His violet eyes flared as bright as a star, and he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. Then his face shuttered, the light dimmed, and he dropped my hand.
"Owen?"
He tried to smile, but he couldn't quite make himself do it. "Take care of yourself, Gin. We'll talk soon, okay?"
All I could do was nod and watch as he turned and walked away from me.
Chapter 30
The Briartop heist dominated the airwaves and newspapers for the next few days. Story after story was written and broadcast about what had happened, about Clementine Barker and her plans, and how a few brave folks had banded together to eventually take down the robbers.
I let Bria and Xavier take all the credit for thwarting the giant and her crew. It was more or less the truth. After all, they were the ones who had saved the hostages. Besides, I had enough enemies already without getting my name splashed all over the newspaper or having some nosy reporter come barging into the Pork Pit trying to get an interview with me. Still, the rumors got out the way they always did, and I heard more than a few whispers about how deadly the Spider's sting had been to Clementine.
Finn also told me about all the reports he'd heard from his sources, each one more outlandish and ridiculous than the last. So far, my favorite story was the one that claimed I had chopped the giant into little pieces, had stuffed her into a cooler, and was using her remains as bait for fishing in the Aneirin River. Heh. If that didn't increase the pot in the betting pool on my mortal demise, nothing would.
I didn't care what people thought or said about me as long as they left me alone, but I knew that I'd just created even more trouble for myself by taking matters into my own hands at the museum. Because in addition to killing Clementine, rumors abounded that I'd also gotten away with a chunk of the art and jewels she'd been trying to steal. It wasn't true, of course, but that wouldn't stop some folks from thinking it was. It wouldn't be long before some idiot decided to try to steal stolen art that I didn't even have.
The truth was that I had only two things left from that night: my memories and the ebony tube that contained Mab Monroe's last will and testament.
In fact, the tube was standing on the porch railing in front of me right now. The evening sun hit the sunburst rune on the side, making the gold gleam and the ruby burn with an inner fire.
"Disgusting," Finn said, snapping down the newspaper he was reading. "Absolutely disgusting. The reporter didn't even mention me at all. Not one word about me, the giant that I killed, the hostage that I saved."
It was a week after the heist, and we were sitting on the front porch of Fletcher's house. Dishes clustered around our feet, covered with the sticky remains of the blackberry cobbler and heaping scoops of vanilla bean ice cream we'd just devoured. I'd made the dessert in honor of all those blackberry briars I'd crawled through at Briartop. I could still taste the scoops of ice cream, which had provided a soft, cool contrast to the cobbler's warm, sugary berries and golden, buttery crust. I took a swig of my milk, reached for my magic, and added a few more Ice crystals to the glass to chill the liquid some more.
The sticky, humid heat of the day had finally broken, and the critters in the woods were out and about, skittering through the leaves, climbing up the trees, and generally getting a little livelier and more active as the sun set over the ridge. Just like me. I always did my best work in the dark, and tonight was going to be no exception.
"Why are you so upset the reporter didn't mention you?" I asked. "Fletcher always told us that it was better to blend in with the shadows than to stand out in the crowd."
"Did you not see how smashing I looked in my tuxedo? I was hoping the museum photographer gave at least one good picture of me to the press. But no."
He sniffed, but his snit was far from over. "The newspaper has run a photo of practically every single person who was there that night except me. They even had a photo of Jo-Jo sitting on the steps with Eva and Phillip, and she wasn't even at the gala. Not really. And what do they put on the front page today? Yet another story all about the stolen art and how long it's going to take to get everything sorted out, cleaned up, repaired, and put back on display. Please. As if people actually care about that sort of thing."
Finnegan Lane, art lover extraordinaire - or not.
Finn put down his newspaper and rocked back and forth in his chair for a few moments. Brooding. Then he turned his green gaze to the railing.
"And then there is that." He stabbed his finger at the ebony tube sitting there. "I still can't believe that you plan to turn Mab's will over to Bria so she can get it into the right hands and make sure that it's properly executed. It's crazy, I tell you. Just flat-out insane. Like you're doing Mab a f**king favor."
"Yes," I murmured. "You've made it quite clear what you think about my plan for Mab's will."
Finn had ranted up one side and down the other when I told him that I wanted Bria to make the will public. Shouting. Cajoling. Pleading. But he didn't change my mind. And in the end, he had to agree with me that it was the only way we could make sure that Clementine's boss got what he so richly deserved.
Finn shook his head. "I'm telling you again, you should just burn that piece of paper inside and pretend like you never read it. No good can come from it."
I shrugged. "But that wouldn't stop anything. Not really. It would only delay the inevitable. Mab had to have left behind more than one copy of her will. Sooner or later, somebody's going to come forward with it. Or a fake version they try to pass off as the real thing."
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. You'd be surprised how many folks put stuff like that off, especially people as powerful as Mab. People with magic always think that they're going to live forever. Either way, do you really want some long-lost relative of Mab's coming to Ashland? We don't even know who this person is, much less what he or she might be like."
Despite all of his many connections, Finn had been unable to track down the mysterious M. M. Monroe whom Mab had left all of her earthly possessions to. He'd spent the past week scouring land deeds, bank accounts, birth certificates, family histories, and more, but whoever M. M. Monroe was, he or she didn't have much of a paper trail in Ashland or beyond. And given how many Monroes there were out there in the world, it wasn't like Finn had a narrow pool of suspects to start with. He was still working on it, but it would take weeks, if not months, before he might happen upon the right Monroe - if that person was even still alive.
"If this person is anything like Mab, well, it's going to mean nothing but trouble for all of us, especially you," Finn said. "You killed Mab. You shouldn't have to take out the rest of her family too."