Bitter Bite (Elemental Assassin #14)(53)

“Sure. This sucker’s heavy anyway.”

I slid the duffel bag off my shoulder and placed it on the sidewalk. Then I

stepped over the bag and grinned at the vamp again.

“You want the bag?” I drawled, crooking my finger at him. “Come and take it

from me, sugar.”

“Crazy bitch,” he muttered.

“You have no idea.”

But I must not have seemed crazy enough to make him forget about mugging me,

because the vamp snarled and raised his knife, getting ready to gut me, just

like he’d promised.

I darted forward and grabbed his wrist, digging my fingers into the tendons

there and making him grunt and drop the knife. Then I stepped in even closer

and slammed my fists into his stomach in a brutal one-two combo. The vamp’s

grunt was replaced by a far more ominous coughing spasm. Music to my ears.

He staggered back, but I followed him and punched him twice in the throat

before smashing my fist into his nose. The feel of bones breaking, the sound

of him choking, and the faint spatter of blood against my hands made me grin

even wider.

As a final touch, I dropped down into a crouch and swept the vamp’s legs out

from under him. He fell flat on his back, his head cracking against the

sidewalk. He let out a soft, squeaky noise, between a groan and a whimper,

before he lost consciousness.

And just like that, the fight was over. Not that it had been much of one to

start with.

Still smiling, I got back up onto my feet, cracked my neck, and swung my arms

a few times. Nothing like an attempted mugging to get the blood flowing. After

watching Deirdre these past several nights, it was nice to tackle a problem

head-on for a change. I felt better and more relaxed than I had since she’d

first come to town.

I glanced into the shadows, hoping he had a friend or two I could use to let

off some more steam, but he was all by his lonesome. Ah, well. A girl couldn’

t have everything.

I hoisted my bag back onto my shoulder, stuck my hands into my pockets, and

walked away whistling.

*

My relief was short-lived. Deirdre maintained all her patterns, including her

simpering-sweet behavior. By the time she and Finn finished their lunch at the

Pork Pit the next day, I was wound as tightly as ever.

Normally, I was good at reading people, but I just couldn’t get a bead on

this woman. She seemed so damn sincere in her desire to get to know Finn and

so damn patient and understanding with me, despite all my snotty comments. She

didn’t show a hint of annoyance or anger, no matter what I said or did.

Instead, she just kept giving me smile after smile, as if my suspicious nature

and thinly veiled threats amused her. Maybe they did.

Either way, I was completely stumped about what she might be plotting—if she

was plotting anything at all.

I still had no concrete proof that she was up to anything, other than trying

to get closer to Finn. All I had was that box of keepsakes and that vague

warning letter from Fletcher. Not exactly hard evidence.

I’d thought about giving Finn the casket box of mementos and Fletcher’s

letter to him a dozen times, but Finn was so wrapped up in his mother that I

doubted he’d take the old man’s words seriously. He’d just dismiss them

outright like he had all the other things about Deirdre that didn’t quite add

up.

Besides, Fletcher had asked me to wait until after Deirdre was gone, whatever

that really meant, before I gave Finn the letter. Maybe Fletcher had hoped

that Deirdre’s intentions were genuine and that Finn would never have to read

the letter and learn what horrible truths it most likely contained. Either

way, I was going to honor the old man’s wishes, even if a big part of me just

wanted to rip the letter open and read it for myself.

Still, as much as I loved and trusted Fletcher, Deirdre was starting to wear

me down with her bawdy persona and relentless good cheer, and I was beginning

to doubt my own instincts about her, along with my general sanity.

Or maybe that was Deirdre’s real plan. Drive me crazy so my friends would

ship me off to some funny farm and she could have Finn all to herself. It was

an admittedly absurd thought, but I was grasping at straws here. Yeah, my

imagination and paranoia were definitely working overtime these days—

“What are you thinking about?” a deep voice rumbled.

I glanced over at Owen, who was snuggled in bed next to me, then focused on my

phone again. I was spending the night at his house, and we were in his

bedroom, watching a superhero movie on TV. Well, he was watching it. Along

with concocting outlandish theories about Deirdre, I was reading an email from

Silvio that told me all about Santos, the bank robber.

Rodrigo Santos was his real name, and the giant had a rap sheet a mile long

for burglary, armed robbery, and assault that dated back to his teens. But

there were no recent arrests, which meant that he had kept his nose clean—or