I was still wearing my black assassin clothes, along with my boots, but all of my knives were gone—the two up my sleeves, the two tucked into the sides of my boots, and the one in the small of my back. So I looked around, searching for my weapons.
I was in another cottage, although it wasn’t Bruce Porter’s caretaker cottage, since the stone floor here was still intact. I was sitting in the middle of a large den, halfway between a stone fireplace and a dark green leather couch. Several pieces of kindling were arranged in the fireplace, ready to be lit, with other, thicker logs stacked neatly in a nearby basket.
I glanced around the rest of the den. Brightly colored throw rugs, end tables, a bookcase bristling with paperbacks. The furniture was nice enough, although it had obviously been here for a while, given how well worn and old-fashioned it looked.
At first glance, everything seemed normal. Except for, you know, me being tied to a chair. Sadly, this wasn’t my first time at that particular rodeo, so I moved on. I turned my head, scanning the kitchen area in the back of the cottage, still looking for my knives.
And that’s when things started to get really, really weird.
A romantic table for two was set up in the middle of the kitchen. White tablecloth, two lit candles, a crystal vase full of red roses, fine china, a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket. Someone had really gone all out.
I drew in a deep breath. In addition to the hair dye, I got a faint whiff of the food that had already been dished out on the two plates on the table. Lemon-pepper chicken, if I had to guess, along with honey-glazed carrots and mashed potatoes. A simple, elegant meal.
Still, the longer I stared at the table with its picture-perfect spread, the more my stomach roiled. It reminded me of the romantic dinner that Owen had surprised me with a couple of days ago. But there was no romance here—only death.
I listened, but I didn’t hear anything but the faint whistle of the wind swirling around the house. And the stones, of course. They shrieked with the exact same notes of blood, violence, pain, and death that the caretaker cottage had, telling me that I was sitting smack dab in the middle of the Dollmaker’s lair. This was where he’d brought all the other women he’d kidnapped, and this was where he’d killed them all, when they didn’t live up to the twisted fantasy that he’d so carefully crafted.
I wondered how it went exactly. If he complimented them on how pretty they were. If he expected them to make polite chitchat. If he force-fed them dinner while they were still tied up. If he flew into a rage when they stared at him with fear and horror. If he finally started beating them when he realized that the fault was with himself instead of them.
I didn’t want to stick around to find out.
White lace curtains covered the windows, so I couldn’t tell where I was, although it was dark outside. Given the lack of noise, the cottage was probably isolated, which meant that I needed to get out of here before Rivera came back. So I started struggling against my ropes again, harder than before. And just like before, I got absolutely nowhere.
Something moved out of the corner of my eye, and I turned my head, noticing another piece of furniture, a full-length mirror propped up in the corner by the fireplace.
For a moment, I didn’t understand exactly what I was seeing in the mirror. Who was that strange-looking woman in the glass?
But then I realized that it was me.
That harsh chemical stench? It was hair dye, all right, just like I’d thought. And now I realized why the scent was so strong. It had been used on me.
Instead of its normal dark brown, my hair was now a bright, shiny, platinum blond that had been curled into loose waves that rested against my shoulders. He’d even taken the time to do my roots, so that I looked like a natural blonde. I didn’t know whether to admire his effort or be disgusted by how far he would go to make me resemble his dream woman.
Yeah, disgust won out.
But the worst part was the fact that my face had been carefully made up—and my lips were painted a bright, glossy, familiar color.
Heartbreaker red.
? ? ?
I blinked and blinked, staring at myself in the mirror as if I could somehow change my own horrible reflection. My stomach roiled again, and hot, sour bile rose in my throat. Of all the things that I’d been subjected to over the years, all the beatings, all the fights, all the deadly duels, this was one of the worst things that I’d ever experienced.
I felt violated in a way that I never had before.
I wasn’t Gin Blanco right now. I wasn’t the assassin the Spider. I wasn’t even a person anymore. I was a canvas, a doll, a plaything, primped and painted to Damian Rivera’s exact specifications.
Bile rose in my throat again, but I swallowed it down, along with the primal scream of rage that went with it. I might have rescued Elissa, but it was obvious that Rivera was determined to make me his next victim. And since he’d already transformed me into his perfect woman, it didn’t seem like he was going to keep me around for nearly as long as he had kept the others. That was me, Gin Blanco, classic overachiever, always on the fast track to death.
I had to get out of here before he came back. Since I couldn’t break through the ropes myself, I looked around the cottage again, but my knives weren’t in here, and I didn’t see anything else that I could use to saw through my thick, heavy bonds. Even if I could have scooted myself all the way around the couch and over to the kitchen table, the china there looked far too old and delicate to be of any use. It would probably crumble to dust if I broke it.
Well, if I couldn’t slice through the ropes, then I’d just break the damn chair and get out of my bonds that way. So I started swaying back and forth, trying to judge exactly how sturdy the chair was. The wood was thick, but it creak-creak-creaked with every move I made, telling me that it would break if I put enough force into it. Now, how to do that? I could either use my Ice magic to freeze and crack the wood, or I could try to lurch to my feet, stagger over to the fireplace, and dash the side of the chair against the stone.
I decided on the second option, not wanting to waste my magic on something as simple as getting out of a chair. I had far better plans for my power tonight.
I’d used up some of my magic taking out the guards at the mansion, but Rivera had foolishly left my spider rune ring on my finger, and my matching pendant still hung from my neck, glimmering against the black fabric of my vest. He wasn’t an elemental, so he hadn’t sensed the reserves of Ice and Stone power rippling through the silverstone jewelry.
That mistake was going to cost him dearly. I was going to use every single drop of magic that I had left to kill him dead, dead, dead.