(Elemental Assassin 01) Spider's Bite (44 page)

“I brought you all something,” I said, reaching into the cheap straw tote bag I’d picked up in Key West.

Finn’s green eyes lit up. He loved presents. “What is it? Money? Expensive liquor? Long-lost pirate treasure? Doubloons?”

I dumped a plastic bag of key limes onto his lap. Finn’s face fell faster than a lopsided cake.

“Cheer up,” I said. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll make you a key lime pie.”

“I’d rather have some margaritas,” he whined.

“You’re getting a pie, so suck it up.”

Finn stuck his lip out in a mock pout.

I reached back into my bag and pulled out a small glass bottle shaped like a seashell. “And for you, Jo-Jo, I have this fine bottle of perfume.”

She pulled off the stopper and sniffed. “Smells fresh and salty, like the ocean. I like it.”

“And finally, for Sophia, there’s this lovely item.”

I pulled a pale pink leather collar out of the bottom of the bag. Tiny, mother-of-pearl sand dollars dangled from it. The dwarf took it from me. She stared at it a moment, then shook it once. The sand dollars clacked together like wind chimes. Sophia’s lips curved up into a small smile. Happiest I’d ever seen her.

“And there you have it,” I said. “The sum total of my vacation.”

I didn’t tell them that I was permanently on vacation from being an assassin. That I’d retired from being the Spider. There would be time enough to do that later.

Finn pushed his bag of limes to one side of the table. “Well, I’ve got something for you too. Several things, actually.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Finn cleared his throat. “Dad’s estate was settled today. The will was read. Besides a boatload of cash, he left you something else.”

“Really? What?”

Finn opened his hands wide and smiled. “Ta-da.”

I wasn’t easily surprised, but my mouth dropped open. All thought fled. It took me a moment to form coherent words. “Fletcher left me the Pork Pit? Why would he do that? It’s not like I need the money—or the headache.”

“Because he knew how much you love the restaurant,” Jo-Jo said.

“Love it,” Sophia rasped her agreement.

My eyes traced over the booths, the tables, the cash register, the bloody book sitting beside it. I did love the restaurant, just as much as I’d loved the old man. They’d always been one and the same in my mind. And now it was mine. A comforting warmth filled my chest that I hadn’t felt since before the night Fletcher died.

“Dad also wanted you to have this.” Finn handed me a small envelope.

Gin
. My name was scrawled across the front in Fletcher’s tight, controlled handwriting. Fletcher. I missed the old man.

But that didn’t keep me from tearing open the envelope. An index card lay inside. On the front was a note that read:
Don’t ever think it was your fault. Whatever it was, however it happened, you couldn’t have stopped it. Do us both a favor and don’t stay in the business too long. Live in the daylight, kid. Love, Fletcher.

My eyes misted over just a bit, but I turned the card over and read the rest of the writing. It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did, I shook my head and smiled.

“Cumin. That’s the secret ingredient in his barbecue sauce. Of course. Cumin.” I waved the index card at Finn. “Fletcher finally told me his secret ingredient. After he died. The old bastard.”

Finn smiled and raised his coffee in a silent toast to his father. The bright green of his eyes reminded me of the old man.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I asked. “Me taking over the restaurant? Fletcher should have left it to you. He was your father.”

“Are you kidding?” Finn asked. “Barbecue stains are hell on silk shirts. Believe me, I’m okay with you having the restaurant. Besides, he was your father, too.”

Once again, I thought of the night Fletcher had taken me in. How he’d saved me from selling my body on the streets. How he’d taught me to be strong and to always survive. Fletcher Lane might be gone, but I’d never forget what he’d given me.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess he was.”

The party broke up soon after that. But right before she left, Jo-Jo Deveraux pulled me aside and handed me a thick manila folder.

“Here,” she said. “Fletcher wanted you to have this too. It was something he’d been working on for a long time. What you do with it is completely up to you.”

I hefted the folder. It was heavy, with at least an inch of paper stuffed inside it. “What’s this?”

“You’ll see,” the dwarf said. “We’ll talk about it later, when you’re ready.”

I frowned at her mysterious tone, but Jo-Jo smiled at me.

“Now tell me again which hotel you stayed at,” the dwarf said. “I want to get me a good look at those cabana boys when I take my vacation in the spring.”

By the time I said my good-byes it was almost midnight. I left the Pork Pit, but I didn’t go straight home. I was retired, not stupid. I walked three blocks, cut through twice as many alleys, and doubled back before I even thought about heading to my building. Before I entered my apartment, I pressed my fingers against the stone that outlined the door. The vibrations were low and steady just like always. No visitors since I’d been gone. Good.

I stepped inside the apartment and flicked on the light. Everything looked the same as I’d left it—including the three rune drawings on the mantel. I wandered over to the pictures. A snowflake, an ivy vine, and a primrose. The symbols for my dead family.

But now one was missing, one I needed to add. I was going to do another drawing, I decided. One of Fletcher, or maybe the Pork Pit. Didn’t much matter either way. They were one and the same to me.

Although I wanted to take a shower and fall into bed, I plopped on the sofa and opened the thick envelope Jo-Jo Deveraux had given me. Might as well see what secrets it contained, what Fletcher had been working on before he’d died that merited so much paper. Curiosity. I really needed to learn to control that.

I undid the clasp, pulled out the thick sheaf of paper, and started to read. It was a report written in mannish cursive.
Sept. 21, fire reported at 7:13 a.m. Residence fully engulfed in flames on arrival. Multiple casualties feared
…

It took a few seconds for me to realize I wasn’t reading about some strange fire. That I’d been there, that I’d felt the flames tongue my skin like an eager, sloppy lover. I looked at the next page. A glossy photo showed the charred remains of a human body, arms outstretched as if begging for help—or mercy. My stomach clenched, but I kept going.

Autopsy results, photos, police reports, newspaper clippings. It was all here. Everything that had ever been written, photographed, gossiped, and speculated about the fiery murder of my mother and two sisters seventeen years ago.

Fletcher.

The old man had known exactly who I was, why I’d been living on the streets, what had happened to my family. Somehow, I’d let it slip, or he’d put it together himself. It must have taken him years to compile this information. But he had.

And he’d left it with Jo-Jo to give to me.

Why? I wondered. Why? What was the point of this? My mother and older sister, Annabella, were dead. I’d seen them die with my own eyes. Reduced to ash. They weren’t coming back. And Bria, my baby sister, had been buried alive, pulverized, by the collapsing rubble of our house. All that had been left of her had been some bloodstains. She was gone too.

So why had Fletcher left me the information? What had the old man expected me to do with it? Track down the Fire elemental who’d killed my family? Take my revenge on the bitch? I’d been blindfolded when she’d been torturing me. I had no idea who she was, much less if she was even still alive. Or had the old man wanted me to do something else entirely with the information?

My hands started shaking, and I threw the papers down on the coffee table before I scattered them everywhere. But I wasn’t quite quick enough. A loose sheet of paper and a photo slid out of the stack and landed facedown on the floor. I stared at them. A second ticked by. Then five, then ten more. A minute later, I was still staring at them.

Finally, I sighed. Fucking, fucking curiosity. The one thing I wish the old man hadn’t taught me.

I picked up the paper first. It was blank, except for a solitary name written in Fletcher’s handwriting.
Mab Monroe
. The Fire elemental’s name was underlined twice, but that was it. There was nothing else on the paper. Why would the old man have written her name down and stuck it in this file? Was she the elemental who’d killed my family? Did she know who did? Fletcher had always longed to see her die. Was it because of me? And what she might have done to my family? Or did the old man have some other vendetta against her? Something I’d never known about?

My head pounded, and I rubbed my temple. After a moment, I looked away from the name. I was too shocked to puzzle out the old man’s motives tonight, so I set the sheet aside and reached for the photo. It had landed facedown on the floor. I stared at it a few seconds before my hands felt steady enough to pick it up. There was a date on the back written in Fletcher’s tight hand. August of this year. Only a few weeks ago. I turned the photo over—

And my heart stopped.

Because the woman smiling out of the picture looked like my mother. Long, blond hair, cornflower blue eyes, rosy skin. But it wasn’t my mother. Her nose was a touch too long, her mouth a bit wide, her eyes harder than I remembered. But I still recognized her face, even though I’d only been thirteen the last time I’d seen her and she had just been eight. Seventeen years had passed since then. The terrible night I’d thought she’d died along with our mother and older sister.

My eyes latched on to the necklace she wore. A silverstone pendant rested in the hollow of her throat. A rune, shaped like a primrose. The symbol for beauty. The same rune I had up on my mantel.

“Bria,” I whispered. “Bria.”

My baby sister was alive. 

Web of Lies 

Jennifer Estep

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next book in the Elemental Assassin series,

Coming soon from Pocket Books

“Freeze! Nobody move! This is a robbery!”

Wow. Three clichés in a row. Somebody was seriously lacking in the imagination department.

But the shouted threats scared someone, who squeaked out a small scream. I sighed. Screams were always bad for business. Which meant I couldn’t ignore the trouble that had just walked into my restaurant—or deal with it the quick, violent way I would have preferred. A silverstone knife through the heart is enough to stop most trouble in its tracks. Permanently.

So I pulled my gray gaze up from the paperback copy of
The Odyssey
that I’d been reading to see what all the fuss was about.

Two twentysomething men stood in the middle of the Pork Pit, looking out of place among the restaurant’s blue and pink vinyl booths. The dynamic duo sported black trench coats that covered their thin T-shirts and flapped against their ripped, rock star jeans. Neither one wore a hat or gloves, and the fall chill had painted their ears and fingers a bright, cherry red. I wondered how long they’d stood outside, gathering up the courage to come in and yell out their trite demands.

Water dripped off their boots and spread across the faded blue and pink pig tracks that covered the restaurant floor. I eyed the men’s footwear. Expensive black leather, thick enough to keep out the November cold. No holes, no cracks, no missing bootlaces. These two weren’t your typical, desperate junkies looking for a quick cash score. No, they had their own money—lots of it, from the looks of their pricey shoes, vintage T-shirts, and designer jeans. These two rich punks were robbing my barbecue restaurant just for the thrill of it.

Worst fucking decision they’d ever made.

“Freeze!” the first guy repeated, as if we all hadn’t heard him before.

He was a beefy man with spiky blond hair held up by some sort of shiny, hair-care product. Probably a little giant blood in his family tree somewhere, judging from his six-foot-six frame and large hands. Despite his twentysomething years, baby fat still puffed out his face like a warm, oozing marshmallow. The guy’s brown eyes flicked around the restaurant, taking in everything from the baked beans bubbling on the stove behind me to the hissing French fryer to the battered, bloody copy of
Where the Red Fern Grows
mounted on the wall beside the cash register.

Then, Beefcake turned his attention to the people inside the Pork Pit to make sure we were all following his demands. Not many folks to look at. Mondays could be slow, made even more so today by the cold bluster of wind and rain outside. The only other people in the restaurant besides me and the would-be robbers were my dwarven cook, Sophia Deveraux, and a couple of customers—two college-age women wearing skinny jeans and tight T-shirts not unlike those the robbers sported.

The women sat shocked and frozen, eyes wide, barbecue beef sandwiches halfway to their lips. Sophia stood next to the stove, her black eyes flat and disinterested as she watched the beans bubble. She grunted once and gave them a stir with a metal spoon. Nothing much ever bothered Sophia.