Tangled Threads Read online

  The Fire elemental had wasted no time torturing my sister.

  Mab had used her cruel magic to burn and blister Bria’s delicate skin all the way down to the bone in places. Torture was something that the Fire elemental had excelled in. I knew from personal experience.

  My eyes dropped to Bria’s throat and the silverstone rune that she wore on a chain around her neck. A primrose, the symbol for beauty. I’d once had a necklace like hers, except mine had been shaped like a spider rune. The night that she murdered the rest of our family, Mab had duct-taped my spider rune between my hands, then used her Fire magic to superheat the metal until it had melted into my skin, forever marking me with two matching scars.

  As if she could hear my thoughts, Bria reached down and fiddled with the two silverstone rings she wore on her left index finger. One of the bands featured small snowflakes, while ivy vines curled through the other, representing the runes that our mother, Eira, and older sister, Annabella, had worn. A snowflake for icy calm and an ivy vine for elegance.

  A matching ring glinted on my right index finger, one that had a spider rune stamped into the middle of the band. Bria had had the rings made and had worn them for years as a reminder of our family. She’d given me the spider rune ring for Christmas. I wasn’t much for jewelry, but I wore it every day, hoping that Bria would realize how much it—and she—meant to me.

  “I am happy,” Bria said, finally responding to me. “It’s nice to come back for a visit, you know? Blue Marsh was my home for a long, long time. I miss a lot of things about it. The sand, the sun, the quiet. Especially the quiet.”

  There was no malice in her voice, no sarcasm or hidden meanness, but her words still pricked my heart. Sometimes, I wondered if Bria would have been better off not knowing that I was still alive. She’d suffered so much, been brutally tortured and almost killed because of me. Bria didn’t talk much about what Mab had done to her, but I could see the shadowy horror of it in her eyes when her thoughts went back to that night, that long, dark night when she’d been at the Fire elemental’s mercy.

  I could also sense her disappointment in me—and her seething anger.

  Oh, Bria tried to hide it, but the emotion was always there, simmering just below the calm mask that she presented to the world. I could see it glimmering in her eyes whenever she looked at me and in the way that she stiffened and her hands clenched whenever I was near her. Bria blamed me for Mab’s torturing her, and part of her wanted to lash out at me, even hurt me the way that the Fire elemental had hurt her. I could tell that Bria was trying to get past her anger, trying just as hard as I was, but neither one of us seemed to know what to do or say to the other.

  More than once, I’d thought about apologizing to my sister for who and what I was, for what she’d suffered because of me, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Fletcher had always said that apologies were just empty words, and that actions were all that really mattered in the end. But try as I might, I couldn’t think of what I could do or say to make things better between me and Bria, to bridge this chasm that still stretched between us.

  “But mostly, I miss Callie,” Bria continued.

  The Callie in question was Callie Reyes, Bria’s best friend since childhood. When Finn had first broached the idea of a vacation, Bria had immediately suggested Blue Marsh. Apparently, she’d been dying to come back and visit Callie ever since she’d left to go to Ashland. The last few days, Bria had talked nonstop about her friend and how much she was looking forward to seeing her again. The two of them had already made plans to spend some time together in between Callie’s work schedule—plans that Bria didn’t include me in. That had hurt more than I’d expected, but at this point, I’d do anything to make my sister happy—even let her spend our vacation with someone else.

  “I can’t wait to see Callie,” Bria added. “And I can’t believe she went and got engaged without me even meeting the guy first. She seems really crazy about him, but I need to check him out and make sure that he’ll treat her right. My best friend can’t just marry anybody, you know. Callie’s always been there for me, especially when my parents died. I want to make sure that she’s found the right guy.”

  “Of course you do,” I said in a light tone, trying to match her mood. “I know how much you care about her, and I’m looking forward to meeting her. Maybe we can all go out for drinks one night and really get to know each other.”

  Silence. Once again, I felt that anger rolling off Bria—this time, for my trying to butt into her plans.

  “Sure,” Bria said, several seconds too late to be believable. “That sounds like fun.”

  An awkward silence filled the car, dimming the brightness of the day. Bria hit the replay button on the radio, but she didn’t sing along this time. Instead, her hands tightened on the steering wheel, and she sped up, as if she now wanted the drive to be over with as soon as possible.

  I sighed, put my head back on the seat, and closed my eyes, wishing the wind could whip my troubles away as easily as it tangled my hair.

  An hour later, Bria crossed a bridge, turned off the road, and steered the car through an open iron gate that was set into the middle of a ten-foot-high, white stone wall. A gold plaque on one of the gateposts read The Blue Sands est. 1899.

  We traveled along a curving driveway made of smooth white cobblestones for the better part of a mile. A lush eighteen-hole golf course spread out like an emerald carpet to the left, while the beachfront glinted like bronze diamonds to the right. Copses of peach, pecan, and palmetto trees broke up the flat horizon, although the thick, humid air shimmered in waves that seemed to match the steady rise and fall of the ocean.

  The Blue Sands hotel was sandwiched in between the golf course and the beach. The structure soared an impressive thirty stories into the salty sea air, its white stone facade matching the outer wall and the cobblestones we’d just rolled over. Wrought-iron balconies curled around the various floors like ropes of metal ivy, while the roof was made out of red slate, completing the beautiful seaside vista.

  I concentrated, reaching out with my magic and listening to the stone of the hotel. Sun-blasted, sand-crusted, and alcohol-soaked murmurs filled my mind, matching the thoughts and actions of the thousands of people who had stayed here over the years. This was a place where people came to take in the sun and sea air, with a bottle of coconut oil in one hand and a freshly made mojito in the other. The easy, breezy sounds weren’t unlike the clogged contentment that rippled through the brick of the Pork Pit.

  Bria parked the Aston Martin at the end of a long line of cars waiting to be whisked away by the scurrying valets, and we got out of the convertible. I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head and squinted against the sun’s brilliance, my eyes moving over everyone and everything around us. The men in expensive polo shirts carrying heavy bags of golf clubs, hopping onto carts to be shuttled out to the back nine for their games. Their wives and girlfriends who were all tanned, trimmed, and toned to within an inch of their lives. The valets and bellmen in their white-linen jackets and pants hurrying to keep everyone happy and earn their tips for the day.

  “We’re staying here?” I asked. “This is a little more . . . visible than what I had in mind.”

  I might be on vacation, but that didn’t mean that I could completely relax my guard. I’d killed plenty of people in Ashland and beyond, and I wouldn’t put it past any of my enemies to try and track me down here. The Blue Sands wasn’t exactly low-profile.

  Bria shrugged. “Well, it was my idea to come down here for the weekend, and Finn asked me for hotel recommendations, since I grew up on the island. It’s the fanciest hotel in Blue Marsh. You know how he is.”

  Finnegan Lane loved the finer things in life. Actually, love wasn’t a strong enough word for his devotion to his own comfort and luxury—obsessed was more like it. My foster brother always had to have the best of everything, whether it was the latest Aston Martin car, a vintage wine, a decadent, outrageously expensive gourmet meal, or a sl
ick new suit that fit him just so.

  “The hotel has one of the best spas on the East Coast,” Bria continued. “As soon as I told Finn that, he made the reservation.”

  “Of course he did,” I muttered.

  Finn’s enjoyment of fine things extended to pampering himself as often as possible, and he was secure enough in his masculinity to indulge in everything from manicures to seaweed facials to full-body massages. Sometimes I thought Finn was more of a girl than I was.

  A valet came over, took the convertible key from Bria, and opened the trunk for a bellman, who started putting our luggage onto a large brass cart. The bellman huffed a little when he lifted out my suitcase, and it thumped down onto the cart with an audible clink-clink-clink, like I’d filled it with loose change that was rattling around inside. His eyebrows drew together, and he looked at me, obviously wondering what I had in my suitcase that made it so heavy.

  “My lucky golf clubs,” I chirped in a bright voice. “Both sets. I like to be prepared.”

  I’d never played golf a day in my life, and I had no intention of starting while we were here. Although I wasn’t above using one of the clubs to bludgeon someone to death, if the situation called for it.

  The bellman shrugged and moved to get the next bag. Behind his back, Bria pulled down her sunglasses and narrowed her eyes at me in suspicion, but I just gave her a serene smile. If my sister thought that I would leave my silverstone knives and the other tools of my bloody, violent trade back home just because we’d come to the beach for a few days, well, she didn’t know me at all.

  The thought depressed me more than it should have.

  Finn had put our suite for tonight in Bria’s name, so she handled checking in while I kept an eye on our bags. Finally, twenty minutes later, the bellman grunted again as he heaved my suitcase onto the bed. Bria tipped him, and he left us alone, taking the cart and closing the door on his way out.

  It might not have been my preferred choice for a hotel, but even I had to admit that Finn had booked us an impressive suite. Three lavish bedrooms all featured king-size beds, mounds of pillows, and flat-screen TVs, while the matching bathrooms contained oversize porcelain tubs that rested on real golden claw feet, along with white wicker baskets full of expensive soaps and flowery lotions. The bedrooms all connected to an enormous central living room with furniture done in shades of white, black, and gray, as well as a fully stocked kitchen and a wet bar that had almost as many different kinds of liquor as Northern Aggression, a nightclub that we frequented back in Ashland. Two French doors led out to a patio complete with furniture and that overlooked the ocean. Tomorrow, when the boys arrived, Finn had arranged for Owen and me to share a similar suite while he and Bria stayed in this one.

  “Now what?” I asked, watching Bria while she riffled through the various room service and spa menus that had been propped up on the kitchen counter.

  “What do you mean, ‘Now what?’? Now we go out exploring. You know, see the sights, buy some souvenirs, things like that, before we go see Callie later this evening.” Bria looked at me. “You have been on vacation before, haven’t you, Gin?”

  I shifted on my feet. “Sure I have. I went to Key West just last fall.”

  I didn’t tell Bria that I’d spent most of my time down there reading, drinking, and brooding about a number of things, including Fletcher’s murder and my strange relationship with Donovan Caine, a cop that I’d been involved with before he dumped me and left Ashland for good.

  “Well?” she said, grabbing her purse off the sofa where she’d thrown it when we’d first come into the suite. “Are you ready?”

  “You betcha.”

  Bria didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm in my voice, and she turned toward the door so she didn’t see the forced smile drop from my face. We’d just gotten here, but I could already tell that this was going to be a long, long weekend.

  Watch out, tourists and locals alike. Gin Blanco is on the prowl.

  One of the valets brought the car around, and we headed out. The resort hotel was close to one of the long, narrow bridges that connected the island and town of Blue Marsh to the outside world. Instead of crossing the bridge, Bria turned left and headed inland.

  The farther we drove, the more the landscape shifted from smooth, sandy beaches to thick, swampy bogs choked with gray cypress trees full of thick wads of Spanish moss and neon green cattails that were taller than I was. But no matter the plant life that surrounded the soupy marshes, the still, shallow waters reflected back the brilliant blue sky overhead, until it seemed that the surface of the swamp was as bright and clear as the azure sky. Hence the name Blue Marsh, I guessed.

  But the swampland was far from deserted. Through the twisted, gnarled trees, dozens of mansions could be seen clinging to what high ground there was, along with several themed shopping developments, coffee shops, and high-end restaurants. Looked like Blue Marsh was a bit of a Southern boomtown.

  “It reminds me of Northtown,” I said, watching something that looked like a gray-green log with eyes drift across a pond, disturbing the perfect reflection of the sky there. “But with gators.”

  Northtown was the rich, fancy, highfalutin part of Ashland where the city’s power players—magical, social, monetary, and otherwise—lived on their immaculately landscaped estates. McMansions just like the ones I was looking at right now filled Northtown, along with sly, uppity folks who’d call you sugar to your face and then stab you in the back with their dessert forks the second they got the chance. I had no doubt that the people who lived in the mansions down here were just as dangerous. Geography might change from place to place, but human emotions and appetites rarely did.

  Bria nodded. “Blue Marsh is definitely more of a resort town these days. Developers are buying up all the land, filling in the swamps as best they can, and pushing out the middle- and lower-class folks, making it too expensive for them to live here anymore even though they work in all the restaurants and hotels on the island. It’s a shame, really. Every time I’ve talked to Callie, she’s told me that it’s only gotten worse since I’ve been gone.”

  “Ah, progress,” I mocked, and we drove on.

  Bria parked the car in one of the lots in the downtown district, and we spent the next two hours exploring the Southern coastal town. It was quite a bit warmer here than in the cool mountains of Ashland, and the oppressive humidity made the air thick and heavy, despite the steady breeze that blew in off the ocean. Shops, restaurants, and hotels filled the area, all facing the water to take advantage of the picturesque view and the strip of beach below.

  We strolled along the cobblestone walkway that ran past the shops and cafés, ducking into the various storefronts and listening to the street musicians trying to impress passersby and pick up tips with their lively jazz tunes. In the distance, ships with glassed-in decks sailed up and down the waterfront, showing tourists all the sites worth seeing.

  Shopping wasn’t really my thing, but it seemed to make Bria happy, so I tagged along behind her, making the appropriate oohing and aahing noises when called upon. I even let her buy me a tacky T-shirt that said I’m a real peach above a picture of the fruit.

  “Well,” I said as we left the shop. “Finn will certainly get a kick out of the shirt.”

  Bria snickered. “I know.”

  She bought a few more things, including a massive T-shirt for Xavier, the giant who was her partner on the police force back in Ashland, and a much smaller one for Roslyn Phillips, his main squeeze. Then she stopped at a flower stand and picked out two bouquets of blue and white forget-me-nots.

  “Who are those for?” I asked. “Callie?”

  The smile faded from her face. “No, not Callie. You’ll see.”

  We left the downtown district behind and walked through some of the island’s historic gardens, passing more shops, restaurants, and museums along the way. Eventually we left the tourist sites behind and came to a wrought-iron gate that wrapped around a small cemetery. Magnolia, c
ypress, and palmetto trees had been planted around the gate, and their thick branches arced from one side of the square cemetery to the other, creating a canopy that blotted out the blazing sun and cloaked everything below in soft, sleepy shadows. The air was hushed and heavy inside the cemetery, and even the drone of the dragonflies seemed muted and far away.

  Bria opened the gate, wincing at the loud creak it made, and stepped inside. I followed her. My sister walked slowly, her eyes fixed straight ahead. All around me, the granite gravestones whispered with low, mournful notes, echoing all the heart-wrenching sobs and quiet tears that folks had cried here for their lost loved ones. I heard the same hollow, empty sounds whenever I visited Blue Ridge Cemetery, where Fletcher and the rest of the Snow family were buried.

  Bria finally stopped in front of a simple marker that spanned two graves. Coolidge flowed across the top of the gray stone in an elegant script, and a small heart had been carved in between the two names below. Harry Coolidge. Beloved husband and father. Henrietta Coolidge. Beloved wife and mother.

  The marker gave the dates of their deaths, which had been a couple of years ago. Bria didn’t talk about her adoptive parents much, but I knew that her dad, Harry, had been a police detective and her inspiration to become a cop as well. He’d died of a heart attack, while her mother, Henrietta, had been hit and killed by a drunk driver a year later. They’d been good people, and they’d loved Bria just as much as I did.

  Bria knelt and picked a few dry, brittle leaves off the smooth grass before arranging the forget-me-nots on the two graves. White flowers for her mother, blue for her father—the colors made a pretty contrast against the lush greenery. She fussed with the stems and petals for several minutes, until they were arranged just so, while I stood still and silent behind her. These were her parents, this was her grief, and I didn’t want to intrude.

  Eventually, my baby sister wiped away the tears that had slid down her cheeks and got to her feet. She turned to face me, her blue eyes full of memories, love, and sorrow.