Jennifer Estep: The Spider

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 hotter 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.