Several old-fashioned hair dryers. Counters cluttered with hairspray, scissors, pink sponge rollers, nail polish, makeup, and gap-toothed combs. Pictures and posters of models with various hairstyles taped to the walls. Piles and piles of beauty and fashion magazines everywhere. I drew in a breath. The air smelled the same too-chemicals mixed with coconut oil from the tanning beds in the next room.
Jo-Jo plopped down in the chair to my right. On the floor between us, Rosco actually expended enough energy to roll over, so the dwarf could rub his pudgy stomach with her bare foot.
"You want to talk about it?" Jo-Jo asked.
I shrugged. "Not much to talk about. Jonah McAllister got Elliot Slater and two of his giant goons to jump me at the community college. McAllister thought I might have info on his son Jake's murder. Since I didn't want to blow my cover, I had to let them beat me. End of story."
Jo-Jo stared at me, a reproachful look in her pale eyes. The dwarf had known me long enough to realize when I was fudging the truth.
I sighed. "And Mab Monroe was there too."
Jo-Jo opened her mouth to ask a question, but Finn chose that moment to pop his head into the salon.
"Is she finally awake?" he asked.
"Finally?" I groused, looking up at the cloud-shaped clock on the wall. "It's barely after ten. I only got the shit beat out of me a couple of hours ago. I'd say I was recovering nicely, all things considered."
"That's what you think," Finn said.
He leaned against the door frame, a mug of chicory coffee in his hand. Finn drank the stuff at all hours of the night and day, but the caffeine seemed to have little effect on him. Or perhaps he'd just become immune to it. Fletcher Lane had drunk the same kind of coffee.
I breathed in again, this time tasting the caffeine fumes in the air. The warm, comforting scent always reminded me of the old man. I wished Fletcher had been here tonight, to talk to me about the attack and seeing Bria again. I wished a lot of things about the old man that were never going to come to pass.
Heavy, plodding footsteps sounded, and another person entered the salon. Sophia Deveraux, Jo-Jo's younger sister. Where Jo-Jo was all sweet pink sunshine, Sophia was the heart of darkness-as in Goth. Sophia wore her usual black jeans and shit-kicker boots. Her T-shirt was actually a girly pink tonight, although images of decapitated doll heads dotted the light fabric. A black leather collar studded with plastic pink hearts ringed Sophia's neck. A bright pink gloss covered her lips, but her cropped hair was as black as black could be. It stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin.