Black Widow (41 page)

*  *  *

At my request, Bria and Xavier called the cops to the mansion so we could put our own spin on how everything had gone down here tonight. Instead of leaving the scene of my crime like I had so many times before, I stayed and faced the po-po with my friends.

Most of the officers seemed more shocked at my having actually killed Madeline than anything else, even that I was still alive, but none of them approached me, and none of them dared to arrest me. Even if they'd tried, they couldn't have so much as touched me, thanks to all those old, antiquated laws I'd found on the books. I'd challenged Madeline to a duel, she'd accepted, and she'd lost. Perfectly legal, and perfectly deadly. For her at least.

I'd thought that the cops might try to take me in
for supposedly killing Captain Dobson, but Silvio had already laid the groundwork to get me out of that too. He had a quiet, but rather pointed, discussion with the commanding officer on the scene about the bull pen, how I could identify many of the cops who'd been there that night and, worst of all, sue the department for every dime it had. So all the charges against me were summarily dropped. Silvio even got the commanding officer to promise to issue me a public apology.

As for the other dead bodies, Bria and Xavier claimed that the crowd watching the duel had panicked and that several folks had been trampled to death as a result. It wasn't plausible, not at all, but none of the surviving underworld bosses were going to speak up and tell the police what had really happened.

Dr. Ryan Colson arrived soon after that, along with several of his assistants. I hadn't seen the coroner since my visit to his office, but he didn't seem surprised or upset by my presence here. Colson gave me a respectful nod, which I returned, then went about his business of seeing to the bodies. He would know that they hadn't died from being trampled, not given all the stab wounds, snapped necks, and bruised throats on them, but I doubted he would make an issue of it.

Eventually, I settled myself on part of the marble staircase that had escaped Madeline's acid. Owen drifted over and sat down next to me. Together, the two of us watched the cops work.

“Now what?” he asked. “What are you thinking about, Gin?”

I looked around the ballroom. Two hours ago, it had
been a beautiful spot, glittering, pristine, and perfect with its diamond chandeliers, creamy orchids, and soft white lights. Now it looked like a bomb had gone off inside the once-elegant space.

I felt the exact same way inside with the revelation that Madeline had a daughter—and that perhaps our family feud wasn't as finished as I'd thought.

Mab had killed my mother and older sister and had tried to do the same to me and Bria. Because of all that, I'd grown up with one thought on my mind—revenge. I wondered if Moira would be the same way. If she'd grow up with that same obsessive desire, that same driving ambition, that same unending thirst for blood.

My blood.

“Gin?” Owen asked again. “Bria says that there's nothing more we can do here. Are you ready to go?”

I glanced around the ballroom a final time, at all the blood and the bodies and the still-burning pools of green acid, and me sitting smack-dab in the center of it all. Part of me wondered how I'd ever wound up here, in this time, in this place. A larger part of me wondered what would happen next—what all the consequences of my actions here tonight would be.

But those were questions and worries for another day. Madeline Magda Monroe was finished, and her schemes as dead as she was, and that was all that mattered tonight.

“Yeah, I'm done here.”

Owen got to his feet and held out his hand. I threaded my fingers through his, and he pulled me up. Together, arm in arm, we walked past Madeline's frozen corpse and out of the ballroom.

30

The next few weeks flew by in a whirlwind of activity.

Several stories popped up in the media about Madeline's death, Dobson's too, but given Silvio's not-so-subtle threats that I could still sue the department, the po-po decided to pretty much sweep everything under the proverbial rug. Par for the course in Ashland.

With Madeline dead, her schemes against my friends all unraveled as well. Roslyn's liquor distributor backed down, Owen's business deal finally went through, Eva's name was cleared and she was reinstated at the community college, Jo-Jo's salon was declared to be mold-free, and Bria and Xavier got their jobs back on the police force. Even Finn's lawsuit got dropped for lack of evidence.

But there was still the not-so-small matter of the Pork Pit.

The interior of the restaurant had been a total loss, thanks to the fire, although the brick walls were still intact,
along with the pig sign hanging over the front door. By some stroke of luck, the fire hadn't so much as touched the sign, although I'd hired a crew to clean off all the residue left behind from all the smoke and ash that had boiled out of the restaurant.

After that, another crew came in—this one from Vaughn Construction—to gut what was left of the interior, clear out all the debris, and start again. I'd thought that Charlotte might refuse the job, given our tangled, troubled history, but she accepted it. In fact, she'd come down to the restaurant to personally oversee the construction, along with a few new features that I was adding—including a hidden door in one of the brick walls that would give me a secret way outside, should I ever have need of such a thing again.

Given my luck, I was betting that would happen sooner rather than later.

But the days and weeks passed by, and before I knew it, I was standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant on a cool November day, staring up at the freshly cleaned sign with the pig holding a platter of food. Maybe I should change the logo to a phoenix. After all, the restaurant had risen from the ashes, just like I had. I grinned. Nah. I liked things just the way they were.

Still, as I slid my key into the front-door lock, I couldn't help but look around, searching for rune traps and any other nasty surprises that someone might have left for me. But things had been shockingly, amazingly quiet since I killed Madeline. None of the underworld bosses had sent any more of their men after me. No one had tried to kill me at all. Perhaps they'd taken my words
to heart. Or perhaps they were lying in wait like Madeline had, spinning their black-widow webs and hoping to ensnare me in them. Either way, I'd finally gotten my peace and quiet, and I was going to enjoy it while it lasted.

There were no runes or traps, so I stepped inside the restaurant and locked the front door behind me. It was early, just after nine, and today was the first day that I was going to open the restaurant since the night it had burned.

I looked out over the storefront, which was brand spanking new, yet so familiar at the same time. Everything inside was new, shiny, and polished, from the blue-and-pink vinyl booths that lined my improved bulletproof windows, to the sturdy metal tables and chairs in the middle of the storefront, to the padded, swivel stools that fronted the long counter that ran along the back wall.

I'd even had an artist come in and redo the blue and pink pig tracks on the floor. They curved over to the restrooms as usual, but the artist had taken the extra step of having the tracks lead to other places too—the cash register, the double doors, the back of the restaurant, and even up onto the walls and all the way across the ceiling. To me, the tracks were almost like Fletcher's footsteps, marking his paths through the restaurant and all the memories I had of him here over the years. Mine too. I liked them, and I knew that he would have too.

I moved over to the counter and ran my hand along the slick surface. Since I'd had to remodel the entire restaurant, I'd upgraded everything inside and now had fancy new appliances, dishes, and silverware that would
put the most expensive, highfalutin, and uppity restaurant to shame. Underwood's didn't have stoves, pots, and pans as nice as I did now. Even the dish towels were all new, fresh, and clean.

I moved over to the cash register. It was just about the only thing that I hadn't modernized. Oh, it was new to me, but Jo-Jo had found it in one of the antique shops a few blocks over. It wasn't exactly the same as the one that Fletcher had had for so many years, but it was close enough and made a similar
ring-ring-ring
whenever I opened the cash drawer.

But there were two important things that were missing. I unzipped the black duffel bag hanging off my shoulder and reached inside. I drew out some paneling nails, along with a small hammer. A few
tack-tack-tack
s later, and I had put two nails in the wall close to the cash register, right where I wanted them.

When that was done, I put the nails and hammer away and reached back into the bag. The photo of a young Fletcher with an equally young Warren T. Fox went up on one nail. On the other, I carefully hung the framed copy of
Where the Red Fern Grows
, the one that was spattered with the old man's blood. I looked at the two framed items, the counter, the old-fashioned cash register, and the pig tracks curving every which way through the restaurant. Things that were old, new, borrowed, and blue. I took them all as a sign of good luck. I had finally reclaimed the last thing that Madeline had tried to take away from me, and it felt damn good.

The Pork Pit was back in business.

*  *  *

I admired the restaurant for a few more minutes before getting to work. Turning on the appliances, tying a new blue work apron on over my jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt, pulling out vegetables and other foodstuffs to get everything ready for the day.

The first thing I put together was a vat of Fletcher's secret barbecue sauce. As soon as it started simmering away with its rich, smoky mix of cumin, black pepper, and other spices, the restaurant felt like home again. I quickly fell into the usual routines and lost myself in the welcome familiarity of cooking. Sophia, Catalina, and the rest of the waitstaff came in, and I went over and flipped the sign on the front door over to
Open
.

My first customer of the day was Moira Monroe.

The bright, shiny silver bell over the front door chimed, and the little girl skipped inside, followed by Jo-Jo. Moira was the only thing that we hadn't told the cops about, and she'd been staying with the Deveraux sisters ever since we found her. But today, she was leaving Ashland—I hoped for good.

It had taken them more than two weeks, but together Finn and Silvio had managed to find her father, Connor Dupree. Apparently, in the middle of the night, Emery had stormed into the hotel room where he'd been hiding with Moira and had taken his daughter away from him, almost beating him to death. I'd had Finn and Silvio thoroughly vet the dad, digging into every part of his life and background, but he seemed to be a genuinely good guy who loved his daughter.

Jo-Jo led Moira over to the counter and helped her sit up on the stool closest to the cash register.

“Hi, Gin,” the little girl said in a bright voice.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I murmured. “Are you having fun with Jo-Jo?”

A grin spread across Moira's face. “She painted my nails this morning. See? I can't wait to show them to my daddy when he gets here.”

She held out her hand so I could see the pale pink polish and silver sparkles that glittered on her tiny nails.

“They're so pretty,” I said. “Just like you.”

Moira giggled and started spinning around and around on her stool. I fixed her a cheeseburger and some sweet-potato fries, and a barbecue-chicken sandwich and some coleslaw for Jo-Jo.

People came and went, and we had a much larger crowd than I'd thought we would, everyone from my friends and family to folks who had heard about the fire and had come to gawk at how the Pork Pit was open for business again—and that I was still standing when I should have been cold, dead, and buried in the ground.

Eventually, Jo-Jo moved Moira over to one of the booths so the little girl could color on a paper place mat printed with the Pork Pit's pig logo.