But there were no sounds in the small, loose stones that shouldn’t be there. No shrieks of danger, no notes of worry, no trills of anxiety. Just the gentle creak of the trees, the light tread of squirrels, chipmunks, and rabbits, the whistle of the wind around the ridge. Soft, soothing murmurs. But the comforting whispers still didn’t stop me from checking the black granite that framed and composed the front door to see if anyone might be lurking inside Fletcher Lane’s house.
I spread my fingers over the cool stone that made up the main entrance. The granite’s hum was low and muted, just like always. No one had been near the sprawling house all day. Good. Even if someone had come up to the house, she would have had a hell of a time getting in through the front door, thanks to its sturdy dead bolts and solid construction. As added protection, thin veins of silverstone ran through the black granite door, and silverstone bars covered all the windows. Silverstone could absorb any kind of elemental magic—Air, Fire, Ice, or Stone—as well as power by folks gifted in other elemental areas, like metal, water, electricity, or even acid. Someone with enough magic could eventually overcome the silverstone and granite door and force her way inside the house, but she’d lose a lot of juice doing it. Which would make her that much easier to dispatch with one of my knives.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Since so many additions had been tacked on to the house over the years, the interior layout was a bit of a labyrinth. Square rooms, oval ones, even an area shaped like a pentagon, all connected by twisting hallways that curved around, doubled back on each other, and often led to the other side of the house entirely. Another advantage, as far as I was concerned. Even if someone could break through the granite around the front door, she’d have a hard time finding me before I slipped out through one of the many secret passages—or came around behind her. All the elemental magic in Ashland wouldn’t save you from a silverstone knife in the back. Win-win for me, either way.
I tossed my keys into a bowl by the front door, toed off the stylish, designer Bella Bulluci boots that Finn insisted I just had to have for my birthday, and headed for the kitchen in the back of the house. After I poured myself another glass of gin, I padded into the downstairs den and plopped down on the sofa. As always, my gaze drifted up the mantel, where a series of rune drawings stood. Four drawings total, three that I’d done for one of my many community college classes and another, more recent one.
The first three runes were the symbols of my dead family. A snowflake, my mother, Eira’s, rune, representing icy calm. A curling ivy vine, which had belonged to my older sister, Annabella, symbolizing elegance. And a delicate primrose that had been Bria’s rune—the symbol for beauty.
The fourth rune was a bit different in that it was shaped like a pig holding a platter of food—my own rendering of the colorful neon sign that topped the entrance to the Pork Pit. It wasn’t exactly a rune, not like the other three, but I’d sketched it in honor of Fletcher Lane. In my mind, Fletcher and the Pork Pit were one and the same, and both were symbols of home, comfort, safety.
My eyes skipped over the runes, then settled on the primrose. Bria’s symbol. When we were kids, our mother had given each of us a rune to match our personalities and had them made into small silverstone medallions for us to wear. I couldn’t quite believe that Bria still had her necklace—and that she was wearing it all these years later. I did the math in my head. Bria had been eight years old the night our mother and older sister had died, so she’d be twenty-five now. At thirty, I was five years older.
I sighed, took a sip of gin, and grimaced. Still bitter.
I put the glass aside and leaned forward, staring at a manila folder lying on top of the scarred coffee table, along with a single picture. The photo was of Bria, of course. Blond hair, blue eyes, hard mouth. She looked the same in the color picture as she had in the flesh two nights ago and earlier this evening at Northern Aggression.
Finn had written a single word on the folder’s tab—Bria. The folder contained all the information he’d been able to dig up on my sister so far. Her work history, financial records, habits, hobbies, vices. Finn had already read through the information, but for some reason, I just couldn’t look at it.
I wanted—I didn’t know what the hell I wanted. Maybe the chance to get to know Bria as a real, live person, instead of flipping through the neatly ordered pages of her life the way I would when I was scouting out a potential target, trying to figure out how to get close enough to kill him. Maybe even for Bria to tell me all her secrets herself, the way that a true sister might.
I didn’t consider myself a sentimental person. Watching my family get fried to a crisp as a kid and then being forced to fend for myself on the mean streets of Ashland was more than enough to shock the sentiment right out of me forever. But ever since I’d found out that Bria was alive, ever since I’d seen that picture of her that Fletcher had left for me, I’d been daydreaming about what she would be like. About what it would be like when we saw each other again.
I’d even fantasized about Bria immediately recognizing me, smiling, and running over to give me a big hug—while some sort of uplifting music swelled in the background. Instead, my baby sister had seen me at my worst—playing the part of the victim. I wasn’t sure which one was the greater evil—my twisted fantasy or the harsh, bloody reality.
My fingers traced over Bria’s name, and I hooked a fingernail underneath the tab, ready to flip it open and see what secrets my baby sister had been keeping. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not tonight. Maybe it was sentimental of me, but I wanted to put off more of the harsh realities the folder was sure to contain—at least for tonight.
So I left the folder where it was, swallowed the rest of my bitter gin, and headed upstairs to bed.
The fist came out of nowhere. One minute I was running through the smoky interior of our house trying to get away from the men who were chasing me. The next I was confronted with a giant’s fist, larger than my head. It filled my vision for half a second before slamming into the side of my face. Pain exploded in my body, and the force of the blow threw me ten feet through the air. I landed hard on a patch of sooty, smoldering carpet.
I groaned, rolled over, opened my eyes—and found myself staring at a charred, blackened husk of a body. My mother, Eira. Even through the crispy, ruined skin and flaky ash, I could see the white gleam of her teeth, her mouth open in one last scream. The only other thing the Fire elemental’s magic hadn’t melted was my mother’s silverstone snowflake rune, the one she always wore around her neck. The symbol for icy calm. The rune gleamed like a silver diamond against my mother’s burned skin. Tears filled my eyes at the horrific sight. I turned away and tried not to vomit.
An hour ago, I’d woken up to find giants breaking into our home. And they hadn’t been alone. A Fire elemental was with them—a woman. Her laughter rang through the house like a dark dirge, along with the hot, pricking feel of her magic. The Fire elemental and her men had stormed into our house and left a path of death and destruction in their wake. My mother had gone down to try to stop the Fire elemental. So had my older sister, Annabella.
Through the smoke and haze, I’d seen my mother duel the elemental, using her Ice magic to try to overpower the other’s Fire. But the other elemental had been stronger, and my mother had vanished in a ball of Fire. Furious, Annabella had thrown me off and rushed to our mother’s defense. Annabella had died a few seconds later in another explosive ball of flames—her white nightgown lit up like a macabre candle. The Fire elemental had laughed all the while.
I’d run.
Away from the elemental, away from the fire, away from the nightmarish, burned figures that had been my mother and older sister. I’d raced down the hall, snatched Bria out of bed, and pulled her through the house as fast as I could. We had to get away. We had to get out of the house. I’d shoved Bria onto a stone terrace that overlooked the gardens, hoping to get out that way. But there were more men waiting outside the house. They’
d seen me and given chase. So I’d hidden Bria in one of our favorite spots and run back into the house, leading them away from her.
But one of them had been lying in wait for me inside—the giant who’d just punched me. I tried to get to my feet, to run away again, but someone grabbed my long, tangled, brown hair and pulled me upright. It was hard to see through the smoke that blackened the room, but I saw the giant draw back his fist to hit me again. Maybe it was the smoke, but he seemed to be a pale, ghostly figure, like some sort of horrid ash golem come to life.
Even as I whimpered and waited for the blow, I found comfort in one thing. Bria was safe, hidden in the spot where I’d left her. The Fire elemental’s men would never find her, and she’d be safe from the flames spreading through the house. That was all that mattered—
I must have blacked out, because the next thing I knew, I was sitting upright. I jerked, but heavy ropes held me down. My hands felt like they were lashed together too, with something cold and metal stuck in between them. I concentrated on the shape and realized it was my spider rune. Someone had taken the silverstone medallion off my necklace and stuck it between my hands. But why?
I tried to open my eyes to see what had happened to me, to try to figure out where I was and how I could get away, how I could get back to Bria. But something scratched against my eyelids and weighted them down. Cloth, maybe. Was I blindfolded?
“There’s no use in struggling,” a female voice said in my ear. “I’ve made sure those ropes are quite secure.”
The low, sibilant voice reminded me of a copperhead’s rasp. A fingernail slid down my cheek, leaving a ribbon of fire in its wake. I yelped and jerked my head back from the burning sensation. The Fire elemental had me. I could tell it was her by the way her hot magic lashed and pricked against my skin, even if I couldn’t see her.
“What do you want?” I whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
She laughed. A low, mocking sound that told me exactly how helpless I was. “Because I can. Because your bitch of a mother took far too many things from me over the years. Because the very existence of your happy little family sickens me. Because it needed to be done before the Snow sisters became any kind of threat to me. But mainly, because I wanted to.”
How could anyone want to hurt us? Why? What had we ever done to her? Sour bile filled my throat. Somehow I choked it down. Throwing up would only make her angrier.
“Now, dear, sweet Genevieve,” the Fire elemental purred. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Wh—what?” I stammered.
“Tell me where your sister Bria is.”
So the Fire elemental and her men hadn’t found my baby sister yet. She wouldn’t be asking about Bria otherwise, and I wouldn’t still be alive. Relief filled my body, along with a small bit of determination. A cold little knot deep in my stomach. I wasn’t going to tell the elemental where Bria was, I vowed. No matter what she did to me. I wasn’t going to kill my sister. Not now, not ever.
The elemental dug her cruel fingers into my hair and yanked my head back. “Tell me now!”
Just the touch of her hand against my head made it feel like she was scalping me with a red-hot knife. Tears of pain filled my eyes and soaked the blindfold, but that small knot of determination tightened inside me.
“No,” I whispered. “I’ll never tell you.”
Silence.
After a few seconds, the Fire elemental let go of my hair. Footsteps sounded, and I had the sense she was circling me the way a vulture would fly around a carcass. The footsteps stopped. I turned my head this way and that, trying to figure out where she was and what she would do next. No use.
“Fine,” she murmured. “We’ll do it the hard way. It’s always more fun. In case you haven’t realized, I took the liberty of removing that quaint little rune you wear around your neck. I had one of my men duct-tape it inside your hands. You’re going to tell me where your sister Bria is, or I’m going to use my magic to heat the rune. I trust you know what burning flesh smells like by now. Imagine that being your own. The stench, the excruciating pain, the knowledge that your own skin is melting away into nothing. Tell me, is your sister worth all that?”
I thought of Bria. Sweet little Bria with her chubby fingers and big blues eyes and shy smile. She was worth it. Worth all that pain and more.
“Go—go to hell, bitch,” I said in the strongest voice I could muster. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“So brave, so young, so very stupid. Have it your way then,” the Fire elemental said.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then I felt a hot, pricking sensation gather between my palms. The silverstone spider rune grew warm between my hands, and I started sweating, more out of fear than the heat. She was really going to do it. Really going to torture me. Really going to heat the rune until it burned my palms. I wondered if it would actually catch fire, and if I’d be engulfed in flames along with it.
For a moment, I wavered, ready to tell her where I’d hidden Bria. Then I thought of my mother and Annabella, of their burned, smoking bodies lying on the floor. No, I vowed. I wouldn’t do that to Bria. I wouldn’t give her to the Fire elemental.
The rune continued to heat up. I felt blisters form on my palms. I tried to move, tried to slip the metal out from between my hands, but they were taped together too tightly. All I could do was sit there and endure it. The blisters popped and turned into a burning sensation. I gritted my teeth, even as more tears streamed out of my eyes, and sweat dripped off my fingers. The burning intensified. What came after burning? Scorching? Scalding? Searing? The acrid smell of my own melting flesh filled my nose, along with sour sweat and fear.
The Fire elemental’s low chuckles washed over me. She was enjoying this, enjoying my suffering, this hot, searing, excruciating pain that felt like it would never, ever end.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I screamed. And again. And again. And again—
I woke up, my mouth open in a silent scream. My eyes flicked around the dark room, and it took me a moment to come back to myself. To remember that I was safe in Fletcher Lane’s house. That it was just a dream, just a memory, and nothing more. Nothing that could physically hurt me now. I drew in a ragged breath and flopped back against my damp pillow.
I’d been having these sorts of dreams ever since Fletcher’s murder a couple of months ago. The old man had been tortured to death by an Air elemental who’d hired me to do a job, then decided to double-cross and murder me so the hit couldn’t be traced back to her. I’d killed the Air elemental, of course, but it hadn’t brought Fletcher back to me—or stopped the dreams. If anything, it was like the old man’s death had opened a floodgate to my past, and the images kept spilling out no matter how much I wanted them to sink back into the darkness.
Only they weren’t really dreams so much as memories of my past. Of that fateful night when my mother and older sister had been murdered—by Mab Monroe. Of when the Fire elemental had tortured me to get me to give up Bria’s hiding place.
I opened my hands and stared at my palms. A bit of moonlight slipped in through the bedroom window and highlighted the silverstone scars on my hands. A small circle surrounded by eight thin lines. A spider rune. The symbol for patience. I’d born the marks for seventeen years now, but tonight, it felt like they’d just been made yesterday. Everything had felt fresh and raw and sore since Bria’s reappearance in my life.
I thought of that folder of information Finn had compiled on my sister. Of what secrets it might hold. I wondered what Bria remembered of the night our mother and older sister had died. If she knew Mab Monroe was the one who was responsible for it all. Why Bria had come back to Ashland. Why now, after all these long years?
But instead of getting out of bed, going downstairs, turning on a light, and looking at the file like I should have, I pulled the sheet up to my chin, as though the soft, warm flannel could protect me from, well, everything. All the horrible things that had happened, and all the ones
that were yet to be.
Tomorrow, I thought. I would look at the information tomorrow.
Tonight, I only wanted to sleep—and forget.
7
At exactly two o’clock the next afternoon, Xavier pulled open the front door of the Pork Pit, making the bell chime. Punctual. I liked that in a man.
The giant held the door out wide so Roslyn Phillips could maneuver around him and step inside. The vampire madam and nightclub owner was dressed down today in a pair of black wool pants and a thick, ivory turtleneck sweater. A black and ivory checked coat covered her slim shoulders, and silver glasses perched on the end of her nose. Roslyn was still a striking woman, even without the party clothes and heavy makeup she wore when working the floor at Northern Aggression.
Catalina Vasquez, one of my best waitresses, heard the bell chime too. Her head snapped up from the chemistry textbook she’d been reading. Like me, Catalina was a student at Ashland Community College who worked part-time at the Pork Pit to make ends meet. With her long black hair, hazel eyes, and full-bodied figure, Catalina was quite popular with my male customers—especially Finnegan Lane, who always stopped to admire her assets whenever he came by the restaurant.
Catalina grabbed a couple of menus off a holder on the back wall and hurried behind the long counter that ran down one side of the barbecue restaurant. She reached the end, where I perched on my usual stool behind the old-fashioned cash register. I put down the copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn that I’d been reading and signaled Catalina to stop.
“The lunch crowd has died down,” I said. “Why don’t you go on break now? I know you’ve got some errands to do. Take a couple hours if you want. I’ll handle them. I was thinking about closing down until four anyway.”
Catalina flashed me a wide, grateful smile. “Thanks, Gin. You’re the best.”
“Hmph.”
A grunt sounded from the middle of the counter, where Sophia Deveraux stood slicing a thick wedge of Jarlsberg cheese, one of the key ingredients in the Pork Pit’s most excellent grilled cheese sandwich. The dwarf was dressed in her usual black jeans and boots. Her T-shirt was also black today with a large silver heart on the front that was broken in two and dripping crimson blood. A thick silver choker ringed Sophia’s throat, and several matching rings flashed on her fingers.
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