I rolled my eyes. “Well, when I see a well-groomed man, I’ll let you know.”
Finn bumped his shoulder into mine, and I bumped him right back. “You know there’s no place I’d rather be tonight than here with you, right?” he said, his voice lighter than it had been in days.
I arched an eyebrow. “Really? You want to be cold, dirty, and sweaty? Why is that?”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “Skulking around a cemetery on a cold winter’s night? Digging up graves and secrets? Hot on the trail of some secret society that your mother may or may not have been involved in? Honestly, what could be better than this?”
He grinned at me again and started filling in the grave. I watched him for a few seconds, and then my gaze drifted down the hill to where Fletcher was buried. Finn and the old man had had their issues, but Fletcher had loved Finn, and that love had been returned. Maybe now more so than ever before.
Finn was right. There was no place I’d rather be either.
I smiled and started working side by side with my brother.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the
next book in the Elemental Assassin series
by Jennifer Estep
Coming soon from Pocket Books
1
It was the perfect night to kill someone.
Thick, heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars, deepening the shadows of the cold December evening. It wasn’t snowing, but an icy drizzle spattered down from the sky, slowly covering everything in a slick, glossy, treacherous sheen. Icicles had already formed on many of the trees that lined the street, looking like gnarled, glittering fingers that were crawling all over the bare, skeletal branches. No animals moved or stirred, not so much as an owl sailing into one of the treetops searching for shelter.
Down the block, red, green, and white holiday lights flashed on the doors and windows of one of the sprawling mansions set back from the street, and the faint trill of Christmas carols filled the air. A steady stream of people hurried from the holly-festooned front door, down the snowmen-lined driveway, and out to their cars, scrambling into the vehicles and cranking the engines as fast as they could. Someone’s dinner party was rapidly winding down, despite the fact that it was only nine o’clock. Everyone wanted to get home and be safe, warm, and snug in their own beds before the weather got any worse. In ten minutes, they’d all be gone, and the street would be quiet and deserted again.
Yes, it was the perfect night to kill someone.
Too bad my mission was recon only.
I slouched down in my seat, staying as much out of view of the passing headlights as possible. But none of the drivers gave my battered old white van a second look, and I doubted any of them even bothered to glance at the blue lettering on the side that read Cloudburst Falls Catering. Caterers, florists, musicians. Such service vehicles were all too common in Northtown, the part of Ashland where the rich, social, and magical elite lived. If not for the lousy weather, I imagined that this entire street would have been lit up with holiday cheer as people hosted various parties, each one trying to outdo their neighbors with garish light displays.
Once the last of the cars cruised by and the final pair of headlights faded away, I straightened in my seat, picked up my binoculars from my lap, and peered through them at another nearby mansion.
A stone wall cordoned this mansion off from the street, featuring a wide iron gate that was closed and locked for the night. Unlike its neighboring house, there were no holiday lights, and only a single room on the front was illuminated—an office with glass doors that led out to a stone patio. Thin white curtains covered the doors, and every few seconds, the murky shape of a man would appear, moving back and forth, as though he was continually pacing from one side of his office to the other.
I just bet he was pacing. From all the reports I’d heard, he’d been holed up in his mansion for months now, preparing for his murder trial, which was set to begin after the first of the year. That would be enough to drive anyone stir-crazy.
Beside me, a soft creak rang out, followed by a long, loud sigh. Two sounds that I’d heard over and over again in the last hour I’d been parked here.
The man in the mansion wasn’t the only one going nuts.
“Tell me again. How did I get stuck hanging out with you tonight?” a low voice muttered.
I lowered my binoculars and looked over at Phillip Kincaid, who had his arms crossed over his muscled chest and a mulish expression on his handsome face. A long black trench coat covered his body and a black toboggan was pulled down low on his forehead, hiding his golden hair from sight, except for the low ponytail that stuck out the back. I was dressed in black as well, from my boots to my jeans to my silverstone vest, turtleneck, and fleece jacket. A black toboggan also topped my head, although I’d stuffed all my dark brown hair up underneath it.