"I don't see why you care so much anyway," I muttered in a harsher, colder voice than I would have liked. "It was my ass on the line last night, not yours. I made sure of that."
Owen's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and his arms tightened across his chest. "Why? Why do I care so much, Gin? Because I-"
He bit off his words, but they hung in the air between us like a ghost, writhing and twisting, just like my heart was right now.
Because I love you. That's what he'd been about to say. The shock of his almost uttering the words drove the air from my lungs. Owen-loved me? Really? Truly? I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't know what to make of anything anymore-especially not the softness for him that had wormed its way down into the deepest, darkest, blackest part of my heart. Into my very soul, even. If I hadn't killed it long ago by being the Spider.
Owen looked away and drew in a breath. "Because I care about you, Gin. That's why. I don't want you going off on a suicide mission to try to kill Mab. I'd rather have you alive any day than her dead, even if she did murder your family and my parents."
I wasn't Mab's only victim. Far from it. Part of the reason Owen understood my obsession with killing the Fire elemental was that she'd murdered his parents when he'd been a teenager. Mab had burned Owen's house to the ground because of a gambling debt that his father owed, killing his parents in the process, and leaving him homeless and to fend for himself and his sister, Eva, who'd been little more than a baby then.
"Better me go by myself than drag the rest of you down with me," I pointed out in a quiet voice. "And you know that's what would have happened. Mab is too well protected at her estate for a full-frontal assault. You and Finn both know that. So do Jo-Jo, Sophia, and even Bria. I had to go in by myself. That was the only way I could even get close enough to Mab to take my shot."
I closed my eyes. The anger, melancholy, and frustration welled up in my chest again, until they coated my mouth and throat like bitter, burning acid. "Too bad I blew it and missed."
"I know," Owen said in a gentler tone. "Finn called me this morning. Seems that his phone started ringing last night and hasn't stopped since. All his contacts are buzzing with the news. He was a little upset about it himself. Said he'd catch up with you at the Pork Pit later today."
I groaned. "What Finn really means is that he'll lambaste me six ways from Sunday while he eats a free lunch at the counter."
Some of the anger softened in Owen's violet eyes, and a sly grin lifted up his lips. "Something like that, I imagine."
I groaned again and returned Owen's smile. More of the anger melted out of his gaze, and the tension between us lightened, like a dark cloud being blown away by a stiff gust of wind. For now, anyway.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You know I'm a little irrational where Mab's concerned. I saw an opportunity to take her out, and I couldn't pass it up."
"I know, Gin," Owen said. "I know."
He got up from his rocking chair and came over to the bed. He sat down and opened his arms to me, and I scooted into his embrace. The warmth from his body mixed with my own, and I breathed in, enjoying his rich, earthy scent, which always made me think of metal, if metal could ever have any real smell.
"I hate that she's after you," Owen murmured, his lips against my hair. "But what I hate more is that you went after her alone. That no one was backing you up. Promise me you won't do that again. Okay, Gin? Promise me that the next time you go after Mab, you'll take someone with you. Me, Finn, Sophia. Someone, anyone, to help you."
I could have lied to him. Maybe I should have. Because I had no intention of stopping until Mab was dead-even if she would probably take me down with her. But I didn't want to lie to Owen and ruin this fragile peace between us.
"All right," I said in a wry tone. "The next time I go after Mab, I'll take a buddy along to hold my knives. Happy?"
"For now," Owen rumbled, tucking me in even closer to his body. "For now."
We sat there on the bed for a long time, just holding each other.
Owen had to get to work, since his business empire didn't run itself, and I had a barbecue restaurant to run, so we made plans to hook up later. But Owen was quieter than usual as he left Jo-Jo's, and I couldn't think of what to say to him without the words coming out wrong. So we left things as they were, unspoken and unresolved, with neither one of us knowing how to deal with the other.
By the time I showered, threw on some spare clothes that I kept at Jo-Jo's, and made my way to the Pork Pit, it was after two o'clock.
The Pork Pit barbecue restaurant was located in downtown Ashland, close to the unofficial Southtown border. It wasn't much to look at, just another hole-in-the-wall, but it was mine-my gin joint. The sight of the multicolored neon sign of a pig holding a platter of food over the front door brought a smile to my face. The Pit was the only real home I'd known since Fletcher had taken me in off the streets when I was thirteen. The old man had started the restaurant years ago, and I'd inherited it after his murder last year.
As I walked toward the front door, I brushed my fingers against the battered brick of the restaurant and reached for my Stone magic. As always, slow, sonorous notes rippled through the brick, whispering of the clogged, contented hearts, arteries, and stomachs of so many diners after eating at the restaurant. The familiar whispers soothed away the rest of my frustration. I might have screwed up last night, but I was still alive. I'd plotted more than one murder inside the Pork Pit. I'd go inside and get started on Mab's lickety-split.
I scanned the interior of the Pit through the storefront windows. Clean, but well-worn blue and pink vinyl booths. Matching, faded, peeling pig tracks on the floor that led to the men's and women's restrooms. A counter running along the back wall with an old-fashioned cash register sitting at one end. A battered, blood-covered, framed copy of Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls hanging on the wall opposite the cash register, along with a faded photo of Fletcher in his younger years. Everything was as it should have been.
The lunch rush was over, and only one person sat at the long counter. I stepped inside, making the bell over the front door chime, and he swiveled around and fixed me with a cold glare.
"It's about time you showed up, Gin," Finn snapped.
Finnegan Lane was just as handsome as Owen, but in a more polished, classical way. Finn wore one of his many power suits, since as an investment banker, he spent most of his daylight hours swindling people out of their money. Today's color choice was royal blue with the faintest houndstooth check pattern running through the expensive cloth, topped off by a silver shirt and blue-and-silver striped tie. Finn's thick, walnut-colored hair was styled just so, and his eyes were as slick, shiny, and green in his ruddy face as the glass of a soda pop bottle.