Bitter Bite (Elemental Assassin #14)
Jennifer Estep
To my mom, my grandma, and Andre—
for your love, patience, and everything else you’ve given me over the years.
And to my grandma, who always says, “Why ask for one million when you can ask
for two?”
Acknowledgments
Once again, my heartfelt thanks go out to all the folks who help turn my words
into a book.
Thanks go to my agent, Annelise Robey, and editors Adam Wilson and Lauren
McKenna for all their helpful advice, support, and encouragement. Thanks also
to Melissa Bendixen.
Thanks to Tony Mauro for designing another terrific cover, and thanks to
Louise Burke, Lisa Litwack, and everyone else at Pocket and Simon & Schuster
for their work on the cover, the book, and the series.
And finally, a big thanks to all the readers. Knowing that folks read and
enjoy my books is truly humbling, and I’m glad that you are all enjoying Gin
and her adventures.
I appreciate you all more than you will ever know.
Happy reading!
1
Digging up a grave was hard, dirty work.
Good thing that hard, dirty work was one of my specialties. Although, as an
assassin, I’m usually the one putting people into graves instead of
uncovering them.
But here I was in Blue Ridge Cemetery, just after ten o’clock on this cold
November night. Flurries drifted down from the sky, the small flakes dancing
on the gusty breeze like delicate, crystalline fairies. Every once in a while,
the wind would whip up into a howling frenzy, pelting me with swarms of snow
and spattering the icy flakes against my chilled cheeks.
I ignored the latest wave of flurries stinging my face and continued digging,
just like I’d been doing for the last hour. The only good thing about driving
the shovel into the frozen earth was that the repetitive motions of scooping
out the dirt and tossing it onto a pile kept me warm and limber, instead of
cold and stiff like the tombstones surrounding me.
Despite the snow, I still had plenty of light to see by, thanks to the old-
fashioned iron streetlamps spaced along the access roads throughout the
cemetery. One of the lamps stood about thirty feet away from where I was
digging, its golden glow highlighting the grave marker in front of me, making
the carved name stand out like black blood against the gray stone.
Deirdre Shaw.
The mother of my foster brother, Finnegan Lane. A strong Ice elemental. And a
potentially dangerous enemy.
A week ago, I’d found a file that Fletcher Lane—Finn’s dad and my assassin
mentor—had hidden in his office. A file claiming that Deirdre was powerful,
deceitful, and treacherous—and not nearly as dead as everyone thought she
was. So I’d come here tonight to find out whether she was truly six feet
under. I was hoping she was dead and rotting in her grave, but I wasn’t
willing to bet on it.
Too many things from my own past had come back to haunt me. I knew better than
to leave something this important to chance.
Thunk.
My shovel hit something hard and metal. I stopped and breathed in, hoping to
smell the stench of decades-old decay. But the cold, crisp scent of the snow
mixed with the rich, dark earth created a pleasant perfume. No decay, no
death, and, most likely, no body.
I cleared off the rest of the dirt, revealing the top of the casket. A rune
had been carved into the lid, jagged icicles fitted together to form a heart.
My stomach knotted up with tension. Fletcher had inked that same rune onto
Deirdre’s file. This was definitely the right grave.
I was already standing in the pit that I’d dug, and I scraped away a few more
chunks of earth so that I could crouch down beside the top half of the casket.
The metal lid was locked, but that was easy enough to fix. I set down my
shovel, pulled off my black gloves, and held up my hands, reaching for my Ice
magic. The matching scars embedded deep in my palms—each one a small circle
surrounded by eight thin rays—pulsed with the cold, silver light of my power.
My spider runes, the symbols for patience.
When I had generated enough magic, I reached down, wrapped my hands around the
casket lid’s locks, and blasted them with my Ice power. After coating the
locks with two inches of elemental Ice, I sent out another surge of power,
cracking away the cold crystals. At the same time, I reached for my Stone
magic, hardening my skin. Under my magical assault, the locks shattered, and
my Stone-hardened skin kept the flying bits of metal from cutting my hands. I
dusted away the remains of the locks and the Ice, took hold of the casket lid,
dug my feet into the dirt, and lifted it.
The lid was heavy, and the metal didn’t want to open, not after all the years
spent peacefully resting in the ground. It creaked and groaned in protest, but
I managed to hoist it up a couple of inches. I grabbed my shovel and slid it