“Darling, I can fix anything short of death. But this one ain’t going to be pretty.”

9

9

Jo-Jo stepped aside so Finn and I could drag the unconscious Violet Fox into the house. The sweet smell of Jo-Jo’s Chantilly perfume ticked my nose as we walked through a narrow hallway. A hundred feet later, the skinny corridor opened up into an enormous room that took up the back half of the house.

Padded chairs. Hair dryers. Counters crammed full of hairspray, nail polish, makeup, scissors, rollers, curling irons. A long mirror that ran down one wall. Towering stacks of beauty magazines. Photos of various hairstyles taped up everywhere. All that and more could be found in Jo-Jo’s beauty salon, the place where the Air elemental used her magic as a self-proclaimed drama mama—someone who catered to the endless vanity of Southern women.

Debutantes, pageant contestants, bored trophy wives.

Jo-Jo served them all in a variety of ways. Perms, cuts, dye jobs, waxes, manicures, pedicures. If it had anything at all to do with beauty or making a woman’s hair twice as big, tall, and hard as her head, Jo-Jo did it in her salon.

And then some. Air elemental magic was also terrific for fixing unwanted frown lines or putting someone’s boobs back up to where they’d been ten years ago—temporarily, at least.

Of course, turning back the clock wasn’t the only thing Jo-Jo did with her Air magic. The dwarf was also one of the best healers in Ashland. Hell, the whole South. Few people knew about her talents in that particular area, but Fletcher Lane had been one of Jo-Jo’s oldest friends, and I’d inherited her, along with Sophia, when I’d taken over his assassin business. One sister to heal me, the other to get rid of the bodies I left behind. A nice arrangement.

Despite the sisters’ hefty fees.

“Put her in one of the chairs,” Jo-Jo directed before going over to the sink to wash her hands.

Finn and I hauled Violet Fox over to one of the swivel, cherry-red salon chairs. Then Finn grabbed a bottle of nail glue off the counter, pulled Violet’s broken glasses out of his jacket pocket, and used the bonding solution to put the two pieces back together. I lifted Violet’s purse from around her neck, perched on a stool a few feet away, and started going through it. Wallet, keys, breath mints, loose change, eyedrops, a compact. Nothing unusual or exciting.

A soft whine sounded in the corner. I looked over to see Rosco, Jo-Jo’s fat, lazy basset hound, curled up in his wicker basket by the door. The old dog eyed the purse in my hands. His tail thumped once with hope.

“Sorry, dog,” I said. “Nothing in here for you.”