Spider’s Revenge (41 page)

The old lady next to Finn sucked in a breath. I looked
down and realized that I’d picked up the tomato knife again, rubbing my thumb over the polished hilt. It wasn’t as nice or sharp as the five silverstone knives that I had secreted on my body, but the serrated blade would do plenty of damage. Most things would, if you put enough force behind them.

“What are you looking at?” I snapped.

The old lady’s eyes widened. With a trembling hand, she reached into her purse, threw a fifty-dollar bill on the counter, and hightailed it out of the restaurant as fast as her white square heels would carry her.

“Another one bites the dust,” Finn murmured, his green eyes merry in his handsome face.

I narrowed my eyes and made a slashing gesture with the knife. Finn, of course, ignored my glare and threats of violence. Instead, he raised his coffee mug and gestured to a dwarf who was chopping long, green ribs of celery to add to some macaroni salad she was mixing up.

“Sophia?” he asked. “If you please?”

Sophia Deveraux turned to stare at Finn. Sophia was the head cook at the Pork Pit, in addition to her side job of disposing of any bodies I left in my wake as the Spider. I’d inherited the dwarf’s dual services when I’d taken over the assassination business from Finn’s father, Fletcher Lane, the old man who’d been an assassin known as the Tin Man and had taught me everything he knew.

Sophia grunted and grabbed the pot of coffee that she always kept on for Finn, who usually dropped by the restaurant at least once a day. She refilled his cup, and the warm, chicory fumes filled my nose and momentarily overpowered the cumin and other spices that flavored
the air. The rich caffeine smell always reminded me of Fletcher, who’d drunk the same chicory brew before he’d died.

Now, the Pork Pit might not be much to look at, but folks couldn’t help but stare at Sophia. One by one, their eyes flicked from me to her. It wasn’t the fact that Sophia was a dwarf that drew people’s gazes; it was because she was Goth—seriously Goth. Sophia wore heavy black boots and jeans, topped by a white T-shirt that featured a black scythe slashing across her chest. Grim Reaper indeed. Her hair and eyes were black, too, making her skin seem that much paler, despite the crimson lipstick she wore. The lipstick was the same color as the spiked, silverstone collar that ringed her neck.

The good thing about standing next to Sophia was that it made everyone forget about me and the knife I still clutched in my hand. After a few more seconds, everyone went back to their sandwiches, along with the baked beans, coleslaw, steak-cut fries, and the other side dishes that went with them.

“Now, back to my vacation idea.” Finn grinned, showing off his perfect white teeth. “Just think about it. You, Owen, me, and Bria, all happily ensconced in a swanky resort hotel. Bria in a bikini. You and Owen doing your own thing, Bria in a bikini. Did I mention Bria in a bikini?”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s my baby sister you’re talking about.”

Finn’s grin widened. “I know.”

Along with everything else that had gone down when I’d been waging my final battle against Mab, Finn had
finally hooked up with my younger sister, Bria, after a long, arduous pursuit. I wasn’t sure how serious the two of them were, but they’d been hot and heavy for weeks now and showed no signs of slowing down anytime soon. I was happy for them—really, I was—but I could have done without Finn giving me the play-by-play of their sex life on a regular basis. Hell, I didn’t even talk about that stuff with Bria, and she was my sister. But that was part of the sordid charm of Finnegan Lane. My foster brother loved talking about women as much as he did sleeping with them.

Finn opened his mouth to cajole me some more, but I’d had enough—enough of the stares, enough of the whispers, enough of everyone wondering if I was going to kill them for setting foot inside my restaurant. I just wanted to be left alone by everyone right now, including Finn.

“I don’t need a vacation,” I growled, stomping away from him and the curious customers in the front of the restaurant. “And that’s final.”

I grabbed a couple of trash bags, pushed through the swinging double doors, and walked through the back of the restaurant. I didn’t stop until I opened another door and stepped outside into the alley that cut between the rows of buildings on the block.

It was after seven, and night had already fallen, wrapping the buildings in thick, coal black shadows that stretched all the way up to the sky. Wispy clouds flitted in front of the full moon, rolling over the bright silver orb like waves crashing onto a sandy shore and then retreating back out to sea.

My eyes zoomed in on a crack in one of the buildings, a tiny sliver of space barely big enough for a child. My old hiding spot when I’d been living on the mean streets of Ashland back before Fletcher had taken me in. For a moment, I wished that I was still small enough to fit into the crack and hide from all my worries—at least for a little while.

I’d thought killing Mab would solve all my problems, but instead it had just created a whole host of new ones. Sure, business was better than ever at the Pork Pit, but only because people came to gawk at me. Everyone wondered if I was
really
the notorious assassin known as the Spider and if I’d
really
killed Mab Monroe like some folks claimed.

Then there were the people who actually
knew
I’d taken out the Fire elemental—people like Jonah McAllister. He’d been Mab’s lawyer and one of her top lieutenants before her death and had a number of reasons to hate me, especially since I’d killed his son, Jake, last year. McAllister had even gone so far as to offer a price for my head, sending a variety of bounty hunters my way, but no one had been able to collect—yet.

To some people, my taking out Mab had made me something of a folk hero, given how many people the Fire elemental had stepped on, hurt, and killed climbing her way to the top of the Ashland underworld. To others, I represented nothing more than a fat payday or the means to make a name for themselves.

Either way, I was the center of attention—and I
hated
it.

I breathed in, enjoying the peace and quiet after the tight, nervous tension that permeated the restaurant. It
was early April, and the nights were still cold, although the warm days whispered of spring. I heaved the trash bags into the closest Dumpster, but instead of going inside, I lingered in the alley outside the back of the restaurant.

I skimmed my fingers over the rough red brick and reached out with my magic. As a Stone elemental, I could create, control, and manipulate the element in whatever form it took around me, from making bricks fly out of the wall in front of me to crumbling cobblestones to shattering the foundation of a house. I could even make my own skin as hard as marble, so that nothing could hurt me. I’d relied on that particular trick a lot these past few weeks.

My power also let me listen to the stone around me. People’s actions and emotions sink into their surroundings over time, especially stone, as folks live, love, die, and more. Listening to the bricks that made up the Pork Pit was one of my favorite things to do because the sound was almost always the same—one of low, slow contentment, just like the minds, hearts, and stomachs of all the folks who’d eaten in the restaurant over the years. A good meal was one of the few things that could satisfy even the pickiest soul, and the Pit had served up its fair share of fine food over the years. I breathed in again, letting that soft sound fill me and soothe away all the stress of the day, all the stress and turmoil of the last few weeks.

Calmer, I dropped my hand and turned to go inside when the crackle of magic filled the alley.

In addition to dwarves, giants, and vampires, Ashland also had a healthy elemental population. Magic could take many forms, could manifest in all sorts of ways,
which meant that elementals in the city and beyond had everything from the ability to shoot lightning out of their fingertips to being able to control the weather. But to be considered a true elemental, you had to be gifted in one of the four main areas—Air, Fire, Ice, or Stone. I was a rare elemental in that I was able to tap into not one but two elements, Ice and Stone in my case.

I focused on the other person’s magic, which felt like red-hot sparks landing on my skin. A Fire elemental, judging by the way the scars embedded in my palms itched and burned. The marks on both my hands were the same. A small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. A spider rune. The symbol for patience. Something that I was getting real short on these days.

I sighed and turned around. Sure enough, two guys stood in the alley that ran behind the restaurant. One was a giant, judging by his seven-foot frame, while the other was human and an elemental. A ball of Fire flickered in the palm of his hand, gently bobbing up and down.

Ding, ding, Gin Blanco wins again.

“Let me guess,” I drawled. “You’re here to take out the notorious Spider.”

The giant started to speak, but I held up my hand, cutting him off.

“I really don’t care to listen to your blustering manifesto about what badasses the two of you are and how you’re going to make me beg for mercy by the time you’re done with me,” I said. “I just want to say this—do yourselves a favor. Walk away now, and I won’t kill you.”

“Did you hear that, Billy?” the Fire elemental cackled. “The Spider’s going to go soft on us tonight.”

Billy, the giant, cracked his knuckles together, a grin splitting his face. “She doesn’t look so tough to me, Bobby.”

I rolled my eyes. People might not know for sure that I was the Spider, but you’d think that enough folks had disappeared in and around the Pork Pit by now for everyone else to realize that it might be a good idea to steer clear of me and my restaurant.

“Let’s get her, Billy!” Bobby screamed.

The giant let out a loud whoop of agreement.

Apparently not.

They rushed me at the same time, and Bobby threw his elemental Fire at me. He was strong in his magic but compared to the blazing inferno that I’d faced when I’d killed Mab, his power felt as weak as a candle flame. Still, I ducked out of the way. I had no desire to have my hair singed off again this week.

I rolled to my left, came up on one knee, and grabbed the lid of one of the metal trash cans in the alley. I held the lid up over my head just in time for Billy to plant his massive fist in it. The sharp, ringing force of the giant’s blow rocked me back for a moment. Billy drew his fist back again, and I lashed out with my foot, driving my boot into his knee. Billy grunted and stumbled forward, one hand going to the alley floor, putting him down on my level.

I looked him in the eyes, smiled, and smashed the metal lid into his face as hard as I could.

It took several blows, but eventually blood started to pour out of Billy’s broken, bulbous nose and the deep, jagged cuts I opened up on his face. I hit him again
with the trash-can lid, driving the metal into his square chin, and the giant toppled over onto his back. His head cracked against the alley floor, and he let out a low groan. Down for the count already.

Bobby looked stunned, just stunned, that I’d taken out his friend so easily. But his expression quickly changed to one of concern when I got to my feet and started walking toward him, holding the metal lid out in front of me like a shield. Bobby backpedaled, but he forgot to look behind him. He’d taken only two steps before he was pressed up against the side of one of the Dumpsters. Frantic, he snapped his fingers together over and over again, trying to summon up another ball of elemental Fire.

I didn’t give him the chance.

Two seconds later, I slammed the metal lid into his face. I had only to hit him once before he crumpled to the ground.

When I was sure that neither man was going to get up anytime soon, I put the lid back on the trash can. The bloody dents in it matched the ones on all the other cans. More than one moron had jumped me in the alley this week. I eyed the two men, who were moaning and groaning and trying to figure out how things had gone wrong so quickly.

“Idiots,” I muttered, and went back inside the restaurant.

A mirror with a cracked corner was mounted over one of the sinks in the back. I stopped there and washed the blood and grime of the fight off my hands. My hair had come loose while I’d been hitting the giant with the trash-can lid,
so I yanked the elastic band out of my hair and shoved my dark chocolate brown locks back into a tighter ponytail.

The clink-clink and clatter-clatter of silverware and dishes drifted through the swinging doors, along with the savory smells and sizzles of grilled burgers and fried onion rings. All of the waitstaff had already gone home for the evening, so I was alone in this part of the restaurant. Instead of going out into the storefront and getting back to work, I put my hands on the sink and leaned forward, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

Wintry gray eyes, dark hair, pale skin. I looked the same as always, except for the blood spatters on my cheek from the alley fight and the purple smudges under my eyes. I wiped the blood off with a wet paper towel easily enough, but there was nothing I could do about the circles and the matching exhaustion that had crept over me these past few weeks.

All the stares, all the whispers, all the knock-down-drag-out fights. They’d all worn me down, until now, I was just going through the motions. Hell, I hadn’t even pulled out one of my silverstone knives tonight and permanently sliced up those bastards in the alley like they deserved. Tangling with the Spider once was enough for most folks, but those idiots would probably be stupid enough to make another run at me.

I let out a frustrated sigh. Weariness was a dangerous emotion, especially for an assassin. If I didn’t do something about it, eventually, I’d slip up and make a stupid, sloppy mistake. Then I’d wind up dead, my head served up on a silver platter to Jonah McAllister or whatever lowlife finally got the drop on me.

Much as I hated to admit it, Finn was right. I needed a vacation—from being the Spider.

I pushed through the double doors, stepping into the restaurant storefront. Once again, everyone froze at my appearance, as if they expected me to whip a gun out from underneath my blue work apron and start shooting. I ignored the fearful, suspicious looks, went back over to the counter, grabbed my knife, and started slicing tomatoes again.