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lived, died, and generally tried to screw each other over every which way they could. All sorts of evil lurked inside the sultan-size mansions in Northtown, made even more sinister by the immaculate facades and perfectly groomed lawns. Mab Monroe, of course, lived in the heart of Northtown in the biggest mansion in the city, given the fact that she was the queen bee of the Ashland underworld.
    The folks were poorer in Southtown—much, much poorer—but that didn’t make them any less dangerous. Vampire hookers, pimps, gangbangers, elemental junkies strung out on their own magic who’d just as soon light you up with their Fire power as spit on you. Those were the people who called Southtown home. Still, I’d always had a begrudging fondness for the area. At least in South-town you knew exactly what dangers to expect, whereasin Northtown you might go over to someone’s house for a friendly cookout and end up with your ribs being the ones basted in the barbecue sauce.
    It had been snowing in Ashland for several days straight. The February cold had been so bitter, biting, and unrelenting that what snow fell didn’t even begin to melt before the next arctic front blew in and dropped six more inches on top of it. By this point, the snowbanks on either side of the slick roads were taller than most dwarves—topping out at about five feet.
    It was hard for me to drive in it, especially considering the absolute shit box of a car that I was in. Twice, the old, worn tires started sliding on the black ice, and it was only by the grace of whatever god was laughing at me that the car didn’t slam into one of the trees that lined the road. It also didn’t help matters that I could feel myself weakening and my attention wandering as more and more blood pumped out of my thigh. But I forced my hands to grip the steering wheel, the cracked leather digging into the spider rune scars on my palms, and drive on.
    I went as fast as I dared, the car tires alternately crunching through or slipping on the snow and ice. Even though there was no one out tonight, it was still slow going, and it took me thirty long, precious minutes to make it to Jo-Jo’s.
    Jolene “Jo-Jo” Deveraux was a two-hundred-fifty-seven-year-old dwarf with Air elemental magic who used her power to heal people on the sly. She also happened to be my only hope of getting the wound in my thigh to quit gushing blood before I ran out of the fluid altogether.
    Like others of her monetary, social, and magically elitestatus, Jo-Jo made her home in an upscale Northtown subdivision called Tara Heights. Most of the subdivisions in Ashland had cutesy names like that, almost all of which had a Southern connotation. Like Lee’s Lament, another nearby subdivision. For some folks in Ashland, especially the vampires who’d lived through the era, the Civil War would just never, ever be over.
    I steered the rattletrap car past the snowbanks that had been plowed up on either side of the subdivision’s entrance and made the appropriate turn onto a street marked Magnolia Lane. I started up the hill to Jo-Jo’s house, but the tires just wouldn’t grip the ice that coated the cobblestone driveway. For a moment, I was afraid that I was going to have to get out and walk—something that I didn’t have the strength or blood left for. But finally the squealing, smoking tires caught, probably for the last time in their miserable, rubbery lives, and the car lurched up the driveway.
    I crested the hill, and Jo-Jo’s house came into view. The three-story, plantation-style structure looked even more elegant in the winter white dark, the layers of snow and ice swirling around it like buttercream frosting. The columns that supported the house only added to the effect, making the whole thing resemble a tiered cake. Normally, I would have enjoyed the ghostly view, but tonight the snow was just another obstacle to plow through.
    By this point, I was fading fast. It took me two concentrated tries before