Widow's Web (Elemental Assassin)

by Jennifer Estep

  Finally, her eyes met mine. When she saw that I was merely curious and not completely enraptured by her, the woman’s gaze went past me. But that same small, satisfied smile curved her lips again. Instead of taking the chair McAllister had pulled out for her, she headed in my direction.

  I grabbed my purse from where I’d put it on the table. It only took a second for me to flip open the top and palm the silverstone blade nestled inside the black satin fabric, just in case. She was here with McAllister, after all. That didn’t necessarily make her my enemy, but it certainly didn’t make her my friend either.

  Owen was engrossed in eating the last bite of his cheesecake, so he didn’t see her approach us and stop on the opposite side of the table from where we were sitting. I’d thought the woman would say something to me, perhaps even make some snide, clichéd comment about my being the Spider, but I was surprised once again when she ignored me and fixed her gaze on my lover instead.

  Owen pushed his plate away and sighed with contentment. “I know we’re here on Finn’s dime, but that cheesecake was worth every penny—”

  For the first time, he realized someone was staring at him. Owen looked up at the stranger, and his face went white with shock—as pale and stunned and bloodless as I’d ever seen it. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and the napkin he’d been about to put on the table slipped from his suddenly slack fingers and fluttered to the floor.

  All the while, the mystery woman just stared at him, that small, satisfied smile still on her lips, stretching a bit wider and looking far more smug now.

  “Hello, Owen, darling,” she said.

  Owen just sort of—sagged. His hands thudded down on the table, and his whole body pitched forward, as if the mere sight of her had turned his bones to jelly. He continued to sit there, a stunned expression on his face, as though he couldn’t quite believe there was a woman standing in front of him—that this particular woman was standing in front of him. Whoever she was, he obviously knew her and was floored by her appearance—as floored as I’d been when I’d seen Donovan Caine, an old lover of mine, a few weeks ago. Hmm.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” she asked. “Or perhaps a hug for an old friend?”

  Her voice was soft, sweet, and utterly feminine, with the kind of faint dulcet chiming that made me think of water rushing down a mountainside. A hypnotizing voice—one that could persuade a man to do all sorts of things. Up close, I could see that her eyes were somewhere between blue and green—aquamarine, some folks might say. Their color seemed to constantly shift from one to the other and back again, churning like the sea.

  “Owen?” she asked again.

  “Of course,” he said in a faint voice. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet.

  Owen hesitated, then held out his hand, but the woman ignored his gesture and stepped into his arms, molding herself to his body and pressing her breasts against his chest. He hesitated again, then awkwardly patted her on the back before stepping out of her embrace as fast as he could. Amused by his attempts to disentangle himself from her, she did everything she could to slow his getaway.

  Her antics did not amuse me—not one little bit. Especially since the woman was staring at my lover like she’d very much like to have him for dessert. Like it was almost a forgone conclusion that she would, despite my presence at the table.

  Finally, she tore her gaze away from Owen long enough to glance at me. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Of course,” he echoed again. “Salina Dubois, this is Gin Blanco. Gin, Salina.”

  I discreetly tucked my knife back into my purse, closed the top, and put it down on the table. Then I got to my feet. Salina held out her hand to me, the same remote expression on her face that she’d shown McAllister—the one that told me just how very far beneath her and unimportant she thought I was.

  Still, I took her hand. Even assassins could be polite on occasion. Her grip was firm, and her fingers felt cool against my own. I felt the tiniest trace of magic emanating from her, so faint I wondered if it was just my imagination.

  Some elementals constantly gave off invisible waves of magic even when they weren’t actively using their power, like embers throwing off heat. I concentrated, and once again I felt a faint flicker of magic. So Salina was an elemental, then. For a moment I thought that perhaps she had Ice magic, but her power didn’t seem quite cold enough for that. No, her magic felt . . . softer and more fluid, like a raindrop sluicing across my skin. Perhaps she was just a weak Ice elemental, or maybe she was gifted in an offshoot power, like water.

  We shook, but I didn’t immediately let go of her hand afterward. Instead, I held on and turned it to the side, staring at the silverstone bracelet on her right wrist. The cuff was more than two inches wide and had a vaguely Egyptian design to it, like something an ancient queen might have worn. Delicate loops and whorls had been etched into the center of the cuff, along with a rune—a mermaid with long, flowing hair, a curled-up tail, and a serene smile.

  Elementals, dwarves, giants, vampires—practically all of the magically inclined in Ashland and beyond used runes to identify themselves, their power, their families, and their businesses. So it didn’t surprise me that Salina had her own personal rune. In fact, it seemed especially suited for her, since a mermaid was the symbol for deadly beauty. I could easily imagine Salina perched on a rock somewhere, wearing nothing but a seashell bra and a smile, luring sailors to their watery deaths with a mere crook of her finger.

  What bothered me was that it seemed like she’d done the same thing to Owen once upon a time, judging from the way he couldn’t stop staring at her.

  But more than that, something about Salina’s mermaid rune seemed familiar to me, like I’d seen the shape somewhere before—and her too. I could almost feel a memory wiggling around, trying to break through to the surface of my mind. Strange, because I should have remembered meeting someone like Salina. She was the sort of person who was hard to forget, if the reaction of all the men, and some of the women, in the room was any indication.

  “What a beautiful bracelet,” I murmured.

  I traced my left index finger over the mermaid rune and realized that I was getting the same sensation from the bracelet I was off Salina’s hand—one of cool, constant motion. So she used the cuff to store her magic then, like so many elementals did their silverstone rings, watches, and necklaces.

  Salina pulled her hand out of mine and made a pointed show of rubbing my fingerprints off the cuff’s glossy surface. “A family heirloom.”

  “Charming.”

  We smiled at each other, being painstakingly polite the way Southern women so often were, even though our eyes were flat and emotionless. Instant dislike on both sides.

  Salina stared at me, taking in my simple black evening gown with its long, swooping, poet sleeves and full tulle skirt, which hid the two knives I had strapped to my thighs. Her gaze lingered on my own silverstone jewelry, the ring on my right index finger, which had my spider rune stamped into the middle of it and contained my Ice magic. But apparently, my ring wasn’t as impressive as her bracelet, because she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she focused her attention on Owen again.

  “I’m so glad I ran into you tonight,” Salina purred. “Especially since you never returned the message I left at your office last week about my finally coming back to Ashland.”

  I looked at Owen, who winced. He’d never told me about any message he’d gotten from her.

  “Anyway, now I can give you my good news in person,” Salina continued in her soft, sweet voice. “Before, I said I was only coming for a visit, but I’ve decided to move back to Ashland permanently. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Wonderful,” Owen echoed, his voice even fainter than before.

  Salina smiled and moved even closer to my lover. She reached out and smoothed first one side, then the other of his jacket, before bringing her fingers up and toying with his lapels. “The two of us will have lots
of time to catch up now. I’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Over at his table, McAllister pointedly cleared his throat, saving Owen from answering that loaded question. Salina turned to send the lawyer a cold, withering look and held up a finger, indicating that she’d be there in a minute. Then, she focused her attention on Owen again, all smiles and sunshine once more.

  “Call me, darling. You have my number. Any time, day . . . or night.”

  Wow. Subtle she was not. I don’t think her meaning could have been any clearer than if she’d hiked up her dress and asked Owen to do her right there on the table.

  Salina winked at him, then sashayed back over to McAllister’s table, where the lawyer was still standing, his hands now clenched around the back of the chair he’d pulled out for her. He didn’t like being ignored any more than I did. The two of them sat down, and McAllister started talking, although Salina was only half listening to the lawyer, her gaze repeatedly drifting over to Owen.

  My lover sighed and looked at me. “About Salina—”

  I reached over and straightened his tie, giving him the same killer smile Salina just had. “Not while we have an audience, darling. There’ll be plenty of time to chat in private on the drive home.”

  I told the waiter to put the bill on Finn’s tab, and Owen and I left Underwood’s and got into his car. We didn’t speak on the drive over to Fletcher’s house—my house now. Owen steered his Mercedes Benz to the top of the driveway and put the car in park, but he didn’t turn off the engine. Instead, he stared out the windshield into the darkness—brooding.

  I wondered what he was seeing—what he was remembering about Salina. The time they’d been together, the things they’d shared, how she’d made him feel when they were alone in the dark, their skin touching, their hands exploring, their bodies arching into each other.

  My heart pulsed with jealousy at the thought of them together, but I stayed quiet. Owen hadn’t been a virgin any more than I had been when we’d gotten together. We both had pasts—Owen had just seen more of my dark, violent one than I had of his.

  He finally sighed. “Ask away. I know you want to.”

  “You and Salina?”

  He nodded. “Me and Salina.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A lifetime,” he murmured. “Maybe two.”

  I waited for him to go on, to talk about how they’d met, the time they’d spent together, or even why they’d broken up. He didn’t say anything, but his face, his whole body, was tight and tense with emotion—with pain. Whatever had happened between them, it hadn’t ended well. Still, I kept quiet, waiting for Owen to tell me about them in his own way, in his own time. That’s what he’d done for me when I’d run into Donovan while on vacation in Blue Marsh. I figured I owed Owen the same courtesy.

  He sighed again. “Anyway, it’s over, and it has been for a long time now. I hadn’t seen or heard from Salina in years . . .”

  “Until she left that message at your office last week.”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  And that would have been about the time Owen had started acting distant and distracted. Ah. Lightbulb finally on, and a bloody little slice on my heart and ego to go along with it. To realize that Owen had been preoccupied because of Salina—and that my lover hadn’t told me the first thing about her until forced to tonight. Reunions with old lovers rarely went well, and it seemed like there was more history between the two of them than most. Still, I didn’t care too much about Owen’s past with Salina, as long as he knew that I was his present—and, most importantly, his future. Something I planned on showing him tonight.

  I reached out and trailed my fingers down his face. “Come in?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “I really shouldn’t. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.”

  “I understand,” I murmured, keeping my face smooth and hiding the hurt that pricked my heart.

  Owen gently reached for my hand and kissed my palm, right in the middle of my spider rune scar. “Rain check?”

  “Of course.” This time, I was the one with the faint voice.

  Owen hesitated again, then leaned over and pressed his lips to mine—but he pulled back far too soon, like he’d been guessing how long he should maintain the kiss and the allotted time was up. I managed to smile at him, pretending I didn’t notice the sudden distance between us, distance that Salina had somehow created just by walking into the restaurant.

  I got out of the car and shut the door behind me. Owen put the vehicle in gear and turned it around. He paused to wave good night to me, and I lifted my hand in return. A moment later, the car disappeared down the driveway.

  I stood there alone in the dark and wondered who the hell Salina Dubois really was, why she seemed to have such an effect on my lover, and what I was going to do about her. Because this was a matter of the heart—and one problem that all my knives and all my prowess as the Spider wouldn’t help me solve.

  4

  Despite my unease and questions about Salina, the next day was business as usual at the Pork Pit, the barbecue restaurant I owned—right down to me checking for booby traps.

  It was just before eleven, and I’d spent the last twenty minutes looking at everything in the restaurant storefront, from the well-worn but clean blue and pink vinyl booths to the long counter that ran down the back wall to the framed, blood-spattered copy of Where the Red Fern Grows that hung on the wall beside the cash register. I peered underneath each one of the tables and chairs, examined the front door for any signs of tampering, and checked every single one of the windows for the slightest hint of a crack, chip, or break. I even got down on my hands and knees and followed the paths of the faded, peeling, blue and pink pig tracks on the floor all the way back to the men’s and women’s restrooms. Then I examined both of those areas top to bottom as well, just to make sure nothing was hidden in a trash can or taped to the back of a toilet.

  “Anything?” a harsh voice rasped.

  I walked back out into the storefront and looked at the source of the voice: Sophia Deveraux, the dwarf who was the head cook at the Pit and chief Spider-related body dumper. Sophia had sat in one of the booths, calm and cool as could be, while I checked for traps, but she was causing quite a stir on the street outside, as people saw her through the windows and stopped to stare at her.

  That’s because Sophia was Goth. Today, the dwarf wore her usual black boots and jeans, topped off by a white T-shirt that had a bright red cherry bomb in the center of it—one with a lit fuse. The bomb’s scarlet color matched the spiked silverstone collar ringing her neck and the cuffs on her wrists. Her lipstick was as black as her hair, and smoky shadow arched over her dark eyes as well, making her face seem as pale as the moon in comparison.

  I eyed the cherry bomb T-shirt, wondering if Sophia had worn it as some sort of joke, given the volatile nature of the Ashland underworld these days. It was hard to tell with her sometimes. The dwarf didn’t talk much due to her voice, which had been ruined years ago when she’d been forced to breathe in elemental Fire.

  “Anything?” Sophia asked again, sounding like there was a cheese grater scraping against her vocal cords.

  “Nope,” I replied. “Nobody left us any nasty surprises. So you can go into the alley out back and tell the waitstaff to come on in.”

  Sophia nodded, got up, and walked the length of the restaurant before pushing through the swinging double doors that led into the back.

  I looked over the storefront a final time, double-checking to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Checking out the Pit was something I did every morning now, given all the folks who would love to see me dead. In addition to using them as their personal or business symbols, elementals could also imbue runes with their magic and get those symbols to flare to life and perform specific functions—like firebombing my restaurant and hopefully killing me in the process. It would be far too easy for a Fire elemental to casually stroll by the restaurant late one night, pause a moment, and trace an incendiary
rune into the wooden doorframe that would erupt in flames as soon as I opened the front door the next morning.

  So far, no one had tried that particular trick, but it was only a matter of time before someone thought of it—and I planned to be ready when they did. That was why I checked the restaurant, and it was why I kept an eye on all the diners who scarfed down the thick, hearty, barbecue sandwiches and other greasy Southern treats Sophia and I served up at the Pit.

  Satisfied that no one had laid any traps for me, I flipped the sign on the door over to Open and moved back behind the counter to start cooking for the day.

  Given the warm, bright, inviting May sunshine, it didn’t take long for folks to leave their offices, head outside, and flock to the restaurant in search of an early lunch. Catalina Vasquez and the rest of the waitstaff seated everyone and took their orders, before bustling back over with their drinks a few minutes later. Meanwhile, Sophia and I manned the ovens, the stoves, and the french fryers. I also mixed up a batch of Fletcher’s secret barbecue sauce and set that pot on one of the back burners to simmer away. I breathed in, enjoying how the sauce’s spicy cumin kick mixed with all the other rich, dense flavors in the air.

  In between cooking and dishing up food, my gaze went from one diner to the next, but they were all focused on their meals and companions. Oh, they still watched me, of course, giving me quick glances out of the corners of their eyes when they thought I wasn’t looking. After all, I was rumored to be the Spider, the assassin who’d killed the supposedly unkillable Mab Monroe. The whispers were more widespread among the underworld denizens, but they were slowly starting to circulate among regular folks as well. Hell, I was something of a tourist attraction in Ashland these days, and people came from near and far just to get a glimpse of me, sit in my restaurant, and eat my food. I’d even heard rumors that some particularly enterprising soul was selling T-shirts with the slogan I ate at the Pork Pit . . . and lived! emblazoned on them, but so far no one had been bold enough to wear one inside the restaurant.