Elemental Assassin 05 - Spider's Revenge

the way it is? So raspy and broken? Because Grimes made her breathe in elemental Fire?”
    Jo-Jo nodded. “It damaged her vocal cords something fierce. I offered to fix it for her with my Air magic, but she wouldn’t let me. She just—wouldn’t.”
    I leaned over and grabbed Jo-Jo’s hand, trying to offer her what comfort I could, even though I hadn’t even been born when all of this had happened. But so much made sense to me now. Why Fletcher had such a close relationship with the Deveraux sisters, why they’d helped him so much all these years, even why Sophia was the way that she was—moody, withdrawn, broken. My heart ached for the Goth dwarf. My torment at the hands of Mab had been nothing compared to what she’d endured.
    Jo-Jo swiped away her tears and continued with her story. “Fletcher kept his word. He went up that mountain, and he did what I asked him to do, what he’d trained himself to do as the Tin Man. It took him two weeks of guerrilla warfare tactics, but he killed a whole passel of Grimes’s men and hurt Grimes himself real bad. Fletcher would have killed the bastard, if one of Grimes’s men hadn’t gutshot Fletcher. He was almost dead when he showed up on my front porch, but Fletcher rescued Sophia and brought her back home to me. And he made sure that Grimes never bothered us again. Every time that bastard came sniffing around, Fletcher let him know exactly what would happen—that Fletcher would finish the job he started and kill Grimes if he didn’t stay up there on his damn mountain and leave us alone.”
    Jo-Jo fell silent, lost in her thoughts once more. Then she looked at me again, a fierce light burning in her pale eyes.
    “Fletcher Lane was the finest man that I ever met, and he was certainly the best assassin. But you know what, Gin? Fletcher told me something a few weeks before he died—something about
you
.”
    “And what would that be?” I asked, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.
    Jo-Jo speared me with a hard look. “He told me that you were even better than he was. That you had the kind of cold, iron will that few people have. That you weren’t afraid to do what needed to be done. But the most important thing he told me was this—that if anyone could kill Mab, it was you. Don’t you see, Gin? It’s what he’s beenpreparing you for all these years. It’s why he trained you in the first place, it’s why he made you into the Spider. So you could do what needed to be done to save your sister, just like he saved mine all those years ago.”
    Jo-Jo drew in a breath. “That’s why I’m telling you this now. If Sophia could survive all the horrible things Grimes did to her, then you can survive Mab too, just like you did when you were a little girl. And I need you to survive, Gin. We all do. We lost Fletcher already. We can’t lose you too.”
    I sat there holding the dwarf’s hand, but I wasn’t really there with her. Instead, I was with the old man. A thousand images of him flashed through my mind then, from the way he leaned over the counter at the Pork Pit reading his latest book to how he’d always had a hot meal waiting there for me when I’d come back from an assignment.
    But mostly, I thought about how Fletcher had always believed in me, how he’d never once wavered in his support of me, how he’d been so patient in teaching me all the things that had helped me survive.
    Genevieve Snow, Gin Blanco, the Spider; whatever I called myself, one thing remained the same—Fletcher Lane had fiercely loved me, and I’d loved the old man just as much in return. Enough to follow in his footsteps as an assassin. Enough to avenge his murder. And more than enough to take on this final impossible task of killing Mab Monroe.
    “What are you thinking, Gin?” Jo-Jo asked.
    A cold smile curved my lips. “I’m thinking that I’ll be damned if I’m going to disappoint the old man androb us both of our revenge on Mab, even if Fletcher isn’t around to see it.”
    By the time the others came down to the kitchen, Jo-Jo and I had both regained our composure, and I’d whipped up enough food to feed an army. Sweet raspberry pancakes, blackberry biscuits, lots of scrambled eggs, piles of sizzling bacon and country-fried ham, creamy peach smoothies. All that and more waited on the kitchen table and surrounding countertops, and the air smelled of all the sugar, spices, and grease that I’d used to create my last supper, as it were.
    One by one,