Owen had much more than a modest elemental talent for metal, if these weapons were any indication of his skill. I knew I could take any weapon off the wall and use it with the utmost confidence that it wouldn’t bend, break, or shatter the first time I shoved it into someone’s chest. To me, that was the real sign of a master craftsman. I’d always been practical that way.
“Do you like it?” Owen asked, moving to stand beside me. “You should. It’s just a bigger version of the two knives you have hidden up your sleeves, the other two you have strapped to your thighs, the two more hidden in your boots, and the one in your purse.”
Owen’s violet eyes glowed with a faint light, and I felt the faintest bit of magic trickling off him. A cool caress, not unlike my Stone magic. Not surprising, since metal was an offshoot of Stone. He was using his elemental talent for metal to scope out how many silverstone weapons I currently carried on my person. Couldn’t blame him for that. Not after everything that had happened this evening.
Owen leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. He regarded me with a cool gaze. “So,” he said. “You finally want to tell me what you were doing on that riverboat tonight? With all those knives on you? Because I’m guessing you didn’t go just to play poker.”
I put the long sword back into its slot on the wall, then turned to face him.
“No,” I replied. “I wasn’t there to play poker. I was there to kill Elliot Slater.”
19
Owen Grayson stared at me. He tensed at my blunt words, and emotions flashed in his amethyst eyes. Wariness. Curiosity. Caution. But surprisingly, no fear. And no condemnation.
Seconds ticked by as he looked at me. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty-five…
“I could use a drink,” he finally said. “How about you?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
Owen walked across the room and opened a tall wooden cabinet, revealing a variety of expensive, colorful liquor bottles tucked away inside. “What do you want?”
“Gin. On the rocks. With a twist of lime too, if you’ve got it.”
Owen fixed my drink and poured himself a healthy amount of scotch. I watched him while he worked, but his hands didn’t tremble or shake the way most folks’ would have when they realized they were alone with someone who’d just announced her murderous intentions. But Owen Grayson seemed as calm as ever.
I could have lied, of course. Could have told him some fairy tale about carrying the knives for protection or other such nonsense. But Owen had heard what I’d said to Finn, Roslyn, and Xavier, and he’d seen the vamp’s confrontation with Elliot Slater. Owen hadn’t become one of the richest businessmen in Ashland by being stupid.
If I hadn’t told him, he would have put two and two together and come up with five on his own. At least this way, I could judge his reaction to my dark intentions — and decide what I was going to do with him. Because fuck potential or not, if I thought Owen Grayson was any kind of threat to me, Finn, or the Deveraux sisters, I’d pluck one of his own weapons off the wall and gut him with it.
Owen handed me the drink and held out his own glass. “To new friendships,” he murmured.
An odd thing to say, given my revelation, but I clinked my glass against his and took a sip of the gin. It went down cold, then spread a sweet heat through my stomach. It still tasted bitter, though. Or perhaps that was just because of my own sour mood — and the fact that I was about to drive away another man by confessing my deepest, darkest secret to him. Might as well get on with it.
I threw back the rest of my gin, set the empty glass on the desk, and walked around to the other side. The bitter taste filled my mouth and spread down my throat. “I’ve got a long night ahead of me, dealing with Roslyn, Xavier, and everything else. So go ahead and ask me whatever you want to ask me.”
“Fair enough.” Owen drained the rest of his scotch and put down his own glass.
We stood there, staring at each other across the desk, him behind it, me in front of it. The steady tick-tick-tick of an elaborate iron clock on the wall filled the silence.
“So you were there to kill Elliot Slater,” Owen finally said. “I suppose I don’t have to ask why, given Roslyn Phillips’s reaction to him.”
I shrugged. “That’s one of the reasons. But don’t think I’m doing it purely out of the goodness of my heart. I’ve had some problems with the giant myself. Figured I’d do myself and Roslyn a favor at the same time.”
Owen’s lips flattened into a thin smile. “So you’re a practical sort then.”
“Always.” I drew in a breath. “Assassins have to be.”
Silence.
To his credit, Owen didn’t flinch or grimace or even look away. He just kept staring at me, his violet eyes sharp and shrewd in his cold face.
“Assassin, eh? I thought as much, given the knives,” he said. “That much silverstone is hard to come by, especially when it’s that well crafted.”
“You’re only as good as your tools.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
More silence.
“So do you have a name, Gin?” Owen asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do people call you?”
“Ah, you want to know if you’ve heard of me.”
Assassins went by code names, for a variety of reasons. The good ones, anyway. You weren’t much of an assassin if you let yourself get caught after the fact. Something that would happen sooner, rather than later, unless you adopted some sort of anonymous moniker. A code name made things so much easier. Booking jobs, getting paid, keeping the po-po in the dark, living long enough to spend the money afterward.
Fletcher Lane’s code name had been the Tin Man, because he never let his heart or emotions get in the way of a job. The old man had dubbed me the Spider because of the scars I bore on my palms and because I’d reminded him of a spider hiding in the corner when he’d first taken me in off the streets — all long, thin, gangly arms and legs. Over the years, Fletcher had taught me how to be the embodiment of the spider rune that marked me — how to be patience itself. To wait and watch and make my own plans, spin my own webs, instead of reacting to others’ schemes.
Owen shrugged. “What can I say? I’m curious.”
“Curious? Most men would be running for the door at this point,” I replied. “Blubbering and screaming all the while.”
He grinned. “I’m not most men.”
No, he wasn’t, a fact that intrigued me more and more, as did the complete lack of judgment in his violet gaze. I could have told Owen that I was a librarian and gotten the same reaction — or lack thereof. Not surprising. He’d seen me after I’d used my Stone magic to collapse Tobias Dawson’s coal mine on top of the dwarf. Owen knew that I’d somehow survived and dug my way out of the rubble. Maybe he hadn’t realized that I was an assassin at that point, but he’d known that I was a survivor. Not much difference, really.
“Besides,” Owen continued. “If you’re as good as you say you are, I wouldn’t make it to the door anyway.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I replied in a quiet voice.
His grin widened. “You know you’re not helping my ego, Gin.”
“Oh,” I said in a lighter tone. “I think you’ve got plenty of confidence to spare, Owen.”
He kept grinning at me, the expression softening his rough features into something more pleasant — and enticing. I looked at his solid frame, his broad shoulders, the apparent strength in his arms. Too bad Finn was on his way over to pick me up. Otherwise, I might have stepped forward and explored this attraction that sparked between Owen and me. Provided, of course, that Owen wasn’t really quaking with terror on the inside over my gruesome revelations. Somehow, though, I didn’t think his calm facade was an act.