Just like my Stone and Ice power would seem foreign to them.
But the worst part was the spider rune scars on my palms. As Jo-Jo brought even more of her power to bear, the silverstone metal embedded in my skin began to itch and burn. Silverstone was a very rare metal, with the unusual property of being able to absorb and store all kinds of magic. Many elementals wore runes made out of silverstone and used them to contain bits and pieces of their power that they could use when needed. Sort of like magical batteries. My mother, Eira, had used her snowflake rune that way, although it hadn’t saved her in the end.
But silverstone not only absorbed the magic — it hungered for it, as though the metal was hollow and eager, aching even, for elemental power to fill it up and make it whole. I could feel the silverstone’s desire for more magic, for more power, even though the skin on my palms had long ago grown over the metal that had been melted into my hands. I curled my fingers around Violet’s purse, hoping the imitation leather would shield my hands enough to block the burning sensations in my palms. Didn’t work. Never did. So I sat there and watched Jo-Jo.
The dwarf slowly passed her palm over Violet Fox’s face. Air elementals made great healers because of their ability to tap into and use all the natural gases in the air — including oxygen. Right now, Jo-Jo was using her magic to force oxygen into Violet’s body, making it circulate under the skin of her face, using the air molecules to heal what had been so viciously broken.
Again and again, Jo-Jo moved her hand over Violet’s face. Every time she did, the girl’s nose got a little straighter, her jaw a little squarer. The swelling eased, and the nasty streaks of color faded from Violet’s cheeks.
Watching Jo-Jo work always reminded me of a book I’d had as a child. One that featured a cartoon character. If you looked at the pages one at a time, the character didn’t move. But if you flipped through the sheets fast enough, he’d walk from one side of the paper to the other.
Ten minutes later, Jo-Jo dropped her hand. Her eyes dimmed and lost their milky, magical glow. So did her palm. “There,” the dwarf said in a low voice. “It’s done.”
“He also kicked her once,” I said. “In the stomach.”
Jo-Jo nodded. “He bruised her kidneys bad, but I fixed that too.”
The dwarf got to her feet, wet a washcloth in the sink, and used it to wipe the blood off Violet’s face. The girl didn’t stir. She hadn’t made a sound the whole time Jo-Jo was working on her. Not surprising. Her body had gone through a serious trauma. She’d probably sleep for at least an hour, maybe longer. Being healed by magic always took a lot out of a person, as the body tried to adjust from being injured to suddenly being well again. And using as much magic as Jo-Jo just had would wipe out all but the strongest elementals.
That was one reason I tried not to rely on my magic too much, tried not to use it for big things. I didn’t like being left weak and helpless afterward, even if I had retired from the assassin business.
Jo-Jo finished cleaning up Violet and threw the bloody rag into the trash can. Finn slipped Violet’s glued together glasses on her face. Then he leaned back and gave her an appreciative glance.
“She cleaned up good, didn’t she?” he said in an admiring tone.
“She’s unconscious, Finn. At least have the decency to leer at her when she’s awake,” I said.
Finn laced his hands behind his head and grinned. “I’ll be sure and do just that.”
Jo-Jo washed her hands again in the sink. She grabbed another rag to dry them off, then turned to me. “Now,” the dwarf drawled. “You want to tell me who this girl is, and why someone was beating her?”
I filled Jo-Jo in on everything that had happened the last twenty-four hours, starting with Sophia and I foiling Jake McAllister’s attempted holdup of the Pork Pit, to Violet Fox coming in and asking for the Tin Man, to the shooting, to Finn and I tracking her down and saving her from the dwarven hit man.
“So that’s where Sophia went in such a hurry,” Jo-Jo murmured. “I thought it was strange she wanted to leave before the end.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“We were watching a western. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly with Clint Eastwood. Sophia hardly ever leaves before the big showdown at the end,” Jo-Jo explained.
“Her favorite part is when Lee Van Cleef dies.”
Sophia Deveraux, the Goth girl dwarf, was also quite the movie buff. Westerns, action flicks, mob movies. She loved them all. The more violent they were, the better.
“Anyway,” I said, finishing my story. “We left the dwarf ’s body for Sophia to dispose of and brought the girl here. Once she’s awake, I plan on asking her some serious questions about Fletcher and where she heard the name Tin Man.”
Jo-Jo stared at the girl. A frown made the blue mud mask on her face crack. She hadn’t bothered to wipe it off yet. “She looks… familiar. What did you say her name was again?”
“Violet Elizabeth Fox.” I plucked the girl’s driver’s license out of her wallet and passed it to Jo-Jo.
The dwarf scanned the laminated card. Her frown deepened, and bits of blue mud flaked off her cheeks and settled on her pink housecoat. “She lives up on Ridgeline Hollow Road.”
“Do you know her?” Finn asked.
Jo-Jo shook her head. “No, but I’m pretty sure I know the crotchety old bastard who’s her grandfather.”
10
Finn and I looked at each other. “Grandfather?” we asked in unison.
Jo-Jo nodded. “Warren T. Fox, of the Ridgeline Hollow Foxes. The girl looks a fair bit like him in the face. I see it, now that the blood’s gone.”
“And who is this Warren T. Fox?” I asked.
“He used to be a friend of Fletcher’s,” the dwarf said.
“But they had a falling out a long time ago. Haven’t spoken since, to my knowledge.”
Jo-Jo stared at Violet, who was still unconscious in the chair. An emotion flickered in the dwarf ’s pale eyes. Regret.
I wondered why. Jo-Jo shook her head. More mud mask flaked off her face.
“C’mon,” the dwarf said. “Let’s make the poor girl comfortable, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
——
Since Jo-Jo was stronger than either Finn or me, she picked up Violet, carried the girl into the downstairs den, and arranged her on an overstuffed sofa. I pulled off Violet’s bloody jacket and shoes; then Jo-Jo covered her with a soft, warm quilt. The dwarf trudged into the downstairs bathroom to wash the blue mud off her face. I stepped through the doorway that led into the kitchen.
Most people went straight to Jo-Jo’s salon when they came to the house, but my favorite room had always been the kitchen. A skinny room with a rectangular butcher’s block table set in the middle surrounded by several tall stools. Appliances done in a variety of pastel shades ringed three walls, while the fourth opened up into the den where Violet Fox snoozed. Runelike clouds could be found everywhere, from the placemats on the table to the dish towels piled next to the sink to the fresco that covered the ceiling. When I was younger, I used to lie on the kitchen floor for hours and stare at the painting on the ceiling, pretending the clouds really were moving. One of the few childish fancies I’d allowed myself after the loss of my mother and older sister.
Finn was already in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of chicory coffee. Jo-Jo always kept a pot on in case Fletcher dropped by. Now that the old man was gone, Finn drank his share — and then some. I breathed in, enjoying the warm, comforting caffeine fumes that always reminded me of Fletcher Lane. Then I went over to the refrigerator, pulled open the door, and peered inside.