But I wasn't going to haul the detective over to Jo-Jo's and ask her to heal him, especially since his injuries weren't life-threatening. The dwarf had been entrenched in her house since before the Civil War. She wouldn't move or disappear no matter what happened. Donovan Caine didn't need to know about my connection to Jo-Jo Deveraux and her body-disposing sister, Sophia. Besides, if things went all to hell, Jo-Jo's was one of our safe houses, a place where Finn and I could crash for a few hours or days. I wasn't risking that.

"No," I replied. "I got some supplies at the salon last night. We're good, so it's straight to the apartment."

Finn nodded and made the appropriate turn. In the backseat, Donovan Caine said nothing. I clicked on the radio, and the soft strains of music filled the car.

"Margaritaville" by Jimmy Buffett. The cheery song made me think of the easy, breezy Key West vacation I'd told Fletcher I was taking after the Gordon Giles hit.

Fletcher would never get the chance to see the sun set over Mallory Square again. I wondered if I would share his fate.

"Well, you've rounded up your band of merry men and saved them from the wicked witch. Now what?" Finn asked, cutting into my dark thoughts.

The detective snorted at the illusion.

"You're mixing up your stories. Besides, aren't you too old to be talking in fairy tales?" I sniped.

"Maybe. But we still need a plan, Gin. We can't keep skirting around the elemental and her men. One time she'll get lucky instead of us. Be there ahead of us. Outthink us."

"I know. Believe me, I know." I rubbed my head. Dried blood flaked off my hands and face, dotting the front of my clothes like crimson snowflakes. Making me that much dirtier. For the second time tonight, I felt old and tired and used up.

"We'll go to my apartment." I leaned my head back against the seat. "Get settled for the night. Tomorrow, we'll start getting to the bottom of this."

"Original," Finn said.

Donovan Caine remained silent in the backseat. "Do you have a better idea?" I asked.

Finn lifted his shoulders. "No. I'm just the driver, remember, Miss Daisy? I don't know nothing 'bout coming up with no plans."

"Then shut up, Mamie," I snapped. "Before I throw you out of the car." After taking the usual circuitous route, we reached my building thirty minutes later.

Finn waited in the emergency stairwell with Donovan Caine while I made sure no one was hiding inside my apartment. I brushed my fingers over the rough stone around the door frame. The same low hum as always murmured back to me. No visitors today. Good.

I slid the key in the lock and went inside. The first thing I did was go over to the mantel, grab the three rune drawings, and hide them under my bed. Donovan Caine didn't need to see those. Hell, I wasn't even sure I wanted to look at them tonight. My eyes scanned the rest of the den and kitchen, looking for anything that might tell the detective more about me than I wanted to reveal. But there was nothing. The space was empty, remote, spartan.

I stuck my head into the stairwell. "We're clear. Come on in."

Finn went to the kitchen table to fire up his laptop and check his e-mail. The man couldn't go two hours without some form of electronic check-in. Computer junkie.

Donovan Caine stalked from one side of the den to the other, staring at my furniture, my many books, even the DVDs around the television. His hazel eyes flicked over everything, but I couldn't read what conclusions he'd drawn.

I went into the kitchen, unzipped my bloody jacket, and threw it in the trash on top of the vampire hooker's ruined clothes from two nights ago. Might as well wait another day or two. The way things were going, I'd have more items to toss inside for a late-night trip down to the basement incinerator.

"I'm going to take a shower. Make yourself comfortable, detective. Watch television.

Raid the fridge. Whatever." I might be an assassin, but never let it be said I wasn't as gracious a hostess as the next gal.

"You." I pointed at Finn. "Keep an eye on him. When I'm done, we'll talk." The two men eyed each other. Assessing strengths. Looking for weaknesses.

Measuring dicks once again.

Shaking my head, I slipped into the bathroom and closed the door. I stripped off the rest of my bloody clothes and stepped into the shower. The water hissed on, and I turned it as hot as it would go and not scald my skin. Then I leaned my head against the slick tile and exhaled.

What a fucking night. Running all over town, making deals, trying to save people before they got dead. A new experience for me. When I'd woken up this morning, I hadn't expected any of this.

Certainly not rescuing Donovan Caine.

Oh, I didn't have any regrets about killing the Air elemental's men. Them or me. I'd choose me every single time. But more than that, I'd come to terms with what I did long ago. The bodies, the blood, the tears of those left behind. Even the fact I was probably going to burn in hell didn't bother me. Much.

But for some reason, the disgust and anger in Donovan Caine's eyes had annoyed me.

I'd seen those same emotions shimmering in many people's gazes-usually right before I killed them. When people realized you were an assassin, they automatically judged you. Thought you were cold and sadistic and crazy, no matter what sins they'd committed themselves. But coming from Donovan Caine, that judgment irked me.

Perhaps because of my curious attraction to the detective. I'd much rather he see me as Gin Blanco than as the Spider.

I snorted. Wanting something I couldn't have. Thinking about Fletcher's plea to retire. Dreaming about a vacation. Feeling old, tired, run-down. I was turning into a fucking cliche. Next thing you'd know I'd be in therapy-or back in Ashland Asylum with the rest of the crazies.

Ten minutes later, I stepped out of the shower and pulled on a pair of navy sweatpants, a matching long-sleeved T-shirt, and thick socks. A wide-tooth comb smoothed the snarls out of my wet hair. I leaned forward and dropped my chin, staring into the mirror. Jo-Jo's roots weren't the only ones that were showing. Maybe this time I'd just let my hair go back to its natural color.

The thought surprised me, and the comb caught in a tangle hidden deep in my damp locks. I couldn't remember the last time my hair had just been my hair, and not teased, dyed, or cut short for some job, some persona, some role I was playing. I wasn't entirely sure I remembered the exact color it really was. For some reason that bothered me.

I dropped my eyes from the mirror, finished with the comb, opened the bathroom door, and padded out into the den. Finn still sat at the kitchen table, typing on his laptop. He probably hadn't moved the whole time I'd been in the shower, except to drag his computer closer.

Donovan Caine had made himself comfortable. He leaned back against one of the thick cushions on the sofa. A dish towel filled with ice covered his right eye, and an old black-and-white movie flickered on the television in front of him. Jezebel with Bette Davis. Caine moved the ice to the other eye and winced.

"Want me to look at your face?" I asked the detective. "I'm pretty good at patching people up." "Yeah," Finn agreed. "When she's not killing them."

Donovan Caine grimaced at his bad joke. But evidently the detective wasn't afraid of me and what I could do to him, because he got to his feet.

"Sure," he said. "It can't feel much worse than it does right now." He could be dead and not feeling anything at all, but I let the matter slide.

Caine followed me into the spare bathroom, and I directed him to sit on the closed toilet lid while I fetched one of the tubs of healing ointment Jo-Jo Deveraux had given me.

"Spread your legs," I said.

"Excuse me?"

I gestured to his legs. "Open your legs, so I can shimmy in between them. I can get to your face easier that way." "Oh. Right."

The detective spread his legs wide, and I got down on my knees in front of him. Once again, the warmth of his body washed over me. Despite all the blood he'd come into contact with, the detective still smelled of soap. Squeaky clean to the bitter end. I'd never thought such a simple aroma could be so intoxicating. But Donovan Caine smelled so good I wanted to bury my face against his neck and just breathe in his scent. Mmm.

I grabbed the tub off the counter. The only marking on the white container was Jo-Jo's cloud rune painted in a vivid blue on top of the lid. I unscrewed it, and the soothing smell of vanilla wafted up out of the tub. In addition to healing with their hands, Air elementals like Jo-Jo could also infuse their magic into other products, like this ointment, and give them a little extra kick.

I dipped my hand into the ointment. It felt warm and slick against my fingers, and tingles spread up into my hands and arms, just like they did when Jo-Jo worked her magic on me. The spider rune scars on my palms didn't itch and burn quite as bad as they had in the salon, mainly because the magic in the ointment wasn't as strong as Jo-Jo's raw, undiluted power. But it would do the job on Donovan Caine's bruised face.

I leaned forward and brought my anointed fingers near his face. Caine flinched and jerked back just before I touched him. What did he think I was going to do? Come up with a knife and slash his jugular? As if I would have made such a mess in my own apartment. As if I couldn't have killed him half a dozen times already tonight.

It was late, and I was tired. So I grabbed Donovan's chin, yanked his head down when he tried to pull away, and rubbed the ointment into his skin. After a few seconds, the healing, Air elemental magic started working on him. The bruises on his face yellowed and faded, while the cuts closed themselves up. Donovan felt his injuries easing and relaxed-as much as he could with his partner's killer within arm's reach.

"You have a very firm grip," Caine said. "Very hard. Very strong." "Is that a compliment?"

He shrugged. "Just an observation."

I massaged ointment into the rest of his face, including his lips. The lower one had been split, and I swiped my thumb across the wound the way a lover might. Donovan stiffened at the intimate contact, but he didn't pull away. Instead, the detective studied me as I worked. His flat cop eyes took in everything from my posture to the circular motion of my hands to my breathing. Filing the information away for future use. When our truce was over, and he could come after me like he really wanted to-guns blazing.

"What's that on your hand?" he asked. "It looks like silver."

The rune. He must have seen one of the silverstone spider runes burned into my palms. The small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. Something else he didn't need to know about. I curled my fingers into a loose fist.

"It's nothing," I said. "Just an old scar. I've got lots of them." "I bet you do," he murmured.

I finished with the ointment, stood up, and handed the detective a bottle of superstrength aspirin. "You might want to take a few of these too."

He took the bottle from my hands, careful not to touch my skin. His amber eyes caught and held my gray ones. I leaned against the sink, crossed my arms over my chest, and waited for him to say whatever he wanted to say.

"Thanks," Caine muttered. You'd think he was coughing up a lung the way he forced the word out between his clenched teeth. "For everything tonight. As weird and as wrong as it is, I wouldn't be sitting here now if it weren't for you."

"You're welcome."

He nodded, accepting my cool graciousness. "But don't think tonight changes anything between us. After we find the elemental, I'm bringing you in for Cliff Ingles's murder-whatever it takes, dead or alive. Don't forget that." I turned on the hot water and washed my hands. "Don't worry, detective, I haven't forgotten about your vendetta. But you should remember what I did to those men in your cabin. Because I won't hesitate to do the same to you the second you get in my way. Understood?"

Donovan Caine watched smears of his blood drip off my hands and disappear down the sink. "Understood." Caine swallowed a couple of aspirin and returned to the den.

I screwed the top back on Jo-Jo's healing ointment and followed him. The detective seated himself on the sofa again. He might hate me, but at least he wasn't shy.

While we were in the bathroom, Finn had made himself a cup of chicory coffee. The rich, caffeine fumes drifted to my nose, and my stomach rumbled.

"Finn? Late-night snack?" I moved into the kitchen.

"Sandwich," he said, not even bothering to look up from the blue glow of his monitor.

"But not turkey this time. Something else. Different bread too. Surprise me."

"Yes, master."

I grabbed a loaf of Sophia Deveraux's homemade sourdough bread I'd swiped from the Pork Pit, several bananas, and the peanut butter and sourwood honey out of the cabinets, along with some canned pumpkin. First, I mixed the peanut butter and pumpkin together, producing a rich, creamy spread, which I slathered onto the bread.

I topped the mixture with sliced bananas and drizzled honey over the fruit. As a finishing touch, I sprinkled some cinnamon on top of the whole thing, then topped it with another slice of bread.

I tore off a paper towel and handed it and the sandwich to Finn, who sank his teeth into the thick bread with obvious enthusiasm. Donovan Caine didn't move from the couch. I stared at him, wondering who'd be the first to end this Mexican standoff.

Caine looked at Finn's disappearing sandwich. "That looks good. Would you fix me one of those? Please?" "Sure."

I made him a sandwich, then one for me, and a couple more for whoever got to them first. Donovan moved over to the table and sat next to Finn, while I got a gallon of milk out of the fridge and plucked some mugs out of the cabinet. I set the mugs on the table, then wrapped my hand around one of them and reached for my magic. Ice crystals frosted the container, guaranteeing that whatever was poured inside would stay cold. I repeated the process on the other two glasses.