Deadly Sting

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 pings 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.”

“That’s sort of strange, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “It just sounds like Mab to me. She probably thought that if she put her collection on view, they’d rename the museum after her. Or one of the wings, at the very least. Although I doubt she realized just how soon she’d be requesting that honor.”

I grinned. “I was more than happy to help her with that.”

“I know you were.” Finn returned my evil grin. “Either way, I still want to know what’s going to happen to the rest of her estate. Mab had to leave all of her stuff to somebody, didn’t she?”

It was a conversation we’d had more than once since Mab’s death—wondering what was going to become of all of her earthly possessions. Oh, most of her business interests—especially the illegal ones—had already been snapped up by the other crime bosses. But her Northtown mansion was just sitting there, with all of her things still inside it. I was mildly surprised that no one had gotten it into his or her head to loot the mansion yet, but I supposed the specter of Mab still loomed too large for that.

Mab didn’t have any family that I was aware of, but that didn’t mean much. For all I knew, there might be a cousin or two lurking around somewhere, maybe even another, closer relative. But so far, Finn hadn’t been able to find out anything about what was going to become of her things.

“But we might not have to wait too much longer to learn who Mab left what to,” Finn continued. “Rumor has it that the museum director is going to read a statement that Mab had written about the exhibit—along with her will.”

“That’s strange too, isn’t it?” I asked. “Shouldn’t McAllister have done whatever he needed to do with Mab’s will by now? Why would she arrange it so the contents were announced here?”

He shrugged. “Maybe so she could have one last hurrah, even if she’s not around to actually enjoy it.”

“Or maybe she didn’t fully trust McAllister to see that her wishes were carried out.”

“Would you?”

“Good point.”

“But enough about all that,” Finn said, straightening his bow tie just a bit. “We’re at a party, the night is young, and I look fabulous.” He paused a moment. “And so do you.”

“Good to know where I stand in your list of priorities. Although I don’t know if fabulous is the word I would use,” I muttered, and crossed my arms over my chest. “I told you that I at least wanted something with sleeves.”

“And I told you that sometimes you just have to suffer for fashion.”

I gave him a sour look, which he totally ignored.

Still, I had to admit he was right. I had cleaned up pretty well tonight, thanks to the dress Finn had picked out. The scarlet gown had a tight fitted top that emphasized the smooth skin of my arms and shoulders, while the front of the bodice swooped down to show off what assets I had there. Scarlet teardrop-shaped crystals decorated the seams that cinched in around my waist, adding some sparkle to the gown, before the fabric fell away into a long, flowing skirt, also dotted here and there with crystals. As I walked, the skirt swirled out around me, the slits in it showing teasing flashes of my legs. Finn had even insisted on my buying shoes the same color to match, although I’d held my ground and had picked a pair with a relatively low, two-inch heel instead of the sky-high pumps he’d tried to browbeat me into getting.

The gown was beautiful—certainly more beautiful than I was—but I couldn’t help but feel exposed it in. The top left my arms bare, which meant that I couldn’t carry knives up my sleeves like I usually did. Still, I hadn’t come to the museum completely weaponless: two blades were strapped to my thighs underneath the long skirt, just in case. I would have preferred to be carrying my full five-point arsenal, so to speak, but two knives were usually enough to get the job done, especially when I was the one wielding them.

Still, I couldn’t help but listen to the tense, worried mutters of the stone around me—mutters that had only gotten louder and sharper since we’d entered the rotunda.

And it wasn’t just the stone’s whispers that made me wary. There were increasingly more giants inside the museum than there had been outside, until it seemed like they were everywhere I turned in the rotunda. Most of the giants were dressed as waiters, but really, they were just glorified guards in black bow ties. They’d be ready to deal quickly, brutally, and efficiently with any problems that might arise. In fact, there were more giant waiters in the room than there were personal bodyguards. I supposed that some of the movers and shakers thought they’d be safe enough at such a public event and had left their muscle at home for the night.

Even so, the giants didn’t bother me as much as the stares, snubs, and whispers. Opal wasn’t the only person who recognized me, and more than one person turned in my direction to gawk. Apparently, an assassin attending such a high-society event was something of a shock. Please. I’d snuck into my share of their fancy parties over the years to get close to a target—and more than one person had died before the last bit of bubbly was drunk. Or perhaps they thought it was gauche of me to show my face at an event commemorating the woman I’d killed. As if they all hadn’t wanted Mab dead for years.

Most folks limited themselves to whispering about me or turning their backs to me, but a few of the underworld figures had more interesting reactions. Ron Donaldson openly pouted at the fact that I was still breathing. I’d killed three of his men last month when they’d ambushed me outside the Pork Pit. Lorelei Parker was another petulant pouter. She’d sent two of her men after me just last week, and I had Sophia send them back to her in pieces.

Oh, yes. Tension rippled through the crowd with every move I made. But even beyond that, a nervous edge crackled in the air. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the source of it, but I felt it all the same, buzzing around like lightning getting ready to streak down from the sky and fry someone to a crisp—me, most likely.

“Well, I think you look fabulous,” Finn repeated. “Now, what do you say we get some champagne and have a look at Mab’s loot?”

I snorted. “You’re just trying to butter me up so you can get your way.”

“Is it working?”

I sighed. “Doesn’t it always?”

Finn grinned at me.

So I shut the stones’ murmurs out of my mind and ignored the folks whispering about me, determined at least to try to have a good time.

We grabbed some champagne and spent the next few minutes wandering around the rotunda. Actually, Finn dragged me from one group of people to the next, cozying up to all of his clients, saying hello to everyone he knew, and introducing himself to the few folks who hadn’t yet had the supreme pleasure of his acquaintance.

Finnegan Lane was one of the best investment bankers in Ashland, and he’d made a lot of people in this room a lot of money. We wouldn’t take more than three steps before Finn would wave at someone he knew or a woman would sidle up and plant a coy, perfumed kiss on his cheek. Finally, after the fifth time that happened, I motioned at Finn that I was going on without him. He absently waved his hand at me and turned back to his apparently riveting conversation about tax shelters with a wizened dwarf wearing a dozen ropes of black pearls.

While Finn held court, I moved off into the crowd. I wandered from one display to the next, ignoring the awed whispers about my being the Spider and disappointed mutters about why I wasn’t dead yet. Instead, I concentrated on all of the things Mab had collected over the years. Most of the items were exactly what I’d expected: pricey paintings, large sculptures, small, detailed carvings, even a few silk wall tapestries. Nothing too exciting or interesting. In fact, I was rather disappointed by the whole thing. Given how cruel and vicious Mab had been, I’d expected there to be something noteworthy on display, maybe a gun she’d used to kneecap someone, a knife she’d chopped off an enemy’s fingers with, a bit of rope she’d wrapped around someone’s throat and choked them into compliance with.

But I should have known that Mab wouldn’t have had anything like that. She’d preferred using her Fire magic to hurt, torture, burn, and kill people. She hadn’t needed anything else. No props, no weapons, no help from her giant guards. Just the mention of her name had been enough to inspire abject terror—and rightly so.

“What, exactly, are you doing here?” a low voice snapped.

I turned to find Jonah McAllister standing behind me, his fingers clenched around a champagne glass and his mouth pinched down with as much surprise and displeasure as his tight features would allow him to show.

“Why, hello, Jonah,” I drawled. “Lovely to see you again too.”

His cold brown eyes flicked up and down my body, carefully studying my gown as if he expected to find bloodstains on the expensive fabric. Maybe later. Like Finn had said, the night was still young.

“I told the guards to keep the riffraff out, but apparently, they didn’t understand the meaning of the word,” he said in a haughty, condescending tone.

I laughed in his face. McAllister had called me trash—and worse—on more than one occasion, but his insults didn’t bother me in the slightest. In fact, I idly considered reaching out, grabbing the lawyer’s lapels, and dragging him back into a dark corner so I could stab him to death with one of my knives. But alas, there were too many people, too many cameras, and too many giant guards posing as waiters in here for me to get away with murdering McAllister.

Still, the lawyer’s days were numbered. I’d make sure of that.

An angry, mottled flush stained McAllister’s cheeks at my light, happy, mocking laughter, and I could almost see the wheels furiously spinning in his mind as he thought about how he could get the better of me. He took another long, careful look at me, intently eyeing me from head to toe, then pivoted on his heel and strode away. I watched him for a few moments, but instead of going over to a couple of the giants and demanding that they escort me out, he pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket and started texting on it. Maybe he was sending his demands to someone higher up the museum food chain than the guards.

Strange, even for McAllister. Usually, he had some sort of devious plan in mind when it came to me, one that involved my untimely demise. It wasn’t like him just to walk away after merely one insult. I’d have to keep an eye on him—

“A fresh glass of champagne, ma’am?”

A silver tray appeared at my elbow, and I stared up at the person holding it, a giant about seven and a half feet tall. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, judging from the wrinkles fanning out from the corners of her eyes, the deep laugh lines grooving in and around her mouth, and the long crease slashing across her forehead.

She wore the same starched white shirt and matching black tuxedo vest, bow tie, and pants that all of the other waiters did, but her features were quite striking. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was a mass of tight, wild curls, while her hazel eyes were just a shade darker than her tan skin. Her understated makeup highlighted her full mouth, sharp nose, and high cheekbones, and even the waiter uniform couldn’t disguise her generous breasts or how long her legs were. Put a gown on her, and she’d turn her fair share of heads in the room.

She also seemed vaguely familiar to me, like I’d seen her before, although I couldn’t quite place when or where. I’d probably noticed her at some other event, serving as a waiter or maybe even as a bodyguard to one of the underworld bosses. As the Spider, I’d met a lot of giants in my time. Well, killed was more like it.

“Ma’am?” she repeated, moving the tray closer to my elbow. “More champagne?”

“No, thank you,” I said, putting my still-full glass on her tray. “I seem to have lost my thirst for it.”

“Men will do that to you, won’t they?” she agreed.

Her voice was pure country twang, although the hard, knowing smile on her face told me that she was much smarter than the aw-shucks demeanor she radiated.

Before I could tell her that Jonah McAllister was in no way my sort of man, she moved on to the next person. I shook my head. First, the woman working the door had frozen up at my appearance, and now a waiter was giving me tips on my supposed love life with the smarmy lawyer. The night just kept getting weirder and weirder.

I’d just started to wade back into the crowd in search of Finn when a sly wink of silverstone caught my eye, and I noticed one more display tucked away in a recess in the back wall of the rotunda. Curious, I wandered over and finally found something noteworthy after all.

Two silverstone rune pendants lay on a bed of blue velvet behind a sheet of glass. One pendant was shaped like a snowflake, the symbol for icy calm. The other was a curling ivy vine, representing elegance.

I knew the symbols, knew exactly what they meant.

I’d once had a pendant just like them, one shaped like a small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. A spider rune, the symbol for patience.

The symbol that was branded into my palms to this day.

My hands balled into fists, my nails digging into the spider rune scars there.

Mab had put the marks there the night she’d tortured me, using her Fire magic to melt my silverstone pendant into my palms. It had been one of the most excruciating things I’d ever endured, but it was nothing compared with the utter shock I was feeling right now.

Because the snowflake was my mother Eira’s rune. And the ivy vine had belonged to my older sister, Annabella.