Spider's Trap

by Jennifer Estep

  “What made you look over here?” I asked. “I thought you were going over the trail that the fake waiter had made again.”

  Owen pointed through the trees. “This spot is directly across from the Delta Queen’s paddle wheel. If I had wanted to keep an eye on things, I would have started here at the back of the boat and worked my way forward toward the front.”

  I looked out across the river. He was right: we were lined up with the back edge of the paddle wheel. Owen’s reasoning made perfect sense. No doubt the watcher had paced back and forth along this patch of woods, spying on all the happenings on the vessel.

  “You find anything?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Whoever the elemental is, he didn’t leave anything behind, except for his bomb in the leaves. I’ll take it to Finn and see what he makes of it. He always likes to play with explosives. We’ve done all we can here. Let’s go back to the riverboat. Finn and Bria should be there by now.”

  Owen nodded and headed toward the trail that would take us back to the parking lot. I had started to go retrieve the bomb from where I’d left it when a faint smoky scent tickled my nose.

  I stopped and drew in a breath. An ashy sort of tang hung in the air, almost like someone had been smoking a cigarette. I drew in another breath. No, it was richer, deeper, stronger than that. Not a cigarette—a cigar.

  I crouched down and scanned the ground, running my hands through the loose piles of leaves that were closest to the tree. A minute later, I found a cigar stub smushed into the dirt, as though the watcher had crushed it under the toe of his boot after he finished with his rune drawing. Jackpot.

  I brought the stub up to my nose and sniffed it. I was by no means a cigar connoisseur, but it would have to be an expensive brand to have that sort of deep, dark, rich, coffee-like scent. Finn would know. Like alcohol, cigars were one of those things he thought made everything else better.

  I wrapped the cigar in some dry leaves and slid the whole thing into my jacket pocket. Then I straightened up, pulled out my phone, and snapped several photos of the mace rune that had been carved into the tree.

  I put my phone away and started to go catch up to Owen, but I found myself rooted in place, staring at the carving. The wind whistled through the trees, but that chill was nothing compared with the one slithering up my spine. The mace rune, the watcher’s metal power, the boxes full of nails . . .

  It all reminded me of . . . something.

  I didn’t think that the watcher was related to a job I’d done, since everyone I’d gone after as the Spider was dead. Of course, he could have been a friend or a relative of someone I’d assassinated, but the danger from those folks was almost always immediately after a hit, since that’s when they would be most vehemently searching for whoever had killed their loved one. No, this was something else, some vague wisp of memory I couldn’t quite bring into focus.

  Still, the longer I stared at the crude mace, the more cold worry seeped through my body.

  Because I had seen that weapon, that rune, somewhere before.

  Now I just needed to remember where—before it was too late.

  6

  Phillip must have sent the majority of his staff home, because no one was in the parking lot next to the Delta Queen when we pulled back in there, and most of the cars were gone. But I did spot two familiar vehicles sitting side by side: a serviceable navy-blue sedan and a silver Aston Martin.

  Owen and I walked up the gangplank to find two people talking with Phillip and Silvio on the main deck. One of them was a woman about my size, with shaggy blond hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. She was dressed in black boots, dark jeans, and a white button-up shirt, with a gold detective’s badge and a holstered gun clipped to her black leather belt. She was as no-nonsense as her sedan, a stark contrast to Mr. Aston Martin, who stood beside her in an expensive Fiona Fine suit, his walnut-brown hair slicked back into a carefully messy style, his sly green eyes taking in his surroundings.

  Detective Bria Coolidge and Finnegan Lane both turned at the sound of our footsteps as Owen and I approached. They rushed over to us, and Bria, my baby sister, wrapped me up in a tight hug.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “I got Silvio’s text and came straight over. He and Phillip just finished telling us what happened.”

  “I’m fine. I always make a habit of surviving nasty situations. You should know that by now.”

  She smiled at my joke, but the worried lines on her face didn’t smooth out.

  Finn reached over and clapped me on the shoulder. “See? I told you that Gin was all right. She always is.”

  “Ta-da.” I swept my hand out to the side with an elaborate flourish, giving a not-so-modest bow.

  “Hey,” Finn protested. “That’s my move.”

  “And now it’s mine,” I chirped.

  He huffed in mock annoyance, then clapped me on the shoulder again, his firm grip telling me how worried he’d really been.

  “Silvio said that you guys went across the river to check out where the bomber was set up,” Bria said. “Did you find anything?”

  Someone, probably Silvio, had set the conference table back up on its feet, and everyone gathered around while Owen and I laid out the second bomb and the cigar stub on top of the table.

  Finn unwrapped the leaves from around the stub, then brought it up to his nose and drew in a deep breath. Even though the cigar had been smoked down to almost nothing, his green eyes glimmered in appreciation at the rich, lingering scent.

  “I’ll be more than happy to investigate where this beauty came from,” he purred. “I’ve been meaning to restock my supply anyway.”

  He winked, but I rolled my eyes. “Only you would use my near-death experience as an excuse to go cigar shopping.”

  “You want me to be thorough, don’t you?” Finn asked. “Leave no cigar store unturned?”

  He kept a mostly straight face as he batted his eyes and pressed a hand to his heart, but his lips twitched, struggling to hold back his snickers.

  “Yeah,” I deadpanned. “That’s exactly what I’m concerned about right now.”

  Finn pouted. “You’re no fun.”

  I ignored him, pulled out my phone, and showed the mace rune photos to Bria. I didn’t know why, but something about the symbol made me think of my sister. No, that wasn’t right. It didn’t make me think of Bria, not exactly, but it made me think about . . . family.

  Once again, I tried to remember when and where I’d seen the rune before. I could almost feel the memory swimming around like a fish in the bottom of my brain. But the more I tried to hook it and reel it to the surface, the faster it slipped away.

  Bria’s eyebrows drew together in thought as she scrolled through the photos. “I don’t recognize it. Email me the photos, and I’ll run them through the department’s system and see if they match any known gang runes in Ashland and beyond.”

  I nodded, took back my phone, and sent her the photos. Bria pulled out her own phone, hit some buttons, and held the device up to her ear.

  “Hey, Xavier,” she said, talking to her partner on the force. “I just sent you some photos. I need you to run them through the rune database for me . . .”

  While she filled in Xavier, I went over to Owen, Finn, Phillip, and Silvio, who were huddled around the table, studying the second bomb.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  Finn shook his head. “The box, the nails, and the phone are all things you could buy anywhere. Nothing I can easily track down. I’ll put out some feelers about the explosive, but I don’t know how long it might take to get some concrete info about who bought it, when, and where. Maybe Bria will have more luck with the police records, looking for similar bombs, although the design is fairly simple.”

  I had expected as much, but frustration rippled through me. So I turned to Phillip, hoping that he would have better news.
“What about the riverboat’s security footage? I know you have cameras recording everything that happens on deck and in the parking lot.”

  “I’ve done a quick scan, but there’s nothing useful on it,” he said. “The guy was dressed like all the other waiters, and he walked into the parking lot from one of the side streets, so there’s no car or license plate to trace. He had a backpack slung over his shoulder—which my guards have already found empty in a staff locker below deck—and he hung out and smoked until he saw some folks coming in for work. He approached one of the other waiters, claimed that he was a new hire, and walked right on board with the rest of them. The guards didn’t even notice the new face or the extra body, much less search his backpack, something that I will be talking to them about at great length later on.”

  Phillip glowered at a pair of giant guards who were standing by the double doors that led into the riverboat. Both men shifted on their feet and ducked their heads in silent apology. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes. They’d be lucky if Phillip just fired them.

  “Uh-oh. I know that look,” Owen murmured. “If you’re going to throw them overboard, you should at least give them life jackets first.”

  Phillip turned his glower to Owen, but his anger quickly melted into a sheepish grin. Tossing people into the river was one of Phillip’s favorite ways of dealing with problems.

  Silvio cleared this throat. “There might be another way to track down the bomber.”

  We all looked at him.

  “How?” I asked.

  “Well, you are the head of the underworld now . . .”

  I winced at the reminder, but he kept on talking.

  “So why don’t you use all of the resources at your disposal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Silvio shrugged. “Ask around. See if anyone’s heard anything about the bombing or if there’s a new elemental in town looking to make a name for himself by killing you. At the very least, ask folks to report back to you if they see or hear anything suspicious. Who knows? You might get lucky.”

  Silvio was right. Whether I liked it or not, I was the head of the underworld now, so I should at least get some small benefit out of dealing with the criminals and all their constant whining, crying, and turf wars. But I was still wary. It wouldn’t have surprised me if one of the other bosses had hired the metal elemental to try to assassinate me. Inflicting horrific wounds on me with a bomb first, before moving in for the final kill, would have made a great many people in Ashland quite happy. I wasn’t even particularly annoyed by the possibility. It was part of the job description. The other bosses had constantly plotted against Mab, despite how powerful she’d been, although their schemes had never really amounted to anything.

  No, what really pissed me off was the fact that Phillip, Silvio, and all those innocent workers could have been seriously injured—or worse—by the bomb. After I killed Madeline, I had made it exceptionally clear to the entire underworld what would happen to anyone who went after my friends and my family—even by accident. Pain, blood, death. But apparently, the message hadn’t sunk in. Well, this time, I was going to make sure that it did.

  “And I know that look too,” Owen murmured again, reaching out and squeezing my hand. “This is not your fault, Gin.”

  I shrugged and stared down at the deck instead of looking at my friends. They might not hold me responsible, but it was my fault. Death followed me wherever I went, whether I liked it or not. Still, I appreciated Owen’s gesture, so I squeezed back, then dropped his hand and turned to Silvio.

  “All right,” I told the vampire. “Reach out to a few folks, but do it discreetly. And only contact the ones who don’t have any serious ambitions of their own. I’m sure that Lorelei, Dimitri, and Luiz have already spread rumors all over town about the bombing, but I don’t want to confirm anything I don’t have to.”

  I couldn’t afford to look weak right now, or the sharks would start actively circling around me again. Not that they’d ever really left in the first place.

  Silvio nodded and whipped out his phone, while Phillip and Owen started talking about the security footage again. Bria finished her call to Xavier, came back over to the table, and examined the second bomb with Finn.

  I held up my phone, staring at the photo of the tree carving. I was grateful that my friends were going to help me run down all the available leads, but it seemed to me like the mace rune was the key to discovering the bomber’s identity.

  But more than that, staring at the symbol filled me with uneasy dread, as though I should have already known exactly who my enemy was and what he really wanted.

  * * *

  That night, Owen and I drove our cars over to Fletcher’s house, my house now. We both parked in front of the ramshackle structure, but I signaled to Owen to stay in his vehicle as I got out and did a perimeter sweep. Normally, I would have just scanned the woods, the lawn, and the rocky ridge that dropped away from the front of the house before going inside.

  Not tonight.

  Instead, I made a slow, complete circuit of the house, crisscrossed the lawn several times, and even ventured into the woods to make absolutely sure that no one was lurking in the trees. All the while, I reached out with my Stone magic, listening to the emotional vibrations that had sunk into the gravel in the driveway, the small rocks hidden in the grass, and even the brick that made up parts of the house. But the stones only whispered of the whistling of the chilly autumn wind, the scurrying of animals in the underbrush, and the soft dropping of the leaves on top of the ground, slowly covering the stones up for the cold winter ahead.

  When I was satisfied that no one had been near the house, I signaled to Owen, and we went inside. I took the extra precaution of making him wait by the front door while I swept the interior for intruders and any traps, including more bombs. But no one was hiding inside, and nothing had been disturbed since I’d left this morning.

  I sighed, grateful that at least my house was safe and secure for the night.

  “What are you thinking about?” Owen asked.

  I was tired of speculating about the bomber, who he was, and why he’d tried to kill me, so I didn’t tell Owen my real thoughts. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck.

  “I was thinking that I’m glad we’re finally alone together,” I said in a low, husky voice, staring up into his violet eyes.

  Owen’s nose wrinkled, and he gave me a teasing grin. “As romantic as that sounds, don’t you want to take a shower first? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sort of smell like . . . fish.”

  I sniffed. He was right. Even though I’d changed into fresh clothes, the fishy scent of the river had soaked into my hair and skin.

  I laughed, stood on my tiptoes, and kissed him on the nose. “All right, all right. Shower first. Lovin’ later.”

  Owen headed into the den to watch some TV, while I went into the bathroom. I stripped off my clothes, turned the water on in the shower, and stepped into the hot spray, soaping up and washing off the lingering stench of the river. I also lathered and rinsed out my hair twice, just for good measure.

  When I had finished, I slipped into a black microfleece robe patterned with silver skulls with red-sequined hearts for eyes—a birthday gift from Sophia—and padded into the den.

  Owen had been busy while I’d been in the shower, and he’d put together several ham-and-turkey club sandwiches. He’d also heated up two bowls of broccoli-cheese soup, along with some cinnamon baked apples mixed with cranberries for dessert. Perfect comfort food after the day I’d had.

  We took everything into the den, enjoying the warm, hearty meal and the easy silence that came with being in each other’s company. Then we snuggled together on the couch, just holding each other, not saying anything at all. There was no need for words. Not now, not tonight.

  But our innocent touches, lazy caresses, and soft kisses quickl
y turned longer, harder, deeper, until we were plastered together on the couch, making out like a couple of teenagers who couldn’t get enough of each other. I loved everything about Owen—his firm touch, his rich metallic scent, the way his warm, hard muscles bunched and flexed under my fingers, even the hint of cinnamon that lingered on his tongue from the apples we’d eaten.

  We broke apart after a particularly long, feverish kiss, and Owen wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me onto his lap so that I was straddling him. My robe fell open, and he nipped at my exposed shoulder, even as his hand slid up my leg and under the hem of the black fabric.

  I arched an eyebrow. “And what are you up to?”

  Owen’s hand crept higher up my thigh, then higher still. “Will it make you feel better if I promise you that it’s something bad?”

  I puckered my lips and pretended to think about it. “I don’t know. Perhaps I need a demonstration. Just to be sure.”

  He flashed me a wicked grin, his violet eyes bright with the same desire that was simmering in my veins. “A demonstration?” he murmured. “Oh, I think that can be arranged.”

  He stroked the curls at the junction of my thighs, then slipped a finger inside me.

  “Oh . . .”

  I groaned, dug my hands into his shoulders, and rocked against him, even as he kept stroking me, his fingers moving in a slow, familiar pattern, one that he knew always drove me crazy. Waves of tension, pressure, and pleasure rippled through my body, but all I could do was hang on to him.

  “More . . .” I whispered. “More . . .”

  Owen leaned forward, his teeth nipping at my shoulder again. “Your wish is my command,” he murmured.

  His hand began to move faster and faster, in more elaborate patterns, his fingers skimming the surface, then moving deeper inside me, only to retreat again. All the while, he kept kissing my neck and shoulder, his teeth playfully teasing my skin just like his hand was. Finally, it was all too much, and I shuddered, finding my release.