Heart of Venom

Chapter Ten

With my phone turned off and tossed onto the passenger seat of Roslyn’s car, I left Jo-Jo’s salon and drove over to Fletcher’s house, my house now. I zoomed up the driveway, making the tires spit out gravel in every direction, crested the ridge, and parked.

The ramshackle structure looked a bit odd, since it featured a mishmash of white clapboard, brown brick, and gray stone, all topped off by a tin roof. But to me, it was simply home. To the right of the house, the yard stretched out before abruptly dropping off into a series of jagged cliffs. To the left, the woods formed a solid line of green, gray, and brown.

I got out of the car and headed for the front porch.

Normally, I took a moment to reach out with my magic and listen to the stones around me, in case anyone had decided to lie in wait to ambush the Spider at home. But today I didn’t even bother. If someone was out there, then today was the unluckiest day of his life, because the idiot would be my warm-up for Harley Grimes.

But as I opened the heavy black granite front door shot through with thick veins of silverstone, nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the chirping of the birds in the trees or the rustle of the rabbits in the underbrush. Good. I didn’t want anything else to slow me down and keep me from reaching Sophia as quickly as possible.

I stepped inside, shut the door behind me, and headed straight for Fletcher’s office. I hated delaying even a second, but I needed more information before I went after Grimes, and this was the one place I was sure I could get it.

A large maple tree shaded this part of the house, and even with the day’s sun, Fletcher’s office was dark enough that I had to turn the lights on to see what I was doing.

The room was a mess, with papers, pens, and folders stacked everywhere, from the desk in the back to the bookcases standing against the walls to the file cabinets that squatted on either side of the door. But there had been a method to Fletcher’s madness, and I’d slowly been figuring out his system.

In fact, I’d been spending more and more time in his office over the past few weeks, trying to track down the mysterious M. M. Monroe, the long-lost relative that

Mab’s will had listed as heir to all of her earthly possessions. I hadn’t had any luck so far, but going through the files had finally nudged me into straightening up the old man’s office. At least a little bit. I left most of his things where Fletcher had kept them, though. In a way, it made me feel like he was still there, still guiding me, even though he’d been dead since last fall.

I hadn’t run across any information about Grimes, Hazel, and their men, but there had to be something there.

Fletcher and Grimes had almost killed each other over Sophia, and the old man had made Grimes stay away on his mountain ever since then. Still, Fletcher had liked to keep tabs on everyone who was up to no good in Ashland, and there was no way that he wouldn’t have tracked Grimes through the years, especially if he thought that

Grimes might be a threat to the Deveraux sisters again someday.

I started with the file cabinets beside the door, flipping through all of the folders inside. No file on Grimes.

I moved over to the bookcases, rifling through the items on every shelf. No file. I went over to the desk, sorting through all the papers on the battered surface and then all the ones in the various drawers. Still no file.

Frustrated, I slammed the last drawer on the desk shut, then swiveled Fletcher’s chair back and forth, making the wheels go screech-screech-screech. I studied every part of the office, wondering if there was anything that I’d missed, any possible place that Fletcher might have stashed some information on Grimes that I’d overlooked.

And that’s when I noticed the sticker on one of the bookcases.

It was a small sticker, stuck on the bottom right corner of the case, a few feet away from the desk. Odd that Fletcher would put a sticker on the wood way down there where no one was likely to notice it. But what was odder still was the sticker itself: a couple of white scythes crossed over a red heart, all on a black background. It wasn’t Fletcher’s style at all . . .

But it was definitely Sophia’s.

My heart quickening, I got down on my knees and ran my hands all over the bookcase, searching for a secret compartment, but there wasn’t one. The case was just a case, solid wood from top to bottom. Puzzled, I rocked back on my heels, wondering where the file could be, since it wasn’t actually sitting on one of the shelves.

Then I remembered something that Fletcher had always said: Simpler is better. I let out a laugh, leaned forward, and reached under the bookcase. A second later, my fingers closed around a folder, and I pulled it out into the light. Unlike the manila folders that Fletcher used for everything else, this one was black and simply had Sophia scrawled across the front in silver ink. I sat on the floor, leaned my back against the desk, and opened it.

Hello, Gin. If you are reading this, then I am dead, but Harley Grimes is not.

I recognized the old man’s handwriting, and the distinctive flow and cadence of his words made it feel like he was sitting there right beside me, slowly, carefully, quietly reviewing the information with me.

If Harley Grimes has any sort of heart at all, then it is a heart of venom—cold, cruel, and delighting in the suffering of others. Sophia wasn’t the first girl he took, and she certainly wasn’t the last . . .

Fletcher went on to detail everything that Jo-Jo had told me. How Grimes had seen Sophia, wanted her, and kidnapped her. How Jo-Jo had reached out to Fletcher and hired him as the Tin Man to rescue Sophia. Fletcher’s journey up Bone Mountain to where Grimes had his camp. The guerrilla tactics that he had used to pick off

Grimes’s men one by one. And finally, his last battle with Grimes.

I had already killed Horace and Henry, Grimes’s older brothers, and wounded Hazel, his younger sister, and I managed to trick Grimes himself into using up all of his Fire magic before I finally confronted him face-to-face.

We fought. He used his fists. I had my knives. It was a long, hard battle, but I was wearing him down and moving in for the kill when Hazel snuck up behind me and gutshot me with a pistol. I stabbed Grimes in the chest, but he ran away, and I knew that the wound wouldn’t kill him—but that mine would if I didn’t get to Jo-Jo in time.

So I left. I regret that. I should have stayed and finished the job, even if I would have died up there on the mountain with Grimes. At least then I would have known that Sophia and Jo-Jo were safe from him forever . . .

Fletcher went on to describe how he and Sophia had helped each other down the mountain and how they’d gotten back to his car and then over to Jo-Jo’s house so she could heal them both. He also detailed some other skirmishes that he’d had with Grimes over the years, but by then, he’d had other things to think about—like me and Mab.

But the file contained other useful things, including a map of the mountain where Grimes made his home and detailed sketches of the camp itself. Apparently, Fletcher had trekked up there every single year to see

what Grimes was up to. His final trip had been in May of last year, several months before his death. That meant that the map and the sketches were more than a year old, but they would have to do. Besides, given the old-fashioned suit that I’d seen him wearing earlier and the fact that Fletcher’s own maps didn’t vary much year to year,

Grimes didn’t strike me as the kind to change a lot about his home or his operations.

Still, as I read through all the information, it almost seemed like there was something missing. Some gap in his narrative, some small piece of information that Fletcher had decided not to include, for whatever reason. In certain places, it almost seemed as though someone else had to have been with Fletcher and Sophia on the mountain,

helping them, for him to be able to do what he did. For

the life of me, though, I couldn’t imagine who it would

have been or why the old man would have left that person’s involvement out of the file. I couldn’t puzzle it out, so I moved on.

Finally, I came to the last thing in the file, a letter addressed to me. With shaking hands, I unfolded the single sheet of paper.

Grimes won’t let Sophia go a second time. And he doesn’t deserve to live after what he’s done to her and so many others over the years. Finish what I started.

Kill him, Gin. For Sophia, for Jo-Jo—and for me too.

Be careful.

Love,

Fletcher

Those were the last words in the file, and I traced my fingers over them. The paper was smooth, but touching it calmed some of my anger and worry and made me feel like Fletcher was watching over me.

“consider it done,” I murmured.

The old man didn’t respond, of course, and the quiet of the house soaked up my whispered words, and I knew that he would have approved of what I was going to do.

Like I had told Finn, my plan was simple.

Save Sophia. kill Grimes. Stab to death anyone who got in my way.

I showered just long enough to wash the blood off me.

Then I geared up for my rescue mission.

Black hiking boots with reinforced steel toes, dark blue jeans, a tight fitted red tank top under a long-sleeved dark green T-shirt. In a few minutes, I’d transformed myself from spending a summer day at the salon into tackling a dangerous job in the forest as the Spider. Despite the fact that it was ninety degrees outside, I also put on a gray vest lined with silverstone. I’d seen how well-armed and trigger-happy Grimes and his men were, and the magical metal in the vest would stop any bullets that came whistling in my direction, along with absorbing some of Grimes’s and Hazel’s Fire magic, should they get the chance to use it on me.

I also made sure that I had plenty of knives. One up each sleeve, one at the small of my back, one tucked into each boot. My usual five-point arsenal, which I supple— mented by sticking a couple more knives into the various pockets on the front of my vest. I had a feeling that I’d need every single one of the weapons before this was all said and done.

When I was properly outfitted, I went downstairs to the den. It was a comfortable room and one that I spent a lot of time in, but I moved past the worn furniture and over to the fireplace. I reached up inside the chimney and pulled down a black backpack that I kept there in case of emergencies—like this one.

I unzipped the bag, which contained more knives, a couple of guns, silencers, and plenty of ammunition.

Making sure that the weapons were in working order, I inventoried the other items inside. climbing rope, some packets of dried food, a bottle of water, a few small tools, a hand-cranked flashlight, a pair of binoculars, waterproof matches, a couple of tins of Jo-Jo’s healing ointment. Everything I should need to get up the mountain to Grimes’s camp, rescue Sophia, and get back down again.

I threw Fletcher’s folder of information into the top of the bag, then zipped it shut. I hefted the backpack onto my shoulder and started to leave the den, but a couple of sly wink-winks of silverstone caught my eye. I stopped and stared at the mantel above the fireplace.

A series of framed drawings were propped up there, the runes of my family, dead and alive. A snowflake and an ivy vine for my mom, Eira, and my older sister, Annabella. Bria’s primrose rune. The neon pig sign outside the Pork Pit that I’d drawn in honor of Fletcher. A hammer, Owen’s rune, representing strength, perseverance, and hard work.

The drawings were the same as always, but there were new additions on the mantel: two silverstone pendants, one snowflake and one ivy vine. My mother’s and Annabella’s runes. I’d draped the necklaces over their matching drawings, so that the two snowflakes and the two ivy vines were resting next to each other.

For years, I’d thought that the pendants had been lost forever, buried in the rubble of our mansion the night

Mab had murdered my mother and Annabella. But Mab had had the runes the whole time, and they’d been on display at Briartop, along with all of the Fire elemental’s other treasured possessions. At least, until Owen swiped them from the museum and gave them to me, something that had touched me more than he knew. Probably more than anyone knew.

I reached out and touched first one rune necklace, then the other, my fingers trailing over the smooth, hard, cold metal. I’d already lost too many people I cared about.

I wasn’t losing Sophia too. No matter what I had to do, what I had to suffer through, or what I had to sacrifice to get her back.

I looked at all the drawings and the necklaces in turn, fixing the runes in my mind, letting them remind me of exactly who and what I was fighting—and killing—for.

Then I left the den and the symbols of my family behind.

I’d almost reached the front door of the house when the phone in the hallway started to ring. I thought about answering it but decided not to. It was probably Finn again, trying to talk me into waiting for him.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. More than two hours had passed since the men had stormed into the salon, and Grimes and Hazel were probably back up on their mountain by now, thinking that no one was coming after Sophia. I’d already spent enough time going to the salon and then coming home. Necessary trips, but every minute that ticked by was another one that Sophia spent with Grimes, another one that he could be torturing her.

So I walked right on by the ringing phone. It wasn’t until I was outside and had stepped off the front porch that I realized that I wasn’t alone. Another car sat in the driveway, with a man leaning against it: Owen Grayson.

Owen had on the same sort of clothes as mine—brown boots, brown pants, black T-shirt. His arms were crossed over his muscled chest, while the bright sun brought out the blue highlights in his thick black hair. He was as ruggedly handsome as ever. Or maybe I just thought so because I knew that he wasn’t mine, not anymore. Not for weeks now. And he probably never would be again.

“Owen?” I asked, stopping short at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering me, he reached into his car and grabbed a black backpack that was eerily similar to mine.

He shut the car door and walked toward me. A series of clink-clank-clink-clanks drifted over to me as whatever was in his bag shifted back and forth. The sounds of guns, knives, and other sharp bits of metal jostling together was as familiar to me as a lullaby—and much more comforting.Owen stopped in front of me and hoisted the backpack onto his shoulder. His gaze met mine, his violet eyes dark, somber, and serious. “I’m here to help.”