Spider's Trap

  By the time Catalina Vasquez came in, along with the rest of the waitstaff, I knew what I wanted to do about Smith, even though I’d have to wait several hours to actually lay eyes on him. But I went ahead and texted Finn, asking him to drop by the restaurant so I could put the first part of my plan into action.

  Finn strolled into the Pork Pit at about one-thirty and slid onto a stool next to the cash register. Silvio was sitting two seats down and typing on his tablet. The vampire was always perfectly punctual, and he had arrived earlier this morning, just as I was turning the sign on the front door over to Open.

  Finn slapped him on the back. “Hey, Silvy. How’s it going?”

  Silvio grunted and went back to his tablet. Finn grinned at the annoyed pinch of the vampire’s lips. The two of them had a bit of a rivalry going on, with each out to prove that he had more contacts, sources, and spies and both of them racing to get all the scoop on the Ashland underworld before the other guy did. Today I was going to put their competition and connections to good use.

  Silvio had already eaten a grilled chicken-salad sandwich and sweet-potato fries, and I fixed Finn’s order—a barbecue-chicken sandwich with a side of onion rings and a slice of peach crumb cake for dessert, along with a vanilla milkshake.

  While Finn ate, I filled him in on everything Jade had told me. Silvio had heard it all before, but he still typed down a few more notes. I didn’t really know why. Maybe it made him feel like more of an assistant. Or maybe Silvio wanted Finn to think that he had some insights that my foster brother didn’t. Either way, Silvio had insisted on checking out Jade’s information by calling the hotel and verifying that Smith was actually staying there, just to make sure that Jade wasn’t trying to trap me in some way. But Jade was a smart woman. She knew how badly setting me up would end—for her.

  “The Blue Moon Hotel?” Finn asked, popping the last of his onion rings into his mouth. “That makes sense.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at me. “Because they have one of the best cigar bars in Ashland.”

  “So the bomber’s cigar most likely came from there.”

  He nodded. “But wait. It gets better.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I just happen to know the hotel manager,” Finn crowed. He leaned over and elbowed Silvio in the side. “And I’m betting that you don’t, right, Silvy?”

  The vamp sniffed and straightened his tie. “No, I do not happen to know the manager of that particular hotel.”

  Finn’s grin widened.

  “It doesn’t matter who knows who,” I cut in. “Just that we get eyes and ears on Smith.”

  Finn frowned. “You mean you’re not going to just bust into his hotel room and, you know . . .” He made a slashing motion across his throat, pantomiming me using one of my knives on someone, and threw in several choking gurgles for good measure.

  I shook my head. “No. Not at first, anyway. I want to see exactly what Mr. Smith is up to before I have a face-to-face chat with him.”

  I didn’t mention that the reason I was being so cautious was my nagging feeling that something wasn’t right about this whole situation, that it was more than someone trying to kill me.

  “Well, if you’re not going to off the guy, then what are you going to do with him?” Finn asked.

  I told him what I wanted. “Do you think you can arrange that?”

  His chest puffed up with pride. “Of course I can. I’m Finnegan Lane, baby. The best in the business.”

  I rolled my eyes. So did Silvio, but Finn was too busy grinning, mentally patting himself on the back at his own cleverness, and slurping down the rest of his milkshake to care.

  * * *

  At eight o’clock that night, I found myself standing in an alley beside the Blue Moon Hotel. Despite the hotel’s upscale reputation, this alley was like most in Ashland: dark, dingy, and filled with Dumpsters overflowing with all sorts of rotten garbage. Broken bottles littered the asphalt, the shards glimmering in the few beams of moonlight that managed to filter down into the corridor.

  “Are you ready yet?” I groused. “You spend more time on your hair than I do.”

  Finn pulled his shaggy blond wig a little lower on his forehead. “You want me to look good, don’t you?”

  “Yes. That is my main concern at the moment. Your appearance.”

  “Just because we’re standing in a dark, deserted alley doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t strive to look my very best.” Finn sniffed and fluffed up the dyed strands of his wig.

  Owen laughed at my bickering with Finn, but I sighed, crossed my arms over my chest, and tap-tap-tapped my toe against the cracked pavement. Finn ignored the impatient sound.

  Things were almost sure to get messy in the Blue Moon Hotel, and I wanted as little as possible to tie me, Finn, and Owen to Mr. Smith. But there were too many security cameras in the hotel’s lobby, shops, restaurants, and elevators for us to avoid them all, so we all wore disguises—glasses and wigs that we’d borrowed from our friend Roslyn Phillips, who ran the Northern Aggression nightclub. Owen and Finn both sported shaggy blond dos and round silver glasses, while I was a redhead with square black frames.

  The disguises wouldn’t fool anyone for long, but it was an extra precaution and a bit of plausible deniability that I’d insisted on. Given what had happened on the riverboat, I needed to be as careful as possible from here on out.

  “There,” Finn announced, giving his wig one final pat. “All done.”

  “Finally,” I muttered.

  “The Blue Moon has certain standards, Gin,” he replied. “Looking messy in a place like this is one of the quickest ways to attract unwanted attention.”

  Owen looked at him. “You’ve been to the hotel before?”

  “Certainly,” Finn said, adjusting his cufflinks. “I am well acquainted with this and every other fine hotel in Ashland.”

  I snorted. “You mean you’re acquainted with sneaking out of them, lest a jealous boyfriend or husband catch you in the act with their lady.”

  Finn clutched both hands to his heart. “Oh, Gin, you always wound me with your cynicism. Besides, I’m a changed man now, remember? A one-woman man. Right, Owen?”

  Owen laughed again and shook his head. “Don’t look at me for help. I know that the Snow women are not to be trifled with in any way, shape, or form. You’re on your own here, my friend.”

  “One-woman man, huh?” I palmed a knife and flashed it at Finn before tucking it back up my sleeve. “Well, it better stay that way as long as you’re dating my baby sister.”

  “It will, it will,” Finn said in a hasty tone, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Besides, you wouldn’t get the chance to carve me up. Bria would blast my balls off with her Ice magic first if she ever even thought that I was cheating on her. Which I would never, ever do. And not just because I like all my love-machine man parts to be in working order and not frostbitten to the point of falling off.” He shuddered.

  Owen winced right along with him. “Like I said—not to be trifled with.”

  The two of them shared a commiserating look at the thought of facing down Bria’s and my Ice magic, but I knew that Finn meant what he said. Despite his former womanizing ways, he really did love Bria, and she was just as crazy about him.

  “Well, I think that is more than enough talk about your man parts,” I sniped. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Finn held his hand out. “Ladies first.”

  I stalked down the alley, strode out onto the sidewalk, and headed for the main entrance, with Finn and Owen a few steps behind me. One at a time, we pushed through the revolving doors and entered the hotel.

  The Blue Moon was one of the finest hotels in Ashland, and every part of the expensive decor gleamed, from the old-fashioned chandeliers overhead to the gilded mirrors lining the walls to the marble
floors, which featured thin veins of pale blue ribboning through the smooth white stone.

  The lobby itself was an enormous circle, with the front desk across from the revolving doors and high-end shops and restaurants curving all the way around the area. They might be housed in the hotel, but the businesses in the lobby were their own destinations, and many folks came here to eat, browse, and spend way too much money on luxury goods.

  People moved in and out of the stores, all dressed as professional businesspeople or professional shoppers, out to purchase more of the same designer brands and bling that they already wore. The staff members were gussied up in garments that were just as expensive, and the only way to tell a hotel worker from a guest was by the silver crescent-moon pin tacked to their suit jackets.

  Finn was right. In a fancy place like this, blending in was the key to keeping a low profile and not attracting the attention of the roaming giant guards, who were always on the lookout for potential shoplifters. So Finn, Owen, and I had all dressed the part in dark suits, with Finn also carrying a silverstone briefcase to add to the illusion that we were corporate drones, in town for some sort of meeting, passing through the lobby on our way to get a drink, get dinner, and get back to the insanely expensive and exceptionally slow Wi-Fi in our rooms.

  Finn glanced around the lobby, making sure that the guards were ignoring us, then pointed over at a shop to the right of the revolving doors. “There’s the cigar bar. Let’s go take a look.”

  We headed in that direction. The name of the place, Puff, was spelled out in bold, blocky letters that lit up one red neon light at a time. When the entire name was illuminated, the outline of a cigar flared to life at the end of the sign, complete with a gray spiral of smoke wafting up from its burning ember. The cigar sign and flashing letters cast a dull red glow onto the floor, making the blue veins in the marble look like blood running through the stone.

  We reached the glass doors. Finn grinned and waggled his eyebrows at me, and I held out my hand, graciously telling him to go ahead. Owen looked back and forth between the two of us, not understanding our long-standing silent code.

  “Owen, my man,” Finn chirped, “I think it’s high time that I introduced you to the wide, wonderful world of cigars . . .”

  Finn pushed through the doors, grabbed Owen’s arm, and steered him inside. Owen looked at me, clearly wanting to stay outside, but I fluttered my fingers at him.

  “You boys have fun,” I drawled.

  The glass doors swung shut behind them, and I moved over to the corner of the shop, leaning against the wall and pretending to check my phone. Finn made a beeline for a woman mixing drinks behind a wooden bar along the wall, with Owen following him. Finn favored the woman with a dazzling smile, then popped open his briefcase and pulled out a plastic bag that held the cigar stub I’d found in the woods. The woman stared at him a moment, and then a slow smile stretched across her face in return.

  Finn was a natural schmoozer, and I was confident he’d be able to charm the woman into telling him what kind of cigar it was and who might have purchased one recently. Of course, if I were the bomber, I would have used a fake name and paid in cash, but maybe he wasn’t that smart, and we’d get lucky. Hope sprang eternal, right?

  I stood at the corner of the glass, still pretending to check my phone, although I was really scanning the storefront and everyone inside the place. In addition to the bar and the bottles of liquor on the mirrored glass shelves behind it, Puff featured clusters of oversize dark brown leather chairs and small tables, situated several feet away from one another. The chandeliers overhead were turned down low, and gray plumes of smoke snaked up into the air, adding to the hazy, elegant atmosphere.

  The usual crowd had gathered inside—businesspeople conducting meetings, more casually dressed folks who looked like vacationers, and some very attractive men and women roaming around with drinks in their hands, hoping to pick up a paying date for the night.

  No one stood out to me. I was about to turn my attention back to Finn and Owen, who were still at the bar, when I spotted a man in the shadows with his back to the wall.

  He was the only person who was sitting by himself, and he was busy looking at his phone, so he didn’t notice my staring. He wasn’t smoking, but a crystal tumbler of Scotch sat on the table in front of him, along with a bottle. The man was tall, with a muscular build that was similar to Owen’s. He wore a perfectly tailored dark blue suit with a pale blue shirt and matching tie, and a silverstone watch flashed on his left wrist, while a silverstone signet ring glimmered on his right hand. His black hair was slicked back over his forehead, revealing a square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, and overall movie-star good looks. Cary Grant had nothing on this guy. Everything about him whispered of understated elegance, money, and power.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed him, and one of the working girls approached the man, flashing him an inviting smile. He looked up from his phone, revealing pale blue eyes, and shook his head. The woman pouted and leaned down, showing off the ample assets squeezed into her tight black minidress. The man didn’t say anything, but he gave her a cold, flat look that had her standing up and moving away from him in search of more amenable prey for the evening.

  The Puff door opened, and Finn and Owen walked over to me. Finn peered over my shoulder, trying to see who I was looking at.

  “Uh-oh, Owen,” Finn said, elbowing him in the side. “I think you might have some competition for Gin’s affections.”

  “It’s not like that,” I protested.

  “Sure.” Finn drawled out the word, determined to tease me. “We just come out here and catch you ogling Mr. Tall, Slick, and Handsome like you want to take a long drag off him. I’m sure that’s nothing.”

  I wasn’t about to tell Finn that something about the guy nagged at me the way so many little things had been doing over the past two days. The bombs with their nail shrapnel, the mace rune carved into the tree, even the milkshakes I’d made for Jade Jamison. Finn would have said that I was being paranoid again. He might have been right about that.

  “Should I be jealous?” Owen asked, joining in with Finn’s teasing. “Because I am more than prepared to storm in there and challenge that guy to a duel. Pistols at dawn or something dramatic like that. Anything to defend my fair lady’s honor and win her everlasting favor.”

  He pressed his fist to his heart and bowed low to me before straightening back up, grabbing my hand, and pressing a kiss to my knuckles.

  I laughed. “As interesting as that would be, Sir Grayson, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Good to hear, Lady Genevieve.” Owen winked at me.

  I turned away from the storefront. “What did you find out?”

  Owen shook his head. “Dead end. They have the cigar—it’s called Chicory Coffee, interestingly enough—but the clerk couldn’t find a record of anyone ordering it in the past week.”

  “At least, no one with a credit card or charging it to their room,” Finn added. “So the guy most likely paid cash for it.”

  I sighed. “So we still have nothing that might tell us who the bomber really is.”

  “You got it, sister.” Finn shot his thumb and forefinger at me, then perked up. “But on the bright side, I restocked my cigar supply with several of those exquisite Chicory Coffee smokes.”

  He held up a white plastic bag that featured the Puff name and cigar rune in red letters.

  “Peachy,” I muttered.

  Finn grinned wider at my snarky tone.

  “Now what?” Owen asked.

  I glanced at my watch. “Now we go see what Mr. Smith is up to. His date should be wrapping up right about now, and he should be heading back to his room soon.”

  “Going to smoke the truth out of him, Gin?” Finn chuckled at his bad joke.

  I sighed. “Please tell me that you are not going to make stupid cigar jokes the rest
of the night.”

  Finn huffed, as though he were offended. “Of course not. There’s nothing stupid about my jokes. Is there, Owen?”

  Owen shook his head, but a grin spread across his face. “Don’t ask me. I’m not getting in this middle of this . . . smelly situation.”

  I groaned, but Finn raised his hand, and Owen high-fived him.

  “If you two are done being clever, maybe we can get on with things?” I groused.

  “Sure, just give me a second to put away my smokes,” Finn said. “I wouldn’t want them to get damaged when we talk to Smith.”

  I frowned. “Damaged? Why would they get damaged? And with what?”

  “Knives, magic, blood, big, fat, sloppy man tears as Smith begs for mercy,” Finn said. “You know. All the Gin Blanco specialties.”

  He was right again. Those were my specialties.

  Finn had Owen hold his briefcase so he could open it and slide the plastic bag full of cigars inside. The second he was done, I held out my hands, shooing the two of them toward the elevators. Finn put his arm around Owen’s shoulder, already planning a time for them to get together to smoke some of the cigars.

  Instead of following them, I looked through the windows of the cigar bar again. The man I’d noticed earlier was focused on his phone once more. He reached out, grabbed his glass of Scotch, and took a slow sip, making the signet ring flash on his hand. He wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, but I still felt uneasy. There was just something about him that seemed so familiar—

  A low whistle sounded. I looked over and realized that Finn was waving to me from the elevators.

  I glanced at the man again, but he wasn’t the one we were here to see. That would be Mr. Smith, and he was waiting for me, even if he didn’t know it yet.

  So I moved away from the cigar bar, more than ready to put eyes on someone who could finally help me get to the bottom of things.

  9

  Owen, Finn, and I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor, acting casual but keeping our heads down so as not to give the security cameras a good look at our faces. The doors opened, but the hallway was empty, so we were able to go over to the fire stairs and walk down to the third floor without anyone seeing us. The Blue Moon was one of those places that prided itself on its guests—and all their activities, legal and otherwise—staying anonymous, so no cameras monitored the stairwells or the room floors.