Deadly Sting by Jennifer Estep Read Free Book Online

gallantly offered me his arm, and we headed toward the entrance.
    Bria had been wondering where all the giant guards in Ashland had gone. Well, tonight they were at Briartop. Giants were stationed at both ends of the covered bridge, communicating by walkie-talkies about when to let the next car cross. Others moved in and out of the parking lots, directing traffic, while several more milled around the museum’s main entrance, checking invitations and enforcing the guest list.
    I counted at least twenty giants before we even got close to the front door. Odd. Perhaps the Briartop board had hired extra security for the gala.
    Finn and I waited our turn in the line that had formed by the entrance. I stared up at the museum while he fished his engraved invitation out of his jacket.
    Briartop was a veritable castle, southern-style. The structure soared five stories into the air and boasted a series of fat, round, domed towers, each one topped with a gleaming weather vane. The gray marble shimmered like a silver star in the warm rays of the setting sun even as the sloping eaves of the coal-black slate roof melted into the gathering shadows. Four massive columns framed the main entrance, while thick crenellated balconies fronted all of the tall, narrow windows. Stone planters decorated each one of the balconies, the lush pink, purple, and white rhododendrons inside providing vivid splashes of color against the marble, almost like paint streaking across a clean canvas.
    As if the structure itself wasn’t impressive enough, a large fountain bubbled on the smooth front lawn, its jets of water arching through the air like streams of liquid diamonds. The constant churn of the water shrouded the area in a fine mist and spritzed the honeysuckle curling around and through a series of freestanding, whitewashed trellises that flanked the fountain. The rich, heady aroma of honeysuckle saturated the night air, carried along by a soft summer breeze.
    The fountain, vines, and trellises made for a beautiful sight, but I looked away from them. I didn’t much care for fountains. Not anymore. Not after Salina had used them and her water magic to murder people at her deadly dinner party—and tried to drown me in one.
    Instead, I reached out with my magic and listened to the murmurs of the museum itself.
    Actions, emotions, plots and schemes and hopes and dreams. People leave behind bits and pieces of themselves in the spots they frequent, in all of the buildings, offices, and houses where they spend their lives. All of those actions, feelings, and emotions—good, bad, and indifferent—sink especially well into stone. As a Stone elemental, I can sense and interpret all of those hidden vibrations as easily as if one of the museum tour guides were telling me all of the juicy gossip about every scandalous thing that had ever happened in and around the building. Tonight Briartop’s silvery marble muttered with worry, mixed with sharp notes of tension and sly whispers of unease.
    Curious—and troubling.
    I’d been to Briartop many times before, both as the Spider trailing a target and as regular Gin Blanco. I’d even come here once or twice for some of the art classes I’d taken at Ashland Community College through the years. Every time I’d been here before, the marble had proudly murmured of the artistic beauty and treasures it housed, punctuated by light, trilling notes of vain pretentiousness and smug snobbery—nothing more.
    But tonight the constant, worried mutters told me that someone here was up to something—probably more than one person, given all the tense murmurs and sharp, ringing ping s of unease.
    Oh, the crowd looked innocent enough. Men and women dressed in fitted tuxedos and elegant evening gowns, expensive jewels and heavy watches flashing on their necks and wrists. But the stones never lied. They echoed the actions, emotions, and intentions of the people around them—nothing more, nothing less.
    Once again, that vague, uneasy