Gypsy Magic - J.R. Rain Page 0,83

construction workers above. He’d better pray none of them had died during the robbery, or he’d have years in a fun personalized hell dimension to think on his mistakes. If there was one thing the Holmwood Association detested, it was the loss of human life at the hands of monsters.

And I agreed… wholeheartedly.

But back to Harvey Lawson… he was a troll. Though he didn’t necessarily look like one. I mean, he was tall enough and had ample human blood to pass as human if you didn’t catch him in daylight or squint at him too hard.

Trolls are usually country-folk and not really a danger to more than an unwary child or a stray fox. They’re supernatural hippies, exalting nature and the elements. A few of them took their “save-the-trees” schtick too far and were now classed as low-level terrorists. The file I had on Lawson hadn’t mentioned he was one of the more nature-loving trolls, though. And that meant they’d better raise my pay rate for this little gig. Ten grand or I was going to take this up with Charles.

I was tired of bargain-basement bounties.

As I was contemplating the relative unfairness of my lot in life, Lawson managed to wrap thick, sausage-like fingers around my ankle and wrench me down. It caught me off guard and I didn’t have time to do more than brace myself for the fall. The force twisted my ankle, sending pain spiking up one calf and into my knee, eliciting a small scream. That scream ended in a breathless huff as I impacted the stone floor hard. The eggs in the packing crate rattled together like clinking glass.

Let us kill him! My vampire side raged within me.

Shut up, you!

I should have hit him harder, damn it. Ugh, and it was a lesson I’d already learned—knowing when to err on the side of caution with non-humans.

Lawson regained his feet with difficulty, managing to kick me just under the ribs. Somehow I didn’t think it was a lucky shot.

“Charles Holmwood sends a woman to take me down?” he demanded. His voice was deep and almost genderless, as though it had been dragged over too much gravel to survive intact. He made several chuffing sounds. It took me a few seconds to realize he was laughing. At me.

What a wanker!

“Where’s the respect?” he continued. “The professional courtesy? He ought to have at least sent a Helsing if it had to be a female.”

I wanted to ask how he didn’t know I wasn’t a Helsing. But... I knew how. The Helsing line had produced a total of two women since I’d been turned, both born in the 1940s. Neither would be as spry as the twenty-something I appeared to be. They were still dangerous as hell, but no longer in the field.

Harvey Lawson knelt over me and I let him, even though most of the strength had returned to my limbs. My back and ankle were going to be sore tomorrow, but I’d heal eventually. This wasn’t even close to the worst I’d experienced on the job.

He made a fist and then cocked it back, as though he was going to drive it into my face. Flames licked along his fingers, curling between them like he’d donned an incendiary pair of brass knuckles.

“And what name shall I tell Charles Holmwood to carve into the headstone, little girl?”

I grinned at him then, gave him one of the rare, toothy smiles I usually reserved for Sherlock and Watson.

Some of the confidence faded around the edges when he spotted my fangs. And the confidence faded entirely when I held up the extinguisher and doused his fist in foam. Then he wasn’t so confident at all because I nailed him right in the face—so quickly he never saw the blow coming. And much, much harder this time.

Swing batter, batter.

***

Transporting Lawson took two trips.

One trip with him bound with the extension cord I’d found in his supplies and a second trip to deliver the crate of phoenix eggs he’d been smuggling. I left both Lawson and the eggs in the cavernous front lobby of the Holmwood Association. It was late, even for hunters, so the doorman and a glassy-eyed receptionist were the only witnesses to the drop-off.

I plucked a tube of my signature blood-red lipstick from my back pocket, twisted the lid off, and scrawled a note on Lawson’s forehead.

$10,000. Lucy.

The note was meant for Charles and it would, undoubtedly, piss him off. But, I didn’t care.

I kicked Lawson a little further inside