Jennifer Estep: Web of Death

So far, my retirement was turning out to be a fucking bore.

I supposed that I should have expected it to go this way. Mainly because my day job, well, my night job, had been a little more interesting that most folks’ had. No pushing papers around a desk for me. Instead, I’d moonlighted as the assassin the Spider for the last seventeen years.

That’s right. An assassin. Someone who killed other people for money. And I’d been damn good at my job too—some would even say the best.

Which is probably why making the adjustment to just being myself, Gin Blanco, owner of the Pork Pit barbecue restaurant, had been a little more difficult than I’d thought it would be.

And a lot more fucking boring.

So boring, so mundane in fact, that I now found myself standing outside on a chilly October evening, peering into the trunk of my Mercedes Benz, regarding the cardboard boxes inside that held all of my worldly possessions. Books mostly, along with some high-end cookware and knives—lots of knives. Some of which were used for slicing and dicing more than just vegetables.

As the Spider, I’d never gone anywhere without my silverstone knives. One trait that I saw no reason to change just because I was Gin Blanco now, a supposedly respectable citizen. Even tonight, alone in the twilight, I still had five knives on me—one tucked up either sleeve, one in the small of my back, and two more hidden in my boots.

Knowing that I had my knives comforted me the way that it always did. But still, I sighed. Because even moving was boring.

My mentor, Fletcher Lane, had died a few weeks ago—had been horribly tortured and murdered in the Pork Pit, the restaurant that he’d founded in downtown Ashland. I’d killed the Air elemental bitch who was responsible for his death, of course. But that didn’t keep me from missing the old man who’d taken me in off the streets when I was just thirteen. Which is one of the reasons that I’d decided to move into Fletcher’s house—the one that he’d left me in his will, along with the Pork Pit. I supposed it was my way of staying close to the old man, even though he was cold and alone in his grave now.

The three-story clapboard structure stood behind me, looking like some sort of hulking ghost in the approaching darkness. The building had been standing since before the Civil War, and lots of improvements and sections had been added on to it over the years, all in a variety of different, clashing styles, including gray stone, red clay, and brown brick. The various materials made the house look like some sort of patchwork quilt, stitched together with a tin roof, black shutters, and blue eaves. Still, it had been Fletcher’s home, and now, it was mine.

I sighed again, this time with longing. I wished that the old man was here, that I’d gotten to him in time that night. That I’d been able to save him the way that he’d saved me all those years ago—

The scream surprised me.

I turned toward the sound, a silverstone knife already sliding into my right hand. Another scream ripped through the air, a little closer than before. A woman, from the high pitch of her voice. I peered around the open trunk, my gray eyes scanning the woods that flanked the house on three sides, wondering who the hell was out there in the trees and why she was making enough noise to wake the dead.

A wayward hiker perhaps? Someone who’d stumbled across a black bear deep in the woods? The creatures were common in the area, especially since Ashland was situated in the corner of the Appalachian Mountains where Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina met. High ridges and dense stands of woods covered the region like so much gray and green carpet, especially here at Fletcher’s house, which was situated on top of a particularly remote, rocky mountainside.

Bears didn’t frighten me, though. Not much did. Because in addition to being the assassin the Spider, I was also an elemental, someone who could create, control, and manipulate one of the four elements. Well, actually two in my case—Stone and Ice. My Ice magic was fairly weak, and all I could really do with it was make small shapes, like cubes and crystals and whatnot. But my Stone magic was strong, so strong that it would let me harden my skin into an impenetrable shell—one that even a bear’s claws wouldn’t be able to rip through.

Another scream echoed through the mountain air, before abruptly being cut off. Whatever had been chasing the screamer had just caught up with her.

Hmm. I had two choices now. Go investigate what the fuss was all about and amuse myself for maybe an hour, or stay here and haul boxes of books into Fletcher Lane’s ramshackle house. Along with teaching me everything that he knew about being an assassin, the old man had also instilled a healthy dose of curiosity in me. Something that always seemed to get the best of me, no matter how hard I tried.

Which is why I palmed another knife and headed for the woods.

Despite the falling twilight that painted the landscape in increasingly dark shades of gloomy gray, it was easy enough for me to make my way through the thick woods—I just followed the screams.

Only they weren’t so much screams now as choked sobs, stutters and whimpers of sound that told me that the woman making them was in serious trouble.

Thwack-thwack-thwack .

The new sounds echoed faintly through the dense pine trees, followed by another choked sob. My gray eyes narrowed. I knew what that sound was too—the screaming woman getting the shit beat out of her. Well, well, well. Looked like there was a different kind of bear in the woods tonight.

I moved more carefully now, quieter, making sure that my boots didn’t scuff and smash and crackle through the piles of ruby– and citrine-colored autumn leaves that covered the forest floor like jewels that were slowly losing their sparkle. Slowly, the half-swallowed sobs and thwacks of fists hitting flesh grew louder, sharper. A low hiss of a laugh curled through the air like a copperhead getting ready to strike. Someone was enjoying the show.

I stopped behind the knotty trunk of a particularly gnarled pine tree. Its sharp, tangy scent tickled my nose. Then, I slowly eased to one side, my face hidden in the shadows from the overhanging branches, and stared at the scene before me.

The pine tree that I was standing behind was one of several that bordered a small clearing here in the cold, remote heart of the woods, a mile or so from Fletcher Lane’s house. A few rocks bubbled up like blisters here and there on the surface of the forest floor, but for the most part, the ground was smooth and clear, with the rich black earth peeping up through the shallow scattering of disintegrating leaves.

In the middle of the open space, a man towered over a woman. A giant, given his almost seven-foot-tall frame and oversize, bug-like eyes. One of his ham-sized hands was twisted in the woman’s long, curly red hair, further tangling it. He used his other hand to punch her in the stomach.

Thwack-thwack-thwack .

He hit her three times before a second, much shorter man, stepped forward and put a restraining arm on the giant’s bulging bicep. The woman choked back another moan of pain.

“Geez, Billy,” the second man said. “Don’t kill her. We haven’t had nearly enough fun with her yet.”

His lips drew back, revealing a set of white fangs. A vampire, then.

Well, things had just gotten that much more interesting. Because in addition to their enormous strength, giants’ thick musculature made them tough to bring down. And vamps were no pushovers either. They weren’t nearly as strong as giants were, but those sharp canines of theirs could rip out a person’s throat in a second.