Bria looked at me, sympathy in her eyes, then started pulling out more photos and arranging them on the counter. Eira, Deirdre, Mab, and Tucker were in many of the shots, just like she said.
“What do you think it means?” Finn asked.
I stared at the long-ago images, more questions swirling through my mind. Had Tucker been telling the truth? Had my mother really been part of some secret society in Ashland? Were the members of the Circle really responsible for her death? What had she done that upset them enough to want her dead?
I didn’t know, but I felt all the stubborn denial that I’d been hanging on to burning to ash, replaced by the cold, sinking certainty that my mother hadn’t been the person I’d thought she was.
Then who had she been?
And what did that make me now?
“Gin?” Finn asked again. “What do you think it means?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. But it’s a place to start looking for answers. And I’m going to find them.”
32
Three days later, I found myself right back where I had started.
Blue Ridge Cemetery.
And just like last time, I was standing inside someone else’s grave—my mother’s.
Oh, I didn’t expect my mother’s casket to be empty, since I’d witnessed her murder and knew that she was as dead as dead could be. But Eira Snow had known Deirdre, Mab, and Tucker, so it seemed like a logical place to start searching for answers. I’d already gone through Fletcher’s house and gathered up all the old man’s files, and I had been systematically going through them one by one, but I hadn’t uncovered any dirt there yet.
I was hoping that I might here tonight.
I’d arrived at the cemetery forty-five minutes ago, and I was almost down to my mother’s casket. This night was even colder than when I was first here, but the steady motions kept me warm, and the quiet gave me time to think about everything that had happened.
But the more I thought about things, the fewer answers I came up with, just like every other time I turned my attention to this new puzzle. For the first time, I envied Finn. At least, he had answers about Deirdre, even if they were dark, hurtful ones. People always said that ignorance was bliss, and I finally understood what that meant.
Because not knowing was driving me crazy.
I was determined to find out exactly what my mother had been involved in, even if it meant disturbing her final resting place—
Thunk.
My shovel hit something, and I frowned, knowing that I wasn’t quite down to the casket yet. But I bent and cleared the dirt off the item I’d hit.
It was another silverstone box.
It was a much smaller box than the one that had been in Deirdre’s casket, but my spider rune was carved into the top, just as it had been on the box in Deirdre’s casket, and there was no doubt in my mind that the old man had left it here for me to find.
“Fletcher,” I whispered.
It was one thing to dig up Deirdre’s grave—a stranger’s grave—and realize that things weren’t what they seemed. But it was another to have the same realization about my own mother’s grave.
My entire body went cold and numb, and I slowly sank into the dirt, the box clutched in my hands like an anchor weighing me down. My stomach churned, and dread squeezed my heart tight, but I’d come too far to stop now.
I couldn’t stop now.
So I took a moment to gather my thoughts, and then I fished out one of my knives and cracked open the box.
Tucked inside was an envelope with my name scrawled across the front. With trembling hands, I opened it, drew out the single piece of paper inside, and read the note the old man had left me.
Gin,
Don’t open your mother’s casket. There’s nothing in there but regret and sorrow for disturbing her.
Love,
Fletcher
Despite the tears streaking down my face, I still smiled. Even now, the old man was looking out for me, knowing how much it would hurt me to open my mother’s casket and see the charred remains of her body. I started to set the envelope aside, but something slid around in the very bottom. So I reached inside for the object and drew it out into the light.
A second later, I burst out laughing.
It was a key to a safety-deposit box at First Trust of Ashland. The bank’s name was stamped into the key, and someone—Fletcher—had scratched the number of the box into the metal: 1300. The irony made me laugh.
“If only I’d had you last week,” I murmured to the key. “I could have gotten you while I was down in the vault.”
But there was nothing more I could do here tonight, so I tucked the key and the letter into my pocket, got to my feet, and picked up my shovel again.
“Need a hand?” a voice called out.
I looked up to find Finn standing next to my mother’s grave, wearing black clothes and with a shovel propped up on his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
He grinned. “You mean, how did I find you? Silvio was quite happy to download his tracking apps onto my phone.”
I let out a curse. “I’m going to take away all his phones and tablets and everything else he has that’s got even a hint of information on it.”
Finn laughed and stabbed his shovel into the mound of earth I’d dug up. Then he sat down and dangled his legs over the edge of the grave.
“There’s another reason I came here.” He drew in a breath, not quite looking at me. “I finally looked through that box of stuff you gave me. The one that Dad left in Deirdre’s casket. I read his letter too.”
I’d given Finn the box and the letter the day after the warehouse fight. I should have given it to him sooner, the very first night I’d dug it up. Maybe if I had, none of this would have happened. Maybe Deirdre wouldn’t have hurt, tortured, and betrayed him. And maybe Tucker wouldn’t have hurt me by hinting at ugly truths about my own mother.
But Fletcher had wanted me to wait until after Deirdre was gone—dead—to give Finn the letter. I might have honored the old man’s wishes, but we’d all suffered because of it. Still, I think I finally understood Fletcher’s reasoning. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Finn by telling his son all the horrible things his mother had done. He really had wanted to give Deirdre one last chance, hoping that she was a different person, a better person, for Finn’s sake.
But Fletcher had also realized that she probably hadn’t changed, so that’s why he’d warned me about her. Hope for the best, but always prepare for the worst was another motto that the old man had lived by. In this case, he’d let Finn do the hoping and me the preparing. Now what was done was done, and Finn and I would have to live with my mistakes and all the painful consequences of them.
Finn pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and passed it down to me. “Here. I know you want to read it.”
“I do want to read it, but that doesn’t mean I should. Or that I have any right to. Fletcher left it for you, not me.”
He grinned, but it was a sad expression. “Just read it, okay, Gin?”
I nodded and held out my hand. Finn leaned down and helped me up out of the grave. I sat down beside him, our legs hanging over the edge. Then I unfolded the letter and began to read.
Dear Finn,
If you are reading this, then I am gone, but your mother is back . . .
It was a long letter, much longer than the one Fletcher had written me, and in it he recapped his relationship with Deirdre. For once, she hadn’t been lying, and everything had happened just as she’d said. She’d accidentally gotten pregnant, tricked Fletcher into killing her parents, threatened to freeze Finn with her Ice magic. Fletcher wrote that he’d kept the few things he’d had of Deirdre’s because he thought Finn might want them someday. And he also confirmed my suspicion about hoping that Deirdre was different from the woman he’d known and that she would never hurt Finn the way that she had him.
But it was the last few lines of the letter I lingered over.
I don’t regret what your mother did to me because I have you as a result. I would suffer through it all again—and again—if it meant having you as my son.
I’m so proud of you and the man you’ve become.
I love you so much.
Now and always.
Fletcher
Tears gathered in my eyes, but I blinked them back and looked at Finn to find that he was doing the same thing. I had to clear the emotion out of my throat before I could speak.
“He meant it, you know. Every single word. He was so proud of you, and he loved you so much.”
“I know,” Finn said. “And I loved him too. I just wish I had been more like him sometimes. That we had gotten along better. That I had told him how important he was to me more than I did.”
He plucked a blade of frosted grass out of the ground and twirled it around. “I also wish that I had listened to you about Deirdre.”
“You don’t have to apologize again.”
He looked at me, his green eyes full of regret. “Yes, I do. I just . . . I wanted her to actually be here for me. I wanted it more than anything. You know?”
“I know. It’s the same way that I feel about Fletcher. Sometimes I wish he was still here so much that it hurts. It’s literally an ache in my chest that I can never get rid of.”
“But at least you know he loved you.”
I waved the letter at him. “And he loved you too. He kept you safe from Deirdre for all these years. The two of you might not have been that much alike, but he loved you more than anything, Finn.”
He nodded, but he didn’t say anything else. A few flakes of snow started falling down from the sky. Finally, he gestured at the box that was still down in the grave.
“What was in it?”
I showed him the key and the letter.
“Yep, that’s from First Trust, all right.” He winked. “I know a guy who can get you in there on the sly.”
I laughed. “I’ll just bet you do. But first, I need to clean up the mess I made here.” I slid off the edge of the grave and back down into the hole.
“You want some help putting all this dirt back where it belongs?” he called out. “Or can I just sit up here and supervise and keep my clothes pristine?”
I gestured at him with my shovel. “You can stay up there, or you can take a dirt nap down here. Your choice.”
Finn laughed at my teasing threat and slid into the grave with me. Then he grabbed his shovel and stuck it in the dirt right next to mine. “I’m going to have to get a manicure after this,” he said. “All this dirt and physical labor will wreak havoc on my nails.”
I snorted. “I think it’s sad that you get more manicures than Bria and me combined.”
“Hey, now. Don’t diss the manscaping. Women like a well-groomed man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, when I see a well-groomed man, I’ll let you know.”
Finn bumped his shoulder into mine, and I bumped him right back. “You know there’s no place I’d rather be tonight than here with you, right?” he said, his voice lighter than it had been in days.
I arched an eyebrow. “Really? You want to be cold, dirty, and sweaty? Why is that?”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “Skulking around a cemetery on a cold winter’s night? Digging up graves and secrets? Hot on the trail of some secret society that your mother may or may not have been involved in? Honestly, what could be better than this?”
He grinned at me again and started filling in the grave. I watched him for a few seconds, and then my gaze drifted down the hill to where Fletcher was buried. Finn and the old man had had their issues, but Fletcher had loved Finn, and that love had been returned. Maybe now more so than ever before.
Finn was right. There was no place I’d rather be either.
I smiled and started working side by side with my brother.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the
next book in the Elemental Assassin series
by Jennifer Estep
Coming soon from Pocket Books
1
It was the perfect night to kill someone.
Thick, heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars, deepening the shadows of the cold December evening. It wasn’t snowing, but an icy drizzle spattered down from the sky, slowly covering everything in a slick, glossy, treacherous sheen. Icicles had already formed on many of the trees that lined the street, looking like gnarled, glittering fingers that were crawling all over the bare, skeletal branches. No animals moved or stirred, not so much as an owl sailing into one of the treetops searching for shelter.
Down the block, red, green, and white holiday lights flashed on the doors and windows of one of the sprawling mansions set back from the street, and the faint trill of Christmas carols filled the air. A steady stream of people hurried from the holly-festooned front door, down the snowmen-lined driveway, and out to their cars, scrambling into the vehicles and cranking the engines as fast as they could. Someone’s dinner party was rapidly winding down, despite the fact that it was only nine o’clock. Everyone wanted to get home and be safe, warm, and snug in their own beds before the weather got any worse. In ten minutes, they’d all be gone, and the street would be quiet and deserted again.
Yes, it was the perfect night to kill someone.
Too bad my mission was recon only.
I slouched down in my seat, staying as much out of view of the passing headlights as possible. But none of the drivers gave my battered old white van a second look, and I doubted any of them even bothered to glance at the blue lettering on the side that read Cloudburst Falls Catering. Caterers, florists, musicians. Such service vehicles were all too common in Northtown, the part of Ashland where the rich, social, and magical elite lived. If not for the lousy weather, I imagined that this entire street would have been lit up with holiday cheer as people hosted various parties, each one trying to outdo their neighbors with garish light displays.
Once the last of the cars cruised by and the final pair of headlights faded away, I straightened in my seat, picked up my binoculars from my lap, and peered through them at another nearby mansion.
A stone wall cordoned this mansion off from the street, featuring a wide iron gate that was closed and locked for the night. Unlike its neighboring house, there were no holiday lights, and only a single room on the front was illuminated—an office with glass doors that led out to a stone patio. Thin white curtains covered the doors, and every few seconds, the murky shape of a man would appear, moving back and forth, as though he was continually pacing from one side of his office to the other.
I just bet he was pacing. From all the reports I’d heard, he’d been holed up in his mansion for months now, preparing for his murder trial, which was set to begin after the first of the year. That would be enough to drive anyone stir-crazy.
Beside me, a soft creak rang out, followed by a long, loud sigh. Two sounds that I’d heard over and over again in the last hour I’d been parked here.
The man in the mansion wasn’t the only one going nuts.
“Tell me again. How did I get stuck hanging out with you tonight?” a low voice muttered.
I lowered my binoculars and looked over at Phillip Kincaid, who had his arms crossed over his muscled chest and a mulish expression on his handsome face. A long black trench coat covered his body and a black toboggan was pulled down low on his forehead, hiding his golden hair from sight, except for the low ponytail that stuck out the back. I was dressed in black as well, from my boots to my jeans to my silverstone vest, turtleneck, and fleece jacket. A black toboggan also topped my head, although I’d stuffed all my dark brown hair up underneath it.
“What’s wrong, Philly?” I drawled. “Don’t like being my babysitter tonight?”
He shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. “You’re Gin Blanco, the famed assassin turned underworld queen. You don’t need babysitting.” He shifted in his seat, making it creak again, then shook his head. “But Owen insisted on it . . . The things I do
for that man.”
Phillip was right. As the Spider, I could handle myself in just about any situation. I certainly didn’t need him here, but Owen Grayson, Phillip’s best friend and my significant other, had insisted on it. But I hadn’t protested too much when Phillip showed up at the Pork Pit, my barbecue restaurant, at closing time and told me that he wanted to tag along tonight.
With the mysterious members of the Circle out there, a little backup might come in handy. Even if said backup was whinier than one would hope.
“Why couldn’t Lane sit out here with you?” Phillip asked. “Or Jo-Jo, or even Sophia for that matter? Why did I get elected to freeze my balls off tonight?”
Finnegan Lane, my foster brother, was often my partner in crime in all things Spider-related, while Jo-Jo and Sophia Deveraux healed me and cleaned up the blood and bodies I left in my wake.
“Because Finn is still dealing with the mess that Deirdre Shaw left behind at First Trust bank, and Jo-Jo and Sophia had tickets to The Nutcracker,” I said, ticking our friends off on my hand. “And, of course, you know that Owen promised Eva that he’d help out with that holiday toy drive she’s leading over at the community college.”
“I would have been happy to help Eva with her toy drive,” Phillip grumbled again. “Thrilled. Ecstatic even.”
Despite their roughly ten-year age difference, Phillip was crazy about Eva Grayson, Owen’s younger sister, although he was waiting for her to finish college and grow up a bit before pursuing a real relationship with her.
“Anything would have been better—warmer—than this.” He popped up the collar of his trench coat so that it would cover more of his neck, then slouched down even farther in his seat.
“Aw, poor baby. Stuck out here in the cold and dark with me tonight.” I clucked my tongue in mock sympathy. “And to think that I was just about to offer you some hot chocolate.”
His blue eyes narrowed with interest. “You have hot chocolate? Homemade hot chocolate?”
I reached down and pulled a large metal thermos out of the black duffel bag sitting between our seats on the van floor. “Of course I have homemade hot chocolate. You can’t have a stakeout on a cold winter’s night without it.”
Bitter Bite Page 30