Jennifer Estep - Deadly Sting

Fletcher looked at me, his green eyes searching mine. “Can you do it, Gin? Are you ready for this?”

I stared at the knife still clutched in his hand. The silverstone gleamed like a sharp star in the semidarkness. I’d killed people before. Buried men in the falling stones of my childhood home. Stabbed a giant to death inside the Pork Pit. And I’d watched Fletcher kill a dozen more.

But this—this was different . Before, I’d lashed out at the others in the heat of the moment. Because they’d threatened me, hurt me, and I’d just been defending myself. But tonight I’d come here knowing that Delov would die. I just hadn’t thought that I’d be the one to do it.

It was one thing to watch—it was another to twist the knife in coldly myself.

Maybe—maybe I wasn’t as ready to be an assassin as I thought I was.

But there was nothing to be done about that paralyzing thought. No changing it, no fixing it, no time to think about it. Because it was him or us now, and I’d pick us every single time, no matter what it cost me in the end.

I hesitated a moment longer, then took the weapon from Fletcher. “I can do it.”

“I know you can,” he whispered back.

“Come on,” I said, helping him to his feet. “I’ll help you find someplace to hide. Then I’ll go look for Delov.”

Fletcher nodded, in too much pain to do anything else. I put my arm under his shoulder again and led him deeper into the house, back toward Delov, ready to do what needed to be done . . .

My eyes fluttered open, and it took me a few seconds to remember where I was. That I was safe in bed in Fletcher’s house and not being stalked by a giant with a gun and a grudge. I let out a breath, trying to calm my racing heart and banish the rest of the memories. Slowly, far too slowly, they finally faded away.

I didn’t know what had triggered this specific memory of Fletcher and Delov. It certainly wasn’t the worst one I had. In fact, it was pretty mild compared with some of the other things I’d seen, done, and been through over the years. But something about that night felt particularly important—and ominous, almost like it was a warning of things to come.

I wasn’t an Air elemental, so I never got any glimpses of the future, not like Jo-Jo did. But I couldn’t help but think that something was stirring all the same. Something dark, something dangerous, something that might finally be the death of me.

But then again, this was just a dream, just one of many terrible memories I’d collected over the years, and no doubt more were on the way.

“Paranoid much, Gin?” I said.

Of course, no one answered back. The house was empty. All the whispers of the stones told me so, but for once, the soft, familiar sounds didn’t soothe me. I lay there and closed my eyes, but it was a long, long time before I was able to sleep once more.

Two nights later, Finn pulled his Aston Martin up to the back of a long line of cars.

“See?” he said. “This isn’t so bad, is it? I’ve got a new car, you’ve got a new dress, and we’re going to have a fabulous time lusting after all of Mab’s loot. What could be better than that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “Sitting at home having a nice, quiet evening. Reading a book. Making some sort of sinfully rich and decadent dessert.”

“Spoilsport,” Finn huffed.

I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest. Despite the fact that I hadn’t really wanted to come, I still found myself peering out the window. Curiosity. It was one emotion that always seemed to get the best of me, even tonight.

The exhibit of Mab’s loot , as Finn had so eloquently dubbed it, was being held at Briartop, Ashland’s largest, fanciest, and most highfalutin art museum, located in the uppity confines of Northtown. But what really made Briartop unique was its placement on a large island in the middle of the Aneirin River.

The island, also called Briartop, was like a miniature version of one of the Appalachian Mountains that ran around and through the city. The museum itself was perched on a wide plateau at the very top of the island. A series of stone walkways led out from each one of the three wings into the lush gardens and immaculate lawns that flanked the main building. The paths spiraled down the rocky hillsides before the landscape gave way to dense woods choked with briars and brambles. Back before the museum had been built, blackberry and other briars had covered the entire island in a thicket of thorns. Hence the name. Even now, the museum gardeners waged a constant battle to keep the briars from creeping up and overtaking the colorful flowerbeds and intricate copses of trees they’d worked so hard to cultivate over the years.

An old-fashioned, whitewashed, covered wooden bridge spanned the Aneirin River and led over to the island. The bridge was the only way to get to the museum, although it was only wide enough for cars to cross in single file, which is why Finn was waiting in line, along with a dozen limos and several luxury town cars.

Finally, it was our turn to cross. Finn’s Aston Martin rattled over the heavy boards, then he steered the car up the winding road and pulled into one of the parking lots. We got out of the vehicle. Finn gallantly offered me his arm, and we headed toward the entrance.

Bria had been wondering where all the giant guards in Ashland had gone. Well, tonight they were at Briartop. Giants were stationed at both ends of the covered bridge, communicating by walkie-talkies about when to let the next car cross. Others moved in and out of the parking lots, directing traffic, while several more milled around the museum’s main entrance, checking invitations and enforcing the guest list.

I counted at least twenty giants before we even got close to the front door. Odd. Perhaps the Briartop board had hired extra security for the gala.

Finn and I waited our turn in the line that had formed by the entrance. I stared up at the museum while he fished his engraved invitation out of his jacket.

Briartop was a veritable castle, southern-style. The structure soared five stories into the air and boasted a series of fat, round, domed towers, each one topped with a gleaming weather vane. The gray marble shimmered like a silver star in the warm rays of the setting sun even as the sloping eaves of the coal-black slate roof melted into the gathering shadows. Four massive columns framed the main entrance, while thick crenellated balconies fronted all of the tall, narrow windows. Stone planters decorated each one of the balconies, the lush pink, purple, and white rhododendrons inside providing vivid splashes of color against the marble, almost like paint streaking across a clean canvas.

As if the structure itself wasn’t impressive enough, a large fountain bubbled on the smooth front lawn, its jets of water arching through the air like streams of liquid diamonds. The constant churn of the water shrouded the area in a fine mist and spritzed the honeysuckle curling around and through a series of freestanding, whitewashed trellises that flanked the fountain. The rich, heady aroma of honeysuckle saturated the night air, carried along by a soft summer breeze.

The fountain, vines, and trellises made for a beautiful sight, but I looked away from them. I didn’t much care for fountains. Not anymore. Not after Salina had used them and her water magic to murder people at her deadly dinner party—and tried to drown me in one.

Instead, I reached out with my magic and listened to the murmurs of the museum itself.