Elemental Assassin: The Spider Part 2

Twenty minutes later, Fletcher stopped the van in front of his house, which perched on top of one of the many ridges that ran through and around Ashland as part of the Appalachian Mountains.

I hopped out of the vehicle and headed toward the front porch, ready to wash away all of the grime, dust, and sweat from our war games. But Fletcher stayed by the van, as was his usual routine, scanning the dark woods that lay to one side of the house before his gaze moved across the yard and over to the rocky cliff that marked the edge of the property.

I didn't know why he bothered. Fletcher was extremely careful as the Tin Man, using all sorts of cutouts, aliases, and back doors to book jobs and then being even more careful to leave no evidence behind at the scenes of his crimes, much less any clues to who he really was. There was no way that anyone could trace what he did-what we did now-back to us, but every time we came home, he still stopped, looked, and listened like he expected an attack at any second.

I sighed and waited by the front door, my arms crossed over my chest and my right foot tapping a staccato pattern against the weathered wooden porch. I was all for being cautious, but this bordered on the ridiculously paranoid.

After about three minutes, Fletcher was finally satisfied that no one was lying in wait to try to kill us, and he left the van and headed toward the house. He inserted his key in the lock, turning the k.n.o.b to open the door, but the wood wouldn't budge.

"Stupid door," he muttered. "The wood always sticks in this humidity. I should go ahead and get that black granite one installed like I've been thinking about."

I rolled my eyes. The house was already a hulking monstrosity. Several folks had owned it over the years, and each of them had added on a room or two. All in different styles, colors, and materials, including white clapboard, brown brick, and gray stone. And Fletcher had only added to the oddness by installing a bright, s.h.i.+ny tin roof and coal-black shutters a few months ago. I always wondered why he didn't remodel the entire structure and give it some sort of cohesive style, but he seemed to like the strange angles and mismatched pieces of wood and stone. I supposed that a black granite door would fit right in with the eclectic feel of the rest of the house.

Fletcher put his shoulder into the wood, and the door finally wrenched open with a violent screech.

We stepped inside the house, which had as many odd corners and incongruous styles as the outside did, and went our separate ways. I headed upstairs, took a shower, and threw on a thin blue cotton robe over a white T-s.h.i.+rt and some short pink pajama bottoms patterned with garish green limes. Then I went back downstairs to the kitchen to get something to eat.

I rustled around in the refrigerator, grabbing cold cuts, cheese, and more, before taking everything over to the counter, where a fresh loaf of Sophia's sourdough bread was waiting. I hummed under my breath as I built my meal. Thin slices of smoked turkey and honey ham; thick slabs of sharp cheddar cheese; sweet, crispy romaine lettuce; a couple of rings of red onion; sliced fresh tomatoes sprinkled with salt and pepper; all of it topped off with a hearty layer of mayonnaise, a dollop of mustard, and another piece of bread. Three minutes later, I had the perfect sandwich.

Too hungry to get a plate, I stood at the counter and sank my teeth into the layers of goodness. The tomatoes were like a bright burst of summer in my mouth, brought out by the creamy mayonnaise. The meats were the ideal blend of smoky and sweet, while the lettuce and onions gave every bite a healthy bit of crunch. I quickly finished that sandwich and made myself another one.

Fletcher entered the kitchen, still dressed in his blue work clothes, although he'd taken the time to wash his hands and face. He wandered over to the counter.

"That looks good." His stomach rumbled in time with his words.

I gave Fletcher the second sandwich and fixed a third one. He put it on a napkin, poured himself a gla.s.s of sweet iced sun tea that I'd made this morning, and carried everything into the den. I thought he might turn on the TV, but the area remained quiet. I stayed in the kitchen, finished my sandwich, and opened the fridge again, wondering what I could whip up for dessert. I had some chocolate chip cookies that I'd baked yesterday. Maybe I'd use them and a pint of fudge ice cream to make some quick and easy ice cream sandwiches- "Gin," Fletcher called out. "Come here, please."

I sighed at the interruption, but I closed the refrigerator and trooped into the den, where he was sitting on the worn plaid sofa. "Yeah?"

He hesitated, then picked up a manila folder from the scarred wooden coffee table and waved it at me.

I perked up, forgetting all about dessert. "What's that?"

"A job-maybe."

I sat down on the sofa next to him. "Why is it just a maybe?"

He shrugged.

Fletcher wasn't an elemental, so the stones never whispered to him of any potential dangers like they did to me. But more than once, he'd turned down a job because something didn't feel right to him. And more than once, he'd found out after the fact that he'd been right to refuse it. That the a.s.signment had been some sort of trap or double-cross or that the client was only going to pay half the money and then try to take him out after the job was done. I might have my magic, but Fletcher had his instincts.

He hesitated a moment longer, then handed me the file. "I was going to wait on this. At least until I could check out a few more things, like exactly who the client is and why they want this person dead. But apparently, the client wants to remain as anonymous as I do, because I haven't been able to find out anything about them so far."

"How did they make contact?" I asked.

"I answered a rather cryptic newspaper cla.s.sified ad asking for information about pork prices, followed up by some more pointed conversations through one of my anonymous e-mail accounts."

Newspaper ads, untraceable e-mails, and throwaway cell phones were some of Fletcher's standard ways of booking jobs, while the mention of pork prices was one of his codes. Other codes included more tongue-in-cheek references to Wizard of Oz memorabilia, given that the Tin Man was Fletcher's a.s.sa.s.sin alias. That way, all he had to do was scan the newspaper every morning to see if someone might want the services of an a.s.sa.s.sin and then follow up on the info he spied there. Even then, he remained anonymous, and he still screened potential clients as much as possible, in case of setups and traps.

"There was nothing unusual about how the client contacted me, but something still feels a little off." He shrugged. "But the down payment is already sitting in the bank, and everything else seems legit, so I figured that we might as well talk about it."

"Who's the target?"

"Cesar Vaughn. A Stone elemental."

I frowned. "Why do I know that name?"

"He owns Vaughn Construction," Fletcher replied. "It's become a big firm in Ashland in recent years. You've probably seen the name on signs at construction sites around the city. Vaughn and his company have put up a lot of the new office buildings downtown."

I opened the folder. The first item inside was a photo of Cesar Vaughn, taken at some groundbreaking event. He was wearing a business suit, holding a shovel full of dirt, and grinning at the camera. He looked to be younger than Fletcher, maybe fifty or so, with a shock of peppery hair, tan skin, and dark brown eyes. He was beaming in the photo, giving him a proud, pleasant appearance, but I knew how deceiving looks could be.

More photos showed Vaughn at various construction sites. It looked like he was more than a corporate figurehead, given the fact that several of the pictures featured him loading bags onto trucks, driving nails into boards, and even pouring concrete. He seemed happy sweating alongside his crew, and his smiles were even wider in these photos, as if he actually enjoyed the hard, physical labor of building something from the ground up.

One close-up shot showed the logo for Vaughn Construction. The words were simple enough, written in a plain font, although what looked like two thorns curved together to form the V in Vaughn. That must be his business rune. Curious. I would have expected a stack of bricks or something similar for a Stone elemental. I wondered what the thorns represented to Vaughn.

"So what's he done?"

It was the same question I always asked. Oh, I knew that what we were doing wasn't right. We were a.s.sa.s.sins, after all, trained, ruthless killers for hire to anyone who had enough money to meet our asking prices. But the people we took out were usually worse than we were. Someone didn't pay hundreds of thousands or even millions of dollars to off their kid's piano teacher or the barista who made them a lousy cup of coffee. Well, not usually. You had to do something to someone, royally p.i.s.s them off, be a dangerous threat, or stand in the way of whatever they wanted. That's when we got called in.

Besides, Fletcher had his own set of rules as an a.s.sa.s.sin, ones that he'd taught me to live by: no kids, no pets, no torture. So you didn't get on the Tin Man's radar by being innocent.

Sometimes I thought that we did everyone a favor by taking out the folks that we did. It didn't make us the good guys by any stretch of the imagination, but we weren't the most evil folks around either. Not by a long shot. Not in Ashland.

Fletcher shrugged again. "It could be any number of things. Maybe Vaughn didn't spread enough bribe money around to the right people, and they're angry about it. Maybe he took a job that a compet.i.tor wanted. Maybe he's building on someone's land who wants his project to disappear."

As with most other businesses in Ashland, there were certain rules when it came to the construction industry. Certain people you had to pay off for everything from building plans to zoning permits to construction materials. Such things helped to keep . . . accidents from happening-to you and yours.

"But I'm guessing that the a.s.signment has something to do with that incident up in Northtown a couple of months ago," Fletcher continued. "The one at that new shopping center."

"I remember that. Some enormous third-story stone terrace collapsed at a restaurant on opening night. It was all over the news."

"Five people died, and a dozen more were injured," Fletcher said. "They're still investigating the cause. But guess who built the restaurant and the rest of the shopping center?"

"Cesar Vaughn."

He nodded.

"So what? You think someone blames him for the accident?"

"It's possible," Fletcher said. "Especially if Vaughn used substandard building materials or cut corners. That's what the rumor is, anyway. That he skimped on supplies, labor, and more, and that's why the terrace collapsed. Supposedly, the families of the victims are getting ready to sue him over it, bankrupt him over it."

I waved the folder at him. "Yeah, but if someone wants Vaughn dead now, then it sounds like they don't want to wait around for a lawsuit or any money they might get. They just want his blood."

Fletcher nodded. "Or maybe they realize that a lawsuit will probably drag on for years, if it doesn't get thrown out of court somewhere along the way. Look at who his lawyer is."

I flipped past the photos and scanned through some court doc.u.ments that Fletcher had included in the file. "Jonah McAllister? But I thought he was Mab Monroe's personal lawyer. That he worked for her and her alone."

"He is, and he does," Fletcher replied. "But Mab happens to own a significant stake in Vaughn's company. So she has a vested interest in making sure that any trouble Vaughn is in disappears. It wouldn't surprise me if she's already gotten Elliot Slater to go pay visits to some of the victims' families to make them reconsider filing their lawsuits."

Slater was the giant who served as the head of Mab's security detail and oversaw her bodyguards. At least, that's what he was on paper. But everyone in the underworld knew that Slater was her top enforcer, who carried out all of her ruthless commands. No visit from Slater was ever pleasant, and most ended with blood and broken bones-at the bare minimum.

"You think Mab wants Vaughn dead? With him gone, that might make it a little harder for the victims' families to sue."

Fletcher shrugged a third time. "Maybe. But Vaughn's company is a cash cow for Mab. He's probably worth more to her alive and running things smoothly than he is dead and buried." He hesitated again. "But there's something else."

"What?"

"According to our mysterious client, Vaughn has been under some serious stress for months now, and he's been taking that stress out on his daughter, Charlotte. Hitting her, slapping her, screaming at her."

"Where's her mom?" I asked. "Why isn't she protecting Charlotte?"

"Samantha Vaughn died in a car crash several years ago," Fletcher answered. "I checked it out with some of my sources. Vaughn has had an Air elemental healer over to his mansion to see to his daughter four times in the last six months, three times for broken bones and once for a concussion. Supposedly, she fell down some stairs, fell off her bike, et cetera, et cetera."

I snorted. "Yeah. Right."

I kept going through the file until I found a photo of Charlotte Vaughn. She was a pretty girl, with the same brown eyes that her father had and glossy black hair that had been pulled back into two messy pigtails. She was staring at the camera, but her lips were barely curved up, and her gaze seemed dark and troubled, too dark and troubled for someone so young.

"How old is she?" I asked.

"Thirteen."

Thirteen. The same age I'd been when a Fire elemental had stormed into my house and murdered my mother, Eira, and my older sister, Annabella. Before torturing me. Before I'd used my magic to collapse the stones of our mansion, accidentally killing my younger sister, Bria, in the process.

My fingers curled inward, my nails digging into my left palm and the spider rune scar there, that small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. Once upon a time, the rune had been a silverstone pendant, which I'd worn until the Fire elemental had superheated the rune with her magic, searing it into my palms like a cattle brand.

For a moment, the stench of charred flesh filled my nose, and I was back in the smoky, ruined remains of my family's home, trying to swallow down my screams, my palms still burning, burning, burning from the silverstone that had been so cruelly, so brutally, melted into my skin- "Gin?" Fletcher asked. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

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 pa.s.s. 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 cus.h.i.+ons. "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, s.h.i.+fting 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 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 f.u.c.k 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 p.i.s.sed 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 a.s.sa.s.sin.