Bria gave me another hard stare. "If Roslyn Phillips is your friend, if you care about her at all, you'll tell her what I said."
"Sure," I replied. "If I see her."
Bria's lips flattened into a thin smile. "Sure. If you see her."
"Now, if you'll please excuse us, detective, Owen and I were just leaving."
Bria stared at me a moment longer, then stepped to one side. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ms. Blanco."
"You too, detective," I murmured. "You too."
Thirty minutes later, Owen Grayson pulled his navy blue Mercedes Benz to a stop in the driveway that ringed his mansion. I stared out the window at the building before me. Like most wealthy Ashland businessmen, Owen lived on a sprawling estate, although he was out more in the suburbs than truly being entrenched in the glorified confines of Northtown.
Owen's place also wasn't quite as pretentious as I'd thought it would be. The mansion boasted a simple, sturdy facade of only four stories instead of the usual eight or so the rest of the city's power players preferred. I opened my door, got out of the car, and stood in the driveway a moment, listening to the whispers of the gray cobblestones under my feet and the larger rocks of the mansion above my head. The soft murmurs spoke of pride and power, tempered with wary caution. The sound fit with what I knew of Owen Grayson. Wealthy, strong, cautious. I rather liked it.
Owen walked past me toward the front door. I followed him. He dug his keys out of his pants pocket, and I eyed the knocker mounted on the front door-a large hammer done in hard, black iron, just like the enormous gate that ringed the house and grounds.
Most magic users in Ashland used some sort of rune to identify themselves, their family, their power, or even their business. Jo-Jo Deveraux, for example, used a puffy cloud to identify herself as an Air elemental. From previous encounters, I knew that the hammer was Owen Grayson's personal and business rune. The symbol for strength, power, and hard work. A curious choice for a rune. Most people of Owen's wealth and stature would have gone with something flashier, like Mab Monroe with her ruby and gold sunburst necklace.
Owen opened the door and stepped to one side. "Welcome to my parlor."
"Said the spider to the fly," I finished the old saying.
For a moment, I wondered how Owen would react if he knew that I was the Spider and that he was the poor fly caught in my sticky web. I pushed the thought away and headed inside.
Owen led me through the interior of his mansion. He didn't speak as we walked, and I used the silence to examine my surroundings. One, for practical reasons. I still hadn't decided what to do about Owen and everything that he'd seen and heard tonight. So I made note of the passageways and potential exits, just in case I had to kill him and leave in a hurry. But I also studied the interior to learn what I could about the mysterious businessman.
Fletcher Lane had instilled a healthy dose of curiosity in me, and Owen Grayson's behavior over the past few weeks had only deepened my desire to know even more about him-and if he might be suitable enough to help me start forgetting about Donovan Caine. I liked recreational sex as much as the next gal, but it always helped if my bed partner was someone I wanted to stick around after the fireworks ended.
Just like the exterior of the house, the furnishings were much simpler than I'd expected. Dark, heavy, sturdy woods, thick rugs in cool blues and greens, lots of interesting iron sculptures. I got the sense everything was picked more out of love for the object itself, rather than an inflated desire to be sophisticated and stylish.
Owen led me to a downstairs living room, dominated by an enormous flat-screen television on one wall. Eva Grayson and Violet Fox sat in the middle of an oversize sectional sofa in front of the television, watching The Princess Bride and eating a large tub of popcorn. The smell of butter and salt drifted up to me.
The two college girls were best friends-and about as different as different could be. With her black hair, blue eyes, porcelain skin, and tall, lithe figure, Eva always reminded me of a real-life version of Snow White. Violet, on the other hand, was short and curvy, with a mop of frizzy blond hair, black glasses, and bronze skin that hinted at her Cherokee heritage. Both girls sported soft, fuzzy pajamas, apparently in for the evening.
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."
Chapter Nineteen
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.
