Unwanted (Elemental Assassin) (2 page)

Deirdre’s rune.

Gin had snatched the necklace off Deirdre the night I’d killed my mother. It had been a foolish risk to take, especially since Hugh Tucker and his giants had been trying to murder her at the time, but Gin had wanted me to have the icicle-heart rune.

All these weeks later, I still didn’t know what to do with the damn thing.

At first, I’d brought it here to the bank to serve as a reminder never to let myself be played for a sentimental fool ever again. And it had certainly worked. Every time I looked at the rune, a cold, tight fist wrapped around my heart, as though Deirdre were reaching into my chest and freezing me from the inside out with her Ice magic.

More than once, I’d thought about just throwing the necklace into the trash, since that was exactly what I’d been to Deirdre. Trash. No one had ever made me feel as worthless, useless, and foolish as she had.

But the truly sad thing was that despite how much I hated Deirdre, I couldn’t quite bring myself to discard all of those sparkling diamonds. My greed kept getting the best of me, just like it had her. Yet another way I was like my mother, whether I wanted to be or not, and something that made me feel like shit all over again.

Gin noticed me staring at the rune, but she didn’t comment on it.

“Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “I should head back to the Pork Pit. Silvio set up some meetings with a couple of underworld bosses this afternoon.”

She made a face. The other bosses considered her the head of the underworld, although Gin had recently found out about Hugh Tucker and “the Circle.” The vampire worked for the secret society, which was supposedly responsible for a good portion of the crime and corruption in Ashland. Tucker’s revelation about the Circle, along with the bombshell that Gin’s mother, Eira Snow, had been involved with the group, consumed Gin just as much as my guilt over Deirdre ate away at me.

We were both chomping at the bit to open a safety-deposit box that my dad had left for us and see what clues it might contain about our mothers and the Circle. I hadn’t been able to get into the vault yet, since Stuart Mosley was still sorting through the contents of the boxes that Deirdre and her crew had forced open during the robbery. Mosley should be done with those boxes soon, and then, maybe,
finally
, Gin and I could get the answers we both needed.

Gin looked at the icicle-heart rune again before clearing her throat, walking over, and gently squeezing my shoulder.

“It’ll get better, Finn,” she said, her gray eyes on my green ones. “Your coworkers, the flashbacks, how you feel about everything. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday, it
will
get better.”

I knew that she was talking about herself as much as she was about me. So even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I forced myself to smile at her again.

“Of course it will,” I lied.

 2 

I dropped off the take-out containers in the break room for the guards, even though the food would most likely end up in the trash, then walked Gin back upstairs to the lobby.

To the casual observer, First Trust looked as elegant as ever. Wisps of white streaked through the gray marble floor before climbing up the walls and snaking out onto the high vaulted ceiling. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast warm sprays of light, while the afternoon sun streamed in through the freshly washed windows, giving the entire lobby a bright, airy feel. Not a trace of damage remained from the robbery attempt, not so much as the smallest scorch mark on the wall from a flying bullet. Everything gleamed like it was brand-spanking-new. Because, well, it was.

It was Friday afternoon, and the bank was busy, with people moving back and forth through the lobby, trying to get a last bit of business done before the weekend. Tellers worked at stations at the counter that ran along the back wall, taking deposits and handing over receipts, while customers sat in chairs and talked with their bankers about car loans, mortgages, and college funds.

Yes, at first glance, everything looked normal, right down to the tellers’ smiles as they sent folks on their way. But I’d worked here a long time, and I saw past the pretty, polished veneer.

The tellers’ smiles were more strained than sincere, and they each kept one hand below the counter, ready to trigger a silent alarm at the first hint of trouble. Instead of completely focusing on their clients, the bankers shot wary looks at the double doors, half expecting robbers to storm inside at any moment and start shooting. And then there were the giant guards, two in each corner, eight men total, all of whom had their hands on their guns, constantly watching everyone entering and exiting the lobby. All the workers were tense and on edge, with a healthy dose of simmering anger—all directed squarely at me.

The tellers, the bankers, the guards. Their eyes narrowed, and their sharp, accusing gazes focused on me the second I stepped into the lobby with Gin. I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and nodded politely to everyone, even though every sour, hostile, suspicious glare was like a punch to my gut. Everyone knew that my mother had tried to rob the bank, and most folks thought that I’d been in on it. That I’d just stood by that day, let Deirdre and Rodrigo Santos waltz right in the bank and kill all the guards without lifting a finger to try to stop them.

Of course, that wasn’t true. I’d fought Santos and his crew, but they’d quickly overpowered me, executed the guards, and dragged me down to the basement so Deirdre could try to torture the vault’s door codes out of me. I would have told my coworkers exactly what had happened, but none of them had bothered to ask me about it. Their friends were dead, and I was not, so I was guilty, guilty, guilty.

Even among the few folks who gave me the benefit of the doubt, their viewing me as a clueless idiot who hadn’t realized that his own mother was scamming him wasn’t any better.

I much preferred being hated to being pitied.

Thinking about my own stupidity made a hot, embarrassed blush creep up my neck, but I screwed a smile onto my face and walked on, ignoring the cruel whispers that sprang up in my wake. No one wanted me to keep working here, and I’d overheard more than one muttered conversation about why I didn’t just quit already. People went out of their way to avoid any contact with me, like I was a black cat that was going to jinx them if our paths crossed. Just about the only way I could get folks to communicate with me, even about important bank business, was through email. Even then, all the responses were terse and to the point. No polite chitchat, no funny stories about customers, not so much as a silly cat video anymore.

I glanced behind the tellers’ counter, wondering if my latest doughnut peace offering had been accepted. But all the boxes were shut and stacked up in exactly the same position as when I’d first dropped them off this morning. It was a sad, sad day when you couldn’t even bribe people with sugar to be civil to you.

Yep, it was official. I, Finnegan Lane, was the most unwanted man in Ashland.

Gin picked up on the angry, hostile vibe, and she glared back at people, daring them to make some snide remark about me. I loved her for wanting to protect me, but being stared down by a notorious assassin wasn’t exactly going to help my popularity.

A man stepped right in front of me. I was so busy just trying to get through this latest walk of shame that I almost plowed straight into his back. At the last second, I managed to catch myself.

He saw me out of the corner of his eye, stopped, and turned toward me. The man was a dwarf, a little more than five feet tall, with a thick stocky body, wavy silver hair, and a lined face with a hooked nose that looked like it had been broken multiple times.

I winced. I’d almost mowed down Stuart Mosley, my boss, someone with whom I was on very thin ice these days.

And he wasn’t alone. Mosley was escorting a slender woman in a black pantsuit and heels across the lobby. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun, showing off her high cheekbones and lovely bronze skin, although her hazel eyes were red and puffy, as though she’d been crying. I recognized her too: Isabelle Vargas, the widow of Peter Vargas, one of the giant guards who’d been murdered during the bank robbery.

The sight of her almost knocked me to my knees.

“Ah, there you are, Finn,” Mosley said in his deep, rumbling voice. “I’m sure you remember Mrs. Vargas. Mrs. Vargas, this is Finnegan Lane.”

Even though I wanted nothing more than to drop my head and slink away, I nodded politely at her. “Of course. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vargas.”

Anger sparked in her eyes, and her red lips tightened into a thin line in her beautiful face. She knew exactly who I was—and that I was responsible for her husband’s death. But instead of screaming curses at me the way she had every right to, she gave me a short, sharp nod in return and dropped her gaze to the floor, as though she couldn’t even stand to look at me.

I didn’t blame her. I could barely look at myself in the mirror.

Gin stepped up beside me in a silent show of support. She nodded at Mosley, who tipped his head back at her before pivoting to me again.

“Mrs. Vargas and I were just meeting about her husband’s life-insurance policy,” Mosley said. “I was telling her that the settlement should come through any day now.”

One thing I’d always admired about Stuart Mosley was how well he took care of his employees. Even though First Trust had never even come close to being successfully robbed before Deirdre showed up, Mosley had realized that it was always a potential target, and so he made sure all his employees, especially the guards, had hefty life-insurance policies that would provide for their families in case anything happened to them.

Too many of those policies had been cashed in lately, thanks to me.

“I would appreciate it if I could get the money as soon as possible,” Isabelle Vargas said in a low, strained voice. “I have some . . . bills that need paying, and I haven’t been at work because of . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked several times, holding back a fresh wave of tears.

“Of course,” Mosley murmured. “I’ll call you as soon as I receive the money. And, of course, we’ll all be at the funeral later today to pay our respects.” He paused. “Won’t we, Finn?”

It wasn’t a request.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Just like with Gin, Stuart Mosley didn’t yell or scream or berate me for how thoroughly I’d destroyed his bank and its reputation. He didn’t even threaten to fire me. Not even once. He just made sure that I realized the full, devastating consequences of putting my foolish trust in Deirdre, and one of the ways he did that was by having me attend the funerals of all the murdered guards. I would have done that anyway, since I’d known and been friendly with all of them. But standing at their graves, watching their families weep, and seeing their caskets slowly lowered into the cold, frozen ground . . .

It was the worst part of this whole damn thing.

Knowing that innocent people were dead because of me and that their families would suffer the pain of their loss for the rest of their lives was worse than my mother’s betrayal, worse than her brutal torture of me, worse even than letting down Gin, Bria, and the rest of my friends.

If Deirdre had been here, I would have strangled her with my bare hands and killed her all over again for all the heartache she’d caused.

Sensing my roller coaster of emotions, Gin put her hand on my shoulder. But with Mosley watching me like a hawk, she also realized that this was bank business now, something I needed to handle myself.

“I’ll let you guys talk,” she said. “I’ll text you later after my meetings. Okay, Finn?”

I forced myself to smile at her again. “Okay. Thanks again for lunch.”

Gin squeezed my shoulder, nodded at Mosley and Isabelle, then headed for the double doors, pushed through them, and left the bank.

A teller hurried up and drew Mosley off to the side, whispering to him about some problem and leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby with Isabelle. All the other tellers, bankers, and guards stared at the two of us, wondering if Isabelle would start screaming at me. Other people had done so, both here at the bank and at their loved ones’ funerals. I
wanted
her to scream and yell at me. I deserved it. I deserved all her anger, disgust, and hate, and then some.

“I need to go,” she finally muttered, still not looking at me. “I have things to do before the . . . funeral.” Her breath hitched on the last word, and I could tell that she was fighting back a sob.

Guilt stabbed through my gut again, as sharp and painful as one of Gin’s silverstone knives.

“Finn,” Mosley called out. “I need to take care of this. Please escort Mrs. Vargas outside.”

Another nonrequest.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Isabelle opened her mouth like she was going to say no way, that she was perfectly capable of seeing herself out, and that she didn’t want me within a hundred miles of her. But in the end, her shoulders slumped, and she just sighed, nodded, and moved toward the doors, too heartsick to argue about this one small thing when so many other larger, more important, far more painful things were before her.

We walked across the lobby in silence. The other employees still watched us with rapt attention, hoping that Isabelle would yell out all the horrible things they were secretly thinking about me. When that didn’t happen, they slowly lost interest and returned to their own clients and work.

I opened one of the double doors for her, and we stepped outside. The sun was shining, but the December air was still cold, and the wind had a particularly harsh, bitter bite to it. Isabelle wasn’t wearing a coat, and she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. I started to shrug out of my suit jacket to offer it to her, but she realized what I was doing and sidestepped away, still not wanting to have anything to do with me.

I swallowed my guilt, reached into my jacket pocket, and drew out one of my business cards. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.”

Her lips curled, and she stared at the card like it was a rattlesnake. “I don’t want your help.”

“I know, but if you ever need anything—”

“What I need is my husband back.” Her voice was soft and sad, without a hint of blame in it, which was worse than if she had started yelling at me.

She was right. Nothing I could do would ever bring her husband back. I slowly dropped my hand and the card down to my side, as more of those knives of guilt sliced through my stomach, cutting every which way.

A large, expensive black SUV pulled up to the curb, and Isabelle tensed, looking even more miserable than before, but she made no move to approach the idling vehicle.

“Is that your ride?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

She hesitated another moment, then slowly trudged down the bank steps and over to the vehicle.

The rear door opened, and a man got out of the car. He was a giant, roughly seven feet tall, with a strong, muscular body and an impressive styled mane of ink-black hair. His dark gray suit was even more expensive than mine, and large gold rings studded with diamonds flashed on each and every one of his fingers.