Unwanted
Page 3
And I’d failed her miserably.
The familiar guilt churned in my stomach, but I ignored it, put the lid on the last of the take-out containers, and set it off to one side with the others. The motion revealed a large crystal candy dish perched near the front corner of my desk. But there were no peppermints in this dish, just a large pendant made of jagged diamond icicles that had been fitted together to form a heart.
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.
The familiar guilt churned in my stomach, but I ignored it, put the lid on the last of the take-out containers, and set it off to one side with the others. The motion revealed a large crystal candy dish perched near the front corner of my desk. But there were no peppermints in this dish, just a large pendant made of jagged diamond icicles that had been fitted together to form a heart.
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.
