Jennifer Estep - Web of Lies

“You mean the cheesy snakeskin boots and the hat that’s almost as tall as he is?”

The vampire nodded. “Dawson not only dresses like a cowboy, but he acts like one too — especially in bed. He likes Texas beauty queens. Big blond hair, big blue eyes, big tits, tight asses, lots of makeup. Of which the only thing you currently have is a tight ass.”

“Thanks,” I said in a wry tone.

Roslyn raised her eyebrows. “Just pointing out the facts. You did come here for my professional opinion, after all.”

I nodded. “I did.”

“Dawson likes to take the lead. In keeping with the cowboy persona, he likes for a woman to catch his eye, and then he does his best to hog-tie her.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

Roslyn stared at me. “Both. One of my girls had rope burns for a week after paying him a visit.”

I filed the information away. “What else?”

“He also likes to wear chaps, a cowboy hat, and his boots when he fucks.”

“Sounds like a kinky bastard to me,” Finn said.

The vampire walked over to a different rack of clothes than the one Finn had been rifling through. “Unfortunately, not as kinky as some I’ve seen and done.”

Roslyn flipped through the clothes for a moment before turning back to me. “I assume you’ll want something with a little coverage to it. Where you can stash certain… supplies?”

Weapons, in other words. “Yeah. The more coverage the better. I like to be prepared.”

Roslyn nodded. “Any particular color you’d prefer?”

“Black.”

“Shocking,” she muttered.

After a few minutes, Roslyn pulled a black pushup bra and a set of sheer matching panties off the rack. She handed them to me. “Put those on.”

I did as she asked. The garments fit perfectly, and the bra pushed my small breasts up to new, gravity-defying heights. Finn let out a whistle of appreciation. I drew my finger across my throat, showing him exactly what would happen if he didn’t shut up. Finn just grinned at me.

Roslyn also plucked a black cocktail dress out of the mass of clothes and handed it to me. I slipped into the fabric. The dress was long-sleeved with a sweetheart neckline and bustier-like top. Thanks to the bra, my cleavage swelled on either side of the fabric. The skirt was a mass of black crinoline with tiny sequins sewn into it. The garment stopped just above my knees.

“How’s that?” Roslyn asked.

I looked at myself in a mirror over one of the vanity tables. The sleeves were loose enough for me to carry my knives, and I could strap a couple more to my thighs underneath the billowing skirt. “Perfect.”

Roslyn nodded, like she’d expected nothing else, and sashayed over to one of the vanity tables. She handed me a box that read Contacts — Sky Blue, and a long, curly, blond wig with teased bangs. “With the wig, contacts, and enough makeup, you’ll be Dawson’s dream girl. I assume you can do your own makeup.”

“I think I can manage.”

Roslyn ignored my sarcasm. She opened a drawer on one of the vanity tables, drew out an envelope, and handed it to me. A sunburst done in gold foil glittered on the creamy stationery. The rune for fire — Mab Monroe’s personal symbol.

“That’s one of the invitations for tonight,” Roslyn said. “You’ll need this too.”

She reached back into the drawer and pulled out a black velvet choker. A rune dangled from the middle of the wide band — a silver heart with an arrow through it. The symbol for Northern Aggression. The rune that would mark me as one of Roslyn Phillips’s girls and part of the evening’s entertainment.

I took the choker from her and rubbed my thumb over the rune. The metal felt cool under my fingers. “Thank you, Roslyn, for your help.”

She stared at me. “No thanks are needed, remember? I owe you. But when the other girls come in to get ready for tonight, we’re going to report that invitation, necklace, outfit, and wig as being stolen. Xavier will take down the report. Of course, he’ll be busy working the door tonight, so he won’t call to tell me about it or even turn it into the cops for a couple hours. That should give you plenty of time to do whatever you’re planning to do.”

I nodded. I couldn’t blame the vampire for covering herself. If things went badly, and they just might, Tobias Dawson and Mab Monroe would probably come knocking on Roslyn’s door, demanding to know why I’d been wearing one of the vampire’s rune necklaces and how I’d snitched one of the hookers’ invitations to the party. This way, Roslyn had an out.

“And do me another favor,” the vampire said, her dark eyes serious behind her silver glasses.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re going to do to Dawson tonight, don’t get caught,” Roslyn said. “I don’t want to have to deal with the honky-tonk bastard any more than I already have.”

I gave her a cold smile. “Don’t worry. If I get caught, Tobias Dawson will be having too much fun with me to even think about bothering you.”

At eight o’clock that evening, my taxi pulled into the long, snaking driveway that led up to Mab Monroe’s mansion.

Given her status as the city’s richest and deadliest citizen, Mab Monroe lived in the biggest, most impressive home in Ashland. The gray stone structure soared fifteen stories into the air, making it taller than some of the downtown skyscrapers. The mansion’s three equalsize wings formed a wide, upside-down W-shape. Tall, skinny windows fronted each floor, along with crenellated balconies. A twelve-foot-tall stone fence ringed the mansion itself, which was set back more than a mile from the main road. From the research Fletcher Lane had done over the years, I knew the expansive, manicured grounds featured several gardens, three greenhouses, an aviary, a golf course, copses of woods, and a small lake. Along with giant patrols, guard dogs, assorted magical trip wires, and some other nasty surprises.

A light spotlighted a red banner draped over one of the balconies in the center wing of the mansion. The enormous piece of heavy fabric featured a rune done in shimmering gold — a round circle surrounded by several dozen curled, wavy rays. A sunburst. The symbol for fire. Mab Monroe’s personal rune. The same one on the invitation in my purse.

The driver fell into the flow of traffic going through the open wrought-iron gates that designated the entrance to Mab Monroe’s estate. The yellow taxi seemed out of place among all the stretch limos crawling up the curving driveway like fat, black beetles. It took twenty minutes for the driver to maneuver all the way up and stop in front of the entrance.

My gray eyes flicked over the security. Five giant guards roamed through the line of limos, opening doors, helping people out of their vehicles, directing traffic, and making sure the waiting drivers weren’t getting into too much trouble drinking or smoking on the sly. Two more giant guards stood by the front double doors that led into the mansion, flanking a smaller human holding a large clipboard.

“That’ll be twenty bucks,” the driver growled.

“Twenty bucks? You only drove me a couple of miles.”

Earlier this evening, I’d taken the precaution of parking a car on the side of the road just beyond Mab Monroe’s estate. An old, battered burner vehicle with fake registration and fake plates. I’d put a white trash bag in the window, left the hood up, and scattered a few tools by the side of the road. All designed to make it look like the car had broken down and someone was coming right back for it. The car was my insurance policy, in case I needed to make a quicker getaway than the one I had in mind. Once I’d put the car where I wanted it, I’d hiked over to the closest anonymous coffee shop and called the cab to bring me here.