Jennifer Estep: By a Thread

“But mostly, I miss Callie,” Bria continued.

The Callie in question was Callie Reyes, Bria’s best friend since childhood. When Finn had first broached the idea of a vacation, Bria had immediately suggested Blue Marsh. Apparently, she’d been dying to come back and visit Callie ever since she’d left to go to Ashland. The last few days, Bria had talked nonstop about her friend and how much she was looking forward to seeing her again. The two of them had already made plans to spend some time together in between Callie’s work schedule—plans that Bria didn’t include me in. That had hurt more than I’d expected, but at this point, I’d do anything to make my sister happy—even let her spend our vacation with someone else.

“I can’t wait to see Callie,” Bria added. “And I can’t believe she went and got engaged without me even meeting the guy first. She seems really crazy about him, but I need to check him out and make sure that he’ll treat her right. My best friend can’t just marry anybody, you know. Callie’s always been there for me, especially when my parents died. I want to make sure that she’s found the right guy.”

“Of course you do,” I said in a light tone, trying to match her mood. “I know how much you care about her, and I’m looking forward to meeting her. Maybe we can all go out for drinks one night and really get to know each other.”

Silence. Once again, I felt that anger rolling off Bria—this time, for my trying to butt into her plans.

“Sure,” Bria said, several seconds too late to be believable. “That sounds like fun.”

An awkward silence filled the car, dimming the brightness of the day. Bria hit the replay button on the radio, but she didn’t sing along this time. Instead, her hands tightened on the steering wheel, and she sped up, as if she now wanted the drive to be over with as soon as possible.

I sighed, put my head back on the seat, and closed my eyes, wishing the wind could whip my troubles away as easily as it tangled my hair.

An hour later, Bria crossed a bridge, turned off the road, and steered the car through an open iron gate that was set into the middle of a ten-foot-high, white stone wall. A gold plaque on one of the gateposts read The Blue Sands est. 1899 .

We traveled along a curving driveway made of smooth white cobblestones for the better part of a mile. A lush eighteen-hole golf course spread out like an emerald carpet to the left, while the beachfront glinted like bronze diamonds to the right. Copses of peach, pecan, and palmetto trees broke up the flat horizon, although the thick, humid air shimmered in waves that seemed to match the steady rise and fall of the ocean.

The Blue Sands hotel was sandwiched in between the golf course and the beach. The structure soared an impressive thirty stories into the salty sea air, its white stone facade matching the outer wall and the cobblestones we’d just rolled over. Wrought-iron balconies curled around the various floors like ropes of metal ivy, while the roof was made out of red slate, completing the beautiful seaside vista.

I concentrated, reaching out with my magic and listening to the stone of the hotel. Sun-blasted, sand-crusted, and alcohol-soaked murmurs filled my mind, matching the thoughts and actions of the thousands of people who had stayed here over the years. This was a place where people came to take in the sun and sea air, with a bottle of coconut oil in one hand and a freshly made mojito in the other. The easy, breezy sounds weren’t unlike the clogged contentment that rippled through the brick of the Pork Pit.

Bria parked the Aston Martin at the end of a long line of cars waiting to be whisked away by the scurrying valets, and we got out of the convertible. I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head and squinted against the sun’s brilliance, my eyes moving over everyone and everything around us. The men in expensive polo shirts carrying heavy bags of golf clubs, hopping onto carts to be shuttled out to the back nine for their games. Their wives and girlfriends who were all tanned, trimmed, and toned to within an inch of their lives. The valets and bellmen in their white-linen jackets and pants hurrying to keep everyone happy and earn their tips for the day.

“We’re staying here?” I asked. “This is a little more . . . visible than what I had in mind.”

I might be on vacation, but that didn’t mean that I could completely relax my guard. I’d killed plenty of people in Ashland and beyond, and I wouldn’t put it past any of my enemies to try and track me down here. The Blue Sands wasn’t exactly low-profile.

Bria shrugged. “Well, it was my idea to come down here for the weekend, and Finn asked me for hotel recommendations, since I grew up on the island. It’s the fanciest hotel in Blue Marsh. You know how he is.”

Finnegan Lane loved the finer things in life. Actually, love wasn’t a strong enough word for his devotion to his own comfort and luxury— obsessed was more like it. My foster brother always had to have the best of everything, whether it was the latest Aston Martin car, a vintage wine, a decadent, outrageously expensive gourmet meal, or a slick new suit that fit him just so.

“The hotel has one of the best spas on the East Coast,” Bria continued. “As soon as I told Finn that, he made the reservation.”

“Of course he did,” I muttered.

Finn’s enjoyment of fine things extended to pampering himself as often as possible, and he was secure enough in his masculinity to indulge in everything from manicures to seaweed facials to full-body massages. Sometimes I thought Finn was more of a girl than I was.

A valet came over, took the convertible key from Bria, and opened the trunk for a bellman, who started putting our luggage onto a large brass cart. The bellman huffed a little when he lifted out my suitcase, and it thumped down onto the cart with an audible clink-clink-clink , like I’d filled it with loose change that was rattling around inside. His eyebrows drew together, and he looked at me, obviously wondering what I had in my suitcase that made it so heavy.

“My lucky golf clubs,” I chirped in a bright voice. “Both sets. I like to be prepared.”

I’d never played golf a day in my life, and I had no intention of starting while we were here. Although I wasn’t above using one of the clubs to bludgeon someone to death, if the situation called for it.

The bellman shrugged and moved to get the next bag. Behind his back, Bria pulled down her sunglasses and narrowed her eyes at me in suspicion, but I just gave her a serene smile. If my sister thought that I would leave my silverstone knives and the other tools of my bloody, violent trade back home just because we’d come to the beach for a few days, well, she didn’t know me at all.

The thought depressed me more than it should have.

Finn had put our suite for tonight in Bria’s name, so she handled checking in while I kept an eye on our bags. Finally, twenty minutes later, the bellman grunted again as he heaved my suitcase onto the bed. Bria tipped him, and he left us alone, taking the cart and closing the door on his way out.

It might not have been my preferred choice for a hotel, but even I had to admit that Finn had booked us an impressive suite. Three lavish bedrooms all featured king-size beds, mounds of pillows, and flat-screen TVs, while the matching bathrooms contained oversize porcelain tubs that rested on real golden claw feet, along with white wicker baskets full of expensive soaps and flowery lotions. The bedrooms all connected to an enormous central living room with furniture done in shades of white, black, and gray, as well as a fully stocked kitchen and a wet bar that had almost as many different kinds of liquor as Northern Aggression, a nightclub that we frequented back in Ashland. Two French doors led out to a patio complete with furniture and that overlooked the ocean. Tomorrow, when the boys arrived, Finn had arranged for Owen and me to share a similar suite while he and Bria stayed in this one.