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We got out of the car. It was after three now, but thanks to the snow, a sort of pearl gray twilight softened the cold edges of everything and made it seem lighter than it really was. In front of the house, snow crusted the flat lawn before the ridge fell away into a series of frozen, jagged cliffs. Snow and ice covered the gravel in the driveway as well, but I could still hear the stone's murmurs. Low, steady, and as quiet as the icy landscape around us.
No footprints marred the smoothness of the snow, and no sense of excitement, urgency, or dark desires rippled through the stones under my boots. No one had been near the house tonight. Good. That meant that Mab and her city full of bounty hunters hadn't unearthed my true identity, hadn't discovered that Gin Blanco was really the Spider-yet.
I led Bria over to the front door, which was made out of solid black granite. Thick veins of silverstone also swirled through the hard stone here and in other strategic places around the house, while bars made out of the magical metal covered the windows.
Bria let out a low, appreciative whistle. "I don't think I've ever seen that much silverstone in a single door before. You'd have to have a hell of a lot of magic to bust through that much of it. "
"Remember what I said about easily defendable? Well, this is it," I said, unlocking the door and stepping inside.
I flipped on some lights, illuminating the hallway, and toed off my boots. Bria stepped inside and did the same.
"So this is where you live," Bria murmured, staring out at what she could see of the house. "Looks like you've got a lot of rooms in here, a lot of passageways, a lot of places to hide. "
She had no idea. So many additions in so many different styles had been tacked on to the house over the years that the whole structure was something of a labyrinth. Rooms joined together, branching off into hallways that doubled back on themselves, led to different parts of the house entirely, or in some cases just dead-ended. Not the kind of place where you wanted to have to search for the bathroom in the dark, much less an assassin like the Spider. Still, the odd, overlapping designs gave me a clear advantage, since I knew the ins and outs of the whole house-and the best way to sneak up and stab someone in the back when she thought that she was creeping up on me instead.
Bria followed me through the house. I gave her a tour of the first floor and told her to make herself at home. My sister didn't say much, but she didn't miss anything either. She examined everything carefully, slowly, lingering on the well-worn, comfortable furniture and all the odd knickknacks that Fletcher had collected. Her face was blank, closed off, and I couldn't tell what conclusions, if any, that she'd drawn.
We wound up in the back of the house in the den, the room that I always migrated to late at night whenever I couldn't sleep and there was something on my mind. Like tonight and the bounty on my sister's head.
I plopped down on the old, plaid sofa and laid my head back, rolling it from side to side to loosen the stiff, tension-filled muscles in my neck. Bria didn't sit down next to me. Instead, she walked to the mantel over the fireplace and the four framed drawings that rested there. Three of the drawings were for an art class that I'd taken at Ashland Community College. My final assignment had been to sketch a series of runes, all with a connected theme.
I'd drawn the runes of my dead family.
The first drawing on the mantel was a snowflake, our mother, Eira's, rune, the symbol for icy calm. The second was a curling ivy vine representing elegance, and our older sister, Annabella. Bria's rune, the primrose, the symbol for beauty, was the third drawing, although my rendering of it wasn't nearly as elegant as the silverstone medallion that she wore around her neck.
The fourth picture was a bit unusual. It wasn't a true rune, not like the others. Instead, the drawing was of the multicolored neon sign that hung outside the entrance to the Pork Pit. An exact rendering of it, right down to the full, heavy platter of food the pig was holding. The barbecue restaurant and Fletcher were one and the same to me. After the old man's murder, I'd decided to honor him the same way I had the rest of my dead family. Hence the drawing.
Bria moved down the mantel, going from one frame to the next, stopping to stare at them all. I couldn't see her face, and I wasn't sure I wanted to. I didn't know that I wanted to see the emotions flashing in her eyes right now. All the anger, longing, and aching regret. The feelings already tightened my chest, tangled threads slowly strangling me from the inside out.
"I always wondered if you remembered me," Bria whispered. "If you remembered mother and Annabella. If you ever thought about them or me or what happened that night. If you ever missed them as much as I did. If you ever missed me as much as I missed you. "
She turned to look at me, the memories and sadness blackening her pretty face like ugly bruises. Only these were wounds that would never fade, because I carried the scars with me just like she did-right on my torn, tattered heart.
"You remembered and thought about them just as much as I did. "
I tried to smile, but my face felt stiff and frozen. "How could I forget?"
How could anyone forget what had happened that night? Watching my mother and Annabella disappear into balls of elemental Fire, realizing they were dead, then staring down at their ashy remains and trying not to vomit from the charred stench. It wasn't something I'd ever forget, but I didn't tell Bria that. She had her own horrible memories of that night.
I let out a long sigh. As terrible as that night had been, as much as it had scarred me on the inside and out, as much as it had shaped me into who and what I was, into the Spider, there was nothing that I could do about it. Memories never did anyone any good, and weepy sentiment was for fools too weak to suck it up and do what needed to be done.
What mattered now was keeping Bria safe and finding some way for me to get close enough to Mab to turn the Fire elemental into a pincushion with my silverstone knives. Protecting the people that I loved. That's what I had to focus on right now.
"Come on," I said, getting to my feet. "It's been a long day. Let's get you cleaned up, and then I'll show you where your bedroom is. "
Once Bria was tucked away for the night in a room down the hall, I took a hot shower to wash Jenkins's blood off me, then crawled into my own bed. I stared at the ceiling and let out another sigh, resigned to what was going to happen now.
Ever since Fletcher's murder, I'd been having dreams. Horrible, horrible dreams. No, that wasn't quite right. The images weren't so much dreams as they were memories of my past. Try as I might, I couldn't stop the dreams from coming, couldn't keep the memories from bubbling up to the surface of my subconscious. Tonight was no exception. Even as I felt myself slipping under into slumber, the colors, sounds, and smells began to flash in front of my eyes. . .
The sound woke me. A murmur of unease that pressed against my temple like a cold washcloth. I concentrated on the sound, staring into the blackness that cloaked my bed. After a moment, I realized that it was the stone of our mansion. Something had upset it. The stones whispered all around me, the mutters growing louder, sharper, and more frantic with every second. Warning of danger. . . danger. . . danger. . .
I frowned. Danger? Here?
I slid out of my soft, warm bed, threw on a fleece robe, and stuffed my bare feet into my favorite blue slippers. Then I eased open the door and peeked outside. Small spotlights illuminated the hallway. Everything seemed normal. Maybe the stones were wrong. But I couldn't shake the dread that the element had stirred in me.
My nose twitched, and I realized that the faintest scent of smoke hung in the air. I drew in another breath, and the scent intensified, taking on a harsher, bitter stench. Was the house on fire? That would certainly be enough to upset the stones.
A bit of white fluttered at the end of the hallway, and I stuck my head farther outside my door. Annabella, my older sister, crouched in front of the curling, iron banister that overlooked the main living room on the first floor. Icicles thicker than my chubby fingers hung off the railing like jagged, misshapen teeth, and my sister's cold breath frosted in the air, then fluttered to the floor in a shower of snowflakes. Even at eighteen, Annabella's magic was still wild and uncontrollable, manifesting whenever she was angry or emotional. I wondered what had bothered her so much now-and why she was up at two in the morning.
