Spider's Bite

by Jennifer Estep

I forced the memories back into the past where they belonged and concentrated on the file in my hand, letting the smooth, slick feel of the photos and papers ground me in the here and now. I flipped through some more pictures of Charlotte, until I came to one of her standing with a guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had the same black hair, tan skin, and brown eyes and was quite handsome, like a younger, leaner, more polished version of his father. The sly grin that he was giving the camera told me that he knew exactly how gorgeous he was. I saw the same smug smile on Finn’s face every day.

  “Who’s he?” I asked, showing Fletcher the photo.

  “Sebastian Vaughn, Charlotte’s older brother. He’s twenty-three and one of the vice presidents in his father’s construction company. Cesar made him the number two man in the firm a few months ago.”

  “Any indication that he knows what caused the terrace to collapse? Or the abuse that their father is inflicting on Charlotte?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Not that I’ve been able to find. Some of his father’s business dealings may be questionable, but Sebastian seems to have kept his nose clean so far. Supposedly, he dotes on Charlotte and is always bringing her presents. If he knew about the abuse, he would probably try to stop it. At least, that’s what my sources think.”

  “So what’s the problem? Vaughn obviously isn’t squeaky clean, not if he’s in business with Mab Monroe, and he likes to slap his daughter around. What are we waiting for?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “I’m not sure. On the surface, everything seems legit and straightforward. But I’ve been looking into everyone who died that night at the restaurant and all of their friends and family members, and I can’t find anyone with enough cash to pay for a hit, at least not until some of the insurance settlements kick in. But half of the money has already been paid out, and I can’t trace it back to anyone. Of course, someone could have some hidden funds squirreled away that I haven’t found out about yet. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “But?”

  “But I’ve got this feeling that there’s something a little bit . . . off about this job. Something I’m missing about the whole situation, although I can’t quite put my finger on what it might be.”

  “Did you ask Jo-Jo about it?”

  Jolene “Jo-Jo” Deveraux was the dwarven Air elemental who healed Fletcher and me whenever we got injured during a job. And similar to my Stone power, Jo-Jo’s Air magic whispered to her—of all the things that might come to pass. The stones muttered about the actions that people had already taken in a given spot, the crimes they had already committed, but the wind brought with it whispers of all the ways people might act in the future. Usually, if Fletcher had misgivings about a job, he ran things by Jo-Jo to see what she thought and if she might notice something that he’d missed. Sometimes she was able to tell him whether his worry was warranted.

  Fletcher picked at a loose thread on one of the couch cushions. “I did ask Jo-Jo, but she said that she couldn’t get a clear sense of things from the information I gave her.”

  That wasn’t unusual. Jo-Jo didn’t get supersharp glimpses of the future on cue. Like me, she had to listen to and interpret all the whispers that she heard. People’s thoughts and feelings were constantly changing, shifting even more than the wind, and things often simply got lost in translation. Sometimes Fletcher and I just had to trust in ourselves, that we were smart, sly, and strong enough to do the job and get away with it.

  I stared at that photo of Charlotte Vaughn again, the one where she seemed so sad and wary. I didn’t have any reservations, hesitations, or misgivings about this job, not a single one, not when a young girl’s life was in danger. Maybe next time, her father wouldn’t be content with giving her bruises and broken bones. Maybe next time, his rage would be greater than it had ever been before. Maybe next time, he wouldn’t stop hitting her until she was dead.

  “Let’s do it,” I said, making up my mind and closing the file on Cesar Vaughn. “The sooner, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

  • • •

  Fletcher wanted to wait until he had more info about the client, but I pushed him, loudly and repeatedly pointing out that Vaughn was a ticking time bomb as far as Charlotte was concerned, and he finally, reluctantly, agreed and said that he’d work on some of the details.

  I would have been more than happy to grab my knives, drive over to Vaughn’s mansion, sneak inside, and do the deed tonight, but Fletcher wanted to do some scouting first and to be overly cautious about things, the way he always was. Even though I chafed at the thought of Charlotte being terrorized and in danger a second longer than necessary, I gave in to his wishes. As much as I hated to admit it, going in blind was never a good idea. Fletcher had told me that over and over, and he’d proven it earlier tonight when he’d mock-killed Finn and me.

  But I told Fletcher flat-out that if he got any more reports of Charlotte being injured, I would go straight from recon to the action portion of the job. He nodded, knowing that I meant what I said.

  Fletcher stayed in the den to review the file again. He gave me the copy he’d made, which I took up to my room and set aside before crawling into bed.

  One moment, I was in the soft blackness of sleep, dreaming of nothing in particular. The next, I was tied down to a chair, my spider rune duct-taped in between my palms, the superhot silverstone melting, melting, melting into my skin. And all the while, I could hear the Fire elemental who was torturing me laughing in her low, throaty, silky voice, laughing about how much she was hurting me and how very much she was enjoying it.

  But no matter how I struggled against the ropes that held me down, no matter how hard I tried to rip off the cloth that blindfolded me, no matter how long and loud I screamed, the torture, pain, and laughter didn’t stop.

  Nothing made it stop.

  I don’t know how long I was trapped there in that dream world, in my own horrible memories, before I managed to jerk myself awake. All I could think about was the pain. Then, suddenly, I was sitting bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps, my palms burning as if I were still holding on to my own hot spider rune.

  Before I realized what I was doing, my hand darted under my pillow and gripped the knife that I always kept there, even though I was as safe as I could be in Fletcher’s house. But the cool, solid, substantial feel of the metal cut through the phantom burning sensation and helped me snap back to reality. Slowly, I made myself uncurl my hand from the weapon, even though my fingers cramped from where I’d been clutching the hilt so tightly. It took me longer still to slow my racing heart, catch my breath, and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

  I used to have nightmares all the time when I was younger. More than once, I’d woken up screaming in the middle of the night, which had made Fletcher and Finn come running into my room to see what was wrong. But eventually, they’d stopped coming when they realized that I was going to yell whether they were there or not. I couldn’t blame them for that, though. Hard to soothe someone when she wouldn’t even tell you what her nightmares were about. And I never said a word about them, the torture, or my dead family to Fletcher or Finn. The nightmares, the memories, the heartache and loss and pain were my own burdens to bear, not theirs.

  I couldn’t go back to sleep, not yet, so I snapped on the light, figuring that I’d review the information on Cesar Vaughn again.

  Business dealings, friends, restaurants that he liked to frequent, his finances, the charities he gave money to, the women he dated. Fletcher was nothing if not thorough, and the file gave me a pretty good picture of Vaughn’s life.

  Cesar Vaughn presented himself as a respectable, responsible businessman, and that’s exactly what he was on paper—and in real life too. Vaughn had tens of millions in the bank, but he was still careful with his finances, not overextending himself with too many new construction projects at once, not spending wildly on cars, jets, or boats, not trading up for a bigger and better mansion or a newer and hotte
r trophy wife every other year. He paid his workers good wages and gave them all the health insurance and other benefits they were due. He was known for doing quality work and bringing projects in on time and on budget. From all accounts, he was a stern boss who expected the best from his workers, but he was a fair one too.

  Yeah, some of Vaughn’s business dealings were a little shady, just like Fletcher had said, especially the exorbitant amount he paid out in “consulting fees”—bribe money, in other words. But that was nothing new in Ashland. It would have been stranger if Vaughn’s hands weren’t dirty at all. Still, he wasn’t the worst guy Fletcher had ever sent me after. Other than the terrace collapse and potential lawsuits, there seemed to be no real reason anyone would want Vaughn dead badly enough to reach out to Fletcher to make it happen. So I could see why the old man had a hinky feeling about the job.

  But I didn’t—not when I looked at the photo of Charlotte.

  I plucked the picture out of the file and stared at her. Something was going on with her. She had the same dark, wounded, haunted look that I’d had after my family was murdered, the same look that I could see in the mirror to this day.

  Oh, yes, Vaughn might seem like a respectable businessman, but he was abusing his daughter. I was sure of it. And that alone was reason enough for me to kill him.

  It was one thing to hurt another adult, whether it was a friend, a lover, a business partner, or even a family member. That’s what people did to one another, whether they meant to or not. That was just life. But it was especially that way in Ashland, where everyone with money, power, magic, and prestige was almost always trying to fuck over everyone else with money, power, magic, and prestige.

  But beating up a thirteen-year-old girl? That was unacceptable. Hurting any kid for any reason was unacceptable, but what really pissed me off were the folks like Vaughn. The ones with enough of that money, power, magic, and prestige to get away with it. The ones who could afford to hire an Air elemental healer to cover up the bruises and broken bones that they’d given their children. The ones who thought nothing of hitting their sons and daughters again and again, because they enjoyed the sick thrill and the illusion of power it gave them. Those were the sort of people who made my blood boil, the ones I was all too happy to target as an assassin.

  Cesar Vaughn wasn’t going to hurt his daughter ever again, not if I could help it.

  “I’m going to save you from him,” I whispered.

  In the photo, Charlotte kept staring at me with her big brown eyes, that worried look frozen on her face, as if she didn’t believe that I’d keep my word. That I’d save her from the nightmare she was enduring. I knew what it was like to be tortured, to be helpless to stop the pain and fear and terror. When Fletcher had taken me in, when he’d started training me, I’d made myself a promise that no one would ever do that to me again, that I’d never feel that way again, that I would never be weak again.

  That was one of the driving reasons that I’d become an assassin. Sure, part of me wanted to be a total, confident, cold-as-ice badass who could take care of herself, the sort of person people whispered about in hushed tones as she walked by. Even though no one would probably ever realize that I was an assassin, that I was the Spider, it was enough that I knew it deep down inside. But even more important than that, I wanted to be strong so I could protect the people I cared about. Fletcher, Jo-Jo, even Finn and Sophia. I wasn’t letting anyone take them away from me, not like my mom and sister had been.

  And here was another girl who was in pain, who was being hurt like I had been hurt once upon a time. I hadn’t been able to save Bria, but I could help Charlotte—I would help her. I wasn’t weak, helpless, or afraid anymore, and I was going to enjoy showing Cesar Vaughn exactly how strong I was, right before I laid his throat open with my knife.

  “Soon,” I whispered to Charlotte’s picture again. “You’ll be free from him soon.”

  My promise affirmed, I slid her photo back into the file, put it aside, turned out the light, and went back to sleep.

  4

  Two nights later, I found myself in a rustic dining room.

  A long rectangular table made out of polished wood took up a large portion of the area, so big that it required three separate chandeliers to light the various sections. But instead of the usual brass or crystal, these chandeliers were made out of deer, elk, and other antlers that had been strung together. Giant wagon wheels covered the walls, along with what I could only describe as cowboy duds—shiny silver spurs, coiled lassos, and even a pair of old-timey revolvers crisscrossed over each other. A stuffed bison head that was almost as big as I was hung over the fireplace in the back wall. The bison’s dark eyes were fixed in a perpetual angry squint, as if the creature wanted to leap down and gore everyone in sight with the short, curved horns that it still had left on its head.

  The dining room and all of its western furnishings were the property of Tobias Dawson, and the dwarf had apparently dressed to match the decor, sporting a droopy handlebar mustache, a turquoise lariat tie, and black snakeskin boots, along with a black business suit. A black ten-gallon hat perched on top of his head, although it couldn’t contain his sandy mane of hair, which fell to his shoulders. Dawson threw back his head and laughed at something a gorgeous vampire was murmuring to him.

  Dawson was some big coal mine owner, with operations located throughout the Appalachian Mountains. Speculation among the other diners was that Dawson was thinking about expanding into the Rockies or even up into Canada. I’d have to tell Fletcher what I’d overheard. The old man lived for juicy bits of gossip like that.

  Somehow Fletcher had gotten wind that Dawson had invited thirty of his closest friends and business associates to his home for a dinner party. Now here I was, smack dab in the middle of a crowd of women wearing expensive evening gowns and men sporting designer suits that cost just as much, although all of their finery seemed a bit at odds with the country cowboy collection adorning the walls—

  “Hey, sweetheart, you going to stand there and gawk, or you going to offer me something to drink?” a low voice growled.

  A large shadow fell over me, blotting out the light from the antler chandelier overhead and snapping me out of my snide observations. Because I wasn’t here as one of Dawson’s well-to-do guests. Instead of a satin gown and cascades of diamonds, I wore a black button-up shirt, a white tuxedo vest, and a matching white bow tie over a pair of black pants and boots. Cinderella, I was not.

  No, tonight I was the help.

  Actually, I was the help most nights. Fletcher often hired himself out for events like this, since it was a great way to surreptitiously scope out potential targets. See how many guards a businessman employed, whom he talked to, whom he snubbed, whom he was sleeping with. You never knew what information could be useful and help you get close enough to put your target down for good. I’d been coming along with the old man on catering jobs like these for years now, mostly working as a waiter, although I also helped him in the kitchen every now and then.

  “Well, sweetheart?” the voice growled again, the tone a little sharper and more demanding than before. “What’s it going to be?”

  I glanced up . . . and up . . . and up, until my gaze landed on the face of the giant in front of me. Everything about him was pale, from his skin to his hazel eyes to his wispy thatch of blond hair. His features were so light—almost albino, really—that he might have faded into the background if not for the sheer, solid size of him, seven towering feet of thick muscles anchored by a rock-solid chest. No, Elliot Slater was not someone you overlooked, not if you wanted to live through whatever encounter you had with him.

  “Champagne, sir?” I asked, careful to keep my voice soft and neutral but still respectful.

  I might be an assassin, but Fletcher had taught me that discretion was the better part of valor, and Elliot Slater could snap my neck with one hand if he wanted to. And he just might, since I was masquerading as an anonymous waiter. No doubt, Dawson and his gues
ts would howl with laughter at such a casual, brutal display of the giant’s strength. They’d have to, because Slater could easily turn his wrath on them.

  Slater grabbed a glass of champagne off the silver tray that I was now carefully, politely holding out to him. “That’s more like it,” he snapped.

  He downed that glass of champagne and three more in quick succession. All the while, he stared at me, his cold gaze tracking up and down my body, from my ponytail to my breasts to my legs and back again. Apparently, he wasn’t too impressed with what he saw, because he snorted, grabbed a final glass of champagne, and shooed me away with a wave of his hand. The dismissive motion made the diamond in his pinkie ring spark and flash underneath the lights.

  I gripped my tray a little tighter, but I made myself smile and politely, blandly, nod my head at him before turning away. It took more effort still to make my walk slow and controlled, as though I weren’t concerned about the fact that a vicious giant was staring at my ass, assessing it as coldly as he had the rest of me. Animals like Slater were attracted to fear more than anything else.

  But he wasn’t the only one watching me—Fletcher was too.

  He stood with four other chefs along the front wall of the dining room. Apparently, Dawson had thought that it would be fun to let his guests watch their food being prepared, although they were all far too busy bullshitting and boozing it up even to glance at the chefs as they whacked their way through mounds of vegetables, concocted creamy sauces, and flambéed various delicacies.

  Dinner wasn’t due to start for another forty-five minutes, so the guests milled around, laughing, talking, sizing up their rivals, and plotting against everyone in sight.

  Including Cesar Vaughn.

  He was over in a corner, chatting with an older woman who was wearing several ropes of pearls that Jo-Jo would have admired. Vaughn was an even more imposing and impressive figure in person. Fit, trim, strong, handsome. But there was a . . . roughness to him, one that his expensive suit couldn’t quite hide. I could easily imagine him swinging a hammer, wielding a shovel, or lugging around bags of supplies, just like he had in the photos that Fletcher had shown me. And it seemed like Vaughn would have preferred to be doing any one of those things right now, judging from his many glances at his watch and the way his hand kept creeping up to his blue tie and yanking on the fabric, as though he found the knot there uncomfortably tight.