My hand reached for the back door of the restaurant. I stopped. The door stood ajar just a tiny crack, hardly enough to be noticeable, but I'd spent the last seventeen years noticing everything and everyone around me. The kitchen knives slid into my hands. I backed away from the door and peered at it. A thin, black wire wrapped around the doorknob and led inside, hence the crack. Using one of the knives, I sliced the wire, careful not to jiggle it. Then I stood to one side of the door and pulled it open.
A shotgun had been erected inside the back room, rigged to fire when the door was opened. Turn the knob, step inside, and get two barrels to the chest. A crude but effective trap.
I waited and listened. Silence. Cold, cold silence.
Fletcher should have been puttering about the kitchen or doing inventory in the stockroom. Should have been brewing his chicory coffee and reading his latest book.
The quiet chilled me far more than the river had, soaking into my bones like an icy rain, despite the chemical hand warmers in my pockets.
I eased into the restaurant, checking the floor and ceiling around the door for more traps. Nothing. I paused after every step. Waiting, looking, searching. Nothing moved, not even the granddaddy long-leg spiders in their cubbyholes in the corners.
Finally, in front of the counter in the storefront, I found him.
Fletcher Lane sprawled across a crimson pool of blood on the floor. Several jagged stab wounds and spatters of blood marred his ripped, torn, blue work apron, almost like a bottle of ketchup had exploded on him. His clothes lay in tatters around him, defensive cuts blackened his hands, and his knuckles were swollen and bruised, as though he'd hit someone repeatedly. Money spilled out of the busted cash register, sticking to the tacky, bloody floor, along with the battered copy of Where the Red Fern Grows he'd been reading. Pieces of a broken cup dotted the floor beside him, along with the dregs of his chicory coffee. Caffeine fumes lingered in the air. The faint aroma made my heart twist.
Fletcher had also been tortured-by an Air elemental.
Long pieces of skin were missing from his face, arms, hands. The stomach-turning stench of raw meat overpowered the pancake pools of copper-scented blood on the floor. The Air elemental had used his fingers like they were fucking sandblasters, forcing oxygen under Fletcher's skin. Making it blister and burn and bubble up before he ripped it off, muscles, tendons, and all. A small strip here, a thumbprint-size indentation there, a fist-shaped mark right over his heart. None of the wounds immediately lethal, but all of them excruciatingly painful. The wounds were so deep I could see Fletcher's bones in places. Sticks of dirty ivory floating in a red, soupy mess of ripped flesh.
Fletcher had been flayed alive by magic.
And the Air elemental had kept right on torturing Fletcher, even after he was dead.
That was the only way to explain all the missing skin. All the gruesome blisters and horrid bubbles of flesh. There were so, so many of them. All causing more pain than most folks experienced in a lifetime.
It turned my stomach.
I might have killed people, but I usually ended their lives quickly. A single wound.
Two at the most. Quick, sure, accurate. This . . . somebody had taken extreme pleasure in this. Glee. Joy, even.
My vision blurred. Something burned in my eyes. Crying. I was crying. Something I hadn't done in seventeen years. I drew in a breath and exhaled a sob. My body shook.
My lips trembled. A curious lightness filled my head. I couldn't look at Fletcher. Not now. Not when I was so close to losing control. To giving in to this emotional weakness.
I hunkered down on my ankles and forced myself to take deep breaths. To focus on drawing the air deep into my lungs and down into the pit of my roiling stomach. As though that was the most important thing in the world. As though Fletcher wasn't lying a foot in front of me. Dead.
When I'd come back to myself, I opened my gray eyes and stared at the repulsive wounds. Not as a person who'd just discovered a horrific murder. Not as the woman who'd just lost her mentor, the old man she'd loved. And definitely not as Gin, whose shredded heart had just been sliced up and dumped onto a plate like shoestring french fries.
No, I examined the wounds as an assassin, as the Spider. Cold. Clinical. Detached.
Determined to learn what I could from them.
And I found something. The elemental who'd burned Fletcher was a woman, someone with slender, delicate hands, judging from the dainty size of the fist over Fletcher's heart. I balled up my own hand in comparison. Hers was smaller.
The fact that a woman had tortured Fletcher didn't surprise me. I'd learned long ago the fairer sex was much more vicious than men-and much more patient. This one, this sadistic bitch . . . she'd reveled in torturing Fletcher. In using her magic to hurt him. In slowly flaying him alive. In hearing him scream for mercy until his throat was as red as his raw skin.
And she was going to pay for it. More than she'd ever fucking imagined.
Whatever else happened tonight, whether Finn was dead or alive, I wasn't running.
Not from this. Not from her. I wasn't skipping town and lying low in some foreign country for a while. Ashland might not be the most pleasant place, but it was home.
More importantly, the Pork Pit was home, as crazy as that sounded. I wasn't leaving it behind. Not like this. Not with Fletcher's blood covering the floor like a fresh coat of wax.
I held my breath, waiting for Fletcher to turn his head, open his dull green eyes, and grouse at me for keeping him waiting. But he didn't do that. And he never would again.
The bitch who'd done this was going to pay for that.