And here was another girl who was in pain, who was being hurt like I had been hurt once upon a time. I hadn’t been able to save Bria, but I could help Charlotte—I would help her. I wasn’t weak, helpless, or afraid anymore, and I was going to enjoy showing Cesar Vaughn exactly how strong I was, right before I laid his throat open with my knife.
“Soon,” I whispered to Charlotte’s picture again. “You’ll be free from him soon.”
My promise affirmed, I slid her photo back into the file, put it aside, turned out the light, and went back to sleep.
4
Two nights later, I found myself in a rustic dining room.
A long rectangular table made out of polished wood took up a large portion of the area, so big that it required three separate chandeliers to light the various sections. But instead of the usual brass or crystal, these chandeliers were made out of deer, elk, and other antlers that had been strung together. Giant wagon wheels covered the walls, along with what I could only describe as cowboy duds—shiny silver spurs, coiled lassos, and even a pair of old-timey revolvers crisscrossed over each other. A stuffed bison head that was almost as big as I was hung over the fireplace in the back wall. The bison’s dark eyes were fixed in a perpetual angry squint, as if the creature wanted to leap down and gore everyone in sight with the short, curved horns that it still had left on its head.
The dining room and all of its western furnishings were the property of Tobias Dawson, and the dwarf had apparently dressed to match the decor, sporting a droopy handlebar mustache, a turquoise lariat tie, and black snakeskin boots, along with a black business suit. A black ten-gallon hat perched on top of his head, although it couldn’t contain his sandy mane of hair, which fell to his shoulders. Dawson threw back his head and laughed at something a gorgeous vampire was murmuring to him.
Dawson was some big coal mine owner, with operations located throughout the Appalachian Mountains. Speculation among the other diners was that Dawson was thinking about expanding into the Rockies or even up into Canada. I’d have to tell Fletcher what I’d overheard. The old man lived for juicy bits of gossip like that.
Somehow Fletcher had gotten wind that Dawson had invited thirty of his closest friends and business associates to his home for a dinner party. Now here I was, smack dab in the middle of a crowd of women wearing expensive evening gowns and men sporting designer suits that cost just as much, although all of their finery seemed a bit at odds with the country cowboy collection adorning the walls—
“Hey, sweetheart, you going to stand there and gawk, or you going to offer me something to drink?” a low voice growled.
A large shadow fell over me, blotting out the light from the antler chandelier overhead and snapping me out of my snide observations. Because I wasn’t here as one of Dawson’s well-to-do guests. Instead of a satin gown and cascades of diamonds, I wore a black button-up shirt, a white tuxedo vest, and a matching white bow tie over a pair of black pants and boots. Cinderella, I was not.
No, tonight I was the help.
Actually, I was the help most nights. Fletcher often hired himself out for events like this, since it was a great way to surreptitiously scope out potential targets. See how many guards a businessman employed, whom he talked to, whom he snubbed, whom he was sleeping with. You never knew what information could be useful and help you get close enough to put your target down for good. I’d been coming along with the old man on catering jobs like these for years now, mostly working as a waiter, although I also helped him in the kitchen every now and then.
“Well, sweetheart?” the voice growled again, the tone a little sharper and more demanding than before. “What’s it going to be?”
I glanced up . . . and up . . . and up, until my gaze landed on the face of the giant in front of me. Everything about him was pale, from his skin to his hazel eyes to his wispy thatch of blond hair. His features were so light—almost albino, really—that he might have faded into the background if not for the sheer, solid size of him, seven towering feet of thick muscles anchored by a rock-solid chest. No, Elliot Slater was not someone you overlooked, not if you wanted to live through whatever encounter you had with him.
“Champagne, sir?” I asked, careful to keep my voice soft and neutral but still respectful.
I might be an assassin, but Fletcher had taught me that discretion was the better part of valor, and Elliot Slater could snap my neck with one hand if he wanted to. And he just might, since I was masquerading as an anonymous waiter. No doubt, Dawson and his guests would howl with laughter at such a casual, brutal display of the giant’s strength. They’d have to, because Slater could easily turn his wrath on them.
Slater grabbed a glass of champagne off the silver tray that I was now carefully, politely holding out to him. “That’s more like it,” he snapped.
He downed that glass of champagne and three more in quick succession. All the while, he stared at me, his cold gaze tracking up and down my body, from my ponytail to my br**sts to my legs and back again. Apparently, he wasn’t too impressed with what he saw, because he snorted, grabbed a final glass of champagne, and shooed me away with a wave of his hand. The dismissive motion made the diamond in his pinkie ring spark and flash underneath the lights.
I gripped my tray a little tighter, but I made myself smile and politely, blandly, nod my head at him before turning away. It took more effort still to make my walk slow and controlled, as though I weren’t concerned about the fact that a vicious giant was staring at my ass, assessing it as coldly as he had the rest of me. Animals like Slater were attracted to fear more than anything else.
But he wasn’t the only one watching me—Fletcher was too.
He stood with four other chefs along the front wall of the dining room. Apparently, Dawson had thought that it would be fun to let his guests watch their food being prepared, although they were all far too busy bullshitting and boozing it up even to glance at the chefs as they whacked their way through mounds of vegetables, concocted creamy sauces, and flambéed various delicacies.
Dinner wasn’t due to start for another forty-five minutes, so the guests milled around, laughing, talking, sizing up their rivals, and plotting against everyone in sight.
Including Cesar Vaughn.
He was over in a corner, chatting with an older woman who was wearing several ropes of pearls that Jo-Jo would have admired. Vaughn was an even more imposing and impressive figure in person. Fit, trim, strong, handsome. But there was a . . . roughness to him, one that his expensive suit couldn’t quite hide. I could easily imagine him swinging a hammer, wielding a shovel, or lugging around bags of supplies, just like he had in the photos that Fletcher had shown me. And it seemed like Vaughn would have preferred to be doing any one of those things right now, judging from his many glances at his watch and the way his hand kept creeping up to his blue tie and yanking on the fabric, as though he found the knot there uncomfortably tight.