Pool of Crimson Read Free Page B

counter as I turned the corner. She looked out of place, like she belonged more in Chanel than in a store filled with pig fetuses. She was shorter than me at about 5’5” with long, rich, dark chocolate brown hair layered in waves down her back. She was dressed like a fashion plate with skinny jeans tucked into her knee-high brown leather riding boots and an eggplant cashmere open cardigan. She had a bright, lime green leather Marc Jacobs bag slung over her shoulder as her right hand clutched the handles.
    The woman’s dark-bronzed skin, browned from tanning, shimmered against her light green eyes. Those eyes seemed out of place on someone so dark but they made her heart-shaped face shift from simply pretty to exotic. The smile she gave me was pure sex kitten. Her lips curved up in a sultry Gina Gershon tease. I had the feeling no matter what she said, it would seem dirty coming from that mouth. She turned back toward the counter as another woman pushed the navy blue velvet curtain aside without looking up at us.
    “Jade, here it is. I knew I saw your name on an order this morning,” an older woman said in a bright, cheerful tone, finally looking up. The woman was in her fifties but the silvery gray hair hanging loosely down past her shoulders made her look much older. She was heavy, too; heavy enough that she walked in more of a waddle instead of a stride. She was dressed in jeans that looked like the waist came right up under her bosom and tapered down her leg until the fat of her calf and ankle pressed tightly against the denim. She wore a sweater with little ghosts and pumpkins stitched on it, reminding me of my high school algebra teacher. As the older woman’s dull brown eyes met mine, I took a step back.
    My blood stilled in my veins as if I were prey caught in her trap. The air around me tingled and sparked. She was powerful, and she scared me.
    “Thanks, Oz,” the brunette said in a sultry alto as she handed her credit card over. She shoved the small brown box in her bag and slung it back over her shoulder.
    The older woman behind the counter ran her credit card and smiled at me with a forced expression that only customer service people can produce. Her eyes grew wary as she spoke. “Can I help you?”
    Something about her made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, but I needed her help. “I was wondering if you could help me,” I said as I pulled the Ziploc bag I’d sealed Smarmy’s whatchamacallit in from my handbag. “My name’s Dahlia Sabin. I was hoping you could tell me what this is.” I laid the object down on the counter. I stared up at the gray-haired woman and watched. She took a step back, eyes wide and fists clenched at her sides.
    The brunette still standing at the counter looked at the woman she’d addressed as “Oz” with a narrowed, suspicious glare, then down at the Ziploc bag on the counter. The only sound was the credit card machine printing a receipt.
    The older woman’s eyes focused on the item on the counter. She lightly brushed the outside of the plastic bag with her fingertips and nudged it back toward me as if it was dirty. She tore the receipt from the roll then handed it and a pen to the other woman as her eyes met mine.
    “I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” she bit out as she rubbed the hand that had touched the plastic Ziploc bag on her jeans.
    I’d been carrying that thing around with me for two whole days, and this woman wouldn’t even touch it. That was probably a bad sign.
    “Are you sure?” I asked with some hesitation. She obviously knew what it was but wasn’t talking, which sent my blood pressure pounding through my veins.
    “Quite sure,” she snipped out as she slipped the signed receipt in the cash drawer and stormed back into the stockroom.
    “Wow,” the woman at my side chirped.
    “Yeah,” I agreed softly as I picked up the plastic bag and shoved it back in my purse. I was surer than ever that whatever that thing was, it was dangerous. I