Jennifer Estep: Spider's Bite

To most folks, Mab Monroe was a paragon of elemental virtue, a perfect marriage of money and magic. But those of us who dealt in the shady side of life knew Mab for what she really was — ruthless. The Fire elemental had a stranglehold on Ashland, her fingers in every worthwhile, lucrative, or helpful operation in the city, but it just didn’t seem to be enough for her. Mab just kept reaching for, and accumulating, more and more and more, as though money, power, and influence were the vital oxygen she needed to fuel herself. Simply put, she was a bully, albeit one with enough magic to back up any claim she made and get her anything she wanted.

I’d never liked bullies.

But Mab’s magic didn’t keep folks from quietly plotting against her. Several times a year, Fletcher got inquiries about hiring me to take out Mab Monroe. We’d done some recon on her over the years and had decided it was too close to being a suicide mission to bother with. Even if I could get through her layers of security and giant bodyguards, Mab could always kill me herself. She wasn’t afraid to use her own Fire elemental magic. That’s how she’d clawed her way to the top in the first place — by killing anyone who challenged her meteoric rise through the ranks of Ashland’s underworld.

Still, Fletcher kept an open file on the Fire elemental, tracking her security, her movements, looking for any signs of weakness. For some reason, the old man wanted Mab dead. He just hadn’t found a way to get it done yet. At least, not one that didn’t involve him going out in a blaze of glory with her.

“You’re telling me Gordon Giles was stupid enough to embezzle money from one of Mab Monroe’s companies?” I asked.

Fletcher shrugged. “It appears that way. Client didn’t give any more details, and I didn’t ask. If you’ll flip to the back page, you’ll see there’s a time limit on this one.”

I turned to the appropriate sheet and read the info. “They want the job done by tomorrow night? You want me to do a job on less than twenty-four hours’ notice? That’s not like you, Fletcher.”

“Read the payment.”

My eyes skimmed farther down the paper. Five million. Question asked and answered. Fletcher might have loved me like a daughter, but he also loved getting his fifteen percent. I wasn’t adverse to my cut, either.

“It’s not a bad chunk of change,” I admitted.

“Not bad? It’s twice your going rate.” A mixture of pride and anticipation colored Fletcher’s rough voice. “The client’s already made the fifty percent deposit. Do this job, and you can retire.”

Retirement. Something that had been on Fletcher’s mind ever since I’d come back with a broken arm and a bruised spleen from a botched job six months ago in St. Augustine. The old man kept talking about me retiring in a dreamy tone, as if there were a world of options that would magically open up to me the second I put down my knives. Instead of the dull boredom of reality.

“I’m thirty, Fletcher. A highly effective, well-paid, sought-after professional in my area of expertise. I’m good at my job, the blood doesn’t bother me, and the people I kill have it coming. Why would I want to retire?”

More importantly, what would I do with myself? I had a very particular skill set, one that didn’t lend itself to a lot of options.

“Because there’s more to life than killing people and counting money, no matter how much one might enjoy them.” His green eyes locked with mine. “Because you shouldn’t have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Don’t you want to live in the daylight a little, kid?”

Live in the daylight . Fletcher’s catchphrase for having a normal life. Seventeen years ago, I’d wanted nothing more. I’d prayed for the world to right itself, for time to rewind so I could go back to the safe, sheltered existence I’d once had. But I’d given up that fairy tale long ago. Nothing but wistful pain would ever come of wanting something I couldn’t have. That gilded dream, that soft hope, that sentimental part of me was dead, burned away and crumbled to ash — just like my family had been.

People like me didn’t retire. They just kept going until they got dead — which was usually sooner, rather than later. But I was going to roll the dice as long as I could. Even if it was a sucker’s bet in the end.

But I didn’t want to fight with the old man. Not tonight. Like it or not, he was one of the few people left in this world that I loved. So I distracted him by waving the folder in the air. “You really think this is a good idea? This assignment?”

“For five million dollars, I do.”

“But there’s no time to do prep work with this job,” I protested. “No time to plan, to go over exit points, nothing.”

“Come on, Gin,” Fletcher wheedled. “It’s an easy job. You can do something like this in your sleep. The client even suggested a place for you to do the hit.”

I read some more. “The opera house?”

“The opera house,” Fletcher repeated. “There’s going to be a big shindig tomorrow night. They’re dedicating a new wing to Mab Monroe.”

“Another one?” I asked. “Aren’t enough buildings in this city named after her already?”

“Apparently not. My point is there will be lots of peo ple there. Lots of press. Lots of opportunity to get lost in the crowd. It should be easy enough for you to slip in, do Giles, and slip out. You are the Spider after all, known far and wide for your skill and prowess.”

I grimaced at his grandiose tone. Sometimes Fletcher reminded me of a circus ringmaster making the sad elephants, browbeaten horses, and two-bit acts seem more thrilling than they actually were.

“The Spider was your idea, not mine. You’re the one who thought you could charge more for my services if I had a catchy name, Tin Man,” I said, referring to the old man by his assumed assassin name.

Fletcher grinned. “I was right, too. Every assassin has a name. Yours just happens to have a better ring than most, thanks to me.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.

“C’mon, Gin. It’s easy money. Pop the accountant tomorrow night, and then you can take a vacation,” Fletcher promised. “A real vacation. Somewhere warm, with oily cabana boys and boat drinks.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And what would you know about oily cabana boys?”

“Finnegan might have pointed them out when he took me to Key West last year,” Fletcher said. “Although our attention quickly wandered to the lovely ladies sunning topless by the pool.”

Of course it had.

“Fine,” I said, closing the folder. “I’ll do it. But only because I love you, even if you are a greedy bastard who works me too hard.”

Fletcher raised his coffee mug. “I’ll drink to that.”

I finished my lemonade, took the folder, said good night to Fletcher, and went home.

My apartment was located in the building across the street, five stories up on the top floor, but I never went straight home from the restaurant — or anywhere else. I circled around three blocks and cut through two alleys, making sure I wasn’t being followed, before coming back and slipping into the building. Everything was quiet, given the late hour, except the squeak of my shoes on the granite floor in the lobby.

I rode the elevator up to my floor. Before I slid my key in the lock, I pressed my hand against the stone around the door frame. Nothing of note. Just the stone’s usual low, muted voice. I wasn’t home enough for my presence to sink into the gray-colored brick. Or perhaps I just didn’t care to listen to my own innate vibrations.

I’d chosen this particular apartment because it was the one closest to the stairwell, with access to the roof and a sturdy drainpipe that ran down the outside of the building. My escape routes, along with a few others. I tested them at least once a month, played possible scenarios of capture and evasion in my mind. My own mantra for survival. You could never be too careful, especially in my line of work, when even a small fuckup could mean death. My death.