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To my mom, my grandma, and Andre—for your love, patience, and everything else that you’ve given me over the years.

To all the Finn fans out there, this one is for you.

 1 

“You’ve barely touched your barbecue.”

I looked up to find Gin Blanco, my foster sister, eyeing me over the top of the cup of lemonade she was sipping. More than half a dozen open take-out containers littered my desk, piled high with everything from coleslaw to baked beans to barbecue chicken sandwiches on homemade sourdough buns, all courtesy of the Pork Pit, the restaurant Gin had inherited from my father, Fletcher Lane.

All the food looked and smelled delicious, especially the rich, spicy scent of the baked beans that perfumed the air. Gin was a truly excellent cook, even better than my dad had been. Any meal from her was always a treat. When she’d first arrived with the food fifteen minutes ago, she’d insisted on scooping generous portions of everything onto two large paper plates, both of which she’d pushed across the desk to me, before fixing a plate for herself. On a normal day, I would have already been scraping both plates clean and helping myself to seconds and thirds.

But things hadn’t been normal for a while now, and my appetite was the least of them.

Gin kept eyeing me, so I plastered a smile on my face and picked up my plastic fork, pretending that I was getting ready to dig back into my food.

“Sorry,” I said. “Bria cooked us a huge breakfast this morning.”

Gin snorted. “The only things Bria cooks for breakfast are toaster waffles and instant oatmeal. Try again, Finn.”

Busted.

Detective Bria Coolidge might be my lady love, but she was also Gin’s sister, and Gin knew her just as well as I did. Not to mention the fact that Gin was a little obsessive when it came to cooking. She probably knew exactly what Bria had stocked in her kitchen, down to the last bottle of spice, and could calculate all the meals Bria could potentially make with the ingredients. Gin’s attention to detail was one of the things that made her such a great assassin as the Spider.

“Well, I also stopped and got some doughnuts from the Cake Walk on my way into work this morning,” I said, still trying to steer the conversation away from my obvious lack of appetite. “You know how much I love, love, love doughnuts. All that warm, sweet, sugary glaze and soft bread that melts in your mouth bite after bite. It’s one of nature’s perfect foods.”

“So you’ve told me many times,” Gin drawled. “Funny thing, though. I saw three boxes of doughnuts sitting behind the tellers’ counter upstairs, and yet there are no doughnuts actually down here in your office.”

Busted again. Sometimes Gin was far too observant for my own good.

“Well, I had my own doughnuts at the Cake Walk before I bought those other boxes. You know how I hate to share.” I let out a loud, hearty laugh. At least, I tried to make it loud and hearty. It sounded more like an owl screeching.

“Mmm-hmm.” Gin arched her eyebrows, not the least bit fooled by my lies, false cheer, and forced chuckles. But she stopped the food interrogation, set down her lemonade, picked up her own sandwich, and took another bite.

It was just after one o’clock, and we were sitting in my office in the basement of First Trust of Ashland. I’d moved into the space several years ago, after proving my mettle time and time again as one of the top investment bankers. I’d been absolutely, positively thrilled when I’d finally risen high enough in the ranks to score a large corner (if underground) office, and I’d spent weeks picking out the perfect furniture, rugs, and artwork for my new workspace, along with the attached bathroom.

My antique mahogany desk gleamed like polished bronze under the lights, as did the two matching wingback chairs in front of it, including the one that Gin was perched in. The wet bar that ran along one wall was also made of the same rich mahogany, and a green leather sofa that folded out into a comfortable bed sat opposite it. Thick rugs in dark greens and cool grays stretched across the floor, while framed prints covered the gray marble walls, showcasing some of my favorite landscapes and vacation spots. The nighttime city skyline of Bigtime, New York. An aerial shot of the Midway amusement circle in Cloudburst Falls, West Virginia. The snow-covered streets and shops of Cypress Mountain, North Carolina. Since I didn’t have a window, the prints were my version of a view.

I used to love coming into my office, settling into my executive’s desk chair, firing up my computer, and getting to work, figuring out the best investments for my clients and how I could protect and grow their money for them and their families.

Not anymore. Not for weeks now.

The door was open, and a giant wearing a gray security guard’s uniform stopped in the hallway outside and peered into my office, his face pinched with suspicion.

“What’s going on in here?” he muttered.

He might be doing his usual hourly check of the basement offices, but the guard’s flat, surly tone revealed what he really thought of me: nothing good.

I forced myself to smile at him as though I hadn’t heard the accusation in his voice. “Hey, Jimmy. Everything’s fine. Just having lunch with my sister, Gin.”

Jimmy’s dark eyes narrowed. “Is she on the approved guest list? I would hate to tell Mr. Mosley that you broke his new security protocols.”

I ground my teeth together to keep from sniping back at him. Jimmy would love nothing more than to tattle on me to Stuart Mosley, the bank’s founder, and he wasn’t the only one. All the employees wanted me gone. The sad thing was that I couldn’t blame them for their hostility.

Not when I’d gotten their friends and coworkers killed.

Gin had also picked up on the guard’s nasty tone, and she turned her chair to the side so she could see him better. “Oh, sugar,” she drawled. “I’m always on the approved list around here. Tell me something, Jimmy.”

“What?” the guard muttered again.

“From what I understand, Mr. Mosley prides himself on his employees’ politeness and professionalism. I wonder if he would approve of you speaking to one of the senior bank officials like that. And in front of his own sister, no less. Perhaps we should call Mr. Mosley and ask him about proper protocols.”

She smiled at him, but the cold look in her wintry gray eyes would have frozen most people’s blood outright. Despite the fact that the giant was almost twice her size, Jimmy swallowed and took a nervous step back.

“I–I don’t think that’s necessary,” he sputtered. “Enjoy your lunch, ma’am. You too, Mr. Lane.” Jimmy bobbed his head at Gin and beat a hasty retreat down the hallway.

Gin waited until the sharp echo of his footsteps had faded away before she swiveled her chair around and faced me again.

“You enjoyed that,” I accused.

“Intimidating a bully with a bad attitude? Absolutely.”

She gave me a smug grin and leaned back in her chair, happy to have defended my honor. But her satisfied expression slowly melted away, and a few seconds later, she was eyeing me again, concern creasing her pretty face.

“Although I wouldn’t have had to do that if you would just stick up for yourself,” she said. “What happened was not your fault—”

I snapped up my hand, cutting her off. “I really don’t want to talk about my coworkers’ low opinions of me right now.”

Gin realized that she’d pushed me enough, so she changed the topic. “Approved guest list? I take it that’s another new security measure?”

I grimaced and tossed my fork down onto my plate. “Yeah.”

First Trust was Ashland’s most exclusive bank, serving the city’s social, magical, and—especially—monetary elite. But it was also the bank under the most scrutiny, thanks to me.

A couple of weeks ago, Deirdre Shaw, my long-lost mother, had shown up in Ashland, claiming that she wanted to finally get to know me, her son, after being gone for the last thirty-three years of my life. I’d thought my mother had been killed in a car accident when I was a baby, so her appearance had thrown me for a loop. A dozen loops, actually.

My dad had never talked about her much, but I’d always been curious about my mother. Deirdre had been everything I’d ever wished for—kind, caring, considerate, charming, beautiful. But even more than that, I’d seen so much of myself in her fun, flirty, boisterous manner, and I’d thought that we were so much alike. I’d felt an instant connection with Deirdre, and I’d happily let her into my life, both professionally and personally, working with her as a client here at my bank and introducing her to Gin, Bria, and the rest of my friends and family.

What a sad, stupid, gullible fool I’d been.

Getting close to me had been nothing more than an elaborate plot on Deirdre’s part to gain access to First Trust so that she and Rodrigo Santos, a giant thief, could rob the bank. Deirdre hadn’t cared about me at all, a fact she’d proven in the most coldhearted way possible, by using her Ice magic to burn and torture me when I wouldn’t give her the access codes to Big Bertha, the bank’s most secure vault.

Even now, weeks later, I could still see Deirdre looming in front of me, the blue-white flames of her Ice magic flickering on her fingertips, smiling widely as she leaned forward and unleashed her power, freezing me one slow, agonizing inch of skin at a time—

“Finn?” Gin asked. “Are you okay?”

I blinked, shoved away the awful memories, and dropped my hands to my lap so she wouldn’t see my fingers curled into fists. “Of course.”

Gin kept staring at me, sympathy and understanding flashing in her gaze, but I didn’t deserve either one of those things, so I lowered my head, picked up my fork, dug it into my baked beans, and shoved them into my mouth. The beans were wonderful, made even more so by my dad’s secret barbecue sauce that Gin had cooked them in, but they turned to ash in my mouth.

Everything tasted like cold, bitter ash these days.

But I forced myself to keep eating, swallowing bite after bite, although the food felt like lead weights slowly piling up in my stomach. Gin picked up her own fork, and we finished our lunch in silence.

Once I’d choked down as much food as I could handle, I pushed back from my desk, stood up, and started putting the lids back on all the take-out containers. Gin watched me, but I still didn’t look at her.

“Don’t worry,” I chirped. “This won’t go to waste. I’ll take it all over to the guards’ break room, and Jimmy and the rest of the guys will lap it up. They’ve already asked me if you deliver.”

More lies, since all the food I’d taken to the break room over the past few weeks had gone untouched and been unceremoniously dumped in the trash. But I wasn’t about to insult Gin and her cooking by telling her the truth.

“Sure,” she said. “Just call the restaurant, and I’ll do lunch for the whole bank one day. Anything you need, Finn. You know that.”

I grimaced again. I did know that, and it was one of the things that made me even more miserable. I might have been suckered in by Deirdre’s lies, but Gin had been suspicious of my mother right from the get-go. But I, being the blind, stupid, stubborn fool that I was, hadn’t listened to Gin’s repeated warnings or the nagging little voice in the back of my own mind.

Truth be told, I’d been absolutely awful to Gin, Bria, and Jo-Jo Deveraux, ignoring them all in favor of spending time with my so-called mother. But my selfish stupidity hadn’t kept Gin from figuring out Deirdre’s scheme, breaking into the bank, and risking her own life to rescue me during the robbery. Because that was just the kind of caring person, just the kind of devoted sister, Gin was to me, the colossal idiot.

And what made it even worse was that Gin didn’t blame me for any of it, even though Deirdre had almost killed her twice, once here at the bank and then again when Gin had been kidnapped by Hugh Tucker, Deirdre’s boss. My sister didn’t yell or scream at me. Not even once. All she did was check on me every single day, ask me how things were going at the bank, and bring me more food than an army could possibly eat.

She might be an assassin, but Gin Blanco was far and away the best person I knew.

And I’d failed her miserably.

The familiar guilt churned in my stomach, but I ignored it, put the lid on the last of the take-out containers, and set it off to one side with the others. The motion revealed a large crystal candy dish perched near the front corner of my desk. But there were no peppermints in this dish, just a large pendant made of jagged diamond icicles that had been fitted together to form a heart.

Deirdre’s rune.

Gin had snatched the necklace off Deirdre the night I’d killed my mother. It had been a foolish risk to take, especially since Hugh Tucker and his giants had been trying to murder her at the time, but Gin had wanted me to have the icicle-heart rune.

All these weeks later, I still didn’t know what to do with the damn thing.

At first, I’d brought it here to the bank to serve as a reminder never to let myself be played for a sentimental fool ever again. And it had certainly worked. Every time I looked at the rune, a cold, tight fist wrapped around my heart, as though Deirdre were reaching into my chest and freezing me from the inside out with her Ice magic.

More than once, I’d thought about just throwing the necklace into the trash, since that was exactly what I’d been to Deirdre. Trash. No one had ever made me feel as worthless, useless, and foolish as she had.

But the truly sad thing was that despite how much I hated Deirdre, I couldn’t quite bring myself to discard all of those sparkling diamonds. My greed kept getting the best of me, just like it had her. Yet another way I was like my mother, whether I wanted to be or not, and something that made me feel like shit all over again.

Gin noticed me staring at the rune, but she didn’t comment on it.

“Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “I should head back to the Pork Pit. Silvio set up some meetings with a couple of underworld bosses this afternoon.”

She made a face. The other bosses considered her the head of the underworld, although Gin had recently found out about Hugh Tucker and “the Circle.” The vampire worked for the secret society, which was supposedly responsible for a good portion of the crime and corruption in Ashland. Tucker’s revelation about the Circle, along with the bombshell that Gin’s mother, Eira Snow, had been involved with the group, consumed Gin just as much as my guilt over Deirdre ate away at me.

We were both chomping at the bit to open a safety-deposit box that my dad had left for us and see what clues it might contain about our mothers and the Circle. I hadn’t been able to get into the vault yet, since Stuart Mosley was still sorting through the contents of the boxes that Deirdre and her crew had forced open during the robbery. Mosley should be done with those boxes soon, and then, maybe, finally, Gin and I could get the answers we both needed.

Gin looked at the icicle-heart rune again before clearing her throat, walking over, and gently squeezing my shoulder.

“It’ll get better, Finn,” she said, her gray eyes on my green ones. “Your coworkers, the flashbacks, how you feel about everything. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday, it will get better.”

I knew that she was talking about herself as much as she was about me. So even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I forced myself to smile at her again.

“Of course it will,” I lied.

 2 

I dropped off the take-out containers in the break room for the guards, even though the food would most likely end up in the trash, then walked Gin back upstairs to the lobby.

To the casual observer, First Trust looked as elegant as ever. Wisps of white streaked through the gray marble floor before climbing up the walls and snaking out onto the high vaulted ceiling. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast warm sprays of light, while the afternoon sun streamed in through the freshly washed windows, giving the entire lobby a bright, airy feel. Not a trace of damage remained from the robbery attempt, not so much as the smallest scorch mark on the wall from a flying bullet. Everything gleamed like it was brand-spanking-new. Because, well, it was.

It was Friday afternoon, and the bank was busy, with people moving back and forth through the lobby, trying to get a last bit of business done before the weekend. Tellers worked at stations at the counter that ran along the back wall, taking deposits and handing over receipts, while customers sat in chairs and talked with their bankers about car loans, mortgages, and college funds.

Yes, at first glance, everything looked normal, right down to the tellers’ smiles as they sent folks on their way. But I’d worked here a long time, and I saw past the pretty, polished veneer.

The tellers’ smiles were more strained than sincere, and they each kept one hand below the counter, ready to trigger a silent alarm at the first hint of trouble. Instead of completely focusing on their clients, the bankers shot wary looks at the double doors, half expecting robbers to storm inside at any moment and start shooting. And then there were the giant guards, two in each corner, eight men total, all of whom had their hands on their guns, constantly watching everyone entering and exiting the lobby. All the workers were tense and on edge, with a healthy dose of simmering anger—all directed squarely at me.

The tellers, the bankers, the guards. Their eyes narrowed, and their sharp, accusing gazes focused on me the second I stepped into the lobby with Gin. I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and nodded politely to everyone, even though every sour, hostile, suspicious glare was like a punch to my gut. Everyone knew that my mother had tried to rob the bank, and most folks thought that I’d been in on it. That I’d just stood by that day, let Deirdre and Rodrigo Santos waltz right in the bank and kill all the guards without lifting a finger to try to stop them.

Of course, that wasn’t true. I’d fought Santos and his crew, but they’d quickly overpowered me, executed the guards, and dragged me down to the basement so Deirdre could try to torture the vault’s door codes out of me. I would have told my coworkers exactly what had happened, but none of them had bothered to ask me about it. Their friends were dead, and I was not, so I was guilty, guilty, guilty.

Even among the few folks who gave me the benefit of the doubt, their viewing me as a clueless idiot who hadn’t realized that his own mother was scamming him wasn’t any better.

I much preferred being hated to being pitied.

Thinking about my own stupidity made a hot, embarrassed blush creep up my neck, but I screwed a smile onto my face and walked on, ignoring the cruel whispers that sprang up in my wake. No one wanted me to keep working here, and I’d overheard more than one muttered conversation about why I didn’t just quit already. People went out of their way to avoid any contact with me, like I was a black cat that was going to jinx them if our paths crossed. Just about the only way I could get folks to communicate with me, even about important bank business, was through email. Even then, all the responses were terse and to the point. No polite chitchat, no funny stories about customers, not so much as a silly cat video anymore.

I glanced behind the tellers’ counter, wondering if my latest doughnut peace offering had been accepted. But all the boxes were shut and stacked up in exactly the same position as when I’d first dropped them off this morning. It was a sad, sad day when you couldn’t even bribe people with sugar to be civil to you.

Yep, it was official. I, Finnegan Lane, was the most unwanted man in Ashland.

Gin picked up on the angry, hostile vibe, and she glared back at people, daring them to make some snide remark about me. I loved her for wanting to protect me, but being stared down by a notorious assassin wasn’t exactly going to help my popularity.

A man stepped right in front of me. I was so busy just trying to get through this latest walk of shame that I almost plowed straight into his back. At the last second, I managed to catch myself.

He saw me out of the corner of his eye, stopped, and turned toward me. The man was a dwarf, a little more than five feet tall, with a thick stocky body, wavy silver hair, and a lined face with a hooked nose that looked like it had been broken multiple times.

I winced. I’d almost mowed down Stuart Mosley, my boss, someone with whom I was on very thin ice these days.

And he wasn’t alone. Mosley was escorting a slender woman in a black pantsuit and heels across the lobby. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun, showing off her high cheekbones and lovely bronze skin, although her hazel eyes were red and puffy, as though she’d been crying. I recognized her too: Isabelle Vargas, the widow of Peter Vargas, one of the giant guards who’d been murdered during the bank robbery.

The sight of her almost knocked me to my knees.

“Ah, there you are, Finn,” Mosley said in his deep, rumbling voice. “I’m sure you remember Mrs. Vargas. Mrs. Vargas, this is Finnegan Lane.”

Even though I wanted nothing more than to drop my head and slink away, I nodded politely at her. “Of course. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vargas.”

Anger sparked in her eyes, and her red lips tightened into a thin line in her beautiful face. She knew exactly who I was—and that I was responsible for her husband’s death. But instead of screaming curses at me the way she had every right to, she gave me a short, sharp nod in return and dropped her gaze to the floor, as though she couldn’t even stand to look at me.

I didn’t blame her. I could barely look at myself in the mirror.

Gin stepped up beside me in a silent show of support. She nodded at Mosley, who tipped his head back at her before pivoting to me again.

“Mrs. Vargas and I were just meeting about her husband’s life-insurance policy,” Mosley said. “I was telling her that the settlement should come through any day now.”

One thing I’d always admired about Stuart Mosley was how well he took care of his employees. Even though First Trust had never even come close to being successfully robbed before Deirdre showed up, Mosley had realized that it was always a potential target, and so he made sure all his employees, especially the guards, had hefty life-insurance policies that would provide for their families in case anything happened to them.

Too many of those policies had been cashed in lately, thanks to me.

“I would appreciate it if I could get the money as soon as possible,” Isabelle Vargas said in a low, strained voice. “I have some . . . bills that need paying, and I haven’t been at work because of . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked several times, holding back a fresh wave of tears.

“Of course,” Mosley murmured. “I’ll call you as soon as I receive the money. And, of course, we’ll all be at the funeral later today to pay our respects.” He paused. “Won’t we, Finn?”

It wasn’t a request.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Just like with Gin, Stuart Mosley didn’t yell or scream or berate me for how thoroughly I’d destroyed his bank and its reputation. He didn’t even threaten to fire me. Not even once. He just made sure that I realized the full, devastating consequences of putting my foolish trust in Deirdre, and one of the ways he did that was by having me attend the funerals of all the murdered guards. I would have done that anyway, since I’d known and been friendly with all of them. But standing at their graves, watching their families weep, and seeing their caskets slowly lowered into the cold, frozen ground . . .

It was the worst part of this whole damn thing.

Knowing that innocent people were dead because of me and that their families would suffer the pain of their loss for the rest of their lives was worse than my mother’s betrayal, worse than her brutal torture of me, worse even than letting down Gin, Bria, and the rest of my friends.

If Deirdre had been here, I would have strangled her with my bare hands and killed her all over again for all the heartache she’d caused.

Sensing my roller coaster of emotions, Gin put her hand on my shoulder. But with Mosley watching me like a hawk, she also realized that this was bank business now, something I needed to handle myself.

“I’ll let you guys talk,” she said. “I’ll text you later after my meetings. Okay, Finn?”

I forced myself to smile at her again. “Okay. Thanks again for lunch.”

Gin squeezed my shoulder, nodded at Mosley and Isabelle, then headed for the double doors, pushed through them, and left the bank.

A teller hurried up and drew Mosley off to the side, whispering to him about some problem and leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby with Isabelle. All the other tellers, bankers, and guards stared at the two of us, wondering if Isabelle would start screaming at me. Other people had done so, both here at the bank and at their loved ones’ funerals. I wanted her to scream and yell at me. I deserved it. I deserved all her anger, disgust, and hate, and then some.

“I need to go,” she finally muttered, still not looking at me. “I have things to do before the . . . funeral.” Her breath hitched on the last word, and I could tell that she was fighting back a sob.

Guilt stabbed through my gut again, as sharp and painful as one of Gin’s silverstone knives.

“Finn,” Mosley called out. “I need to take care of this. Please escort Mrs. Vargas outside.”

Another nonrequest.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Isabelle opened her mouth like she was going to say no way, that she was perfectly capable of seeing herself out, and that she didn’t want me within a hundred miles of her. But in the end, her shoulders slumped, and she just sighed, nodded, and moved toward the doors, too heartsick to argue about this one small thing when so many other larger, more important, far more painful things were before her.

We walked across the lobby in silence. The other employees still watched us with rapt attention, hoping that Isabelle would yell out all the horrible things they were secretly thinking about me. When that didn’t happen, they slowly lost interest and returned to their own clients and work.

I opened one of the double doors for her, and we stepped outside. The sun was shining, but the December air was still cold, and the wind had a particularly harsh, bitter bite to it. Isabelle wasn’t wearing a coat, and she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. I started to shrug out of my suit jacket to offer it to her, but she realized what I was doing and sidestepped away, still not wanting to have anything to do with me.

I swallowed my guilt, reached into my jacket pocket, and drew out one of my business cards. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.”

Her lips curled, and she stared at the card like it was a rattlesnake. “I don’t want your help.”

“I know, but if you ever need anything—”

“What I need is my husband back.” Her voice was soft and sad, without a hint of blame in it, which was worse than if she had started yelling at me.

She was right. Nothing I could do would ever bring her husband back. I slowly dropped my hand and the card down to my side, as more of those knives of guilt sliced through my stomach, cutting every which way.

A large, expensive black SUV pulled up to the curb, and Isabelle tensed, looking even more miserable than before, but she made no move to approach the idling vehicle.

“Is that your ride?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

She hesitated another moment, then slowly trudged down the bank steps and over to the vehicle.

The rear door opened, and a man got out of the car. He was a giant, roughly seven feet tall, with a strong, muscular body and an impressive styled mane of ink-black hair. His dark gray suit was even more expensive than mine, and large gold rings studded with diamonds flashed on each and every one of his fingers.

Of course, the gold-nugget-size rings absolutely ruined the rest of his sleek, fashion-plate look. Wearing gaudy man jewelry with such a classic, tailored suit was a faux pas of epic proportions. Still, I frowned and studied the giant closely. Something about all those gold rings seemed familiar, like I’d heard of someone with that unfortunate style choice, but I couldn’t remember who.

Isabelle went over to the giant, who crossed his arms over his chest and stared down his nose at her. He murmured something that I couldn’t hear, and she bit her lip and shook her head. His eyes narrowed, and his lips puckered, indicating that he didn’t like her response. He stared at her for a few more seconds before jerking his thumb over his shoulder, telling her to get into the car.

Isabelle slowly shuffled past the man and climbed into the back of the SUV, disappearing from sight. The giant realized that I was watching them, and he stared at me, his pale blue gaze flicking over me from head to toe.

“Nice suit,” he called out. “Is that a Fiona Fine original?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “But it’s not as nice as yours.”

“You’re right. It’s not nearly as nice as mine.” He reached up and infinitesimally adjusted his dark gray silk tie, even though it was already perfectly in place. “Next time, do yourself a favor. Be a real man, and don’t cheap out on your threads.”

Cheap out? My suit had set me back more than three grand. It hadn’t cost five large like his, but it also hadn’t come out of a trash bin. Anger spurted through me at his casual dismissal, but before I could open my mouth to snipe back at him, the giant waggled his fingers at me in a mocking good-bye, making his gold rings glimmer. Then he turned around, slid into the back of the SUV, and closed the door.

The vehicle moved away from the curb and eased into the flow of downtown traffic, leaving me fuming on the sidewalk. Not just at the giant but also at myself. I couldn’t do anything right these days, not even think of a witty comeback to put a pompous jackass in his place.

And the giant’s sneering attitude wasn’t the only thing that bothered me. I might not be a bona fide assassin like Gin, but Dad had trained me right along with her, and I’d lived in Ashland long enough to recognize trouble when I saw it. And that guy was trouble with a capital T.

I pulled my phone out of my pants pocket, angled it at the back of the SUV, and snapped a photo of the license plate. I’d find out exactly who that giant was and, more important, what he was doing with Isabelle.

The anger slowly leaked out of me, replaced by a growing sense of dread and melancholy, and there was nothing left for me to do but face the inevitable.

Sighing, I headed back into the bank to get ready for another innocent man’s funeral.

 3 

Mosley was still talking to the teller, although he glanced at me as I moved past him. I nodded at the dwarf, then did my best to ignore my coworkers’ hostile glowers. I went back downstairs to my office, shut the door, and changed into my black funeral suit, along with a dark gray shirt and a black tie.

I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark brown hair, green eyes, handsome face, muscled body, not-so-cheap suit. I looked the same as always, and no scars remained from the brutal, prolonged beating that Rodrigo Santos had given me or the blue-white Ice burns that Deirdre had blasted all over my body.

Not on the outside, anyway.

The Ice burns might be gone, but just the thought of them made my eyes twitch, my palms sweat, and my stomach churn. I remembered where she had put each mark on my skin, how horribly they had all hurt, and, worst of all, how much my own mother had enjoyed torturing me. I shivered, dropped my gaze from the mirror, and left the bathroom.

There was one more thing I needed to do before I left for the funeral. I went over to my desk, sat down in my chair, grabbed my landline phone, and hit one of the speed-dial buttons. The call went through, and she answered on the second ring.

“Hello, gorgeous,” I drawled.

“Hello there, yourself, handsome.” Detective Bria Coolidge’s light, lilting voice sounded through the phone. “How are you? Gin told me you had another funeral this afternoon.”

“Yeah.”

Even though Peter Vargas and the other guards had died during the bank robbery a couple of weeks ago, the police had only recently released their bodies to their families. So all the funeral services and burials had taken place over the last few days, with Peter’s being the final one.

“Finn?” Bria asked. “Are you okay?”

I grimaced. Gin and Bria had been tag-teaming me for the last several days, with Gin coming over to the bank for lunch and Bria bringing me dinner at night, or vice versa. Even when they weren’t around, the two of them were still talking and texting about me, debating how I was handling everything, and plotting ways to cheer me up. I knew they meant well and that it was all part of their plan to Make Finn Feel Better About His Colossal Fuckup, but their care and concern only made me feel worse. Especially since I’d treated them both so badly when Deirdre had been around.

“I’m okay. Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor and run a license plate,” I said, changing the subject and pulling up my email on my cell phone. “I’m sending you the photo now.”

“Sure,” Bria said. “What’s up?”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” I lied. “Just a car I saw sitting outside the bank. But Mosley asked me to check it out, and I can’t let the big boss down again, now, can I?” I tried to make my tone teasing and lighthearted, but even I could hear the tension in my voice.

“Okay,” Bria said. “Give me just a second.”

Through the phone, I could hear her typing, along with the distant murmurs of other conversations in the police station.

“Got it,” she said a few seconds later. “That SUV is registered to Bartholomew Wilcox. I’ve seen that name before. Isn’t he some sort of bookie? Have you heard of him?”

Oh, I’d heard of him all right. Bart the Butcher. That had been his nickname back when he’d been a professional boxer, and it had stuck, even after his retirement from the ring. Now he was a powerful bookie who ran a massive gambling operation and would bet on anything and lend money to anyone—provided you paid him back with fifty-percent interest.

And if you didn’t pay up in a timely fashion, well, Bart liked getting his hands dirty. Instead of killing people, he had a reputation for being a sadist who enjoyed crippling folks—and then demanding seventy-five-percent interest as a “service fee” for needing to beat you down.

I should have known who he was the second I saw all those ugly gold rings flashing on his fingers. Not so much gaudy baubles as his own personalized set of brass knuckles. Bartholomew Wilcox was trouble, all right, the most dangerous kind.

But the real question was, what was Isabelle Vargas doing with a hard-core gangster like that?

“Finn?” Bria asked. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Just making a note. Now that you mention it, the name does sound familiar. I think he has some accounts here at the bank. So it’s nothing, just like I thought.”

“Yeah. Nothing.” Disbelief colored Bria’s voice, but she didn’t press me for answers. Instead, she changed the topic. “You want me to come over tonight? After you get back from the service?”

The last thing I wanted to do was go to another funeral, much less see anyone after it, but Bria was just trying to help, the same way Gin was with her boxes of barbecue.

“Sure,” I said. “That would be great. I’ll text you when I’m done for the day. It might be a while, though. Mosley will probably find something for me to do here at the bank afterward.”

“Okay. Talk to you later. I love you, Finn.”

The warm, earnest sincerity in her voice was another punch to my gut. Just like Gin, Bria had risked her life to break into the bank to save me, and she’d stood by me ever since, despite all the times I’d ignored her when Deirdre had been alive.

“I love you too,” I said in a hoarse voice. “I gotta go now.”

“I know, baby,” she whispered back. “I know.”

We both hung up. I sighed and slumped back in my chair, eyeing the dark, empty space under my desk. When I was a kid, I used to sneak into my dad’s office at home, curl up under his battered old wooden desk, and read my comic books for hours on end. I’d pretend it was my own fort, my secret hiding place, where no one could ever find me. Right now, I wanted to be that happy, carefree kid again, curl up under this desk, and pretend the last few weeks had never happened.

But I couldn’t do that. Like it or not, this was all my fault, and I was going to face every single sickening second of it, including Peter Vargas’s funeral.

I got to my feet, buttoned my black suit jacket, grabbed my long black trench coat from the rack in the corner, and left my office.

The bank was closing early for the service. The other workers were riding together in groups of twos and threes, but I was all alone as I got into my car, cranked the engine, and pulled out of a nearby parking garage.

I left the busy downtown streets behind and drove out to the more rural part of Ashland until I reached Blue Ridge Cemetery. I steered my car into the line of vehicles crawling into the cemetery, pulled off to the side of the access road, and parked on the grass, along with everyone else.

I got out of my car and followed the other mourners to the grave. Several rows of metal folding chairs had been arranged in front of a silver casket with a lovely spray of red and white roses draped over it. A picture of Peter Vargas was propped up next to the casket, and I stared at the face of the man I’d gotten killed. Black hair, brown eyes, friendly smile. Peter and the other guards hadn’t deserved to be murdered just because I’d been stupid enough to trust the wrong person. I should have been the one lying in that casket. I would have been, if not for Gin, Bria, and the rest of our friends. But here I was, still aboveground, while Peter was about to be lowered into it forever. An icy wave of guilt surged through my body, numbing me from the inside out.

In addition to being well liked at work, Peter had been well respected in the community, involved in all sorts of activities, including volunteering as a coach for several kids’ sports teams. More than two hundred people had shown up for his funeral, and the chairs in front of the casket quickly filled. Everyone spoke in soft, sad voices, saying what a shame it was that such a nice, decent, hardworking guy was gone before his time.

I wholeheartedly agreed with them, although I didn’t join in any of the conversations. No one wanted to talk to me. Besides, the bank workers were giving me more hostile stares than ever before, so I decided that the best thing to do was to stand off by myself to the right of the casket, out of everyone else’s way.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Isabelle Vargas appeared. She was still wearing the same black pantsuit and heels she’d had on at the bank, along with a long black coat. She’d freshened up her makeup, but her eyes were even redder than before, and I could tell that she’d been crying again.

A man who looked just like Peter walked beside Isabelle, escorting her to the center chair in the first row of mourners. He was Peter’s brother, and I thought back to my conversations with the guard, trying to remember his name. It came to me a few seconds later. Paul Vargas.

But the worst part was the other person walking beside Isabelle, a little boy about three years old. Leo, Peter’s son.

He too looked just like his father, with a messy mop of black hair and big brown eyes. Leo held his mother’s hand, his head swiveling back and forth as he stared at all the people gathered around the grave and the casket. A frown creased his tiny face, and it was obvious that he didn’t really understand what was going on and why everyone was so sad and quiet.

Isabelle sat down, scooped up Leo, and settled him on her lap, kissing his forehead, smoothing down his hair, and hugging him tightly, just like a loving mother should. Emotion clogged my throat, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. All I’d wanted was a chance to get to know my own mother, and all she’d given me in return had been pain, heartache, misery, and death.

Leo looked around at all the people again, then smiled, perked up, and pointed to the portrait sitting next to the casket. “Daddy!”

That one innocent word shattered my heart.

And it must have done the same to Isabelle’s, because she brought her hand up to her mouth and choked back a sob. She quickly wiped away a couple of tears that streaked down her cheeks, bent her head, and whispered something to Leo. The boy squirmed around and rested his head on her chest, and Isabelle started rocking him back and forth, trying to soothe him and herself.

The funeral went the way they always did. The minister saying prayers and offering words of comfort, people staring solemnly at the casket, friends and family wiping away tears of grief. I just stood there, too cold and numb to do anything else. I couldn’t even cry. I didn’t have the right to cry. Not when Peter was dead because of me.

The service only lasted about twenty minutes, although it seemed like an eternity. The minister said a final prayer and tipped his head at Isabelle.

“Isabelle would like to invite everyone back to the house for a celebration of Peter’s life,” the minister said in a solemn voice. “There will be food and refreshments, and Isabelle would appreciate hearing stories and memories of Peter.”

My heart twisted, and I looked through the crowd of mourners at Stuart Mosley, dreading what I would see. Sure enough, the dwarf gave me a sharp nod, a clear sign that he expected me to go to the gathering, even though I wouldn’t be any more welcome there than I was here. But it wasn’t a request, so I sighed and nodded back.

A line formed in front of the casket, with each person taking a rose from the spray and saying their final good-byes to Peter. Isabelle went first, holding Leo’s hand again, Paul right behind her. Tears streamed down her face as she stared at her husband’s portrait; but she squared her shoulders, gripped her son’s hand a little tighter, and moved into the waiting crowd of mourners, accepting their condolences and good wishes.

Isabelle glanced over at me as she walked by, surely thinking that I was just another person who’d come to pay his respects. When she realized who I was, her lips curled with disgust, as even more tears cascaded down her face. She hurried away from me, gently pulling her son along in her wake.

Paul Vargas also knew exactly who I was. He too gave me a disgusted look as he followed his sister-in-law and helped her into a waiting car. And he wasn’t the only one. Pretty much every single person except Stuart Mosley gave me an angry glower as they all left the grave and headed for their vehicles, but I lifted my chin and stood my ground, accepting their hate, disgust, and loathing.

I deserved it.

The crowd thinned out quickly, and soon I was the only one left by the grave. I swallowed down the hard knot of guilt in my throat, walked over to Peter’s portrait, and studied his smiling face again.

Peter Vargas had been a stand-up guy who loved his family more than anything else. He was always picking up books, chocolates, and other small gifts for Isabelle, just because he wanted to do something nice for his wife. He’d been so proud when Leo had been born, and he’d shown me dozens of photos of his son over the years. Ever since Bria and I had gotten together, Peter had always kidded around with me, saying that it was time for me to start my own family. I’d laughed and told him maybe I would someday.

All of Peter’s somedays were over.

He’d had a family, and he’d been taken away from them. He’d never buy Isabelle a present again or read his son a bedtime story or do any of the other small, thoughtful things that made a family, well, a family.

Hot, sour bile rose in my throat at the unfairness of it all, but I choked it down. I didn’t get to feel sad or sorry for myself. Not anymore. Never again.

Instead, I stared at Peter’s portrait, my gaze locked with his distant, frozen one. “I’ll do everything I can to watch out for your family,” I said in a hoarse voice. “It’s the least I can do for you.”

It was the same promise I’d made at the graves of all the other guards who’d been killed during the bank robbery. And just like with all the others, it didn’t make me feel any better. Peter and the other guards were still dead, and nothing I said or did would change that or take away their families’ pain and grief.

But it was all I could do. So I nodded at Peter’s portrait a final time and left the grave, carrying my guilt and heartache with me, the way I always would now.

 4 

The Vargas home was a nice two-story house in a new subdivision, not too far away from Jo-Jo Deveraux’s beauty salon. It was situated on top of a small hill at the end of a cul-de-sac, the first one to be finished in the neighborhood, although the framework for two other houses had been erected nearby. Everyone else had already arrived, filling the cul-de-sac, and I had to park down at the very end of the street behind a black SUV.

I started to get out of the car but stopped and stared at the vehicle in front of mine. I pulled out my phone and called up the photo I’d taken of the SUV outside the bank earlier today. Sure enough, the license plates matched. Bart the Butcher was here.

I frowned. Stuart Mosley carefully screened all the bank guards, making sure that they didn’t have any bad habits or vices that might affect their job performance or compromise bank security. Peter Vargas had worked at the bank for years, and he’d been squeaky clean from top to bottom. There was no way Peter had been involved with someone as shady as Bart Wilcox, but here the bookie was, all the same, at the man’s house right after his funeral.

I wasn’t as insanely paranoid as Gin, but it was obvious that something was going on here—something bad.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. Then I got out of the car, went around to the back, and popped open the trunk, revealing several black cases. I glanced around, making sure no one was out on the street watching me, then opened one case, pulled out a loaded gun, and stuck it into my trench-coat pocket, along with an extra clip of ammo.

Was taking a gun to a mourners’ gathering in poor taste? Absolutely. But in Ashland, it was always better to be safe than sorry, even at a funeral.

I shut the trunk, locked my car, and headed toward the Vargas house.

It was your typical suburban home, painted a light, cheerful blue, with white shutters and a wide, white wraparound porch. The attached garage was also blue, with a white metal door that was rolled up, showing a minivan and a sedan inside, Isabelle’s and Peter’s vehicles. I stepped onto the lawn and headed up the hill toward the front porch steps—

Crunch.

My foot slipped on something hard and metal, and I had to windmill my arms to keep from falling on my ass. It took me a few seconds to regain my balance. I looked down to see that I’d stepped on a bright red toy fire truck half hidden in the thick grass. A couple of plastic firefighters lay next to it, along with the tiny figure of a grinning Dalmatian. Still more toys, everything from foam footballs to stuffed animals to building blocks, were scattered throughout the yard. Cruel reminders of a little boy who didn’t have a father to play with him anymore.

I carefully stepped over the fire truck, walked up the rest of the lawn, and trudged up the front-porch steps. Through the wide picture windows, I could see people moving inside the house, eating, drinking, and talking somberly. More guilt and tension surged through me, tying my stomach into knots. This was the very last place I wanted to be, but Mosley had insisted, so I reached for the knob so I could go inside and pay my respects to Isabelle again—

“You said you would have my money today,” a low voice growled.

“And I will! I swear I will!” another voice, higher and whinier, chimed in. “Only I’ll have it tomorrow instead. Or in another day or two at the very latest.”

I knew a shakedown when I heard one. The voices were coming from around the far side of the porch, so I moved away from the front door and headed in that direction, walking slowly so no one would hear my wing tips tapping against the wooden floorboards. I reached the end of the porch, eased up, and peered around the corner.

Bart the Butcher was leaning against the white porch railing, still in his dark gray suit, his gold rings sparkling in the winter sun. Two giant goons, also in gray suits, flanked him, their arms crossed over their chests in their best tough-guy intimidation poses. But Bart didn’t need them to intimidate anyone. He was plenty menacing all on his own.

And he was currently menacing Paul Vargas.

Paul was standing in front of the other giant, shifting back and forth on his feet and making the floorboards creak under his weight. Bart gave him a hard, flat stare that had Paul slowly backing away from him.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow,” Bart said, making his voice a high, mocking imitation of Paul’s. “That’s all you ever tell me. I’m tired of tomorrows. I want the money you owe me, Paulie—today. Or there will be consequences. Very painful consequences.”

Paul’s dark gaze dropped to the gold rings glinting on Bart’s fingers. He swallowed and took another step back. At least, he tried to. He was already pressed up against the side of the house, so there was nowhere for him to go.

Paul realized that he wasn’t going to get any sympathy from the other giant, so his head snapped to the left, looking at someone I couldn’t see. “Tell him, Izzy. Tell him I’ll have his money tomorrow.”

A soft sigh sounded, and Isabelle Vargas stepped into view, standing between her brother-in-law and his bookie. “I told you before, when you picked me up at the bank. Stuart Mosley said the money from Peter’s life-insurance policy will be here any day now. As soon as I have it, I’ll give it to you. I promise.”

“Funny, but that’s the same thing Peter said,” Bart replied. “He told me a month ago that he was going to take out a second mortgage on this house to pay for his little brother’s gambling debts. But it never happened.”

“Because he was murdered,” Isabelle snapped back, her hands clenching into fists. “Not because he wasn’t going to go through with it.” Her body trembled with fresh grief, and tears shimmered in her eyes, but she blinked them back.

Bart let out a low, ugly laugh. “The grieving widow. Aw, isn’t that sweet? At least you actually cared about your husband. Too bad Paulie doesn’t feel the same way about his dearly departed brother.”

Isabelle frowned. “What do you mean?”

Bart shrugged his massive shoulders. “I mean Paulie here has still been texting me this whole time, ever since Peter got whacked at the bank, placing more bets on those football games and fantasy teams that he loves so much—and losing more money. Why, he even called me bright and early this morning, before the funeral, asking about Sunday’s games.”

Surprise and anger sparked in Isabelle’s eyes, and she whipped around to Paul. “You promised Peter that you’d quit this time. You promised me!”

“But Izzy,” Paul said, his voice creeping up into another high whine. “I was just trying to win back Peter’s money for you. I’ve looked at all the stats, and I’ve got a matchup this weekend that’s surefire—”

Isabelle’s hand shot out, and she slapped him across the face. Paul’s mouth dropped open, probably to spout some more nonsense about how he just couldn’t lose this time.

Isabelle slapped him again before he could utter a single word.

Her brother-in-law staggered back, his hand snapping up to the bright red welts on his cheek as if he couldn’t believe they were there. He opened his mouth again.

“Don’t you dare say a word to me right now,” Isabelle growled, pointing her finger at him. “Not one single word.”

Paul slowly shut his mouth and crept back another step, out of slapping range.

Bart laughed again. “Looks like we have ourselves a little spitfire here. Nice.”

Isabelle glared at her brother-in-law a moment longer, then faced Bart again, her shoulders slumping with weary resignation. “How much does he owe you now?”

The bookie casually scratched his chin, as if he were running the numbers in his head, even though he already knew the exact amount down to the last cent. “Oh, I figure Peter’s life-insurance policy should just about cover it.” He grinned. “Along with whatever money you get from selling your nice new house.”

Isabelle’s face paled. “You can’t take our house too. My son and I have nowhere else to go. Please, I’m begging you—”

Bart pushed away from the porch railing and started cracking his knuckles, making all of those gold-and-diamond-crusted rings on his fingers gleam with a cold, sinister light. “There’s one thing you should know about me, Mrs. Vargas. I absolutely hate beggars. They just make me want to hit them that much harder.”

For several seconds, the only sound was the crack-crack-crack of the giant’s knuckles, each one as loud as a gunshot ringing out across the porch, each one making Isabelle flinch with fear, dread, and understanding.

Bart finally dropped his hands to his sides, although he kept staring at Isabelle. “You have until the end of the day to get me my money.”

“Or?” she whispered.

The giant smiled, baring his teeth like an animal about to strike its prey. “Or I’ll make sure that the only thing Paulie bets on is how long he’ll be slurping up his meals through a straw. Trust me when I tell you that it will be a long, long time.”

His threat delivered, Bart jerked his head at his two goons, who’d remained silent through the whole confrontation. Together, the three of them left Isabelle and Paul and headed for my end of the porch. There wasn’t time for me to slip inside the house, so I stepped around the corner, pretending I’d come in search of Isabelle.

“Oh. There you are,” I called out, waving to her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Mrs. Vargas.”

Bart stopped right in front of me, giving me a quick once-over. Recognition dawned in his eyes. “Hey, it’s the guy in the cheap suit again.”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

The giant stepped even closer to me and bent down, so that his face was right next to mine. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t eavesdrop, Mr. Cheap Suit. It might be hazardous to your health.”

My hand slipped into my coat pocket and curled around the gun there, ready to shoot him if he came at me. “Thanks for the tip,” I drawled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The giant didn’t appreciate my snarky tone, and he stared me down, trying to intimidate me the same way he had Paul, but I looked right back at him. I’d faced far worse things than Bart the Butcher, my own mother being one of them.

After several tense seconds, Bart reached out, plucked a small piece of lint off my trench coat, and casually flicked it away, a clear message that he could do the same thing to me. My gaze dropped to the gold rings on his hand, and he drew back and waggled his fingers at me in a mocking motion.

“Well, at least your coat is nicer than your suit—and your manners,” Bart rumbled. “You take care now, Mr. Cheap Suit.”

The giant deliberately drove his shoulder into mine, almost knocking me down with his enormous strength. His two goons grinned and moved past me. The three of them thumped down the front-porch steps and crossed the yard, heading toward their SUV at the far end of the street.

They’d be back tonight, though, just like Bart the Butcher had promised.

Inside the house, the mourners kept eating, drinking, and talking, oblivious to the drama out on the porch. Isabelle, Paul, and I watched the black SUV turn around in the cul-de-sac before driving back down the street and disappearing from sight.

Isabelle let out a tense breath and wrapped her arms around herself, but she couldn’t hold back the frightened shudder that rippled through her body.

Paul turned to her. “Izzy, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but if I can just bet on the games this weekend, I promise you I can win back Peter’s money—”

She whipped around and slammed her palm into his chest, knocking him away from her. “Get out of my sight,” she growled. “Right now. Before I call Wilcox back and tell him to go ahead and beat your miserable, lying ass.”

“But Izzy—” he started again, still pleading with her.

“Get out!” she hissed, shoving him with both hands now. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

Paul stumbled away from her, but he still didn’t leave. “But I’m your family. I promised Peter that I would watch out for you and little Leo if anything ever happened to him—”

Isabelle stabbed her finger at him. “You are not my family. Not anymore. You are a degenerate gambler who refuses to get help. It makes me sick to think of all the time, energy, and money Peter spent paying off your debts and sending you to rehab over and over again, when it’s obvious that you just don’t want to get better. He was a good man that way, always putting other people before himself. Well, guess what? I’m not as good as he was, and I’m not going to let you drag my son and me down with you. I’ll pay off as much of your debt to Wilcox as I can, since that’s what Peter would have wanted. But you’re on your own from this moment on. And don’t you ever come back here again. Do you understand me?”

Paul looked at her with a dumbfounded expression.

“Do you understand me?” Isabelle hissed again.

“Yeah, I understand you, all right.” The giant’s face hardened into an ugly sneer. “You always were an uppity bitch who thought she was better than everyone else. I never understood what Peter saw in you anyway—”

I stepped up, took hold of the giant’s left ear, and yanked it back and down as hard as I could. Paul yelped with pain, but I had pulled him off balance, and he couldn’t break my tight, bruising grip without causing himself even more pain, something he was too much of a wimp to do.

“The lady asked you to leave,” I said. “I suggest you do that. Right now. Before I beat Wilcox to the punch and start hitting you myself.”

I let go of his ear and shoved him away. Paul gave me a murderous look, as if he was thinking about taking a swing at me, but I stared him down the same way I had Wilcox. After a few seconds, when he realized that I wasn’t intimidated by his tall, giant frame, he straightened up and pulled down his suit jacket.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m done here anyway.”

He glared at Isabelle and me a final time, whirled around, and stomped down the porch steps and to the bottom of the lawn. He fired up an old, rusty pickup truck and peeled away from the curb as fast as he could, making his bald tires screech in protest.

“Good riddance,” I muttered, and turned to Isabelle. “Are you okay?”

She stared at me like I’d just said the stupidest thing ever. Maybe I had.

“Look,” I said. “I heard what Wilcox said about you paying off Paul’s gambling debts, and I know that you don’t want to lose your house or the life-insurance money. I can help you with this, with all of it. All you have to do is trust me.”

Isabelle laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound. “Like Peter trusted you? Like all the other guards who were murdered trusted you? Peter told me all about you and how happy you were that your long-lost mother was back in town. He thought she was a little too good to be true. So did everyone else at the bank, but since it was your mom and they all thought you were such a great guy, they let it slide. Peter trusted you, Finnegan Lane, and what did he get in return? A bullet in the head. So forgive me if I’m not in a hurry to make the same mistake my husband did.”

Every word she said was like a dagger to my heart, but I forced myself to push aside my guilt and shame and focus on her.

“I’m sorry for what happened to Peter and all the other guards,” I said. “Sorrier than you will ever know. And you’re absolutely right. It was my fault, my mistake, and I have to live with that for the rest of my life. But I can help you now. Please, please, let me help you.”

She looked at me, fresh tears shining in her eyes, her face pinched tight with worry, fear, and dread. For a moment, she seemed to be wavering, but her lips pressed together into a hard, thin line, and she shook her head.

“Forget it,” she snapped. “I don’t need your help. More important, I don’t want your help. I can take care of myself and my son. Right now, I have guests to see to. I’m sure you can find your own way out.”

Isabelle gave me one more angry look, then stormed around the corner of the porch, yanked open the front door, and went back inside her house full of mourners.

 5 

I watched through the windows as Isabelle smoothed her angry expression and moved through the crowd of mourners, politely nodding and graciously accepting their condolences. I didn’t actually go inside the house, though. Isabelle was dealing with enough right now without being reminded that I was still here.

Instead, I stood out on the porch and replayed our conversation in my mind, along with everything I’d heard her and Paul say to Bart Wilcox and his goons.

Isabelle didn’t want my help. Fine. I could understand that, and I probably would have done and said the exact same things if I’d been in her shoes. I wouldn’t have been half as nice about telling me to get lost as she had been.

But she was going to get my help anyway.

Her husband was dead because of me, and her brother-in-law was a whiny, petulant loser who’d gotten her into this mess. For a moment, I thought about tracking down Paul Vargas and making good on my threat to kick his ass. It would serve him right, and it might even make me feel better.

Maybe later. Right now, I had a bigger, badder giant to worry about: Bart the Butcher.

He’d be back tonight, just like he’d told Isabelle, and he wouldn’t be happy with any money she might be able to scrape together in the meantime. Paul wasn’t coming back to settle up his debt, which left only Isabelle and Leo for Bart to take out his wrath on. The mother and son had already suffered enough, and I wasn’t letting the low-life bookie lay so much as a finger on either one of them.

While the mourners stayed inside and tried to offer what comfort they could to Isabelle, I went down the porch steps and walked around the perimeter of the house, looking at everything from the toys in the front yard, to the tire swing in the maple tree next to the garage, to the woods that flanked the back of the house.

The family didn’t have a dog, which was good. Dogs made noise, which was something I’d want to avoid later on tonight. Even better, the subdivision was so new that the Vargas house was the only one that was lived in, which meant there wouldn’t be any nosy neighbors peeking out their windows, wondering what I was up to.

Once I’d finished my scan, I slipped into the garage, since the door was still up. It was your typical space, with two cars sitting side by side and plastic boxes full of old clothes, tools, holiday decorations, and other odds and ends lining the walls. I tried the door that led into the house. Unlocked. I bet it was always unlocked, since most folks would only bother to secure the garage door, thinking that was enough to keep them safe.

But it wouldn’t be enough, not when Bart the Butcher was involved.

That was okay, though. Because I was going to make sure that the giant bookie never bothered Isabelle and her son again.

I’d started to head back outside, but the knob twisted, and the door creaked open behind me. Stuart Mosley stepped out into the garage and shut the door behind him.

“Yes, sir?” I asked.

Mosley crossed his arms over his chest. “I saw you lurking around outside. Are you actually going to come into the house and pay your respects to Mrs. Vargas? Or are you going to hide out here in the garage the whole time?”

I grimaced. “I spoke to Isabelle on the front porch earlier. She made it quite clear that she doesn’t want me to set one foot inside her house. Trust me, she doesn’t want me here, and neither does anyone else.”

“True,” Mosley said. “But you need to be here. You needed to see this, Finn. Every single second of it.”

I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to get rid of the sudden ache shooting through my temples. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, you don’t have to. Believe me, I have plenty of guilt all on my own. Shame, embarrassment, self-loathing. I am chock full of every bad emotion there is.”

My boss stared at me, his hazel eyes sharp and bright in his lined face, but I couldn’t tell what he was really thinking. Mosley had a better poker face than anyone I’d ever met, including Gin and my dad. Despite all the days that had passed since the bank robbery, I still expected him to start yelling at me at any second—before he fired me, beat me to a bloody pulp, and then personally dragged me through the lobby and threw me out of his beloved bank. Instead, Mosley just kept staring at me, his face a perfectly blank mask, keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself.

“Well, if you’ve already paid your respects to Mrs. Vargas, I suppose you can leave now,” he finally said. “Although I expect you back at the bank later tonight. I still have some safety-deposit boxes to sort through that you can help me with. We’ll be working until they’re all finished tonight, no matter how long it takes.”

It wasn’t a request, and I nodded at him. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

Mosley stared at me a moment longer, then went back inside the house, shutting the door behind him and leaving me alone in the garage with my guilt.

I finished my inspection of the house and the surrounding area, got into my car, and left. But I didn’t go to the bank, to the Pork Pit, or even to my apartment. For an hour or two, at least, I wanted to go someplace that wouldn’t remind me of Deirdre, how badly she’d fooled me, and how many people were dead because of my mistakes.

So I drove to a nearby coffee shop to check my messages and kill some time. Gin and Bria had both texted me, asking how the funeral had gone. I texted them back, saying that I was still at the Vargas house and would get in touch with them later. I got a cup of coffee, even though it wasn’t the strong chicory brew I loved, and made myself choke it down, along with a piece of hard, dry blueberry pound cake. I didn’t feel like eating, and it all tasted like ash, just like Gin’s hearty barbecue lunch earlier, but I needed to stay alert and keep my strength up for what was coming tonight.

After I polished off my coffee, I was too restless to sit in the shop, so I got into my car and drove back to Blue Ridge Cemetery. The workers had finished putting Peter’s casket into the ground, and all that remained were the red and white roses strewn across the cold earth. Soon they too would wither and die.

The thought depressed me, but I stayed by Peter’s grave for several minutes, silently paying my respects again and thinking about what I was going to do tonight. My plan was simple, really: make sure that Bart the Butcher got the message to leave Isabelle alone for good.

By any means necessary.

Once I’d finished at Peter’s grave, I went over to another one—my dad’s.

Fletcher Lane flowed across the tombstone, along with the dates of his birth and death. It was a plain, simple marker, far smaller than some of the massive angels, spires, and ornate slabs of stone that rose up from many other graves. The only thing that was remarkable about it was that Gin’s tombstone was right next to it, featuring her spider rune, along with the date of her supposed death earlier this year. The thought of how Gin had suckered Madeline Monroe into thinking she was dead brought a ghost of a smile to my face, but it quickly faded, and I focused on Dad’s tombstone again.

A small jar of barbecue sauce perched on top of the marker, telling me that Gin had been here recently, whispering her secrets to Dad and any other ghost who would listen. I reached out, swiped the glass container off the stone, and slid it into my coat pocket. She always brought a jar of sauce and left it for the old man, and I always took it, just to make her think that Dad was getting her presents in the great beyond. It was a silly tradition on my part, but I thought the illusion made Gin feel just a little bit better, like Dad wasn’t completely lost to her. That made me smile too, but the expression quickly slipped from my face again.

My gaze went past Dad’s tombstone and up the hill to where Deirdre was buried. For years, her casket had been empty, although Dad had let everyone, including me, think that she was dead and resting in peace up there. He’d even brought me to the cemetery a few times when I was a kid to put flowers on her grave, never once letting on that she wasn’t actually in there.

Well, she was definitely buried there now, thanks to me.

I’d put three bullets in my mother to save Gin, including a kill shot right through her ice-cold heart. After the coroner had released Deirdre’s body, Gin had asked if I’d wanted to have a service for her, but I’d said no. At that point, I’d just wanted my mother to be dead and buried for real—forever. I just wanted to be done with Deirdre fucking Shaw and all the lies she’d told, once and for all.

Easier said than done.

I pushed away my turbulent thoughts, crouched down, and focused on Dad’s tombstone again.

“Well,” I said, “I’m sure you know everything that’s happened. How much I fucked up. Everyone else certainly does.”

Of course, Dad didn’t answer me. But for the first time in days, no one was hovering around, no Gin pushing food at me or Bria giving me sympathetic looks. No one was trying to make sure that I was okay, and I felt I could breathe just a little bit easier than before. Or maybe that was just because no one was around to glare at me with accusing, tear-filled eyes, letting me know that I was the cause of all their pain, misery, and heartache.

“I know you’re disappointed in me,” I said, plucking a blade of brown grass out of the ground and twirling it around in my hand. “That I didn’t take Gin’s warning—your warning—about Deirdre to heart. That I didn’t listen to Gin when she told me about that letter you’d left for her. I should have listened to her and to you too. I will always regret that. I just wish you had told Gin to give me that other letter as soon as Deirdre came to town. The one you wrote to me. But you were hoping that Deirdre had changed, weren’t you? You wanted me to give her a chance. Now people are dead because of your hope and my foolishness. And there’s nothing I can do to change that. There’s nothing I can do to fix it.”

The emotions rose in me again, as cold, bitter, and caustic as ever. The guilt, the shame, the crushing disappointment at the fact that Deirdre had just been using me the whole time. My chest tightened, and my lungs felt like two chunks of elemental Ice in my chest, as though they had been flash-frozen by my mother’s magic. But I closed my eyes and forced myself to take in slow, deep breaths, riding the wave of emotions until they had subsided to a more manageable level.

I opened my eyes and stared at Dad’s tombstone. “But most of all, I wish you were still here so I could tell you how sorry I am. For not appreciating you more when you were alive. For not realizing how much you always looked out for me, protected me, loved me. I am the man I am today because of you, and I will always be grateful for that, my mistakes and all.”

The last few words came out as a soft, raspy whisper, and the wind whistled down the ridge, sweeping them away. But I knew Dad had heard them, wherever he was. And I knew what he would want me to do now. It was the same thing he would have done, if he’d still been here.

I reached out and placed a hand on the marker, feeling the chill from the stone sink into my skin. But unlike Deirdre’s Ice magic, this cold didn’t bother me. If anything, it grounded me and cleared my mind. Maybe even my heart a little too. I traced my fingers over his name, then got to my feet.

“I’ll come back one day soon, and we’ll talk some more,” I said. “But right now, I’ve got a hot date with a dangerous giant.”

I tipped my head at his marker one more time before sliding my hands into my coat pockets and walking away.

 6 

I went back to my car and opened the trunk, getting ready to face off against Bart the Butcher.

The first thing I did was strip off my coat and suit, despite the fact that it was only about thirty degrees outside. I knew that any confrontation with Bart would end only one way—bloody—and I didn’t want to ruin my threads, even if they weren’t as nice as the giant’s. Shivering, I unzipped a duffel bag and quickly put on a black turtleneck sweater, along with some black corduroy pants and heavy-duty boots. A black leather jacket added some more much-needed warmth, along with a black wool cap.

I checked my gun, making sure that it was still ready to fire, screwed a silencer onto the end of the barrel, and stuck it into my coat pocket. Isabelle might not have close neighbors, but I still wanted to minimize any noise I might make during my confrontation with Bart. Once that was done, I slid some extra clips of ammo into my other coat pocket, along with a set of brass knuckles. Bart had his fancy gold rings, and I wanted something to level the playing field.

Although if it came to fisticuffs, Bart would most likely beat me to death, given his far greater giant strength. Not the most cheerful thought, but I was too committed to back down now. So I closed the trunk, got into the car, and drove back over to the Vargas place. k'12

It was just after six o’clock when I parked at the far end of the street, well away from the house. Most of the lights were on, although the cars that had lined the street earlier had all vanished. The mourners had gone home, back to their own lives, leaving Isabelle alone with her son and her grief. Every once in a while, I would see Isabelle through the windows at the front of the house, slowly moving from room to room, throwing away dirty cups and plates, straightening chairs and other furniture, and putting away all the casseroles, pasta salads, and other food the mourners had left behind.

I’d never understood why people brought over food when someone died. Sure, it was a nice gesture, but I’d never felt like eating anything after I’d lost someone I loved, especially not the day of the actual burial. But I supposed it was a tradition and a way for people to feel they were doing something helpful for you, instead of just standing around and pitying you.

Even though it was still early, the sun had set, and darkness had crept over the land. The only streetlights were the two in front of the Vargas house, but their golden glow wasn’t nearly enough to drive back the night.

I sat in my car and waited. Bart had said that he would be back at the end of the day for his money, and I was betting it wouldn’t be much longer before he showed up. Even though he knew that Isabelle didn’t have his money, the giant would be eager to come back and intimidate her—or worse. To him, beating people, hurting them, crippling them, was almost as good as getting his money. It would certainly be more fun for a sick bastard like him.

My phone beeped with a few more texts from Gin and Bria and one from Stuart Mosley wondering where I was, since I hadn’t shown up at the bank yet. I grimaced and texted Mosley back first, saying that I had car trouble and would be there as soon as possible. It was a totally lame excuse, and I knew he would see right through it, but if he finally fired me, so be it. Protecting Isabelle and her son was more important than anything else right now, including my job.

I also texted Gin and Bria, telling them that everything was fine and that I was heading over to the bank to help Mosley. I could have told them where I was and what I was doing, and they would have both offered to come and back me up. Maybe I should have asked for their help, given how dangerous Bart was. But I decided not to. They’d both been through enough the past few weeks, especially Gin, who’d almost died twice because of me.

Besides, this was my mess, my responsibility, and I wanted—needed—to take care of it myself. I needed to do something right for a change, after doing so many things wrong with Deirdre.

I’d just put my phone away when a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror, and a familiar black SUV cruised past my car, pulled over to the curb in front of the house, and stopped. The doors opened, and Bart Wilcox got out of the vehicle, along with the two men who’d been with him earlier.

Unlike me, Bart was still dressed in his fancy gray suit, with those gold rings still glinting on his fingers. His goons were both carrying baseball bats, but Bart’s hands were empty. He didn’t have any weapons, but then again, he didn’t need them. His giant strength would be more than enough to deal with most problems.

However, Finnegan Lane wasn’t most problems.

I made sure that my gun was ready and got out of my car, slamming the door shut loudly enough to draw the attention of Bart and his goons. The three of them watched me as I walked down the street and stopped in front of them.

Bart looked me up and down, recognition flashing in his eyes. “You again. Three times in one day.”

“Yeah.” I grinned. “I’m like a bad penny. I just keep turning up.”

He studied me a little more closely, his face twisting into a mocking sneer. “What’s with the black ninja clothes? Did you finally get rid of that cheap-ass suit?”

“Nah,” I said. “I just didn’t want to get your blood all over it.”

His black eyebrows shot up in his face at my casual threat, and the other two giants clutched their baseball bats a little tighter, looking back and forth from me to their boss, waiting for him to give the order to attack me.

Bart’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“I know exactly who you are. Bart the Butcher, Ashland’s most sadistic bookie.”

He nodded. “Then you know why I’m here—and that nothing stops me from collecting on a debt.”

I shook my head. “Isabelle doesn’t owe you anything. You want to beat the shit out of someone, go talk to Paul.”

“Ah, but you see, Paulie doesn’t have two nickels to rub together, whereas Mrs. Vargas is about to come into a very hefty life-insurance settlement.” Bart grinned, baring his teeth at me. “But then, you know all about that, since you’re the reason her husband is dead. Right, Finn?”

I froze at the sound of my name.

“Oh, yeah.” Bart sneered at me again. “I know exactly who you are. Finnegan Lane, one of Gin Blanco’s little lapdogs. And you know what else? Word’s gotten around about that attempted robbery at First Trust and how you opened the front doors and let those thieves walk right in. How does it feel, being played for such a fool? And by your own mama, no less?”

He threw his head back and laughed, and his two goons joined in with loud, hearty chuckles.

Red-hot rage scorched through me, along with the familiar bitter waves of guilt and shame, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment, despite the cold air. But I forced myself to remain calm in the face of the giant’s cruel taunts.

“Get in your car, leave, and never come back here again,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I’ll let you live.”

“You? Will let me live?” Bart’s low, sinister laughter echoed through the night like dark, ominous thunder. “Oh, that’s cute.”

“Leave right now,” I warned. “Or you won’t like what happens next.”

He quit laughing and eyed me again. “You know what? I would maybe be a little bit intimidated by you, except for one small thing.”

“What’s that?”

The giant slowly turned around in a circle and made a big show of looking up and down the empty street before throwing his hands out wide. “The fact that Blanco’s not here to back up your petty threats.”

“I—”

I started to say that I didn’t need Gin to fight my battles, but Bart had already turned back toward his goons.

He waved his hand in my direction. “Kill him. Then come on up to the house, and we’ll have some fun with the grieving widow.”

Bart laughed again and started striding up the lawn toward the porch.

Isabelle must have heard us talking, because she was standing in front of one of the picture windows. The giant grinned again, raised his hand, and blew her a loud, smacking kiss. Isabelle’s eyes widened, and she darted away from the window, probably to lock the front door, although that wouldn’t slow Bart down for more than a few seconds. I needed to stop the giant before he smashed his way into the house and hurt her.

I headed after him, but the two goons stepped in front of me, blocking my path. The men grinned and slapped their baseball bats in their hands, trying to intimidate me. They thought those bats and their inherent giant strength made them tougher than me.

Maybe. But all that certainly didn’t make them smarter.

Even as the first giant raised his weapon and stepped toward me, I pulled my gun out of my coat pocket and shot him in the knee.

Pfft!

The silenced gun barely made a whisper, but the same couldn’t be said for the giant, who yelped in pain, dropped his bat, and tumbled to the asphalt. It would have been easier to shoot him again, but more rage surged through me, and I decided to let it out. So I darted forward, dug my fingers into his greased hair, and slammed his head up against the side of the SUV repeatedly, putting as much force behind each blow as I could.

Thwack-thwack-thwack.

Three good, solid whacks later, I let go. The giant’s moans abruptly cut off, and he slumped to the street, blood gushing out of the ugly dents I’d just put in his skull. They matched the ones in the SUV.

He wouldn’t be getting up from those wounds—ever—so I whirled around to the second guy, who was already cursing, dropping his bat, and going for the gun tucked into his waistband. He yanked the weapon free and raised it up at me—

Pfft!

But I was faster, and I shot him in the chest before he could fire. He dropped to the ground without a sound, already dead from the bullet I’d put through his heart.

I whirled around and stepped forward, ready to sprint up the lawn and kill Bart before he broke into the house—

Crack!

Too late, I spotted the giant out of the corner of my eye, and he slammed his fist into the side of my face.

Pain exploded in my jaw and radiated up into my temples, before wrapping around my entire skull, squeezing tighter than a vise. White stars exploded in front of my eyes like fireworks, and I staggered back, feeling like I’d just been hit upside the head by a sledgehammer. Bart had realized that I’d dealt with his men, and he’d come back down the lawn to kill me himself. Lucky me.

“You think you can take me out?” the giant snarled. “No fucking way.”

Even though I was still drunkenly staggering, I blinked the white stars away as best as I could and raised my gun. Bart growled, stepped up, and slapped the weapon out of my hand before I could pull the trigger. I tried to track the gun’s progress as it sailed across the lawn, but it was dark, and the weapon vanished into the grass.

Bart, though, was easy to see, since the bastard was right in front of me. And very, very large.

The giant let out another growl, put his head down, and charged at me like a raging bull. But I was no matador, and I wasn’t able to slide to the side in time. My head was still spinning so badly that I couldn’t even lurch out of the way. Bart easily grabbed me around the waist, hoisted me up into the air, and body-slammed me back down onto the ground like an NFL linebacker. I was the poor, unfortunate football he was spiking. Touchdown, Bart.

My head snapped back against the ground, causing more pain to shoot through my skull and another cascade of white stars to explode in front of my eyes. Before I could even think about scrambling away, Bart positioned himself on top of me, grinned, and drew back his fists.

Thud-thud-thud.

Bart the Butcher slammed his fists into my chest over and over again. His giant strength was bad enough, but those damn gold rings on his fingers made the blows more painful. It was like being beaten with brass knuckles, just as I’d thought, but worse, since all those mounds of diamonds on his rings dug into my ribs with their sharp, shiny edges, adding to my misery.

Each one of the giant’s punches sent a jolt of pain through my entire chest, telling me that he’d already cracked at least a couple of my ribs. It wouldn’t be long before he shattered the bones outright. Once that happened, all it would take would be a broken bone stabbing into one of my lungs, and I’d wheeze to death right here on the lawn, choking on my own blood.

I was in serious danger of never getting up from this fight, but instead of being scared, more red-hot rage roared through me.

He wanted to play dirty? Well, so could I.

I snapped up my thumbs, trying to gouge the bastard’s eyes out, but Bart just chuckled, slapped my hands away, and raised his rings and his fists for another round—

Crack!

A baseball bat slammed into Bart’s shoulder before he could start whaling on me again, and suddenly, Isabelle was there, standing over the giant and drawing the bat back for a second swing.

“Leave him alone!” she yelled.

But Bart was quicker, and he reached out and grabbed the end of the bat, pulling it and her in close to his body. “I’ll deal with you soon enough,” he growled into her face, then shoved her away.

Isabelle let out a muffled cry, staggered back, and tumbled to the ground, the baseball bat flying out of her hands.

While Bart was distracted, I combed the ground with my hands, shoving my fingers through the dirt and the grass, desperately trying to find my gun. I didn’t locate the weapon, but my fingers wrapped around something heavy and metal, with odd edges that dug into my palm. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out what it was, but then I realized that it was Leo’s fire truck, the toy I’d tripped over earlier today.

“And now, back to our main event,” Bart said as he drew his fists back to hit me again.

Crack!

I snatched up the fire truck and slammed it into the side of his head. The toy didn’t do any real damage, but it was enough to get the giant to grunt in surprise and fall over onto his side. I dropped the toy and scrambled up and away from him, even though the quick motions made my chest ache even worse and caused more white stars to flash before my eyes.

Bart growled again and started to get up, but I gritted my teeth, pushed my pain away, and kicked him square in the face, making him fall back and tumble ass over teakettle down the lawn. All the while, my head shot back and forth, back and forth, still scanning the lawn for my gun. A small glint of metal caught my eye.

There.

“You little punk!” Bart hissed. “You ruined my suit! You’ll pay for that!”

The giant rolled over, got up onto his knees, and threw himself forward, trying to drive me back down to the ground so he could finish beating me to death. I sidestepped his lunge and threw myself forward, doing my best quarterback slide and stretching my hand out, desperately trying to snatch my gun out of the grass before he latched onto me again.

“You’re not getting away that easy,” he snarled.

My fingers closed over the cold metal. Bart grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet, drawing his fist back for another strike.

I whipped around, shoved my gun up against his body, and fired.

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!

I shot the bastard three times in the gut.

Blood spurted all over both of us, the drops stinging my hand like hot candle wax. Bart staggered back, a shocked expression on his face. He looked down, watching as more blood stained his shirt, along with the rest of his fancy gray suit.

“I told you I didn’t want to get your blood on my suit,” I hissed.

The giant’s head nodded, almost like he was agreeing with me, and then he crumpled to the ground and was still.

 7 

Once I was sure that Bart the Butcher had been, well, butchered, I put my hands on my knees, blinking away the last of the white stars. Every breath I drew in through my sore, bruised, battered ribs hurt, but the pain was better than not breathing at all.

Isabelle slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position. She blinked a few times, shaking off her own rough fall, and looked over at Bart’s body, which was now decorating her lawn like an overgrown garden gnome.

“You . . . you killed him,” she whispered.

“Yeah. And his friends too.”

She glanced at the two giants lying by the SUV, as dead as their boss. Her face paled a little more, and she raised a shaking hand to her heart. “What—what am I going to do? There are three dead giants at my house!”

I shuffled over and crouched down in front of her, staring into her hazel eyes. “You’re not going to do anything. As far as you know, nothing happened here. On the off chance that someone does come around asking questions, you were inside with Leo the whole night, and you didn’t see or hear anything. Okay?”

She kept looking at me with wide, panicked eyes, so I made my voice even gentler.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m going to take care of everything. This won’t come back on you, I promise. Do you trust me?”

Isabelle stared at me, then at the gun in my hand, then at the three dead giants. She blanched, as though she was going to be sick, but she managed to push down her fear and anxiety. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“Not really,” I agreed. “Now, do me a favor. Go inside, get cleaned up, and check on your son.”

She opened her mouth like she was going to argue, but after a moment, she pressed her lips together and jerked her head. She let me help her to her feet, then hurried up the lawn to the front-porch steps and disappeared into the house.

I waited a few seconds, until I was sure that she wasn’t going to come back outside, and pulled my cell phone out of my jacket pocket. It was still in one piece, and I hit a number on the speed dial. The person on the other end picked up right away.

“Yeah?” A harsh voice filled my ear.

“It’s Finn. I need a favor. Of the large variety.”

Silence. “How many?”

“Three.”

I could hear the smile in her voice when she answered me. “I’ll be right there.”

Twenty minutes later, a classic convertible with swooping fins pulled up and stopped in front of the Vargas house. The driver’s door opened, and a woman got out. She was a dwarf, a little more than five feet tall, with a strong, stocky body. She looked like she should have been doing maintenance work, given her black coveralls and heavy boots, but her specialty was definitely cleanup. Sophia Deveraux, the head cook at the Pork Pit and my go-to body disposer.

From my spot on the porch steps, I waved to Sophia, then got up and met her in the middle of the lawn. She eyed Bart’s crumpled form and those of the two giants by the SUV at the curb.

“Looks like someone had fun tonight,” she rasped in her rough, broken voice.

I started to laugh but had to stop because of my bruised ribs. “Not exactly. But I need you to help me make these guys disappear, along with their SUV. Will you do that for me?”

She grinned, reached out, and pinched my cheek like I was a kid. “Always.”

I rolled my eyes. Sophia chuckled, and the two of us got to work. She pulled a measuring tape out of one of her coverall pockets, using it to figure out the best way to jigsaw the giants’ bodies into the oversized trunk of her convertible. Then the two of us dragged the bodies over to her car and loaded them inside.

Actually, Sophia did all the heavy lifting with her impressive dwarven strength, and I just supervised, given my aching ribs. While she moved the bodies, I gave her a brief rundown of everything that had happened.

“Poor family,” she said when I’d finished.

“Yeah. But at least this guy won’t be bothering them anymore.”

“Good riddance,” she muttered, and shut the trunk on the dead giants.

I couldn’t agree more.

Sophia pulled her car keys out of her pocket, ready to drive the bodies off to parts better left unknown, but I reached out and gently grabbed her arm. There was one more thing I needed her to do.

“Please don’t tell Gin or Bria about this. Okay?”

Sophia’s eyebrows shot up, but after a moment, understanding filled her black gaze. “You don’t want them to worry.”

I grimaced. “No. Not any more than they already have been worrying about me. I’ve put them, you, Jo-Jo, and everyone else through enough the past few weeks. So let’s just keep this between us, okay?”

Sophia nodded. “Okay.”

I reached out and hugged her, and she hugged me back even tighter, cracking my back and causing fresh aches and pains to ripple through my body.

“Ribs . . . bruised ribs . . . remember?” I squeaked out.

Sophia laughed and dropped her arms. She winked at me, pinched my cheek again, got into her car, and drove away.

I stood by the curb, rubbing my chest and slowly breathing in and out. That woman did not know her own strength. But that was one of the things I loved about her.

Now that the bodies were gone, there was only one thing left to do. I trudged up the lawn to the front-porch steps. Isabelle had been sneaking looks at Sophia and me through the windows, and she stepped outside onto the porch with me.

“The bodies are gone,” I said. “Sophia will come back for Bart’s SUV tomorrow morning at the latest and get rid of it too. Everything’s been taken care of. You and Leo should have some peace and quiet now.”

“I just checked on him,” she said. “He slept through the whole thing.”

“That’s good.”

She nodded. “I want to thank you. For saving me. For saving my son. You were right. Bart would have hurt us both tonight, maybe even killed us.”

“You don’t have to thank me. It was the least I could do.”

She snorted. “People always say that, but they very rarely do anything at all.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

We stood on the porch, both shifting on our feet, not quite sure what else to say.

Finally, Isabelle squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and looked me in the eyes. “I’m sorry that I blamed you for my husband’s death. Mr. Mosley told me what happened to you at the bank. How you were tortured during the robbery . . . by your mother.”

I winced. “Mosley told you what happened? He told you about my mother?”

“Yes, earlier today, when he was here at the house with the other mourners. I’d heard the rumors, of course, but he took me aside and explained it all to me in private.” Isabelle shook her head. “You didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that. Especially not from your own mother, the person who’s supposed to protect and love you above all else.”

I couldn’t argue with that either.

“You’re a good man, Finnegan Lane,” she said in a soft voice. “I hope you find a way to move past all of this.”

My throat closed up, and tears stung my eyes at her sympathetic tone. I didn’t deserve her understanding, much less her sympathy. And yet here she was, giving it to me anyway. Isabelle Vargas was a good woman and a far better person than I was.

“Mama? What’s going on?”

We both looked over to see Leo standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and clutching a stuffed penguin to his chest.

“Mama’s just chatting with her friend,” Isabelle said. “Go back inside, and I’ll come and tuck you in soon. Okay?”

“Okay.” Leo yawned and disappeared back into the house.

Isabelle waited until he was gone, then faced me again. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

I shook my head. “There’s no need for that. I’m just happy that you and Leo are safe now. You’re a great mom. That little guy is lucky to have you.”

Isabelle smiled at me for a brief moment before going back into her house.

I waited until she had shut and locked the front door, then walked to my car. I got in, cranked the engine, and switched on the heat. While I waited for the vehicle to warm up, I looked back over at the house.

Through the windows, I could see Isabelle picking up Leo and hugging him tight. She snapped off the downstairs lights, and they vanished into the darkness.

The familiar guilt filled me at the thought that Peter wasn’t with them and that their family wasn’t whole anymore, but the razor-sharp edges of it had softened just a bit. I’d done a lot of things wrong when Deirdre had come to town, but tonight I’d finally done something right.

“Sleep tight, guys,” I whispered to Isabelle and Leo, even though they couldn’t hear me.

I smiled, put my car into gear, and drove away, feeling better than I had in weeks.

 8 

Despite the fact that I’d almost been beaten to death by a giant, my night was not over yet. Far from it.

Stuart Mosley had sent me several texts while I’d been dealing with Bart the Butcher, asking where I was and why I wasn’t at the bank helping him with those safety-deposit boxes yet. The tone of each text was sharper and more demanding than the last, indicating that if I didn’t get my ass over to the bank ASAP, I might as well not bother coming back ever again.

I drove to the bank, parked my car, and knocked on the front doors. The giant standing guard inside eyed the blood and bruises on my face, but he didn’t ask me any questions as he opened the doors. No doubt, he thought I’d gotten a richly deserved beating for everything that had happened. He wasn’t wrong about that.

But I couldn’t let Mosley see me looking like this, so I headed downstairs to my office to change out of my blood-, dirt-, and grass-covered clothes.

My office door was cracked open, a sliver of light spilling out into the basement hallway. I frowned, pushed the door open the rest of the way, and stepped inside. Weird. I didn’t remember leaving my office unlocked or the lights on when I’d left earlier today—

My desk chair whirled around, and Stuart Mosley was sitting there.

I yelped and staggered back against the door. “What are you doing in here? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

The dwarf arched his bushy eyebrows at my harsh, accusing tone. “Well, it’s my bank, Finn, so I can go anywhere I want to, including your office.”

I winced and ducked my head in a silent apology. All the while, though, I was eyeing the bathroom door on the other side of the office, wondering how I could politely dart in there without Mosley noticing my battered face or, worse, all the blood and dirt on my clothes.

The dwarf crossed his arms over his own impeccable suit jacket. “It’s about time you showed up,” he growled. “I didn’t think it would take you so long to deal with that giant bookie. Don’t you usually eat guys like that for breakfast?”

For a moment, his words didn’t register, but when they finally did sink into my brain, my head snapped up, and my mouth dropped open in surprise.

“You knew about Bart the Butcher? That he was threatening Isabelle?”

Mosley scoffed. “Of course I knew. I know everything that goes on around here, especially when it comes to my employees.”

“But—but how?”

“Peter came to me about a month ago, wanting to take out a second mortgage on his house. He told me about his brother’s gambling debts and how Bart Wilcox was pressuring him to pay up or else,” Mosley said. “Then, right after Peter’s death, Isabelle came to me, asking how fast she could get his life-insurance money. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

Understanding flashed through me. “That’s why you wanted me to walk Isabelle outside this morning and go to her house after the funeral. You knew that Bart would be outside the bank waiting for her, and you knew that he would probably show up at her house too, trying to get his money.”

Mosley gave me a noncommittal shrug.

“But why?” I asked. “Why would you want me to know about Isabelle’s problems with Bart?”

The dwarf leaned forward, propped his elbows on my desk, steepled his hands together, and gave me a steely look. “I wanted to see how much like your father you really were.”

And just like that, everything made sense. I’d always known that Mosley and Dad had been friends. Dad was the one who’d helped me get my first internship with the bank way back when. But apparently, Mosley had also known about my dad’s penchant for helping people who couldn’t help themselves, both as the businessman Fletcher Lane and as the assassin the Tin Man.

“You sly son of a bitch,” I muttered. “You set me up.”

A faint smile creased Mosley’s face. “I prefer to think of it as creative problem solving.” He arched his eyebrows at me again. “I take it that the situation has been handled to Mrs. Vargas’s satisfaction?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that she was satisfied by my bloodying up her lawn, but those men certainly won’t bother her ever again,” I said in a wry tone.

Mosley nodded, ignoring my sarcasm. “Good. I’ll call her first thing in the morning and tell her that the life insurance has been paid in full.”

My eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. You’ve had the life-insurance money this whole time? Why didn’t you just go ahead and give it to her? Or at least offer to help her get out from under Bart’s thumb yourself?”

He shrugged again. “Because I knew that Isabelle would be too proud to take any help that I might offer her, just like Peter was too proud to take it when I offered it to him. I wanted to make sure that Isabelle and her son would be taken care of for the rest of their lives. Not have to throw all that money away on a debt that wasn’t even theirs. Now, thanks to you, I’m assured of that. I’ve done right by Peter. We both have.”

I stood there like a fool, my mouth still gaping, trying to understand everything. I’d always known that Mosley was clever, but I hadn’t imagined that he was this clever. He’d put events in motion, then had sat back and watched while everything had fallen into place exactly the way he’d wanted. I didn’t know whether to admire or be angry at his manipulations of me.

But he was right about one thing: Isabelle and Leo were better off because of what I’d done tonight.

Mosley got to his feet, buttoned his suit jacket, and came around my desk. He stopped right in front of me, examining the bruises on my face and the bloodstains on my clothes.

“Go get cleaned up, Finn,” he said in a kinder voice. “Then meet me in the vault in twenty minutes. We still have work to do tonight.”

This time, it was actually a request instead of an order.

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good man.” Mosley reached out, patted my shoulder, and left my office.

I shook my head, still trying to wrap my mind around this new revelation, then did as he’d asked. Fifteen minutes later, I’d showered, changed into a fresh suit, and slathered a healthy amount of Jo-Jo’s healing ointment on my face and ribs. I still ached with every breath I took, but the Air elemental magic in the ointment took the edge off the worst of the pain.

I went over to my desk to get some folders, and my gaze locked onto Deirdre’s icicle-heart rune, still sitting in the candy dish. The jagged diamond icicles glinted as brightly as ever, despite all the ugly things that had happened between my mother and me.

I grabbed the necklace and held it up, watching it sway back and forth like a clock’s pendulum, ticking off all my mistakes. Looking at Deirdre’s rune still hurt, as did thinking about everything she’d done to me and all the people who’d died as a result of her twisted scheme. But it didn’t fill me with quite as much misery as before. I didn’t know what I would ultimately do with the necklace, but for now, I would leave it here, as a reminder both of her betrayal and of the promise I’d made at Peter Vargas’s grave. I couldn’t change what Deirdre had done or bring back the guards she’d killed, but I could look out for their loved ones who’d been left behind.

Whether they wanted me to or not.

“Finn!” Mosley bellowed from out in the hallway. “Are you ready yet?”

“Yes, sir! Coming, sir!” I called out.

I carefully nestled Deirdre’s rune back in the candy dish, grabbed the folders, and left my office.

It was time to get back to work—in more ways than one.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next book in the Elemental Assassin series

By Jennifer Estep

Coming soon from Pocket Books

 1 

It was the perfect night to kill someone.

Thick, heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars, deepening the shadows of the cold December evening, and an icy drizzle spattered down from the sky, slowly covering everything in a slick, glossy, treacherous sheen. Icicles had already formed on many of the trees that lined the street, looking like gnarled, glittering fingers that were crawling all over the bare, skeletal branches. No animals moved or stirred, not so much as an owl sailing into one of the treetops searching for shelter.

Down the block, red, green, and white holiday lights flashed on the doors and windows of one of the sprawling mansions set back from the street, and the faint trill of Christmas carols filled the air. A steady stream of people hurried from the mistletoe-festooned front door, down the snowmen-lined driveway, and out to their cars, scrambling into the vehicles and cranking the engines. Someone’s dinner party was rapidly winding down, although it was only nine o’clock. Everyone wanted to get home and be all safe, warm, and snug in their own beds, dreaming of sugarplums, before the weather got any worse. In ten minutes, they’d all be gone, and the street would be quiet and deserted again.

Yes, it was the perfect night to kill someone.

Too bad my mission was recon only.

I slouched down in my seat, staying as much out of view of the passing headlights as possible. But none of the drivers gave my battered old white van a second look, and I doubted that any of them even bothered to glance at the blue lettering on the side that read Cloudburst Falls Catering. Caterers, florists, musicians. Such service vehicles were all too common in Northtown, the part of Ashland where the rich, social, and magical elite lived. If not for the lousy weather, this entire street probably would have been lit up with holiday cheer as people hosted various parties, each one trying to outdo their neighbors with garish light displays.

Once the last of the cars cruised by and the final pair of headlights faded away, I straightened up in my seat, picked up my binoculars from my lap, and peered through them at another nearby mansion.

A stone wall cordoned this mansion off from the street, featuring a wide iron gate that was closed and locked. Unlike its neighbor, no holiday lights decorated this house, and only a single room on the front was illuminated—an office with glass doors that led out to a stone patio. Thin white curtains covered the doors, and every few seconds, the murky shape of a man would appear, moving back and forth, as though he were continuously pacing from one side of his office to the other.

I just bet he was pacing. From all the reports I’d heard, he’d been holed up in his mansion for months now, preparing for his murder trial, which was set to begin after the first of the year. That would be enough to drive anyone stir-crazy.

Beside me, a soft creak rang out, followed by a long, loud sigh. Two sounds that I’d heard over and over in the last hour I’d been parked here.

The man in the mansion wasn’t the only one going nuts.

“Tell me again. How did I get stuck hanging out with you tonight?” a low voice muttered.

I lowered my binoculars and looked over at Phillip Kincaid, who had his arms crossed over his muscled chest and a mulish expression on his handsome face. A long black trench coat covered his body, while a black toboggan was pulled down low on his forehead, hiding his golden hair from sight, except for the low ponytail that stuck out the back. I was dressed in all black as well, from my boots to my jeans to my turtleneck, silverstone vest, and fleece jacket. A black toboggan also topped my head, although I’d stuffed all my dark brown hair up underneath the knit hat.

“What’s wrong, Philly?” I drawled. “Don’t like being my babysitter tonight?”

He shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. “You’re Gin Blanco, the famed assassin turned underworld queen. You don’t need babysitting.” He shifted in his seat, making it creak again, and shook his head. “But Owen insisted on it. . . . The things I do for that man.”

Phillip was right. As the Spider, I could handle myself in just about any situation. I certainly didn’t need him here, but Owen Grayson, Phillip’s best friend and my significant other, wanted it this way. But I hadn’t protested too much when Phillip had shown up at the Pork Pit and told me that he wanted to tag along tonight.

With the mysterious members of the Circle out there, a little backup might come in handy. Even if said backup was whinier than one would hope.

“Why couldn’t Lane sit out here with you?” Phillip asked. “Or Jo-Jo or even Sophia for that matter? Why did I get elected to freeze my balls off tonight?”

Finnegan Lane, my foster brother, was often my partner in crime in all things Spider-related, while Jo-Jo and Sophia Deveraux respectively healed me and cleaned up the blood and bodies I left in my wake.

“Because Finn is still dealing with the mess that Deirdre Shaw left behind at First Trust bank, and Jo-Jo and Sophia had tickets to The Nutcracker,” I said, ticking our friends off on my fingers. “And of course, you know that Owen promised Eva that he’d help out with that holiday toy drive she’s leading over at the community college.”

“I would have been happy to help Eva with her toy drive,” Phillip grumbled. “Thrilled. Ecstatic even.”

Despite their roughly ten-year age difference, Phillip was crazy about Eva Grayson, Owen’s younger sister, although he was waiting for her to finish college and grow up a bit before pursuing a real relationship with her.

“Anything would have been better—warmer—than this.” He popped up the collar of his trench coat so that it would cover more of his neck, then slouched down even farther in his seat.

“Aw, poor baby. Stuck out here in the cold and dark with me tonight.” I clucked my tongue in mock sympathy. “And to think that I was just about to offer you some hot chocolate.”

His blue eyes narrowed with interest. “You have hot chocolate? Homemade hot chocolate?”

I reached down and pulled a large metal thermos out of the black duffel bag sitting between our seats on the van floor. “Of course I do. You can’t have a stakeout on a cold winter’s night without it.”

I grabbed a couple of plastic cups out of the bag and handed them over to Phillip, who held them steady while I poured. The rich, heady aroma of the decadent drink filled the van, cutting through the icy chill that had crept inside the vehicle. I breathed in the fumes as I capped the thermos and put it away. Phillip passed over my cup, and I drew in a couple more deep, steamy breaths before taking a sip. The dark brew coated my tongue with its bittersweet flavor, softened by the vanilla extract and raspberry puree that I’d added to the mixture.

Phillip cradled his cup like a bum huddled over a trash-can fire. He took a long slurp and sighed again, this time with happiness. “Now that’s more like it.”

We both settled back in our seats, watching the mansion and sipping our hot chocolate.

The folks who’d been hosting the dinner party must have decided to go to bed, since the recorded carols abruptly cut off, and the holiday lights winked out one door, window, and plastic snowman at a time, further blackening the landscape. The icy drizzle picked up as well, turning into more of a steady rain, each drop tinking against the van windshield. It truly was a night fit for neither man nor beast, but these were my favorite kinds of environments as an assassin. The cold, the rain, and the darkness always made it that much easier to get close to your target and then get away after you’d put him down. If I’d wanted someone dead, I would have waited for a night just like this one to strike.

And I was willing to bet that someone might have the same idea about the man in the mansion.

Phillip tipped his cup at the shadow still pacing back and forth behind the patio doors. “You really think that he knows something about the Circle?”

I shrugged. “He’s the best lead I have right now—and the only person still alive who might know anything about them.”

Two weeks ago, I’d been kidnapped and held hostage by Hugh Tucker, a vampire who claimed that he was part of a secret group that supposedly pulled the strings on the underworld and everything else in Ashland. That had certainly come as news to me, since I was supposedly the head of the underworld these days. But Tucker had claimed that the Circle was an organization of criminals so high-and-mighty that no one could touch them, especially not a lowly assassin like me. The vamp had also said that the Circle monitored everything from behind the scenes—and that they could kill me and my friends anytime they wanted to.

But the most shocking thing he’d revealed was that my mother, Eira Snow, had supposedly been one of them.

My mother had been murdered when I was thirteen, a deep loss that I still felt to this day. But I’d viewed her like any other kid. She was my mom—nothing more, nothing less. I’d never really thought about who she was, much less what kind of person. The good things she did, the bad ones, how she felt about all of them. I didn’t know any of that. But Tucker had turned my world upside down with his accusations, and I wanted to know if they were true: I had to know if my mother had been the good person I’d always assumed she was, or just as rotten, heartless, and depraved as the rest of this shadowy Circle.

“You know, we could just go knock on his door and ask him about all this,” Phillip said.

I snorted. “He wouldn’t tell me anything. Nothing I could trust anyway. He hates me too much for that.”

Phillip shifted in his seat again. “Well, at least we could get this over with and go home. That would certainly keep my balls from turning into ice cubes—”

A pair of headlights popped up in the van’s rearview mirror. I gestured at Phillip, and we both slouched back down in our seats.

A black SUV cruised down the street, passing our van. The vehicle stopped at the end of the block and made a right, disappearing from sight. Phillip started to sit back up, but I held out my hand, stopping him.

“Wait,” I said. “Let’s see if they come back.”

He rolled his eyes, but he stayed still. “Why would they come back? It’s probably just somebody who lives in the neighborhood—”

Headlights popped up in the van’s rearview mirror again, and that same SUV cruised by our position. This time the vehicle turned left at the end of the block.

“Maybe they’re lost,” he said. “All these cookie-cutter Northtown streets and mansions look alike, especially in the dark.”

I shook my head. “They’re not lost. They’re seeing how quiet and deserted the area is for whatever they have in mind. They’ll be back. You’ll see.”

We sat in the van, watching our mirrors. Sure enough, a minute later, that same SUV cruised by us again. Only this time, the vehicle didn’t have its headlights on, or even its parking lights. It whipped a U-turn in the middle of the street, pulled over to the curb, and stopped—right in front of the mansion we were watching.

“Hello,” I murmured. “What do we have here?”

The doors opened, and two people got out of the front of the SUV, both wearing long black trench coats akin to Phillip’s. They were giants, each one roughly seven feet tall with thick shoulders and broad chests; most likely they were the muscle and bodyguards for whoever was in the back of the vehicle.

Sure enough, one of the giants opened a rear door, and a shorter, thinner figure emerged, also sporting a black trench coat, along with a black fedora and a matching scarf wrapped around their neck. I peered through my binoculars, but the person’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see their face, although from the size and gait, I did get the impression that it was a woman.

“Some late-night visitors here for a hush-hush meeting with our old friend?” Phillip mused.

“Maybe.”

One of the giants squatted down. At first, I wondered what he was doing, but then the woman in the fedora and scarf ran over to the giant, who hoisted her high up into the air. Ms. Fedora grabbed hold of the top of the iron gate and swung her legs up and over it with all the grace of an Olympic gymnast. Landing deftly on her feet in the driveway on the other side, she straightened up and started striding toward the mansion with deadly purpose.

I cursed, realizing that I was about to lose my one and only lead on the Circle. I’d considered the possibility that someone might come here to silence him, but part of me hadn’t thought that it would actually happen since everything else I’d tried to track down the members of the Circle had been a dead end.

“Not a meeting,” I growled. “They’re here to kill him.”

Since Fedora was already past the gate, I didn’t have time to ease out of the van, sneak through the shadows, and stab the giants in the back the way I normally would have. So I dropped my binoculars, kicked my door open, barreled out of the vehicle, and ran down the street toward the SUV.

“Gin! Wait!” Phillip shouted, scrambling to get out and follow me.

But I needed to get to the man in the mansion before Fedora did, so I tuned him out. The giants whirled around at the sound of Phillip’s voice and spotted me racing toward them. They cursed, pulled guns from inside their trench coats, and snapped up the weapons.

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!

I zigzagged, and the first round of bullets went wide. But when the giants paused to take more careful aim, I reached for my Stone magic and hardened my skin into an impenetrable shell.

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!

The second round of bullets also went wide. The giants had come prepared, and the silencers on the ends of their weapons muffled the sounds of the shots. No lights snapped on inside the neighboring mansions. They wanted to keep this quiet? Well, so did I.

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!

Two of the shots went wide again, but the third punched into my right shoulder, spinning me around. Still, thanks to my magic, it didn’t blast through me the way it otherwise would have. I skidded on the ice coating the street, but I managed to regain my balance and charge forward again.

Instead of heading toward the giants, I ran straight at the SUV. When I was in range, I leaped up onto the bumper, then the hood, then scrambled up onto the roof. Before the giants realized what I was doing, I raced forward and leaped off the vehicle’s roof, pushing off hard and trying to get as high in the air as possible. Lucky for me, they’d parked close to the curb and the narrow sidewalk. A second later, my hands hit the top of the wall that fronted the mansion, and I dug my boots into the slick stones so that I could pull myself up onto the ledge. Fedora wasn’t the only one who could do gymnastics.

I rolled off the top of the wall and dropped ten feet down to the other side, landing in a crouch. I palmed one of the silverstone knives tucked up my sleeves, surged to my feet, and darted forward across the lawn. The ice-crusted grass crunched like brittle bones under my boots.

The light spilling out from the office perfectly illuminated Fedora, who was fifty feet ahead of me and moving fast, her breath streaming out behind her in a trail of frosty vapor. She must have heard the disturbance out on the street because she picked up her pace, pulled a gun out of her trench coat, and shot through the lock on the patio doors with one smooth motion. A second later, she was inside the mansion.

“Hey!” a man’s voice shouted from inside the office. “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?”

I didn’t hear her reply, if there even was one.

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!

More and more shots sounded on the street behind me, but the giants weren’t aiming at me anymore. Phillip must have gotten into the fight. He could take care of himself, so I focused all my energy on sprinting across the lawn, trying to get to the mansion, even though it was already too late.

Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!

Sure enough, gunfire flashed inside the office, as bright as the holiday lights had been earlier. Someone had just been shot.

A second later, Fedora stepped through the doors and out onto the stone patio. I squinted, but the office lights were behind her, and all I could see in the darkness was the pale glitter of her eyes above the black scarf wrapped around her face. She gave me a mocking salute with her gun before ducking back inside the mansion. Now that her mission was accomplished, no doubt she’d leave through one of the back doors and disappear into the woods. All without my even getting a good look at her face.

I cursed. Even though I wanted to rush inside the mansion, I forced myself to slow down and approach the patio doors with caution, just in case she might be lying in wait to try to kill me too. I also grabbed hold of even more of my Stone power, hardening my skin as much as possible, on the off chance that she decided to blast me with bullets and elemental magic. As a final precaution, I reached out with my power, listening to all the emotional vibrations that had sunk into the stone walls of the mansion.

Harsh, shocked mutters echoed back to me, from the shots the woman had just fired. Alongside that was a high, whiny chorus of worry, fear, and paranoia. But there were no sly whispers or dark murmurs of evil intent that would have signaled that she was hiding in the office, ready to put a bullet in my head the second I stepped inside. Whoever the woman was, she was long gone.

Still, I was careful as I eased into the office, my knife still in my hand, my other hand up and lightly glowing with my Ice magic, ready to blast whoever might attack me.

But only one person was in the office: the man I’d been watching.

Jonah McAllister, my old nemesis, lay sprawled across the floor.

Acknowledgments

As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to all the folks who help turn my words into a book.

Thanks go to my agent, Annelise Robey, and my editor, Adam Wilson, for all their helpful advice, support, and encouragement. Thanks also to Melissa Bendixen.

Thanks to Tony Mauro for designing another terrific cover, and thanks to Louise Burke, Lisa Litwack, and everyone else at Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster for their work on the cover, the book, and the series.

And finally, a big thanks to all the readers. Knowing that folks read and enjoy my books is truly humbling, and I’m glad that you are all enjoying Gin and her adventures.

I appreciate you all more than you will ever know.

Happy reading!

About the Author

JENNIFER ESTEP is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author prowling the streets of her imagination in search of her next fantasy idea.

Spider’s Bite, Web of Lies, Venom, Tangled Threads, Spider’s Revenge, By a Thread, Widow’s Web, Deadly Sting, Heart of Venom, The Spider, Poison Promise, Black Widow, Spider’s Trap, Bitter Bite, and Unraveled, along with the e-shorts Thread of Death, Parlor Tricks, and Kiss of Venom are the other works in her red-hot Elemental Assassin urban fantasy series.

Jennifer is also the author of the Black Blade and Mythos Academy young adult urban fantasy series and the Bigtime paranormal romance series.

For more on Jennifer and her books, visit her at www.JenniferEstep.com and @Jennifer_Estep.

FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Jennifer-Estep

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SimonandSchuster.com

Books in the Elemental Assassin Series

by Jennifer Estep

Spider’s Bite

Web of Lies

Venom

Tangled Threads

Spider’s Revenge

By a Thread

Widow’s Web

Deadly Sting

Heart of Venom

The Spider

Poison Promise

Black Widow

Spider’s Trap

Bitter Bite

Unraveled

E-novellas

Thread of Death

Parlor Tricks

Kiss of Venom

Unwanted

Nice Guys Bite

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Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Estep

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Cover art by Tony Mauro

ISBN 978-1-5011-4229-1