Spider's Bite

My lips twitched. Funniest damn thing I'd heard all night.

The man got off on the sixth floor with his two friends for the evening, leaving me alone with the third woman. I stared at her outfit. Bright color, flashy enough, not too tight, around a size six. It would work.

I hit the stop button in the elevator and turned to the other woman. Her hand drifted down to her purse, and she eyed me with the wary look of a high-priced call girl who knows strangers can be dangerous, especially in the nice part of town. Her fangs poked through her lips. Another vampire.

"I'll give you two thousand dollars for your clothes, shoes, and that purse," I said.

"The clothes?" she asked, her brown gaze even more uncertain now. "That's it?

Nothing weird? Nothing extra?" I flashed her a wad of bills. "Nothing weird or extra." Five minutes later, the hooker got off on the ninth floor wearing my cheap jacket, jeans, and boots. A minute after that, I stepped out onto the eleventh floor. I went into the emergency stairwell and opened my duffel bag. Hairbrush, lipstick, compact. It didn't take long for me to paint my face, tease out my bleached hair, and otherwise transform myself into Gin, the ditsy call girl. I also grabbed three silverstone knives out of the bag, sticking the first against the small of my back and palming the second in my right hand. The third got stuffed inside the hooker's minuscule purse.

Girded for battle, I left the bag in the stairwell, got back in the elevator, and rode up to the twelfth floor-Finn's floor.

Investment banker, computer expert, and all-around shady character Finnegan Lane had done well for himself, which is why his apartment took up the entire floor instead of several thousand spacious feet, like the building's other housing units.

Finn didn't believe in hiding one's wealth, and he didn't care that his gauche, nouveau riche ways upset his older, more genteel clients. Those folks, especially the vampires who'd been around since before the Civil War, despised his flashy ways, but Finn made them enough money to get them to choke on their antiquated southern standards.

Still, I was always extra cautious when I visited Finn's place. He might not be as deep into the assassin business as I was, but he still made plenty of enemies with his banking and stockbroker schemes-legal and otherwise. People were more vicious about money than any other thing, even sex. Add Finn's rampant womanizing to the mix, and it was a wonder somebody hadn't hired me to kill him years ago.

The elevator opened, and I stepped out into the glossy antechamber that fronted Finn's apartment. Low walnut table. Two chairs. Gilded mirror on the wall. A couple of fake pecan trees planted on either side of the front door. Southern decor at its finest.

A guard stationed outside jerked his head in my direction at the sound of the elevator opening. A big man, tall and wide with a beefy neck that would have been a perfect fit on an NFll linebacker. Probably some giant blood in his family tree. Still, he was only one guy. I would have had at least three men out here. Maybe more, since I knew exactly what I was capable of-and how very determined I was to get to Finnegan before he quit breathing.

The guard frowned, but he didn't go for his gun or knock on the door behind him to alert whoever might be inside. Mistake number one. I ambled toward him, swinging my hips and letting my short, zebra-striped skirt ride up and show off my long, toned, fishnet-clad legs. I'd already undone most of the buttons on my scarlet silk blouse to let my five-dollar black bra peep through.

The floor of the antechamber was made of fine marble, and the stone's delicate murmur rang in time to my heels tapping across it. For the first time tonight, my spirits crept up. The vibrations would have been different if Finn had been dead already. Darker, lower, somber. Like the stones at the Pork Pit. A sound I'd never, ever forget.

Fletcher.

I pushed all thought of my mentor, all weak, devastating emotion aside, and focused on the man in front of me. On what I was here to do. I stopped about three feet away from the guard, struck a model pose, dropped my head, batted my lashes, and gave him my most flirtatious look. If there was one thing all southern women instinctively know how to do, it's flirt. It's encoded in our DNA, along with a fondness for grease, sugar, and oversize hats.

"Hi there, handsome," I said in a soft, breathy voice. "I'm Candy. I'm here to see Finny."

"Mr. Lane is otherwise engaged this evening. Important meeting." The guard's tone was gruff, but his pale eyes scorched a path from my breasts down my legs and back up.

I giggled. "Yeah, with me, silly."

The guard let himself look a second longer, then shook his head. "Sorry. This is another meeting. You're going to have to leave."

I pouted. "But Finny and I always have a date on Sunday nights. I'm his after-hours girl."

The guard didn't say anything, but his gaze kept flicking between my breasts and legs.

If he did that any faster, he'd give himself vertigo. I pouted a moment longer, then widened my gray eyes and smiled, as though the most amazing thought in the world had just occurred to me.

I stepped forward. The guard stiffened, but he didn't back away. I looked at him through my lashes and trailed my fingers down his broad chest. He wasn't wearing anything underneath his blue pinstriped shirt. No vest, no protective gear. Bad for him, good for me.

"Well, what about you, sugar? Can I interest you in sampling some sweet, sweet Candy tonight? A girl's gotta pay her rent, if you know what I mean." The guard opened his mouth, but he never got a chance to respond. Because I brought my right hand up and shoved the knife I had palmed there into his chest. His eyes bulged with surprise. I clamped my hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming, wrenched the knife out, and stabbed him again.

The guard should have shot me the second I stepped out of the elevator. Never mind the mistake of letting me within arm's reach. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. But a pretty girl is a pretty girl, and men always want to look at and talk to and fuck those. Even if his boss had warned him to watch out for any woman who came near him tonight.

The guard's eyes glazed over, and he quit struggling. I eased his large, heavy body to the floor and retrieved my knife. I also rifled through his pockets, pulling out his wallet and cell phone, and putting them on the walnut table for pickup later. He wasn't wearing any jewelry, not even a watch.

Underneath my feet, the light, dainty murmur of the marble floor took on a harsher note as puddles of blood sluiced on top of it. Another sound I was familiar with.

Once I had the guard taken care of, I turned my attention to the apartment door.

Since the walls themselves were constructed of metal and wood instead of stone, I couldn't use my elemental magic to sense what waited behind the barrier. But I wasn't leaving without discovering what was happening, or had happened, to Finn. I'd just have to take my chances.

I turned the knob and opened the door a crack. Voices drifted out to me, faint, low, indistinct murmurs. They must be in the living room.

I slid inside the door and paused. Finn's apartment was shaped like a large F. The elevator led to the narrow antechamber, which in turn led to the hallway where I stood. The hall flowed all the way to the back of the apartment before taking a right turn and opening up into a wide living room. The master bedroom and bath were located at the far end of the living room. Halfway between here and there was another right turn, which led into the kitchen.

I tiptoed forward, knives in both hands now, and eased into the kitchen. Appliances, marble countertops, a couple of sinks. I passed them all, hugging the wall and moving farther into the room.

I paused when I came to the cutout that connected the kitchen to the living room. A mirror glinted on the back wall of the other room. The pane of glass gave me a clear, if backwards reflection of that area.

They had him tied to a straight-backed chair. Finnegan Lane was very much his father's son, with ruddy skin, a thick, muscular body, and dark, walnut-colored hair.

Sturdy Scots-Irish stock, just like me and so many other folks in the Appalachian Mountains. His eyes would have been a merry green, if they hadn't been mostly swelled shut. Cuts and bruises showed on his face, and blood dribbled down his chin, spattering on his white dress shirt, black pants, and polished shoes.

Anger filled me at the sight of Finn's battered face, but I pushed it aside and kept staring at his body, looking for missing pieces of skin and other signs of torture. I didn't see any, and the stench of ripped flesh didn't contaminate the air. The Air elemental who'd tortured Fletcher wasn't here-yet.

Finn looked like he'd been out on the town before he'd been tied up. He might have even been at the opera tonight. Finn enjoyed those sorts of social functions, mixing with rich people who had even more secrets than he did and would do anything to keep them.

If Finn had been at the opera house, it would have been easy enough to grab him in the confusion and bring him back to the apartment for a more private conversation.

It would also explain the delay in having tortured and killed him by now.

I studied the guards. The first guy was almost seven feet tall, with wide, powerful shoulders, pale, milky skin, and oversize, buglike eyes. A giant, and definitely the muscle, which is why I didn't see any bulges under his loose-fitting suit. Who needed a gun when your fists were the size of bowling balls?

The other guy was shorter, a human. His skin was dark, like polished ebony, and he wore a set of square, gold- frame glasses. He carried a gun-one under either shoulder.

As I watched, Shortie stepped forward.

"Just tell us where she is, and this can all be over with," he said in a pleasant voice. "I promise we'll make the end quick. Three in the back of your head. You won't feel a thing."

Finnegan raised his head and stared at the guy through his bruised, swollen face.

"Here's what I think of you and your fucking promises."

Finn spat blood into Shortie's face. The scarlet spittle hit his glasses, spewing over the lenses like windshield washer fluid. Shortie straightened and removed his glasses. He jerked his head at Tall Guy, who slammed his fist into Finn's face. His nose popped and crunched like cereal. Despite the beating, I had to smile. Finnegan Lane never lacked for defiance or style.

Tall Guy finished his latest round of punishment, and Finn sat there coughing up blood. Shortie drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned his glasses. Once the lenses were back on his face, Shortie circled Finn, trying his tactic again.

"Surely you see how pointless this is. Your father is already dead." Fletcher. Hearing the words out loud was a bitch slap to my heart. I gritted my teeth against the pain and focused on what was important now-Finn.

"No one is coming to save you," Shortie continued. "Certainly not the assassin. She jumped off a two-hundred- foot balcony at the opera house. If the fall didn't kill her, she's probably on her way out of town-if the police don't catch up with her first." I frowned. Police? I didn't like the sound of that. Especially the way Shortie referred to them as if they were his own personal force. This had morphed from a mere setup into a full-blown conspiracy. I wondered how long Brutus, Shortie, and their compatriots had been planning this-and how Fletcher, Finn, and I had been so sloppy as to get caught in the middle of this sticky spiderweb.

"Come on," Shortie wheedled. "Make it easy on yourself. Tell us where she might go.

That's all we want. Some places to start looking for her-if she's not already dead." Finn laughed, though the effort made him cough up more blood.

"What's so funny?" Shortie asked. "I would think a man in your situation would be incapable of something as foolish as laughter."

Finn raised his head. A twinkle of green could be seen through the red and purple bruises that marred his face. "She's not dead, and you haven't caught her because she's smarter than you are. Better. Stronger. But she'll be coming for you soon, asshole. You and whoever you work for. You might as well start planning your own funeral."

"She's only one woman," Shortie pointed out.

Finn laughed again, a deep, throaty chuckle that tugged at me. I'd never realized before how much his laugh sounded like Fletcher's.

"She's not one woman-she's the fucking Spider. That's why you hired her, remember?

Because she's the best. So you can take your questions and promises and screw yourself six ways from Sunday. Because I'm not saying another word, and I'll be seeing you in hell real soon."

I made sure the knives were properly positioned in my hands. I'd only get one shot at them before they killed

Finn. I wasn't losing Finn. Not now, not ever.

"He's not going to talk. This is pointless. Finish him," Shortie snapped.

Tall Guy stepped forward and drew back his fist for the killing blow. Finn looked up at his approaching death and smiled. I skirted around the wall and stepped into the room.

Tall Guy was too focused on Finn to notice me. My first knife went into his left eye, one of the few soft spots on a giant's head. Tall Guy jerked, a puppet whose strings had been snapped. His other buglike eye widened, and for a moment, I thought it might spring from his head like a toy. He went down on his knees, then pitched forward. His head ended up in Finnegan's lap. He never made a sound.

Shortie was more observant. Faster, too. He managed to get a gun out from under his suit jacket. But I crossed the room in quick steps and knocked the weapon away before he could bring it up. Shortie swung at me, but I ducked his wide blow, came up inside his meager defense, and plunged the second knife into his heart. He spasmed against me, whimpering and struggling to get free, even as his blood coated my hand.

"You really should have listened to Finn," I hissed in his face, forcing the weapon deeper into his chest. He died with a sputter.