Watching her fiddle with her necklace made my fingers curl into my palms, touching the scars on my skin there, a small circle on either hand, each mark surrounded by eight thin rays. The same symbol was also stamped into the middle of the silverstone ring that I wore on my right index finger. My rune, a spider rune, the symbol for patience—and so many other things to me.
It too had once been a necklace, until Mab had used her Fire magic to superheat the silverstone and melt the pendant into my hands, her brutal, effective way of torturing me and marking me in more ways than either one of us had known at the time.
“Gin?” Bria asked.
I snapped out of my memories. “I’m sorry. I spaced out there for a minute. Was there something that you wanted to ask me?”
Bria drew in a breath, but before she could tell me whatever was on her mind, the sound of a door banging open at the front of the house cut her off. A moment later, footsteps sounded. I recognized the heavy tread as belonging to Sophia, but the odd thing was that it didn’t sound like she was walking normally. Instead, a series ofscrape-scrape-scrapes screeched across the hardwood floor, as if Sophia was dragging one of her feet yet moving fast at the same time. Before I could puzzle out why she would be walking that way, she appeared in the salon doorway.
Jo-Jo might be a sweet Southern lady with her pink dresses, polish, and pearls, but Sophia had a different style altogether: Goth. Today, as usual, she wore black from head to toe—boots, jeans, and a T-shirt with a big pair of puckered crimson lips on it. A crimson leather collar spiked with silverstone ringed her throat, and her lipstick was a flat black that matched her hair.
Normally, I found Sophia’s style to be dark but also cool, quirky, and funky. The problem now was that her black clothes kept me from noticing the blood on her arm and leg for several crucial seconds.
“Sophia?” I asked.
Her black eyes met mine, and I saw something there
I’d never seen before: fear.
“Run,” Sophia rasped in her low, broken voice.
Then she collapsed without another word.
Chapter Three
“Sophia?” Jo-Jo said. “Sophia!”
Jo-Jo dropped the bottle of nail polish she’d been holding. The glass shattered on the floor, splattering the bright, glossy, strawberry liquid everywhere, but Jo-Jo didn’t notice as she ran past us to where Sophia lay. Bria and I started forward too, but we’d only taken two steps when the front door banged open again, as though someone had kicked it wildly and sent it flying into the wall. A second later, more footsteps, multiple sets, all heavy, loud, and determined, all headed our way.
Whatever trouble Sophia had gotten into had followed her home.
Bria and I glanced at each other, then both lunged for the buffet table. Bria went for the gun in her straw bag underneath the table, while I reached for my silverstone knives atop its far end. But before we could get to our weapons, six men burst into the salon, all carrying guns.
Two of the men grabbed Jo-Jo and hauled her away from Sophia. The dwarf tried to fight back, but the men were strong, and they easily lifted her off her feet and pinned her against the closest wall. Two more men stood over Sophia, pointing their guns down at her, while another stepped forward, dug his hand into Bria’s golden hair, and yanked her up against his body. The sixth man grabbed my left arm and leered at me, but he didn’t drag me away from the buffet table. His first mistake—and his last.
If it had just been me, I would have instantly gone on the attack, grabbing my knives and using them to cut into the men until there was nothing left of them but bloody chunks. But I couldn’t do that, not while they were holding guns on Bria, Jo-Jo, and Sophia. My Stone magic would let me survive being shot in the chest, but Bria’s Ice and the Deveraux sisters’ Air power wouldn’t.
No, I’d have to be smart about things and wait for the right time to strike. Maybe I’d even keep one of the men alive long enough to question him. Because I wanted to know whom these bastards worked for and who’d sent them after me. That was the only reason I could think of for why they’d stormed into Jo-Jo’s salon: because they knew that the Spider was here, and their boss wanted my head as a prize.
I coldly eyed the men. They were of varying shapes, sizes, and coloring, but they were all fit, trim, and tanned, as though they spent a lot of time outdoors. My gaze dropped to their hands, which were also rough, tan, and callused. Whoever they were, these guys were used to hard physical labor, which seemed at odds with the formality of their dress. They all wore old-fashioned brown suits, along with starched white shirts, heavy brown boots, and matching brown fedoras. All put together, they reminded me of some sort of Roaring Twenties gang, the kind that ran mountain moonshine back during Prohibition.
My gaze dropped to the gun the man holding me had shoved into my side, an old-fashioned revolver. The sort of large, sturdy hand cannon that would put a good-size hole in anyone—dwarf, giant, vampire, elemental. They weren’t messing around when it came to their weapons.
Good for them.
Bad for them that they’d used the guns to burst into Jo-Jo’s salon. It was one thing to attack me at the Pork Pit or even at Fletcher’s house. I expected that these days. But my friends, my family, were off limits—period. Perhaps I’d let one of the men live long enough to crawl back to his boss and tell him that. Or maybe I’d deliver the message in person—along with the men’s bodies.
One of the guys standing over Sophia turned and yelled over his shoulder. “We’ve got ’em, boss! It’s all clear now!”
So the boss was here too. Good. That would save me the effort of tracking him down later or letting any of his men live.
This time, instead of banging against the wall, the door at the front of the house slowly creakedopen. More footsteps sounded—slow, deliberate, and cautious—and another man stepped through the doorway and into the salon.
He was six feet tall, and his body was so dense it looked like it was carved out of granite. His muscles rolled with every breath he took, while his broad chest seemed solid enough to bounce a quarter off. He wasn’t tall enough to be considered a giant, and his body had the stocky, sturdy construction that was associated with dwarves. Unless I missed my guess, he had both races’ blood in his family tree, giving him the best of both worlds, a giant’s size and a dwarf’s tough musculature.
Unlike the other men, he was wearing a snazzy gray suit with a pair of red suspenders that peeked out from beneath his jacket. A gray fedora with a fluffy red feather tucked into the brim topped his head, casting his face in a bit of sinister shadow. Smoothly, he swept off his hat, revealing thinning black hair that was slicked back in a vain attempt to hide a burgeoning bald spot. His eyes were dark brown, and his skin was dusky olive. Lines furrowed his forehead and grooved around his mouth, but I couldn’t get a real sense of his age. He could have been fifty. He could have been a hundred and fifty, or older, depending on how much dwarven blood he might have.
But the most disturbing thing was the fact that he was giving off magic.
Dozens of small, hot bubbles started bursting against my skin the second the man stepped into the salon, like matches being lit close to and then stabbed out on my bare arms. The annoying, burning sensation told me that he was probably quite strong in his Fire power, given the way the hot bubbles kept on popping and popping against my flesh. I ground my teeth together to keep from snarling at the horrible feel of his magic.