This time, it was actually a request instead of an order.
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good man.” Mosley reached out, patted my shoulder, and left my office.
I shook my head, still trying to wrap my mind around this new revelation, then did as he’d asked. Fifteen minutes later, I’d showered, changed into a fresh suit, and slathered a healthy amount of Jo-Jo’s healing ointment on my face and ribs. I still ached with every breath I took, but the Air elemental magic in the ointment took the edge off the worst of the pain.
I went over to my desk to get some folders, and my gaze locked onto Deirdre’s icicle-heart rune, still sitting in the candy dish. The jagged diamond icicles glinted as brightly as ever, despite all the ugly things that had happened between my mother and me.
I grabbed the necklace and held it up, watching it sway back and forth like a clock’s pendulum, ticking off all my mistakes. Looking at Deirdre’s rune still hurt, as did thinking about everything she’d done to me and all the people who’d died as a result of her twisted scheme. But it didn’t fill me with quite as much misery as before. I didn’t know what I would ultimately do with the necklace, but for now, I would leave it here, as a reminder both of her betrayal and of the promise I’d made at Peter Vargas’s grave. I couldn’t change what Deirdre had done or bring back the guards she’d killed, but I could look out for their loved ones who’d been left behind.
Whether they wanted me to or not.
“Finn!” Mosley bellowed from out in the hallway. “Are you ready yet?”
“Yes, sir! Coming, sir!” I called out.
I carefully nestled Deirdre’s rune back in the candy dish, grabbed the folders, and left my office.
It was time to get back to work—in more ways than one.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next book in the Elemental Assassin series
By Jennifer Estep
Coming soon from Pocket Books
1
It was the perfect night to kill someone.
Thick, heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars, deepening the shadows of the cold December evening, and an icy drizzle spattered down from the sky, slowly covering everything in a slick, glossy, treacherous sheen. Icicles had already formed on many of the trees that lined the street, looking like gnarled, glittering fingers that were crawling all over the bare, skeletal branches. No animals moved or stirred, not so much as an owl sailing into one of the treetops searching for shelter.
Down the block, red, green, and white holiday lights flashed on the doors and windows of one of the sprawling mansions set back from the street, and the faint trill of Christmas carols filled the air. A steady stream of people hurried from the mistletoe-festooned front door, down the snowmen-lined driveway, and out to their cars, scrambling into the vehicles and cranking the engines. Someone’s dinner party was rapidly winding down, although it was only nine o’clock. Everyone wanted to get home and be all safe, warm, and snug in their own beds, dreaming of sugarplums, before the weather got any worse. In ten minutes, they’d all be gone, and the street would be quiet and deserted again.
Yes, it was the perfect night to kill someone.
Too bad my mission was recon only.
I slouched down in my seat, staying as much out of view of the passing headlights as possible. But none of the drivers gave my battered old white van a second look, and I doubted that any of them even bothered to glance at the blue lettering on the side that read Cloudburst Falls Catering. Caterers, florists, musicians. Such service vehicles were all too common in Northtown, the part of Ashland where the rich, social, and magical elite lived. If not for the lousy weather, this entire street probably would have been lit up with holiday cheer as people hosted various parties, each one trying to outdo their neighbors with garish light displays.
Once the last of the cars cruised by and the final pair of headlights faded away, I straightened up in my seat, picked up my binoculars from my lap, and peered through them at another nearby mansion.
A stone wall cordoned this mansion off from the street, featuring a wide iron gate that was closed and locked. Unlike its neighbor, no holiday lights decorated this house, and only a single room on the front was illuminated—an office with glass doors that led out to a stone patio. Thin white curtains covered the doors, and every few seconds, the murky shape of a man would appear, moving back and forth, as though he were continuously pacing from one side of his office to the other.
I just bet he was pacing. From all the reports I’d heard, he’d been holed up in his mansion for months now, preparing for his murder trial, which was set to begin after the first of the year. That would be enough to drive anyone stir-crazy.
Beside me, a soft creak rang out, followed by a long, loud sigh. Two sounds that I’d heard over and over in the last hour I’d been parked here.
The man in the mansion wasn’t the only one going nuts.
“Tell me again. How did I get stuck hanging out with you tonight?” a low voice muttered.
I lowered my binoculars and looked over at Phillip Kincaid, who had his arms crossed over his muscled chest and a mulish expression on his handsome face. A long black trench coat covered his body, while a black toboggan was pulled down low on his forehead, hiding his golden hair from sight, except for the low ponytail that stuck out the back. I was dressed in all black as well, from my boots to my jeans to my turtleneck, silverstone vest, and fleece jacket. A black toboggan also topped my head, although I’d stuffed all my dark brown hair up underneath the knit hat.
“What’s wrong, Philly?” I drawled. “Don’t like being my babysitter tonight?”
He shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. “You’re Gin Blanco, the famed assassin turned underworld queen. You don’t need babysitting.” He shifted in his seat, making it creak again, and shook his head. “But Owen insisted on it. . . . The things I do for that man.”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good man.” Mosley reached out, patted my shoulder, and left my office.
I shook my head, still trying to wrap my mind around this new revelation, then did as he’d asked. Fifteen minutes later, I’d showered, changed into a fresh suit, and slathered a healthy amount of Jo-Jo’s healing ointment on my face and ribs. I still ached with every breath I took, but the Air elemental magic in the ointment took the edge off the worst of the pain.
I went over to my desk to get some folders, and my gaze locked onto Deirdre’s icicle-heart rune, still sitting in the candy dish. The jagged diamond icicles glinted as brightly as ever, despite all the ugly things that had happened between my mother and me.
I grabbed the necklace and held it up, watching it sway back and forth like a clock’s pendulum, ticking off all my mistakes. Looking at Deirdre’s rune still hurt, as did thinking about everything she’d done to me and all the people who’d died as a result of her twisted scheme. But it didn’t fill me with quite as much misery as before. I didn’t know what I would ultimately do with the necklace, but for now, I would leave it here, as a reminder both of her betrayal and of the promise I’d made at Peter Vargas’s grave. I couldn’t change what Deirdre had done or bring back the guards she’d killed, but I could look out for their loved ones who’d been left behind.
Whether they wanted me to or not.
“Finn!” Mosley bellowed from out in the hallway. “Are you ready yet?”
“Yes, sir! Coming, sir!” I called out.
I carefully nestled Deirdre’s rune back in the candy dish, grabbed the folders, and left my office.
It was time to get back to work—in more ways than one.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next book in the Elemental Assassin series
By Jennifer Estep
Coming soon from Pocket Books
1
It was the perfect night to kill someone.
Thick, heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars, deepening the shadows of the cold December evening, and an icy drizzle spattered down from the sky, slowly covering everything in a slick, glossy, treacherous sheen. Icicles had already formed on many of the trees that lined the street, looking like gnarled, glittering fingers that were crawling all over the bare, skeletal branches. No animals moved or stirred, not so much as an owl sailing into one of the treetops searching for shelter.
Down the block, red, green, and white holiday lights flashed on the doors and windows of one of the sprawling mansions set back from the street, and the faint trill of Christmas carols filled the air. A steady stream of people hurried from the mistletoe-festooned front door, down the snowmen-lined driveway, and out to their cars, scrambling into the vehicles and cranking the engines. Someone’s dinner party was rapidly winding down, although it was only nine o’clock. Everyone wanted to get home and be all safe, warm, and snug in their own beds, dreaming of sugarplums, before the weather got any worse. In ten minutes, they’d all be gone, and the street would be quiet and deserted again.
Yes, it was the perfect night to kill someone.
Too bad my mission was recon only.
I slouched down in my seat, staying as much out of view of the passing headlights as possible. But none of the drivers gave my battered old white van a second look, and I doubted that any of them even bothered to glance at the blue lettering on the side that read Cloudburst Falls Catering. Caterers, florists, musicians. Such service vehicles were all too common in Northtown, the part of Ashland where the rich, social, and magical elite lived. If not for the lousy weather, this entire street probably would have been lit up with holiday cheer as people hosted various parties, each one trying to outdo their neighbors with garish light displays.
Once the last of the cars cruised by and the final pair of headlights faded away, I straightened up in my seat, picked up my binoculars from my lap, and peered through them at another nearby mansion.
A stone wall cordoned this mansion off from the street, featuring a wide iron gate that was closed and locked. Unlike its neighbor, no holiday lights decorated this house, and only a single room on the front was illuminated—an office with glass doors that led out to a stone patio. Thin white curtains covered the doors, and every few seconds, the murky shape of a man would appear, moving back and forth, as though he were continuously pacing from one side of his office to the other.
I just bet he was pacing. From all the reports I’d heard, he’d been holed up in his mansion for months now, preparing for his murder trial, which was set to begin after the first of the year. That would be enough to drive anyone stir-crazy.
Beside me, a soft creak rang out, followed by a long, loud sigh. Two sounds that I’d heard over and over in the last hour I’d been parked here.
The man in the mansion wasn’t the only one going nuts.
“Tell me again. How did I get stuck hanging out with you tonight?” a low voice muttered.
I lowered my binoculars and looked over at Phillip Kincaid, who had his arms crossed over his muscled chest and a mulish expression on his handsome face. A long black trench coat covered his body, while a black toboggan was pulled down low on his forehead, hiding his golden hair from sight, except for the low ponytail that stuck out the back. I was dressed in all black as well, from my boots to my jeans to my turtleneck, silverstone vest, and fleece jacket. A black toboggan also topped my head, although I’d stuffed all my dark brown hair up underneath the knit hat.
“What’s wrong, Philly?” I drawled. “Don’t like being my babysitter tonight?”
He shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. “You’re Gin Blanco, the famed assassin turned underworld queen. You don’t need babysitting.” He shifted in his seat, making it creak again, and shook his head. “But Owen insisted on it. . . . The things I do for that man.”
