Deadly Sting (4 page)

“Come on,” I whispered, putting my arm under his shoulder and preparing myself to drag him the rest of the way out of the house, across the grounds, and into the woods. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Fletcher shook his head. “No. Not before the job’s done. We have to get Delov tonight. This is our best chance—our
only
chance. All of his guards are gone. It’s just him and us. We have to end him now.”

“But you’re hurt,” I pointed out. “And he has a gun. Maybe more than one by now. You always told me that it was okay to walk away from a botched job. And we both know that I messed this one up.”

Fletcher shook his head again. “A dog barked. It happens, Gin, even to the best of us.”

He bent over and started coughing. He put his hand to his mouth, but I still saw the blood trickle out between his fingers.

“Here, at least sit down,” I said, helping him over to a nearby chair. “Rest for a few seconds, and then we’ll get out of here.”

“No,” Fletcher said, his mouth settling into a thin, stubborn line. “I made a promise to the Kilroy family, and I intend to keep it. Besides, I’ll be easy pickings for Delov now. We both know how fond he is of taking care of his dirty work himself.”

In addition to his love of gourmet food, Delov also fancied himself something of a hunter, and more than one poor animal’s head decorated the walls of his mansion. He even had a poaching trip planned for his time in the Keys. So I had no doubt that Delov would relish the challenge of tracking us down.

Fletcher couldn’t kill the giant. Not now, not with that injury.

But I could.

“Give me your knife,” I whispered.

He stared at me in surprise. “You don’t have to do this, Gin. I can finish it. I can—”

Another coughing fit cut off his words, and more blood dribbled down the sides of his fingers, even though he tried to hide it from me.

Fletcher looked at me, his green eyes searching mine. “Can you do it, Gin? Are you ready for this?”

I stared at the knife still clutched in his hand. The silverstone gleamed like a sharp star in the semidarkness. I’d killed people before. Buried men in the falling stones of my childhood home. Stabbed a giant to death inside the Pork Pit. And I’d watched Fletcher kill a dozen more.

But this—this was
different
. Before, I’d lashed out at the others in the heat of the moment. Because they’d threatened me, hurt me, and I’d just been defending myself. But tonight I’d come here knowing that Delov would die. I just hadn’t thought that I’d be the one to do it.

It was one thing to watch—it was another to twist the knife in coldly myself.

Maybe—maybe I wasn’t as ready to be an assassin as I thought I was.

But there was nothing to be done about that paralyzing thought. No changing it, no fixing it, no time to think about it. Because it was him or us now, and I’d pick us every single time, no matter what it cost me in the end.

I hesitated a moment longer, then took the weapon from Fletcher. “I can do it.”

“I know you can,” he whispered back.

“Come on,” I said, helping him to his feet. “I’ll help you find someplace to hide. Then I’ll go look for Delov.”

Fletcher nodded, in too much pain to do anything else. I put my arm under his shoulder again and led him deeper into the house, back toward Delov, ready to do what needed to be done . . .

My eyes fluttered open, and it took me a few seconds to remember where I was. That I was safe in bed in Fletcher’s house and not being stalked by a giant with a gun and a grudge. I let out a breath, trying to calm my racing heart and banish the rest of the memories. Slowly, far too slowly, they finally faded away.

I didn’t know what had triggered this specific memory of Fletcher and Delov. It certainly wasn’t the worst one I had. In fact, it was pretty mild compared with some of the other things I’d seen, done, and been through over the years. But something about that night felt particularly important—and ominous, almost like it was a warning of things to come.

I wasn’t an Air elemental, so I never got any glimpses of the future, not like Jo-Jo did. But I couldn’t help but think that something was stirring all the same. Something dark, something dangerous, something that might finally be the death of me.

But then again, this was just a dream, just one of many terrible memories I’d collected over the years, and no doubt more were on the way.

“Paranoid much, Gin?” I said.

Of course, no one answered back. The house was empty. All the whispers of the stones told me so, but for once, the soft, familiar sounds didn’t soothe me. I lay there and closed my eyes, but it was a long, long time before I was able to sleep once more.

3

Two nights later, Finn pulled his Aston Martin up to the back of a long line of cars.

“See?” he said. “This isn’t so bad, is it? I’ve got a new car, you’ve got a new dress, and we’re going to have a fabulous time lusting after all of Mab’s loot. What could be better than that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “Sitting at home having a nice, quiet evening. Reading a book. Making some sort of sinfully rich and decadent dessert.”

“Spoilsport,” Finn huffed.

I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest. Despite the fact that I hadn’t really wanted to come, I still found myself peering out the window. Curiosity. It was one emotion that always seemed to get the best of me, even tonight.

The exhibit of
Mab’s loot
, as Finn had so eloquently dubbed it, was being held at Briartop, Ashland’s largest, fanciest, and most highfalutin art museum, located in the uppity confines of Northtown. But what really made Briartop unique was its placement on a large island in the middle of the Aneirin River.

The island, also called Briartop, was like a miniature version of one of the Appalachian Mountains that ran around and through the city. The museum itself was perched on a wide plateau at the very top of the island. A series of stone walkways led out from each one of the three wings into the lush gardens and immaculate lawns that flanked the main building. The paths spiraled down
the rocky hillsides before the landscape gave way to dense woods choked with briars and brambles. Back before the museum had been built, blackberry and other briars had covered the entire island in a thicket of thorns. Hence the name. Even now, the museum gardeners waged a constant battle to keep the briars from creeping up and overtaking the colorful flowerbeds and intricate copses of trees they’d worked so hard to cultivate over the years.

An old-fashioned, whitewashed, covered wooden bridge spanned the Aneirin River and led over to the island. The bridge was the only way to get to the museum, although it was only wide enough for cars to cross in single file, which is why Finn was waiting in line, along with a dozen limos and several luxury town cars.

Finally, it was our turn to cross. Finn’s Aston Martin rattled over the heavy boards, then he steered the car up the winding road and pulled into one of the parking lots. We got out of the vehicle. Finn gallantly offered me his arm, and we headed toward the entrance.

Bria had been wondering where all the giant guards in Ashland had gone. Well, tonight they were at Briartop. Giants were stationed at both ends of the covered bridge, communicating by walkie-talkies about when to let the next car cross. Others moved in and out of the parking lots, directing traffic, while several more milled around the museum’s main entrance, checking invitations and enforcing the guest list.

I counted at least twenty giants before we even got close to the front door. Odd. Perhaps the Briartop board had hired extra security for the gala.

Finn and I waited our turn in the line that had formed by the entrance. I stared up at the museum while he fished his engraved invitation out of his jacket.

Briartop was a veritable castle, southern-style. The structure soared five stories into the air and boasted a series of fat, round, domed towers, each one topped with a gleaming weather vane. The gray marble shimmered like a silver star in the warm rays of the setting sun even as the sloping eaves of the coal-black slate roof melted into the gathering shadows. Four massive columns framed the main entrance, while thick crenellated balconies fronted all of the tall, narrow windows. Stone planters decorated each one of the balconies, the lush pink, purple, and white rhododendrons inside providing vivid splashes of color against the marble, almost like paint streaking across a clean canvas.

As if the structure itself wasn’t impressive enough, a large fountain bubbled on the smooth front lawn, its jets of water arching through the air like streams of liquid diamonds. The constant churn of the water shrouded the area in a fine mist and spritzed the honeysuckle curling around and through a series of freestanding, whitewashed trellises that flanked the fountain. The rich, heady aroma of honeysuckle saturated the night air, carried along by a soft summer breeze.

The fountain, vines, and trellises made for a beautiful sight, but I looked away from them. I didn’t much care for fountains. Not anymore. Not after Salina had used them and her water magic to murder people at her deadly dinner party—and tried to drown me in one.

Instead, I reached out with my magic and listened to the murmurs of the museum itself.

Actions, emotions, plots and schemes and hopes and
dreams. People leave behind bits and pieces of themselves in
the spots they frequent, in all of the buildings, offices, and houses where they spend their lives. All of those actions,
feelings, and emotions—good, bad, and indifferent—sink
especially well into stone. As a Stone elemental, I can sense
and interpret all of those hidden vibrations as easily as if one of the museum tour guides were telling me all of
the juicy gossip about every scandalous thing that had ever
happened in and around the building. Tonight Briartop’s silvery marble muttered with worry, mixed with sharp
notes of tension and sly whispers of unease.

Curious—and troubling.

I’d been to Briartop many times before, both as the Spider trailing a target and as regular Gin Blanco. I’d even come here once or twice for some of the art classes I’d taken at Ashland Community College through the years. Every time I’d been here before, the marble had proudly murmured of the artistic beauty and treasures it housed, punctuated by light, trilling notes of vain pretentiousness and smug snobbery—nothing more.

But tonight the constant, worried mutters told me that someone here was up to something—probably more than one person, given all the tense murmurs and sharp, ringing
ping
s of unease.

Oh, the crowd looked innocent enough. Men and women dressed in fitted tuxedos and elegant evening gowns, expensive jewels and heavy watches flashing on their necks and wrists. But the stones never lied. They echoed the actions, emotions, and intentions of the people around them—nothing more, nothing less.

Once again, that vague, uneasy feeling I’d had ever since my dream a few nights ago crept back up to the surface of my mind. This time, I didn’t try to push it away or ignore it. I’d stayed alive this long by being paranoid, and something just wasn’t right here.

Finn and I stepped up to the giant working the door. She was dressed in a sleek black pantsuit that showed off her strong, toned curves, and I saw more than one person admiring her tall, lithe figure. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek French braid, but the simple style only enhanced her hazel eyes and great cheekbones. A small gold nametag on her jacket read
Opal
.

Opal seemed to be one of the folks in charge, judging from the way the other giants deferred to her and how they raced up to whisper questions in her ear and draw her attention in this or that direction. Finally, she managed to look at Finn’s invitation, hand it back to him, and check him off the guest list. She glanced at me, ready to mark me off as his plus-one, and froze.

Opal’s eyes widened, her breath puffed out of her mouth, and her body completely stilled. While it only took her a second to recover, blink away her surprise, and plaster a bland smile on her face, her reaction ratcheted up my unease.

“Please proceed into the main exhibit area,” she said in a low, smooth voice. “Everything’s been set up in there.”

“Thank you, Opal,” Finn replied, and gave her one of his patented charming smiles.

She tipped her head at him and gave me a polite nod, although her sharp gaze lingered on my face a few seconds longer than it should have.

Finn pouted a little when he realized that he didn’t have her full attention and that she wasn’t going to fawn all over him like most women did, but he tucked his invitation back into his tuxedo jacket. I took his arm again, and we headed toward the entrance. All the while, though, I was aware of the giant at my back. I didn’t like having people behind me, and my palms began to burn with the desire to reach for one of my knives, put it up against her throat, and demand to know what she was staring at.

Instead, I turned and smiled at Finn, as though he had said something amusing, allowing my eyes to slide past him to Opal.

“She’s watching me,” I murmured. “There’s a line of people in front of her waiting to get inside, and she’s watching me walk away instead of dealing with them.”

Finn shrugged. “Maybe she likes women instead of men. You do look rather fetching tonight. Or maybe she recognized you as the mighty Spider. Infamy, thy name is Gin Blanco.”

I grimaced at his flippant tone, but he had a point. Opal wouldn’t be the first person to freeze up upon realizing who I was. So I put her out of my mind and looked ahead once more.

Still, I couldn’t quite ignore the itching sensation between my shoulders—like someone was going to bury a knife in my back before the night was through.

* * *

Finn and I walked up the shallow steps and entered the museum. High, vaulted ceilings, crystal vases full of roses, lilies, and other greenery perched here and there, stone planters bristling with bonsai trees tucked into the corners, slick marble floors and walls: Briartop was just as opulent inside as it was on the outside. Everywhere you turned there was another piece of art to look at, whether it was a series of soft, floral watercolors, a silver etching of a waterfall tumbling over a rocky ridge, or a woodcut of a bear ambling through a field of wildflowers.

We reached the main exhibit area and stood to one side of the entrance, scanning the scene. The enormous room was actually a rotunda topped by a high, domed ceiling inlaid with a starlike mosaic pattern made out of bright blue stained glass. The same pattern could be found on the floor directly below in alternating shades of gray, white, and blue marble. Small white lights had been wrapped around the columns ringing the round room, and the glowing strands stretched from the ground floor all the way up to the second-level balcony. Still more spotlights rose from the floor, dropped from the ceiling, or jutted from the walls, angled to highlight certain displays.

Finn had been right when he’d said that the exhibit of Mab’s loot would be the social event of the summer.
I spotted several well-known, legitimate businessmen and businesswomen wading their way through the
crowd, along with all of the big movers and shakers in the Ashland underworld. Folks like Beauregard Benson, Ron Donaldson, Lorelei Parker . . .

And Jonah McAllister.

McAllister had been Mab Monroe’s lawyer for years, and his star hadn’t fallen so much as been snuffed out completely since I’d killed the Fire elemental. Without Mab, Jonah was just another smarmy lawyer, desperately searching for a new crime boss to serve before he was chewed up and spit out by the rest of the underworld sharks. McAllister and I had plenty of history—and reasons to hate each other. I’d killed his son, Jake, last year for trying to rob the Pork Pit and then threatening me. For his part, the lawyer had tried to have me murdered more than once.

I eyed McAllister. Like all the other men, he was dressed in a tuxedo, although his was more impeccable than most, and his wing tips were as shiny as ink. His silvery mane of hair gleamed underneath the lights, and his face was smooth and unlined, despite his sixty-some years. Jonah kept his boyish complexion intact with the help of a strict regimen of Air elemental facials. A plastic doll would show more emotion than his tight, sandblasted features.

“What’s he doing here?” I asked Finn, jerking my head in the lawyer’s direction.

“McAllister? He’s one of the executors of Mab’s estate, along with the museum director, and helped put the exhibit together,” he replied. “The show was in the works even before Mab died. According to the rumors I’ve heard, Mab stipulated that her entire art collection be put on display here for at least one year before the museum can take ownership of it and do whatever they want to with it.”