The only things that were different were the photos on the wall next to the stairs. Instead of shots of Jo-Jo, Sophia, Finn, Fletcher, or even me, pictures of Harley Grimes covered the wall. Most of the photos had the brown, faded, vintage look of old daguerreotypes, and almost all of them showed a grinning Grimes tipping his fedora, holding a glass jar of moonshine, or clutching a pair of revolvers crossed over his chest, as though he really was some romantic bootlegging outlaw mugging for the camera, instead of a sick psychopath who liked to kidnap and torture folks.

Other pictures showed Hazel in the same poses, along with one of her on a high ridge, looking off into the distance, queen of everything she surveyed, a set of diamond pins glinting like some sort of crown in her wavy black hair.

There were even a few family portraits of Grimes and Hazel with a couple of other men who looked like them. Probably Horace and Henry, the brothers Fletcher had killed.

But there was one photo in particular that made me stop with one foot in midair: a picture of Sophia.

It was about halfway down the wall, right in the middle of a cluster of pictures of Grimes with his guns, and it looked like it had been taken with an old Polaroid camera. At first, I wasn't sure that it was Sophia. She looked so young in the photo, and she was wearing another white dress patterned with tiny red flowers. Her black hair was much longer and tied back into a pretty braid that trailed down over her right shoulder, but she was staring at the camera with the same flat, murderous expression I'd seen earlier at the pit.

The photo must have been taken the first time Grimes had kidnapped Sophia, which meant that he'd kept it all these years. Once I spotted the one, I noticed more photos of my friend. They lined the bottom of the wall, leading back up to the first.

All of those photos looked as though they'd been taken at a distance and featured a very young Sophia in various spots: on the lawn at Jo-Jo's house, on the front porch of country Daze, sitting in a library, reading a book.

These pictures must have been snapped before Grimes had kidnapped her the first time. Because in all of them, she looked relaxed and happy and was sporting a variety of clothes in a rainbow of colors - white jeans, red tops, khaki shorts.

None of the photos showed Sophia in her dark Goth clothes. I wondered if she'd adopted the style after her first encounter with Grimes. I would have never wanted to see another dress, ribbon, or pair of high heels again either, if I'd been her.

Just how deep Grimes's obsession with her ran made the whole thing worse and reminded me that I needed to find some way to kill him before I died up there on the mountain. Otherwise, Sophia and Jo-Jo would never be safe."come on," Hazel growled from the bottom of the staircase, realizing that I'd stopped to stare at the photos.

"keep moving."

One of the men behind me shoved his gun into my back, encouraging me. I stared at the first photo of Sophia in the white dress for a second longer before trudg -  ing the rest of the way down the stairs.

I wasn't terribly surprised when Hazel led me into the back half of the house. I steeled myself and stepped through the doorway after her, expecting to find some sort of twisted replica of Jo-Jo's salon, but the area was completely different. Instead of combs, curlers, and hair dryers, Grimes had set up a fancy, old-timey office and parlor in the space.

An antique desk trimmed with brass stood in the middle of the room, close to the back wall, with a variety of leather wing chairs arranged in front of it. A perfect place for Grimes to hold court and pontificate to his men. All of the seats were a dark green, except for the one behind the desk. It was the same vibrant cherry red as the salon chairs at Jo-Jo's.

A set of double doors to the left of the desk led out to what looked like a stone patio and then a fenced-in yard beyond. Grimes stood on the patio a few feet outside the open doors. He was dressed in a fresh suit, this one in a pale baby blue, and a blue fedora with a matching feather stuck in the brim perched on his head. I wondered how many of those old-fashioned suits he had hanging in his closets and in how many different colors.

But the surprising thing was that Grimes wasn't alone.

Someone was on the patio with him. I couldn't see who it was, though, or even if it was a man or woman. A bit of black fabric was barely visible around the edge of one of the doors, telling me that the person was wearing some sort of dark pants, but that was all.

Grimes had his hands up and was gesturing. Bits of conversation drifted in through the open doors to me.

". . . bit of a problem . . . nothing that I can't handle . . . the shipment won't be delayed . . ."

Then the other person: "The guns had better not . . . that would . . . upset me."

I still couldn't tell whether the stranger was a man or woman. I was too far away, and the voice was too much of a low, smoky murmur.

I'd thought that Grimes would dress down the mystery person for his or her insolent tone and not-so-veiled threat, but the pleasant smile on his face tightened, his lips pulling back to show even more of his perfect teeth, as though he was grinding his molars together to keep the expression firmly in place. After a moment, he nodded.

"Of course."

I frowned, wondering who this person was who could intimidate Grimes with only a few words, especially since I, with my knives and my killing spree of his men, didn't seem to have had much of an impact. I tried to shift to one side, so I could get a better look at his mysterious guest, but a rough hand on my shoulder and a gun shoved against my spine made me stop.

Grimes's answer must have satisfied the other person, because he or she didn't say anything else. Grimes swept his fedora off his head and gave a low, elegant bow, but

I couldn't see whether the other person returned the gesture with a polite nod of his or her own. Grimes turned, as if watching someone walk through the backyard. A second later, something creaked, like a fence gate being opened. Then . . . silence.

Grimes settled his hat on top of his head again, then strode inside the office and shut the double doors behind him.

Hazel looked at her brother. "Well?"

"There was a bit of . . . concern about all of the noise and commotion, and of course, we left the client waiting here in the house for far too long while we dealt with the situation," Grimes said. "All of which I apologized profusely for, in addition to offering a discount for all of the worry, waiting, and trouble, so I think that I managed to salvage the deal."

Hazel crossed her arms over her chest. "I told you that we should have waited until after this was done before you went after that haughty Deveraux bitch again."

Grimes gave his sister a cold, chilling look. "And I told you that I wanted Sophia back as soon as possible - back here with me, where she belongs."

Hazel's nostrils flared, and her jaw tightened, but she didn't argue with her brother any more. Still, it was obvious that she had no love for Sophia. I wondered why -  well, beyond the obvious fact that she was a sadistic bitch.

Was Hazel jealous because Grimes was still so fixated on Sophia all these years later? Because he'd apparently spent months building a replica of Jo-Jo's house for her to live in? Because he'd decided to bring her there despite the fact that it might jeopardize some big gun deal that the brother and sister had cooking? Or maybe it was a combination of all that and more. Grimes bringing Sophia in, even as his victim, would threaten the amount of time that he had for Hazel. Maybe that was why she liked torturing people so much, especially the young women Grimes kidnapped and brought here. Maybe Hazel didn't want any competition for her brother's attention - or anyone replacing her as queen of the mountain.

"Besides," Grimes said, "it's not my fault that our guest was left waiting. It's hers ."

He pointed an accusing finger in my direction. All eyes turned to me, and I gave them all a cocky smile.

"Why, if I'd known that y'all had company, I wouldn't have bothered killing your men up on the ridge," I said.

"I would have come straight on over here and shown your guests exactly how hospitable I could be - along with the rest of you."

Hazel stepped forward and backhanded me.

Pain exploded in my jaw, making every nerve ending in my face pulse with agony once more. White stars exploded in my vision again, and I rocked back on my feet, but I didn't give her the satisfaction of stumbling. Instead, I blinked away the spots, stared back at her, and slowly swiveled my head from side to side.

"Thanks," I drawled. "My neck's been killing me all day, but that cracked it just right for me."

Hazel started forward to backhand me again, but Grimes cut in.

"Not now," he said. "You'll get your chance soon enough. I need some information from her first."

"Fine," Hazel muttered in a sullen tone. "We'll do it like usual."

I wondered what like usual was, but since it probably involved my screaming, bloody, torture-filled death, I didn't dwell on it too much. I'd find out soon enough.

Grimes moved over and sat down behind his desk, leaning back in his cherry-red leather chair. Hazel went over and perched on the corner of the wood. She'd also changed her clothes sometime while I'd been unconscious and was now wearing another wrap dress in the same baby blue as Grimes's suit and hat. She'd also stuck some different diamond pins, these shaped like small hearts, into her wavy black hair, although her lips were still the same bloody crimson as before.

In a bizarre way, the two of them seemed like two halves of a whole, yin and yang, with Grimes so strong and stocky and Hazel so tall and slender.

Hazel arranged the long skirt of her dress around her, as though she were some sweet Southern belle getting ready to host a genteel social, instead of the cruel, murderous psychopath that she was. She gave me a mocking smile. I ignored her and focused on Grimes. Despite how vicious Hazel was, he was the one in charge - even of her.

Grimes tipped his hat back from his forehead, leaned his elbows on his desk, and steepled his hands together, giving me a thoughtful look over the tops of his interlaced fingers. "Here's how this is going to work," he said. "You are going to answer my questions quickly and truthfully as soon as I ask them. Or there will be consequences."

"What sort of consequences?"

He gave me a thin smile. "I'll let Hazel use her Fire magic on you again."

"Oh, yes," Hazel purred in delight. "And Harley won't make me hold back this time like he did up on the ridge."

I threw back my head and laughed at her threat.

Smoke wisped out from between Hazel's clenched fists, and her brown eyes darkened with the fury of her Fire magic. She didn't like me mocking her. Too damn bad.

A minute passed, then another, and I kept right on laughing. Finally, when my ribs started to ache even more than they already had been, I let the last cold, mirthless chuckle die on my lips.

"Oh, sugar," I drawled. "I've been roasted, toasted, and tortured by some of the strongest, most vicious elementals this little corner of the world has ever seen. Not to mention all of the vampires, giants, dwarves, and regular folks who've gotten their hands on me over the years. Hell, I faced down Mab fucking Monroe herself and lived to tell the tale. Yeah, you're strong in your Fire magic, and so is your brother there, but you're nothing compared with Mab, nothing . So I'd stop bragging and patting yourself on the back. You haven't earned it. You haven't earned a damn thing, especially not my fear."

Red splotches of anger bloomed like roses on Hazel's cheeks, and more smoke boiled up from her fists, even blacker than before. If she'd been a cartoon character, matching clouds of steam would have been screeching out of her ears by this point.

"careful, careful," I mocked. "You wouldn't want to singe that pretty dress of yours. Oh, wait. That's right.

You only like doing that to other women. Or do you boil the clothes off all of the young men you kidnap before you kill them too?"

Fury flashed in her eyes again, but she slowly unclenched her hands, scooted off the corner of the desk, and stood up.

"Make her start talking, Harley," Hazel snarled. "Right now. Or I will."

I airily waved my burned, bruised, bloody hand at her.

"Oh, there's no need to fret, now, sugar. I don't have any problem telling you why I'm here."

"And why are you here, exactly?" Grimes asked.

I stared at him. "I'm here because Fletcher Lane sent me."

Apparently, that wasn't the answer he'd been expecting, because Grimes's hands slid off his desk and into his lap.

His eyes narrowed but not before I saw a flicker of emotion in the cold brown depths: fear.

"You do remember Mr. Lane, don't you?" I continued, mocking him with his own fondness for formal addresses.

"He's the man who saved Sophia from you before."

"He's the man who took Sophia from me before,"

Grimes growled back. "One of my biggest regrets in life is that I didn't kill him years ago."

"Funny, because Fletcher felt the exact same way about you," I drawled. "He didn't kill you way back then, but believe me when I tell you that I plan to rectify that now."

Grimes gave me an amused look. "Do you know how many people have tried - and failed - to kill me over the years? You're not the first person to come up to my mountain with a couple of guns and knives and try to take me out. I assume you saw the pit. That's not the first one that's ever been dug around my family's cemetery, and it won't be the last."

"Perhaps your other attackers weren't motivated enough," I quipped. "Believe me when I tell you that won't be a problem for me. I'm in it to win it, and all that."