Elemental Assassin 05 - Spider's Revenge

an old man with a wispy thatch of white hair leaned over the counter next to the cash register, reading a blood-stained book
. Where the Red Fern Grows.
One of his all-time favorites—and mine too
.
    Joy filled my heart at the sight of him, a burst of happiness so intense it was like I hadn’t seen him in months, instead of just a few hours. After a moment, the feeling faded away, replaced by a darker, more ominous sensation
.
    And then I remembered
.
    He wasn’t here anymore. Not really. No, he was dead, killed months ago in this very spot. Murdered in his own restaurant. I remembered crouching over his body, my tears dripping down and mixing with the blood on his ruined face. I remembered the pain of losing him, the pain that I still felt every time I woke up in his house and realized he was gone
.
    But here the old man was, and so was I—back together again. Or so it seemed
.
    He looked up at the sound of the bell chiming and used one of the day’s credit card receipts to mark his spot in the blood-stained book. Then his bright green eyes met mine, and a grin creased his wrinkled face
.
    “About time you got here, Gin,” Fletcher Lane said
.
    I stood there just inside the door, staring at the old man and struggling to make sense of this, of where I was and what was happening to me
.
    I remembered—I remembered—
Fire.
Mab’s elemental Fire, washing over me, burning me to the core. My own Ice
magic reaching out to hers, holding it at bay, and then finally, my driving my silverstone knife into Mab’s chest as the flames consumed both of us
.
    I sighed. “So I’m dead then, right? This is heaven or hell or limbo or whatever?”
    Fletcher didn’t answer me. Instead, the old man moved over to the stove and came back with a plate of food. He set it on the counter, then picked up his book by the cash register once more, going back to his reading
.
    “Better start eating before it gets cold,” he said
.
    I wasn’t sure what was going on—if this was real or a dream or something else entirely—but I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to be with Fletcher. Not now. Not after I’d spent the last few months missing him so terribly and feeling so guilty over his death—and that I hadn’t been able to save him. Not from being tortured, not from being murdered
.
    So I took a seat at the counter and started eating the food. A half-pound hamburger dripping with mayonnaise and piled high with smoked Swiss cheese, sweet butter-leaf lettuce, a juicy tomato slice, and a thick slab of red onion. A bowl of spicy baked beans followed, along with a saucer of carrot-laced coleslaw. I remembered the last time that I’d had this meal—the night before Fletcher had died
.
    I dug into the food, a little hesitant at first, but soon I was relishing the play of sweet and spice, salt and vinegar, on my tongue. It was a simple, savory meal that I’d had hundreds of times before, one I’d cooked a thousand times more, but somehow it had never tasted as good as it did right now. It seemed like I’d barely started eating before my plate was clean. I pushed it back and sighed
.
    “That was the best meal I’ve ever eaten,” I said in a wistful tone
.
    “I know,” Fletcher said. “Everything tastes better here.”
    I wasn’t sure where
here
was, and I sensed that he wouldn’t tell me even if I asked. So I just sat there and looked at him, staring at the wrinkled face that I’d loved so much, that I’d missed so much. And I realized I had questions for Fletcher—all these burning questions I’d wanted to ask him for so many months now
.
    “Why did you give me that folder of information on Bria? Why didn’t you just tell me that she was alive? Why wait until after you died? Why buy the land where my childhood house was? And did Mab really hire you to kill my family? Is that why you wanted her dead all these years? Because she tried to have you killed when you turned her down?” One after another, the questions tumbled from my lips
.
    Fletcher marked his place in his book again, then looked up at me. His green eyes were sharper, clearer, brighter than I remembered and free of the rheumy film that had started to cloud them as he’d aged
.
    “That’s what you want to know?” he asked in an amused voice. “The murky, mysterious actions of an old man? Not the big stuff? You know, about life and death and if there’s really a heaven or not?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t care about any of that. I just want to