Elemental Assassin 03 - Venom (28 page)

Owen leaned over the back of the sofa and ruffled Eva’s hair.

“Are you watching that again?” he said, his voice light and teasing. “If I’d known you were going to make Violet watch it every time you girls had a movie night, I would have bought you something else.”

“It’s not my fault you have no taste in movies,” Eva teased back.

I stood off to one side and watched them. Their good-natured squabbling reminded me of my own relationship with Finn. And the sort of easy camaraderie that I longed to have with Bria someday.

But then Eva spotted me lurking in the shadows. “Gin? Is that you?”

I stepped forward. “In the flesh.”

“Gin, it’s so good to see you!” Eva got up on her knees, leaned over the back of the sofa, and hugged me.

“It really is,” Violet echoed.

Violet put down the popcorn and also got up on her knees and hugged me. I accepted the girls’ greetings. Eva had considered me a friend ever since I’d saved her from being fricasseed by Jake McAllister when the Fire elemental had tried to rob the Pork Pit a few weeks ago.

Violet also considered me a friend but for another reason—I’d killed Tobias Dawson, the dwarf who’d sent his brother to rape and murder her when her grandfather, Warren, wouldn’t sell his land to Dawson. Doing pro bono work had some perks. Saving Eva and Violet from getting dead had been two of them.

Once we got the hugs out of the way, the two girls sat back down on the sofa.

Eva gave me a critical once-over. “You look smoking hot tonight, Gin. I didn’t know you were Owen’s date for that boring riverboat thing.”

I looked at Owen. “Oh, it was sort of a last-minute arrangement.”

His lips twitched. “Very last minute.”

“Well, it’s about time you went out with my big brother,” Eva said. “Even if he wouldn’t know a good movie from a hole in his head.”

I laughed. “I’m glad you approve, Eva. How come you’re not out on the town this evening?”

Violet answered me. “Finals are over, and we decided to veg out.”

“Totally,” Eva agreed.

I nodded at the screen. “With
The Princess Bride,
I see. A classic. I approve.”

I chatted with Violet and Eva a few minutes, asking them about their classes and finals, before Owen finally cleared his throat.

“Sorry, girls, but Gin and I need to talk.” He mussed Eva’s hair again. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Eva rolled her eyes at her brother’s instructions. Violet just snickered.

Owen and I left the living room, and he led me to the back of the house. A heavy wooden door sat closed at the end of a hallway. It bore the same simple hammer rune as the front door. Once again, Owen opened the door and stepped to one side. I entered the room, my gaze sweeping over everything. Big desk, leather chairs and couches, books, maps, crystal lamps, a stone fireplace. Your typical office.

Except for the weapons.

They adorned one entire wall of the room, mounted there in a simple display. Swords, axes, hammers, the occasional mace, and knives. Lots of knives. Some of which could have been carbon copies of my own silverstone instruments. As a former assassin, I always admired well-
crafted weapons. Even across the room, I could tell that these were all finely made. Hmm. So Owen hadn’t been lying when he’d once told me about his interest in crafting weapons. The businessman became more interesting by the minute.

I walked over to the wall and gestured at a long sword, one of a matching set. “May I?”

“Of course.”

I took the weapon from its perch and examined it. Light, lethal, strong, perfectly balanced. Besides size, the only real difference between the sword and one of my own knives was the small rune stamped onto the hilt—Owen Grayson’s hammer. No doubt every silverstone weapon on the wall bore the same rune, the mark of its maker. Evidently Owen was quite the craftsman. He’d probably made the iron sculptures I’d seen throughout the house as well.

Owen had much more than a modest elemental talent for metal, if these weapons were any indication of his skill. I knew I could take any weapon off the wall and use it with the utmost confidence that it wouldn’t bend, break, or shatter the first time I shoved it into someone’s chest. To me, that was the real sign of a master craftsman. I’d always been practical that way.

“Do you like it?” Owen asked, moving to stand beside me. “You should. It’s just a bigger version of the two knives you have hidden up your sleeves, the other two you have strapped to your thighs, the two more hidden in your boots, and the one in your purse.”

Owen’s violet eyes glowed with a faint light, and I felt the faintest bit of magic trickling off him. A cool caress,
not unlike my Stone magic. Not surprising, since metal was an offshoot of Stone. He was using his elemental talent for metal to scope out how many silverstone weapons I currently carried on my person. Couldn’t blame him for that. Not after everything that had happened this evening.

Owen leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. He regarded me with a cool gaze. “So,” he said. “You finally want to tell me what you were doing on that riverboat tonight? With all those knives on you? Because I’m guessing you didn’t go just to play poker.”

I put the long sword back into its slot on the wall, then turned to face him.

“No,” I replied. “I wasn’t there to play poker. I was there to kill Elliot Slater.”

19

Owen Grayson stared at me. He tensed at my blunt words, and emotions flashed in his amethyst eyes. Wariness. Curiosity. Caution. But surprisingly, no fear. And no condemnation.

Seconds ticked by as he looked at me. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty-five…

“I could use a drink,” he finally said. “How about you?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

Owen walked across the room and opened a tall wooden cabinet, revealing a variety of expensive, colorful liquor bottles tucked away inside. “What do you want?”

“Gin. On the rocks. With a twist of lime too, if you’ve got it.”

Owen fixed my drink and poured himself a healthy amount of scotch. I watched him while he worked, but his hands didn’t tremble or shake the way most folks’ would have when they realized they were alone with
someone who’d just announced her murderous intentions. But Owen Grayson seemed as calm as ever.

I could have lied, of course. Could have told him some fairy tale about carrying the knives for protection or other such nonsense. But Owen had heard what I’d said to Finn, Roslyn, and Xavier, and he’d seen the vamp’s confrontation with Elliot Slater. Owen hadn’t become one of the richest businessmen in Ashland by being stupid.

If I hadn’t told him, he would have put two and two together and come up with five on his own. At least this way, I could judge his reaction to my dark intentions—and decide what I was going to do with him. Because fuck potential or not, if I thought Owen Grayson was any kind of threat to me, Finn, or the Deveraux sisters, I’d pluck one of his own weapons off the wall and gut him with it.

Owen handed me the drink and held out his own glass. “To new friendships,” he murmured.

An odd thing to say, given my revelation, but I clinked my glass against his and took a sip of the gin. It went down cold, then spread a sweet heat through my stomach. It still tasted bitter, though. Or perhaps that was just because of my own sour mood—and the fact that I was about to drive away another man by confessing my deepest, darkest secret to him. Might as well get on with it.

I threw back the rest of my gin, set the empty glass on the desk, and walked around to the other side. The bitter taste filled my mouth and spread down my throat. “I’ve got a long night ahead of me, dealing with Roslyn, Xavier, and everything else. So go ahead and ask me whatever you want to ask me.”

“Fair enough.” Owen drained the rest of his scotch and put down his own glass.

We stood there, staring at each other across the desk, him behind it, me in front of it. The steady
tick-tick-tick
of an elaborate iron clock on the wall filled the silence.

“So you were there to kill Elliot Slater,” Owen finally said. “I suppose I don’t have to ask why, given Roslyn Phillips’s reaction to him.”

I shrugged. “That’s one of the reasons. But don’t think I’m doing it purely out of the goodness of my heart. I’ve had some problems with the giant myself. Figured I’d do myself and Roslyn a favor at the same time.”

Owen’s lips flattened into a thin smile. “So you’re a practical sort then.”

“Always.” I drew in a breath. “Assassins have to be.”

Silence.

To his credit, Owen didn’t flinch or grimace or even look away. He just kept staring at me, his violet eyes sharp and shrewd in his cold face.

“Assassin, eh? I thought as much, given the knives,” he said. “That much silverstone is hard to come by, especially when it’s that well crafted.”

“You’re only as good as your tools.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

More silence.

“So do you have a name, Gin?” Owen asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do people call you?”

“Ah, you want to know if you’ve heard of me.”

Assassins went by code names, for a variety of reasons. The good ones, anyway. You weren’t much of an assassin if you let yourself get caught after the fact. Something
that would happen sooner, rather than later, unless you adopted some sort of anonymous moniker. A code name made things so much easier. Booking jobs, getting paid, keeping the po-po in the dark, living long enough to spend the money afterward.

Fletcher Lane’s code name had been the Tin Man, because he never let his heart or emotions get in the way of a job. The old man had dubbed me the Spider because of the scars I bore on my palms and because I’d reminded him of a spider hiding in the corner when he’d first taken me in off the streets—all long, thin, gangly arms and legs. Over the years, Fletcher had taught me how to be the embodiment of the spider rune that marked me—how to be patience itself. To wait and watch and make my own plans, spin my own webs, instead of reacting to others’ schemes.

Owen shrugged. “What can I say? I’m curious.”

“Curious? Most men would be running for the door at this point,” I replied. “Blubbering and screaming all the while.”

He grinned. “I’m not most men.”

No, he wasn’t, a fact that intrigued me more and more, as did the complete lack of judgment in his violet gaze. I could have told Owen that I was a librarian and gotten the same reaction—or lack thereof. Not surprising. He’d seen me after I’d used my Stone magic to collapse Tobias Dawson’s coal mine on top of the dwarf. Owen knew that I’d somehow survived and dug my way out of the rubble. Maybe he hadn’t realized that I was an assassin at that point, but he’d known that I was a survivor. Not much difference, really.

“Besides,” Owen continued. “If you’re as good as you say you are, I wouldn’t make it to the door anyway.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I replied in a quiet voice.

His grin widened. “You know you’re not helping my ego, Gin.”

“Oh,” I said in a lighter tone. “I think you’ve got plenty of confidence to spare, Owen.”

He kept grinning at me, the expression softening his rough features into something more pleasant—and enticing. I looked at his solid frame, his broad shoulders, the apparent strength in his arms. Too bad Finn was on his way over to pick me up. Otherwise, I might have stepped forward and explored this attraction that sparked between Owen and me. Provided, of course, that Owen wasn’t really quaking with terror on the inside over my gruesome revelations. Somehow, though, I didn’t think his calm facade was an act.

“But to answer your question, yes, I do have a name.” I drew in another breath. “One that you’ve probably heard of.”

The grin dropped from his face, and he was serious and somber once more. “And what would that be?”

Instead of answering him, I slowly uncurled my hands and held them out face up, so that he could clearly see the spider rune that marked each one of my palms. A small circle, surrounded by eight thin rays. The symbol for patience. Owen knew what the rune was as well as I did.

“The Spider,” he said in a quiet voice. “You’re the Spider.”

“I was.” A grim smile curved my lips. “I actually retired from the business a couple of months ago. But it doesn’t seem to have sunk in yet.”