Sharpest Sting

by Jennifer Estep

  “Is this the part where we talk about the job you hired me to do?” Liam asked. “And how I pretty much failed at protecting your friends today?”

  I shook my head. “No. I told you to stay at the restaurant and watch over Silvio, Sophia, Catalina, and everyone else there. That’s on me. Even you can’t be in two places at once.”

  “So I’m not fired?” he asked in a light voice, although his face was serious, and he wasn’t really joking.

  “No, you’re not fired.”

  Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. “What do you want me to do now?”

  “Exactly what we discussed the other night—if you’re still up for it. I would understand if you wanted out. Emery Slater is dangerous, and Mason Mitchell even more so. They’re not the kind to take prisoners or show any mercy. You and your people could be seriously hurt—or worse.”

  Liam shoved his hands into his pants pockets and slowly rocked back and forth on his feet, making the wooden boards creak-creak-creak. He dropped his head, staring down at a white stone planter full of white, blue, and purple pansies sitting by the front porch steps. A grinning royal-blue skull had been painted in the center of the white stone, indicating that Sophia had planted the pretty flowers.

  Liam crouched down, reached out, and stroked the petals on one of the white pansies, making it bob up and down, almost like it was greeting him. “Winter was my sister’s favorite time of year. Most people like spring or summer, but Leila always loved the cold weather, especially the snow.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to interrupt whatever happy memories he might be having of his sister, especially given all the dark ones I had dredged up a few nights ago.

  Liam stroked the petals again, then got to his feet and faced me. “You’ve been honest with me, which I appreciate more than you know. I’ll see the job through to the end. I gave you my word, and I’ll honor it, no matter what happens or how dangerous things get. Trust me on that.”

  Trust him? No way. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But for now, I would choose to believe that he would keep his word. I had to, given the circumstances.

  “All right. Go get some more details about Mallory and Mosley’s wedding, and keep me posted about any security measures you decide to implement for the ceremony and the reception. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the Pork Pit.”

  Liam nodded and opened the front door. Jo-Jo was heading outside, and Liam held the door for her. Then he stepped inside and shut it behind him, leaving me and the dwarf alone on the porch.

  “How are you holding up, darling?” Jo-Jo asked in a soft, sympathetic voice.

  I scrubbed my hands over my face. “As well as can be expected. I knew Mason would figure out that I killed his men in the cemetery and come after me sooner or later.”

  “But you didn’t expect him to kidnap Bria and Lorelei—or tell you all those awful things about Fletcher,” Jo-Jo finished my thought.

  “Yeah.”

  She fixed her clear, almost colorless eyes on my gray ones. “You can’t blame Fletcher. Not for all of it. He was lost in the fog of Deirdre’s betrayal, and Mason took advantage of his hurt, anger, and confusion.”

  Everything she said made sense, but it didn’t lessen my own hurt, anger, and confusion. Those wounds were far too fresh and much too raw to be soothed away by words.

  Still, it wasn’t Jo-Jo’s fault, so I forced myself to smile at her. “Maybe I can understand that, eventually. But not right now.”

  She nodded, and her gaze grew soft and dreamy. Milky-white clouds started wisping through her eyes, and her Air magic gusted around us, pricking my skin. Once again, the sensation didn’t bother me. If anything, I wished that it was stronger, harder, sharper. Maybe then it would have drowned out some of my own pain.

  “What are you seeing?” I whispered.

  In addition to using her power to heal people, Jo-Jo could also listen to all the emotional vibrations in the air the same way I could hear the ones in the stone. My magic usually spoke of the past, but Jo-Jo’s Air power often gave her glimpses of the future, of the things people might do, both good and bad.

  After a few seconds, the pricking feel of her Air magic vanished, and her eyes cleared. “No glimpses of the future. Instead, I saw Fletcher. Standing on the porch. Right in this very spot. I don’t often get visions of the past, but I could see him, just for a second, as clearly as I’m seeing you.”

  I glanced around, but we were standing at the top of the steps, and there was nothing of interest on the porch, except for the planter, a couple of rocking chairs, a table, and some other outdoor furniture.

  “Do you know when it was? How did he look? Was he saying anything?” Despite my current disgust with Fletcher, my curiosity got the better of me, and the questions tumbled out of my lips.

  “No, he wasn’t saying anything, but he seemed…sad and…regretful.” Jo-Jo shook her head. “I don’t know if it’s a true vision or not. Sometimes my feelings and memories, as well as other people’s emotions, can interfere with my magic and make me see things that didn’t really happen. Sometimes, if the emotion is strong enough, I can get a glimpse of something that happened to someone else, some memory that’s not my own.”

  She shook her head again, making her white-blond curls dance around her face. “And there is plenty of emotion in my salon right now. I’m sorry, darling.”

  I shrugged. “It’s not your fault. This all falls on Fletcher and me. Sometimes I wish that Deirdre Shaw had never come to town and that Hugh Tucker had never told me about the Circle. I would have been a lot happier, and we all would have been a lot safer.”

  “You can’t think like that. We might have been happier, but we wouldn’t have been safer. Mason could have blindsided us then. He could have lashed out and killed us without anyone realizing what was happening or who our enemy truly was. At least now we have a chance to plan and fight back.”

  She was trying to make me feel better about dragging us into this mess. It didn’t really work, but I forced myself to smile at her again anyway.

  “You’re right,” I lied. “Thank you, Jo-Jo.”

  “Anytime, darling. Anytime.”

  She slid her arm around my waist and hugged me close. Together we left the porch and went back inside the house.

  Chapter Eleven

  After promising to be vigilant and to keep in touch, everyone split up for the night. Owen and I followed Silvio over to the vampire’s house, so he could grab some clothes and toiletries. Owen stopped by his mansion to do the same, and the three of us ended up at my house—Fletcher’s house.

  I reached out with my magic, but the brick of the house only murmured about the cold, and the rocks hidden in the woods did the same. No one had been near the structure since I’d left this morning, so we got out of our vehicles and trooped inside.

  We stepped into the den, and I threw the folders Mason and Bria had given me down onto the coffee table. Owen and Silvio lowered their bags off their shoulders and set them on the floor.

  “What do you want to do, Gin?” Owen asked. “Start looking for the ledger?”

  Instead of answering him, I stalked over to the fireplace and stared at the framed drawings on the mantel. One was a snowflake, my mother Eira’s rune for icy calm, while another sketch was an ivy vine, Annabella’s rune and the symbol for elegance. Matching silverstone pendants were draped over their respective rune drawings.

  I traced my fingers over the necklaces, then focused on another sketch of a pig holding a platter of food. The image matched the sign outside the Pork Pit and was my way to remember and honor Fletcher along with the rest of my dead family.

  What a sad, cruel joke this had all turned out to be.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t stand to look at the drawing anymore or even think about the fact that Fletcher had worked for Mason. I spun around to Owen and Silvio.

  “Fuck it,” I snarled. “I’m taking a shower and going to bed.”

  And that was exactly wh
at I did, even though it was barely after seven o’clock.

  Thirty minutes later, I was curled up in bed, my hair still wet from my shower. Owen came in and lay down beside me, and I could hear Silvio unpacking his things and rustling around in a bedroom down the hallway. For a long time, I lay there, nestled in Owen’s warm, strong arms, and glared at the wall in front of me.

  Sometime later, Owen’s soft, steady breaths lured me to sleep and into the land of dreams, memories, nightmares…

  “Mason fucking Mitchell.”

  The low, angry snarl startled me, and I whirled around. For a second, I thought someone had slipped into the back of the Pork Pit, but the space was deserted, and it was just me and my clipboard. For the last fifteen minutes, I had been examining the metal shelves full of sugar, flour, cornmeal, and ketchup. Business had been slow on this chilly February afternoon, hence my doing inventory.

  “Mason fucking Mitchell.”

  The low, angry snarl sounded again, and I realized that Fletcher was speaking. His voice was a bit muffled, since he was in the storefront, but he seemed upset, especially given his continued vicious cursing. Curious, I walked over and peered through one of the round windows in the double doors.

  The restaurant storefront was empty, except for two people. Fletcher was wearing his usual blue work clothes and was perched on his stool behind the old-fashioned cash register. A copy of The Count of Monte Cristo was lying on the counter, with one of the day’s receipts marking his place in the book. A giant with brown eyes, a pale face full of freckles, and curly carrot-red hair was standing on the opposite side of the counter.

  The giant plucked a manila file folder out of the depths of his black overcoat and held it out. The man’s face was calm, as though Fletcher hadn’t spoken. I didn’t like the look of the giant, especially the way he kept staring at the old man as if Fletcher was a servant being summoned by some rich, powerful master. I palmed one of my knives, ready to race into the storefront if the giant pulled a gun or some other weapon.

  “Take the file,” the giant said. “You know what will happen if you don’t.”

  “I told him that I was done, Billings,” Fletcher growled. “He agreed that we were finally done.”

  The giant, Billings, shrugged. “And now he’s decided otherwise. You can take the file and do the job quickly and cleanly. Or he’ll get someone else to do it, only not so quickly and cleanly. You know what that means.”

  Fletcher’s nostrils flared, and anger stained his tan cheeks. For a moment, I thought he was going to tell the giant to stuff that file where the sun didn’t shine, but he reached across the counter and reluctantly took the folder. Billings raised his hand and snapped off a mocking salute, then spun around and left the restaurant.

  Fletcher watched the giant go. The second the other man was out of sight of the storefront windows, Fletcher let out a long, weary sigh and dropped the folder onto the counter as though it weighed a hundred pounds and he couldn’t hold it up a second longer.

  “Mason fucking Mitchell,” he said for a third time, although his voice was now a low, resigned mutter.

  Fletcher sighed again, then opened the folder and started flipping through the contents. I tucked my knife back up my sleeve and pushed through the double doors. His green gaze was locked on the info, and he seemed deep in thought, so I tiptoed up beside him and peered over his shoulder.

  Fletcher was staring at a photo of a dark-haired middle-aged man standing with what must have been his young daughter, given the resemblance between the two of them. I also spotted a sheet of paper with the man’s name and address: Wade Brockton, 37 Bookman Way.

  “Who’s that guy?” I asked.

  “Gin!” Fletcher yelped, jerking away. “You scared me!”

  I frowned. He could hear a quarter hit the restaurant floor from thirty feet away during the loudest lunch rush. I never got the drop on him, not even during our training sessions at the old Ashland Rock Quarry. What was wrong with him?

  I waited until Fletcher had relaxed on his stool again, then pointed at the photo. “Who’s that guy?” I repeated. “Some new job you’re tackling?”

  “Something like that,” he muttered.

  “What did he do? Steal from someone?”

  He frowned, as though my questions bothered him. “Why would you say that?”

  I shrugged. “The sweater vest and glasses make him look like an accountant. Plus, it says right below his address that he works at Ashland Accounting Services.”

  Fletcher slid the photo and info sheet back into the folder, closed it, and tucked the whole thing under his arm.

  “Well, you’re right. He is an accountant. As for what he did…” His voice trailed off, and his face darkened. “He embezzled money from the wrong people, and now he’s going to pay for it.”

  “Why do you sound so upset about that? We’ve gone after embezzlers before. Two months ago, we took out that woman who was stealing money from a cancer charity, funds that were supposed to help sick people in need.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “This guy is different. He didn’t steal the money for himself, to spend on clothes and cars and vacations. He took it because his daughter was ill and needed an operation.”

  “Oh.” I frowned again. “Then why are you targeting him? Usually in a case like this, the Tin Man would pay someone a visit and pointedly suggest they pay back the money and try to make amends with whomever they wronged.”

  He shook his head again. “Believe me, I wish I could do that. But this…client, well, he’s not the forgiving type. Never has been, never will be.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  Fletcher shook his head for a third time. “No one you need to worry about.”

  He smiled, but the expression didn’t warm or soften his eyes, which were as cold and hard as green glass. This job troubled him. I could understand why. Sure, the guy, Wade Brockton, had stolen money, but, like Fletcher had said, he’d done it to help his daughter, not for selfish reasons.

  Normally, Fletcher wouldn’t even consider this sort of job, but he’d taken the file from the giant without any bargaining or pushback. Why? Why did Fletcher feel he had to do this job, despite the fact that it went against everything he’d ever taught me about being an assassin?

  “I know you’ve been busy with school lately, so I’m going to handle this one myself, Gin. Give you the night off,” he continued.

  “I’m not that busy,” I protested.

  I had recently finished up my bachelor’s degree in English at Ashland Community College, but I was still taking classes in anything and everything that caught my interest or that I might put toward a graduate degree later on. I was only twenty-two, so I had plenty of time to decide what I wanted to do with my life, although I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere but here at the Pork Pit with Fletcher.

  “In fact, I finished reading the first book for my new literature class earlier tonight,” I said, trying to persuade him to let me help. “Where the Red Fern Grows. One of your favorites.”

  Fletcher smiled a little at that, but the expression quickly slipped off his face. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine. Lock up the restaurant, then relax. I’ll be home soon. Okay, Gin?”

  “Sure. Sounds great. See you later.”

  Fletcher got to his feet and grabbed his blue jacket from the rack in the corner. Still holding the file, he crossed the storefront and opened the front door, making the bell there chime out a high, almost warning note. He glanced over his shoulder, smiled at me again, and left.

  I waited until he was out of sight, then ran over, locked the door, flipped the sign over to Closed, and slapped off the lights. I grabbed my own jacket and pushed through the double doors to lock up the back of the restaurant. If I hurried, I could catch up to Fletcher by the time he reached the accountant’s house…

  I woke with a start, the loud, harsh echoes of the Pork Pit’s front-door bell still chiming in my mind, almost like an alarm telling me to get up.
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  For several minutes, I lay still and quiet in bed, thinking back over my dream, my memory. Well, now I knew why I’d heard Fletcher’s voice muttering in my mind when Mason had introduced himself at the mansion. Seeing my uncle up close and finally hearing his last name had jarred another nightmare loose from the muck of my mind. I just wished that I’d remembered this particular horror sooner. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be in such a bind now.

  Beside me, Owen jerked, almost as if he was sensing my turbulent thoughts. I held my breath, not wanting to disturb him. After a few seconds, Owen rolled away from me, although he was still sound asleep, given the deep, throaty snores rumbling out of his mouth. I couldn’t go back to dreamland, not yet, so I slipped out of bed, threw on a flannel robe and some slippers, and left my bedroom.

  I stepped into the hallway and paused outside Silvio’s bedroom, but everything was quiet inside, and I didn’t see the glow of his electronics through the crack under the door. My assistant must have gone to sleep early too.

  I plodded down the steps to the first floor and roamed through the house, checking the doors and windows and peering at the yard and woods outside. Everything was secure, and no suspicious shadows haunted the dark winter landscape. Mason had delivered his ultimatum, and it didn’t seem as though he, Emery Slater, or anyone else was going to come knocking on my door tonight. Good.

  But my uncle’s threat was still hanging over my head, so I went into the den and grabbed the file folders from the coffee table, along with a sapphire paperweight from the fireplace mantel, and took them to the office.

  Fletcher’s office.

  I flipped on the lights and stared out over the furnishings. Metal filing cabinets. Wooden bookcases. The half-empty bottle of gin and two now-clean glasses sitting on the desk next to a framed photo of a smiling Fletcher hiking on Bone Mountain.

  The furnishings looked the same as always, yet completely foreign at the same time, as though I had never been in this room before and everything in here belonged to a stranger.