An old-fashioned, whitewashed, covered wooden bridge spanned the Aneirin River and led over to the island. The bridge was the only way to get to the museum, although it was only wide enough for cars to cross in single file, which is why Finn was waiting in line, along with a dozen limos and several luxury town cars.
Finally, it was our turn to cross. Finn's Aston Martin rattled over the heavy boards, then he steered the car up the winding road and pulled into one of the parking lots. We got out of the vehicle. Finn gallantly offered me his arm, and we headed toward the entrance.
Bria had been wondering where all the giant guards in Ashland had gone. Well, tonight they were at Briartop. Giants were stationed at both ends of the covered bridge, communicating by walkie-talkies about when to let the next car cross. Others moved in and out of the parking lots, directing traffic, while several more milled around the museum's main entrance, checking invitations and enforcing the guest list.
I counted at least twenty giants before we even got close to the front door. Odd. Perhaps the Briartop board had hired extra security for the gala.
Finn and I waited our turn in the line that had formed by the entrance. I stared up at the museum while he fished his engraved invitation out of his jacket.
Briartop was a veritable castle, southern-style. The structure soared five stories into the air and boasted a series of fat, round, domed towers, each one topped with a gleaming weather vane. The gray marble shimmered like a silver star in the warm rays of the setting sun even as the sloping eaves of the coal-black slate roof melted into the gathering shadows. Four massive columns framed the main entrance, while thick crenellated balconies fronted all of the tall, narrow windows. Stone planters decorated each one of the balconies, the lush pink, purple, and white rhododendrons inside providing vivid splashes of color against the marble, almost like paint streaking across a clean canvas.
As if the structure itself wasn't impressive enough, a large fountain bubbled on the smooth front lawn, its jets of water arching through the air like streams of liquid diamonds. The constant churn of the water shrouded the area in a fine mist and spritzed the honeysuckle curling around and through a series of freestanding, whitewashed trellises that flanked the fountain. The rich, heady aroma of honeysuckle saturated the night air, carried along by a soft summer breeze.
The fountain, vines, and trellises made for a beautiful sight, but I looked away from them. I didn't much care for fountains. Not anymore. Not after Salina had used them and her water magic to murder people at her deadly dinner party - and tried to drown me in one.
Instead, I reached out with my magic and listened to the murmurs of the museum itself.
Actions, emotions, plots and schemes and hopes and dreams. People leave behind bits and pieces of themselves in the spots they frequent, in all of the buildings, offices, and houses where they spend their lives. All of those actions, feelings, and emotions - good, bad, and indifferent - sink especially well into stone. As a Stone elemental, I can sense and interpret all of those hidden vibrations as easily as if one of the museum tour guides were telling me all of the juicy gossip about every scandalous thing that had ever happened in and around the building. Tonight Briartop's silvery marble muttered with worry, mixed with sharp notes of tension and sly whispers of unease.
Curious - and troubling.
I'd been to Briartop many times before, both as the Spider trailing a target and as regular Gin Blanco. I'd even come here once or twice for some of the art classes I'd taken at Ashland Community College through the years. Every time I'd been here before, the marble had proudly murmured of the artistic beauty and treasures it housed, punctuated by light, trilling notes of vain pretentiousness and smug snobbery - nothing more.
But tonight the constant, worried mutters told me that someone here was up to something - probably more than one person, given all the tense murmurs and sharp, ringing pings of unease.
Oh, the crowd looked innocent enough. Men and women dressed in fitted tuxedos and elegant evening gowns, expensive jewels and heavy watches flashing on their necks and wrists. But the stones never lied. They echoed the actions, emotions, and intentions of the people around them - nothing more, nothing less.
Once again, that vague, uneasy feeling I'd had ever since my dream a few nights ago crept back up to the surface of my mind. This time, I didn't try to push it away or ignore it. I'd stayed alive this long by being paranoid, and something just wasn't right here.
Finn and I stepped up to the giant working the door. She was dressed in a sleek black pantsuit that showed off her strong, toned curves, and I saw more than one person admiring her tall, lithe figure. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek French braid, but the simple style only enhanced her hazel eyes and great cheekbones. A small gold nametag on her jacket read Opal.
Opal seemed to be one of the folks in charge, judging from the way the other giants deferred to her and how they raced up to whisper questions in her ear and draw her attention in this or that direction. Finally, she managed to look at Finn's invitation, hand it back to him, and check him off the guest list. She glanced at me, ready to mark me off as his plus-one, and froze.
Opal's eyes widened, her breath puffed out of her mouth, and her body completely stilled. While it only took her a second to recover, blink away her surprise, and plaster a bland smile on her face, her reaction ratcheted up my unease.
"Please proceed into the main exhibit area," she said in a low, smooth voice. "Everything's been set up in there."
"Thank you, Opal," Finn replied, and gave her one of his patented charming smiles.
She tipped her head at him and gave me a polite nod, although her sharp gaze lingered on my face a few seconds longer than it should have.
Finn pouted a little when he realized that he didn't have her full attention and that she wasn't going to fawn all over him like most women did, but he tucked his invitation back into his tuxedo jacket. I took his arm again, and we headed toward the entrance. All the while, though, I was aware of the giant at my back. I didn't like having people behind me, and my palms began to burn with the desire to reach for one of my knives, put it up against her throat, and demand to know what she was staring at.
Instead, I turned and smiled at Finn, as though he had said something amusing, allowing my eyes to slide past him to Opal.
"She's watching me," I murmured. "There's a line of people in front of her waiting to get inside, and she's watching me walk away instead of dealing with them."
Finn shrugged. "Maybe she likes women instead of men. You do look rather fetching tonight. Or maybe she recognized you as the mighty Spider. Infamy, thy name is Gin Blanco."
I grimaced at his flippant tone, but he had a point. Opal wouldn't be the first person to freeze up upon realizing who I was. So I put her out of my mind and looked ahead once more.
Still, I couldn't quite ignore the itching sensation between my shoulders - like someone was going to bury a knife in my back before the night was through.
Finn and I walked up the shallow steps and entered the museum. High, vaulted ceilings, crystal vases full of roses, lilies, and other greenery perched here and there, stone planters bristling with bonsai trees tucked into the corners, slick marble floors and walls: Briartop was just as opulent inside as it was on the outside. Everywhere you turned there was another piece of art to look at, whether it was a series of soft, floral watercolors, a silver etching of a waterfall tumbling over a rocky ridge, or a woodcut of a bear ambling through a field of wildflowers.
We reached the main exhibit area and stood to one side of the entrance, scanning the scene. The enormous room was actually a rotunda topped by a high, domed ceiling inlaid with a starlike mosaic pattern made out of bright blue stained glass. The same pattern could be found on the floor directly below in alternating shades of gray, white, and blue marble. Small white lights had been wrapped around the columns ringing the round room, and the glowing strands stretched from the ground floor all the way up to the second-level balcony. Still more spotlights rose from the floor, dropped from the ceiling, or jutted from the walls, angled to highlight certain displays.
Finn had been right when he'd said that the exhibit of Mab's loot would be the social event of the summer. I spotted several well-known, legitimate businessmen and businesswomen wading their way through the crowd, along with all of the big movers and shakers in the Ashland underworld. Folks like Beauregard Benson, Ron Donaldson, Lorelei Parker . . .
And Jonah McAllister.
McAllister had been Mab Monroe's lawyer for years, and his star hadn't fallen so much as been snuffed out completely since I'd killed the Fire elemental. Without Mab, Jonah was just another smarmy lawyer, desperately searching for a new crime boss to serve before he was chewed up and spit out by the rest of the underworld sharks. McAllister and I had plenty of history - and reasons to hate each other. I'd killed his son, Jake, last year for trying to rob the Pork Pit and then threatening me. For his part, the lawyer had tried to have me murdered more than once.
I eyed McAllister. Like all the other men, he was dressed in a tuxedo, although his was more impeccable than most, and his wing tips were as shiny as ink. His silvery mane of hair gleamed underneath the lights, and his face was smooth and unlined, despite his sixty-some years. Jonah kept his boyish complexion intact with the help of a strict regimen of Air elemental facials. A plastic doll would show more emotion than his tight, sandblasted features.
"What's he doing here?" I asked Finn, jerking my head in the lawyer's direction.
"McAllister? He's one of the executors of Mab's estate, along with the museum director, and helped put the exhibit together," he replied. "The show was in the works even before Mab died. According to the rumors I've heard, Mab stipulated that her entire art collection be put on display here for at least one year before the museum can take ownership of it and do whatever they want to with it."
"That's sort of strange, don't you think?"
He shrugged. "It just sounds like Mab to me. She probably thought that if she put her collection on view, they'd rename the museum after her. Or one of the wings, at the very least. Although I doubt she realized just how soon she'd be requesting that honor."
I grinned. "I was more than happy to help her with that."
"I know you were." Finn returned my evil grin. "Either way, I still want to know what's going to happen to the rest of her estate. Mab had to leave all of her stuff to somebody, didn't she?"
It was a conversation we'd had more than once since Mab's death - wondering what was going to become of all of her earthly possessions. Oh, most of her business interests - especially the illegal ones - had already been snapped up by the other crime bosses. But her Northtown mansion was just sitting there, with all of her things still inside it. I was mildly surprised that no one had gotten it into his or her head to loot the mansion yet, but I supposed the specter of Mab still loomed too large for that.
Mab didn't have any family that I was aware of, but that didn't mean much. For all I knew, there might be a cousin or two lurking around somewhere, maybe even another, closer relative. But so far, Finn hadn't been able to find out anything about what was going to become of her things.
"But we might not have to wait too much longer to learn who Mab left what to," Finn continued. "Rumor has it that the museum director is going to read a statement that Mab had written about the exhibit - along with her will."
"That's strange too, isn't it?" I asked. "Shouldn't McAllister have done whatever he needed to do with Mab's will by now? Why would she arrange it so the contents were announced here?"
He shrugged. "Maybe so she could have one last hurrah, even if she's not around to actually enjoy it."
"Or maybe she didn't fully trust McAllister to see that her wishes were carried out."
"Would you?"
"Good point."
"But enough about all that," Finn said, straightening his bow tie just a bit. "We're at a party, the night is young, and I look fabulous." He paused a moment. "And so do you."
"Good to know where I stand in your list of priorities. Although I don't know if fabulous is the word I would use," I muttered, and crossed my arms over my chest. "I told you that I at least wanted something with sleeves."
"And I told you that sometimes you just have to suffer for fashion."
I gave him a sour look, which he totally ignored.
Still, I had to admit he was right. I had cleaned up pretty well tonight, thanks to the dress Finn had picked out. The scarlet gown had a tight fitted top that emphasized the smooth skin of my arms and shoulders, while the front of the bodice swooped down to show off what assets I had there. Scarlet teardrop-shaped crystals decorated the seams that cinched in around my waist, adding some sparkle to the gown, before the fabric fell away into a long, flowing skirt, also dotted here and there with crystals. As I walked, the skirt swirled out around me, the slits in it showing teasing flashes of my legs. Finn had even insisted on my buying shoes the same color to match, although I'd held my ground and had picked a pair with a relatively low, two-inch heel instead of the sky-high pumps he'd tried to browbeat me into getting.
The gown was beautiful - certainly more beautiful than I was - but I couldn't help but feel exposed it in. The top left my arms bare, which meant that I couldn't carry knives up my sleeves like I usually did. Still, I hadn't come to the museum completely weaponless: two blades were strapped to my thighs underneath the long skirt, just in case. I would have preferred to be carrying my full five-point arsenal, so to speak, but two knives were usually enough to get the job done, especially when I was the one wielding them.
