Jennifer Estep: The Spider

“Happy anniversary?” Owen asked, peering at the card. “Anniversary of what?”

I glanced to the left at the calendar that I’d tacked up on the wall near the cash register. August twenty-fifth. It had happened ten years ago to the day. Funny, but right now, it seemed like ten minutes ago, given how hard my heart was hammering in my chest. I breathed in, trying to calm myself, but the sweet, sickening stench of the flowers rose up to fill my mouth and slither down my throat like perfumed poison. For a moment, I was back there, back with the roses, back in the shadows, beaten and bloody and wondering how I was going to survive what was coming next—

“Gin? Are you okay?” Owen asked. “You look like you’re somewhere far away right now.”

“I am,” I said in a distracted voice, still seeing things that he couldn’t, memories of another time, another place.

Another man.

Owen reached over and put his hand on top of mine. “Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked in a soft voice.

His touch broke the spell that the roses had cast on me, and I pulled myself out of my memories and stared at him. Owen looked back at me, his violet eyes warm with care, concern, and worry. It always surprised me to see those feelings reflected in his face, especially since we’d almost called it quits for good a few months ago. But we were back together and stronger than ever now. More important, he deserved to know about this. He deserved to know why I am the way I am—and who had helped make me this way.

I gestured for him to take his seat on the stool again, while I laid the dark blue rose back down in the box with the others. I kept the card in my hand, though, my thumb tracing over the words again and again. Then I sat down on my own stool, leaned my elbows on the counter, and looked at Owen.

“Get comfortable,” I said. “Because it’s a long story. Funny enough, it all begins with a girl—a stupid, arrogant girl who thought that she could do no wrong . . .”

TEN YEARS AGO

My target never even saw me coming.

He had apparently forgotten the fact that I was just as cunning and even more ruthless than he was. He thought he was so smart, so clever, so very safe , perched on top of the rocks in his little sniper’s nest, that he didn’t remember one of the most important rules: watch your own back first.

He’d picked an excellent spot for his ambush, the highest point in this part of the old Ashland Rock Quarry, which let him see for a quarter-mile in every direction. The stack of rocks curved up, up, and up, before spreading out into a large shelf, almost like the trunk of a tree sprouting up and out into one long, thick, sturdy branch. A couple of small pine trees and rhododendron bushes had somehow managed to embed themselves in the top of the rocky shelf, giving him even more cover. He’d camouflaged himself well too, his gray T-shirt and khaki pants blending into the muted colors of the rocks and foliage. If I hadn’t already known he was out here hunting me, I might never have spotted him.

But I had—and now he was going to pay for his mistake.

His position indicated that he’d focused his attention on the quarry entrance, where a tall iron gate stood, one that was missing more than a few of its bars, as though they were teeth that had been knocked out of its metal mouth. Even though I was a hundred feet away from the gate, I could still hear the rusty sign attached to the remaining bars creak-creak-creak ing back and forth in the gusty breeze. Every once in a while, I caught a glimpse of the faded words painted on the sign: Enter at your own risk .

Rather appropriate, since the man on the stone shelf had been sent here to get the best of me. But I was going to outsmart him instead. My source had told me that the sniper would be lurking somewhere in the quarry, so instead of strolling in through the front gate like he’d expected, I’d hiked into the area via a little-used access road, the same one that Bria and I used to race down when we were kids and heading to the quarry to play.

My heart tightened at the thought of my dead baby sister, with her big blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a head full of bouncing golden curls. But I ruthlessly forced the memory from my mind, along with the anger, sorrow, and helplessness that always came with it.

I wasn’t helpless anymore, and I was here to beat my enemy, not moon about the past and things that couldn’t be changed.

It had taken me the better part of half an hour to find the sniper’s perch, but I’d eased from rock to rock and one side of the quarry to the other until I’d located him. Now all that was left to do was to get close enough to strike. If he’d been down here, I could have gotten on with things already, but he’d decided to make things difficult.

He always did.

A bit of annoyance flitted through me as I stared up at the ridge. The sniper stayed where he was in the shadows cast out by the trees, the black barrel of his gun barely peeping over the lip of the rock. I was huddled underneath a small stone outcropping off to his right, so he couldn’t see me unless he turned and specifically looked in this direction.

He wouldn’t see me—until it was too late.

But there was one more thing I needed to do before I approached him, so I placed my hand on the stone formation next to me and reached out with my magic.

All around me, the rocks whispered of their history, of everything that had happened to them, of all the things that people had done on, in, and around them over the years. As a Stone elemental, not only could I hear those emotional vibrations, but I could also interpret them.

The quarry rocks muttered with anger about how they’d been blasted, broken, and bored into, forced to give up the precious gems, ores, and minerals that they had contained until now there was nothing left of them but these empty, crumbling shells. But there were softer, gentler murmurs too, ones that spoke of the rocks’ relief that the summer sun had started to descend behind the western mountains, taking all of its stifling heat along with it.

I reached out, sinking even deeper into the stone and listening for any signs of worry, distress, or danger.

But I didn’t hear any evil intentions rippling through the sunbaked rocks, only their desire to be left alone and their cranky grumbles about the weather that constantly eroded them bit by tiny bit. Few folks came here anymore, except for bums looking for a quiet place to make camp or people with small pickaxes digging for whatever leftover gems or chunks of ore they could find in the jagged formations.

Satisfied that the sniper was alone, I dropped my hand from the rocks.

His position on top of the ridge might have given him a great view of the entrance, but he couldn’t see what was directly below him, so he didn’t notice me dart from one stone outcropping to the next until I’d worked my way around to the back side of his location.

I shielded my eyes against the sun’s glare and stared up at the stones. The ridge rose about a hundred feet, much of it sheer and slick with age, but a few rocks jutted out here and there to offer handholds and climbing perches. More annoyance spurted through me; I wanted to take out my enemy and be done with things, but my mentor firmly believed in the old saying that good things came to those who waited. Actually, I thought that good things came to those who took action.

So I stepped over to the ridge and placed my hand on the rocks, once again listening to them, but they still only murmured of the hot sun and the damage that had been done to them. I curled my fingers around the rocks, feeling the sharp edges digging into my palms, and hoisted myself off the ground a few inches, making sure that they would hold my weight and not crumble to dust.