Owen touched my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Then he opened the door and left. A minute later, an engine rumbled to life in the front of the house before the sound slowly faded away.
I shuddered out a breath, reached into the case, and pulled out one of my knives. The metal felt cool to the touch, given the Ice and Stone magic stored inside the silverstone. I rubbed my thumb over the spider rune stamped into the hilt, that small circle surrounded by eight thin rays.
When I felt calm enough, I grabbed another knife out of the case and got to my feet. Then I started twirling the weapons, spinning the metal blades around and around, tossing them up into the air, and catching them as they plummeted back down to earth.
Faster and faster, higher and higher, I tossed the knives, until the blades seemed to float through the air like slender silver clouds. My gaze was locked on the spinning bits of sharp metal, but my mind was focused on something else entirely: the best way to go about killing Harley Grimes.
It was something that Fletcher had taught me to do.
keep my hands busy while I let my mind wander free. I moved from one side of the den to the other, all the while juggling the knives, thinking about angles, approaches, and when Grimes might show his face in Ashland.
And when I'd gone through it all, when I had a plan that I thought would work, I tossed the knives up into the air one final time, caught them, and twirled them around in my hands. Ta-da.
I tucked one of the knives against the small of my back, comforted by the familiar, solid weight of it there.
Then I slid the other one back into its slot in the foam and headed into the kitchen. I left the case open on the table, though.
I'd use the knives again soon enough.
Despite my juggling act, my emotions were still raw and far too close to the surface for my liking, so I spent the next few hours indulging in my own sort of therapy: cooking.
I raided cooper's fridge and cabinets, pulling out flour, sugar, salt, pepper, and all of the other staples that I would need. Then I went to work. Mixing, stirring, measuring, chopping, mashing, sauteing, frying, baking, roasting. The familiar motions soothed something deep inside me, and I quickly lost myself in the rhythms of cooking. The smells of melted butter, sugar, cheese, and more blasted out of the oven and drifted up from the pots and pans bubbling on the stovetop, and everything else faded away, except for the steady tick-tick- tick of the egg timer on the counter, counting down the seconds until my various dishes were ready to come out of the oven.
I figured that we could all use some comfort food, so I whipped up a succulent supper of country-fried ham, sharp cheddar mac and cheese, a crunchy summer salad of cucumbers and tomatoes, and mashed potatoes made with buttermilk, piled high with sour cream, and sprinkled generously with dill. For dessert, there were light - as-air buttermilk biscuits stuffed with some strawberry preserves that Jo-Jo had made for cooper.
Drawn by the mouthwatering smells, Jo-Jo, Sophia, and cooper came downstairs, and the four of us ate together, with Rosco sitting at our feet and looking on in anticipation of the scraps that were coming his way.
Owen returned too, saying that Warren, Violet, and Eva were all safe at country Daze. Eventually, Jo-Jo and Sophia headed back upstairs to try to get some more rest, taking Rosco with them, while cooper relaxed in one of his recliners and flipped on the television in the den.
Owen fixed himself a plate of food, and I sat with him on the patio outside while he ate, sipping some of the sweet iced tea that I'd made to go along with the rest of the meal. By this point, it was late in the evening, and the sun was slowly descending behind the mountains. The oppressive heat of the day had finally broken, and the woods beyond the edge of the yard were starting to come alive with the scurrying, rustling, and chitter-chatter of various animals.
Owen was scraping up the last of his mashed potatoes when a car crunched through the gravel in the driveway in front of the house. He tensed, but I shook my head, telling him that it was okay. I recognized the smooth rumble of Finn's Aston Martin.
A few minutes later, my foster brother walked around the side of the house, followed by Phillip. The two of them must have ridden back over together. They sat down with us at the table, and I poured them both some iced tea.
Finn sniffed the air like a bloodhound. "Do I smell ham?" he asked in a dreamy voice. "With mashed potatoes and biscuits and mac and cheese?"
I shot my finger and thumb at him. "You got it."
Finn sighed in anticipation. He and Phillip went inside, fixed themselves plates, and brought everything out onto the patio. Actually, Finn carried three plates back outside, but I decided not to tease him about it. I waited until he'd polished off his first of four biscuits before I got down to business.
"So what did you find out?" I asked.
"Apparently, you put the fear of death into at least a couple of Grimes's men," Finn said through a mouth - ful of mac and cheese. "Because I've gotten not one, not two, but three different reports of Grimes's men drunk on moonshine and shooting their mouths off about what happened in a couple of the seedier bars over in Southtown. Given how news travels in that part of the city, I'd say that it's all over the underworld by now, that someone claiming to be the Spider went up to Grimes's camp and laid waste to a good portion of it. Apparently, the men talking you up in the bars deserted Grimes's operation. They didn't want to take a chance that you'd come back and kill what was left of them."
"And what was the reaction to the news?" I asked.
Phillip finished chewing a bite of ham, then stabbed his fork toward me. "From what I hear, Grimes has already vowed retribution, just as soon as he figures out who the woman pretending to be the Spider really is."
I snorted. The one time that my reputation as the Spider might have made somebody think twice about messing with me, my enemy didn't even really believe that I was the Spider to start with. Ah, the irony. Thumbing its nose at me once again.
"And what about the person I spotted at Grimes's house? The one buying all the guns?"
Finn shrugged. "I couldn't find out anything about who that was."
"Me either," Phillip chimed in. "Whoever they are, or whoever they're working for, they are keeping themselves off the radar, along with whatever they or their employer needs with all those weapons."