Jennifer Estep: By a Thread

“Let’s get her!” 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 into it. The sharp, ringing force of the giant’s blow rocked me back for a moment. Billy raised his fist 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 hard, sharp, ringing blows, but eventually blood started to pour out of Billy’s broken, bulbous nose and the deep, jagged cuts that 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 ground, and he let out a low groan. Down for the count already. Amateur.

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 push past his panic and 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 to hit him only 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 marks 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, groaning, and trying to figure out how things had gone so wrong so quickly. I shook my head.

“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, since I didn’t want to make the customers any more scared of me than they already were. My hair had come loose while I’d been hitting the giant with the trash can lid, so I yanked the elastic band out and shoved my dark, chocolate brown locks back into a higher, tighter ponytail.

The clink-clink and clatter-clatter of silverware and dishes drifted through the swinging doors, along with the savory smells of grilled burgers and fries. Since it was creeping up on closing time, 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.

Cold gray eyes, dark hair, pale skin. I looked the same as always, except for the blood spatters on my cheek from the 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 my silverstone knives tonight and permanently sliced up those bastards in the alley like I should have. Tangling with the Spider once was enough for most folks, but those morons would probably be stupid enough to make another run at me.

I let out a frustrated sigh. Weariness was a dangerous feeling, especially for an assassin. If I didn’t do something about it, eventually I’d slip up and make a careless 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 out a gun from underneath my blue work apron and start shooting. I ignored the curious, fearful, suspicious looks, went back over to the counter, grabbed my knife, and started slicing tomatoes again for the last of the day’s sandwiches.

“Took you long enough,” Finn said. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost back there.”

“Not exactly. I had another pair of unexpected visitors I had to entertain.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Injured or dead?”

“Merely injured. What can I say? I was in a charitable mood tonight.”

Finn arched his eyebrow a little higher at my sarcasm. Charity was one thing that assassins, even semiretired assassins like me, couldn’t afford to have too much of. Especially not these days, when every wannabe hood in Ashland wanted a piece of me.

It took me the better part of a minute and two tomatoes to work up to my next words. Finn might be right, but I hated to let him know it. He tended to gloat about things like that.

“You know that vacation you were talking about?”

“Yes?” Finn asked, a sly, satisfied note creeping into his smooth voice.

I sighed, knowing that I was beaten. “When do we leave?”

Three days later, Thursday, I was cruising in a silver Aston Martin convertible, the top down and the wind whipping my hair into a hopelessly tangled mess.

And I wasn’t alone.

My sister, Detective Bria Coolidge, belted out beach tune after classic beach tune at the top of her lungs as she steered the car down the narrow two-lane road. Her shaggy blond hair glistened like honey in the spring sun, and the warm rays had already brought out the pleasing pink in her cheeks. Oversize sunglasses hid her blue eyes from sight, and her lips were curved up into a smile.

“Come on, Gin,” Bria wheedled. “Sing along with me. I know you know the songs.”

I pulled down my own sunglasses and looked over the tops of the black lenses at her. “Sorry,” I drawled. “Assassins don’t sing—ever.”

Bria snorted and turned up the radio.

It was just us girls in the convertible, which was reluctantly on loan from Finn. My foster brother collected cars like some people did glass figurines, and this convertible was the newest addition to his prized fleet.

“Try not to get blood on or in it, okay?” he’d grumbled this morning outside the Pork Pit. “In fact, don’t even think about blood within a five-foot radius of my baby. No, wait. Better make that ten feet. Would twenty feet be asking too much?”

Bria leaned over and plucked the keys out of his hand. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll take good care of it, I promise. I’ve already decided on a strict no-blood-and-bodies policy this weekend.”

Finn scowled at her for making light of his fears, but his green eyes were soft and warm as he leaned forward to kiss her good-bye. Despite years of womanizing, he’d fallen hard for my sister—and she for him. They were a good fit. Bria’s quiet, thoughtful nature balanced out Finn’s boisterous antics, and he made her smile and laugh when she needed to the most.