Or what was left of it.
The right wall of the basin, which had once been just as tall and strong as the others, had crumbled in on itself, like a cheap piece of tinfoil. The entrance to the coal mine and the second, smaller shaft that led to the diamonds had been completely obliterated. Dirt had spilled hundreds of feet outside the original opening, burying the metal tracks that had led inside the mine. The whole side of the basin looked a sandcastle somebody had kicked over.
Me. I'd been the one who'd done the kicking. I'd used my magic to escape Tobias Dawson, and I'd crumbled half the mountain in the process. I'd always thought Jo-Jo Deveraux had been blowing smoke up my ass when she claimed I had more Stone magic than anyone she'd ever seen. That she'd just been pretending when she said I was even more powerful than she was. But as I stared at the shattered mountain, I really, truly, started to believe her.
The thought made my stomach clench.
"Damn," I whispered.
For a moment, another image flashed before my eyes.
The ruined, crumbled shell of my own childhood home.
I'd used my magic to destroy it as well, to bring all the stones down, to try to save myself and Bria. I shook my head, and the image vanished. But the tightness in my stomach didn't go away.
I looked down and I realized my hands were glowing again. The spider rune scars on my palms burned with cold, silver flames once more - even though I wasn't consciously holding onto my magic. I curled my hands into fists and willed the light, the magic, away. After a moment, the flames died, vanishing back into the scars as though the silverstone in my flesh was somehow the source of their power. I couldn't quit staring at my palms.
Was it my imagination or had the spider rune scars become more pronounced? For some reason, they looked like pure silver swimming in my flesh now, instead of the paler scars they'd been before. I rubbed my aching head.
Something to worry about later. Much later.
I focused on the basin once more, my eyes flicking over the many figures below. Despite the crowd, it didn't take me long to find him - Donovan Caine. The detective stood near the entrance to the mine, peering at what looked like a map spread over the hood of a truck. Probably a map of the coal mine itself. A white hardhat covered the detective's head and cast his features in shadow, along with those of the man beside him. But I recognized him too. Owen Grayson.
I frowned. Why would Owen Grayson be here? Then I remembered. He was into mining just like Dawson had been. With the dwarf buried underneath the mountain, Grayson was the closest thing to an expert the city of Ashland had been able to call upon. Behind the two men, various bulldozers and backhoes moved earth out of the way. Tobias Dawson was dead. They should have saved their gas.
I stood there on the ridge and stared at Donovan, drinking in the sight of the lean, rugged detective. After this was finished, after I was healed, he and I were going to have a long talk - about us. Because I wanted the detective and he wanted me too - and I was tired of his morals, his guilt about wanting to be with me, getting in the way of what we could have together.
Even though I was thousands of feet away, Donovan Caine somehow sensed my steady gaze, the way people do when you stare at them long and hard enough. His head turned right, then left, trying to find the source of his unease. He said something to Grayson and headed in my direction. Donovan kept looking right and left at everyone he passed. I stepped farther out onto the edge of the ridge, so he could hopefully see me. The detective walked back through the mass of people and machines.
After a moment, Owen Grayson followed him. Probably curious as to what the detective was up to.
Donovan Caine was halfway across the basin toward me when he stopped and finally looked up. Our eyes met and held over the distance. Gray on gold. Owen Grayson reached his side and followed the detective's line of sight.
He spotted me too. He actually smiled.
At least somebody was glad to see me, because Donovan Caine wasn't. He tipped his hardhat back, and I spotted the frown on his face. The sight, his lack of happiness or even just some relief, cut me more than the rocks that had sliced into my feet.
I focused on Donovan Caine and lifted my bloody hand in greeting. The detective stood there for several seconds - immobile. Then he turned and said something to Grayson, who frowned and nodded his head. Grayson walked a few feet away and pulled out a cell phone. He punched in a number and spoke to someone, still looking at me.
Grayson finished his call and said something to Donovan, who nodded back. Then the detective turned and walked toward the entrance of the collapsed mine. He didn't even glance back at me.
And it f**king hurt.
Donovan turning his back on me hurt far worse than anything Tobias Dawson had done to me in the coal mine. Or anything else I'd endured these last few hours.
But I didn't have time to dwell on the detective's harsh reaction because of Owen Grayson.
Grayson didn't stay where he was, but he didn't go back either. Instead, he walked closer to me, glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to make sure no one was too interested in his whereabouts. He stopped close to the bottom of the ridge where I stood, close enough now that I could see the grin that stretched across his features.
Too bad the smile was on the face of the wrong man.
But what was even more curious was the fact Grayson started climbing up the ridge. I stepped away from the edge and hobbled back into the clearing. I didn't want anyone seeing me in my current state - or guessing where I'd been. Let them think Owen Grayson wanted a better view of the disaster I'd caused. But there was nothing I could do about Grayson now, so I sat down on the bare earth and leaned against a tree. Waiting.
It didn't take him long to climb up the ridge. He didn't even bother to dust the mud and leaves off his jeans. Instead, he came straight to me and stopped, his violet eyes flicking up and down my body, assessing my injuries.
"You look like you've been to hell and back," he murmured.
I almost managed a smile. "You might say that."
Grayson took off his leather jacket and carefully draped it over my chest. His scent drifted up to me - that rich, earthy aroma that made me think of metal.
"Can I do anything for you?' he asked. "The detective asked me to call your friend Finnegan Lane. I had a rather interesting conversation with him at Mab Monroe's party last night. I don't think Mr. Lane believed me when I told him you were standing on the ridge above the coal mine. He called me a cruel, lying bastard, but he said he was on his way. And that if I was lying, he'd beat me to death with his bare hands."
"Finn was probably just upset. He tends to be emotional in times of crisis."