Web of Lies (Page 9)

The city of Ashland spread over three states – Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina. The official borders might have shown it to be one cohesive city, but the area was really divided into two distinct sections – Northtown and Southtown. A holdover from the Civil War days that had just never faded away. The sprawling, circular confines of the downtown area joined the two halves of the city together, but they bore little resemblance to each other. The working poor and blue-collar folks populated Southtown, along with vampire hookers, gangbangers, junkies, and all other manner of rednecks and white trash. Most of them lived in run-down row houses and public housing units that resembled fallout shelters. The Pork Pit lay close to the Southtown border.

While Southtown resembled the dregs in the bottom of a coffee cup, Northtown was the whipped meringue on top of a chocolate pie. You had to have money to live in Northtown. Lots of it, to afford one of the plantation-style mansions. Connections and a bloodline that went back a few hundred years didn’t hurt either. But for all their polish, the folks in Northtown weren’t any better than those in Southtown. They were all dangerous. The only difference was the people in Northtown would serve you tea and cucumber sandwiches before they f**ked you over.

The Southtown hoods were much more efficient. They’d slit your throat, take your wallet, and be ready to do it again to someone else before you even hit the alley floor.

It took me about twenty minutes to wind my way from the downtown district out into the suburbs that lay northwest of the city. I drove past gated communities with cutesy names like Davis Square and Peachtree Acres and eventually turned onto a rutted, gravel road that wound up one of the ridges that slashed through the city.

I rode over the lumps and bumps in the road, used to the teeth-rattling sensation by now. Fletcher Lane had liked his privacy, which was why his house squatted on the side of a cliff so steep a mountain goat couldn’t climb up it.

I steered the car through the skeletal remains of the trees that flanked what passed for the driveway. Thirty seconds later, the Benz left the bare, clutching branches behind. I crested a hill, and the house popped into sight.

In addition to leaving me the Pork Pit in his last will and testament, Fletcher Lane had also bequeathed me his house – a three-story clapboard structure that had been built before the Civil War. Various improvements and additions had been made to the house over the years, none of which matched. Gray stone, red clay, brown brick. All that and more could be seen on the house, along with a tin roof, black shutters, and blue eaves. The whole thing reminded me of a pincushion someone had haphazardly stuck a variety of implements into, with no thought for whether they actually belonged together or not.

I parked the Benz and ran my eyes over what I could see of the yard. It stretched out a hundred feet in front of the house before falling away in a series of jagged cliffs. Beyond the dropoff, the surrounding Appalachian Mountains were coal smudges in a night sky covered with a blanket of diamond stars and the gleaming crown of a half moon. Hell of a view, especially at night.

I got out of the car and stooped down behind the Benz, keeping it between myself and the sprawling house.

To a casual observer, it probably looked like I was tying my shoe. You would have had to look hard to see the glint of magic in my gray eyes or realize I had my hands pressed against the cold, wet gravel of the driveway.

The sounds of the trees, wind, and small, scurrying animals ran through the stones. Soft, comforting murmurs as familiar to me as a lullaby. No visitors today. I hadn’t expected any, but it never hurt to double-check. I’d stayed alive this long, despite all the incredible odds and job hazards of my former profession. I wasn’t going to get dead now because I’d made a rookie mistake, like not checking the gravel before I stepped into Fletcher’s home.

Once I’d assured myself everything was as it should be, I grabbed my purse and headed for the house. But before I slid my key into the front door lock, I brushed my fingertips against the stone that framed and composed it.

Deep, rich, black granite so hard and solid even a giant would have a tough time pounding through it. Thin veins of silverstone glistened in the granite, adding to its dark beauty. But the magical metal served another purpose besides mere decoration. Silverstone could absorb any kind of elemental magic that came its way – Stone, Air, Fire, or Ice – as well as offshoots of the elements. Instead of being true elementals and being able to tap into one of the big four, as they were called, some folks were gifted in other areas, like metal, water, electricity, or even acid.

Regardless, the silverstone in the door would absorb quite a bit of power should anyone decide to use magic to force their way inside. I’d spent a fortune having the granite installed here and in other strategic places throughout the house, but it was worth it to make sure I was secure.

Helped me sleep easier.

The granite’s hum was low and muted, just like the gravel in the driveway. Nobody had been near the door all day. Good. I’d had enough excitement already.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Given its unusual construction, the interior of the house resembled a rabbit’s warren. Small rooms, short hallways, odd spaces here and there that doubled back and opened up into completely new areas. When I was living here as a kid, I’d had to draw myself a map just to get from my upstairs bedroom to the front door and back again. I threw my keys down into a bowl by the front door, kicked off my boots, and headed toward the back of the house, where the kitchen was.

Fletcher Lane had lived in this house seventy-seven years. He’d been born here, and he probably would have died here, if he hadn’t been murdered by an Air elemental.

The old man had collected a lot of stuff in his time on this earth. Furniture, plates, tools, odd bits of metal, wood, glass. I hadn’t had the heart to clean any of it out yet. The air stilled smelled faintly of him – like sugar, spice, and vinegar swirled together.

But the kitchen, the kitchen was mine. Always had been, from the moment I’d moved in as a homeless teenager to when I’d taken up residence again several weeks ago after Fletcher’s funeral. I stepped inside and flipped on the light.

The kitchen was one of the largest rooms in the house, and a long, skinny island divided it from a small den that contained a television, stacks of books, a sofa, and a couple of recliners. Copper pots and pans hung from a metal rack over the island. A brand new, high-end stove, refrigerator, and freezer flanked half of the back wall, while a series of picture windows took up the other side. Several butcher blocks full of silverstone knives also populated the kitchen. On the island. On the counter. In the spice rack. Behind the microwave. You could never have too many knives lying around if you loved to cook like I did – or were a former assassin.