Page 22 of There Are No Saints

His hand twitches as he takes it.

The tension is thick between us. We’ve never been alone together. I’ve only spoken to him at formal events.

“This is cozy,” Alastor says.

“I was admiring your view. My house is just over there . . .”

I nod toward my own mansion, perched on the ridge directly above the bay, clearly visible from the living room window. In fact, it cuts off the lower-left corner of Alastor’s view.

“I know,” he says, molars grinding.

I take another sip of the wine, thick and plummy.

Shaw does the same, the glass dwarfed by his over-large hand. His bull-like shoulders hunch almost up to his ears. His biceps bulge as he raises his arm.

I’m sure he’s making the same calculation—his strength against my speed. His brutality against my cunning. I see no clear winner—a dilemma that intrigues us both.

Alastor relaxes, his smile widening, tiny threads of wine between his teeth.

“How did you enjoy my gift?” he says.

“I didn’t.”

Shaw frowns, disappointed.

“What a waste,” he says. “I thought you’d do something with those tits at least—so much better than I expected, once I got them out. You never know what you’ll find . . . flat as a board under a push-up bra, or a pussy that looks like a handful of roast beef.” He laughs crudely. “Sometimes though . . . sometimes it’s better than you hoped. Sometimes it’s near perfect . . .”

“Not my type,” I repeat dismissively.

His face darkens.

“The fuck she wasn’t. You did something with her before you tossed her down the shaft.”

I hesitate a fraction of a second, puzzled by Shaw’s words.

I didn’t put the girl down the mine shaft. I didn’t move her at all. But Shaw seems certain I did.

Mistaking my pause, Shaw chuckles. “I knew it. Tell me what you did to her.”

I rise from the table, setting down my glass.

Shaw is ravenous for details, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. “Did she fight? She looked like the type to fight.”

“What was her name?” I ask him, “Do you know?”

Now he’s grinning, flushed with triumph. He really thinks he got me.

“Mara Eldritch,” he says.

Alastor rises in turn, walking around the kitchen island, rummaging in a drawer.

He pulls out a small plastic card, tossing it on the island so it slides across the polished marble, stopping right at the edge.

“I fucked her roommate in the stairwell. Stole her ID out of her wallet.”

I pick up the driver’s license of a voluptuous redhead with heavy-lidded eyes and a languorous smile. Erin Wahlstrom, 468 Frederick Street.

“I didn’t touch her,” Shaw says, his voice husky. “I left her fresh for you. As fresh as you can find one these days, when they’ll suck and fuck anything that walks. You don’t even have to buy them dinner anymore.”

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