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1
“My name is Gin, and I kill people.”
Normally, my confession would have elicited gasps of surprise. Pale faces. Nervous sweat. Stifled screams. An
overturned chair or two as people scrambled to get away before I buried a knife in their heart—or back. A
sucking wound was a sucking wound. I wasn’t picky about where I caused it.
“Hi, Gin,” four people chorused back to me in perfect, dull, monotone unison.
But not in this place. Within the walled confines of Ashland Asylum, my confession, true though it might be,
didn’t even merit a raised eyebrow, much less shock and frightened awe. I was relatively normal compared to the
freaks of nature and magic who populated the grounds. Like Jackson, the seven-foot-tall albino giant seated to
my left who drooled worse than a mastiff and gurgled like a three-month-old child.
A long string of clear, glistening spittle dripped out of his oversize lips, but Jackson was too busy cooing
nonsense to the crude daisy tattooed on the back of his hand to pay attention. Or do something sane and
hygienic, like wipe his mouth. I shifted away from him so I wouldn’t come in contact with the oozing mucus.
Disgusting. But Jackson was typical of the sorts of folks in the asylum. Asylum. The word always made me
smile. Such a pretty name for a hellhole.
It was bad enough I’d been stuck here for almost a week. But what really set me on edge was the noise—and
having to listen to the building around me. The screams of the damned and deranged had long ago sunk into the
granite walls and floors of the asylum, the way all emotions and actions do over time. Being a Stone elemental, I
could feel the vibrations in the rock and hear the constant, insane chatter even through the industrial carpet and
my white, cotton socks.
When I’d first gotten here, I’d tried to reach out to the stone, to use my own magic to bring it a bit of comfort.
Or at least quiet the screams so I could get some sleep at night. But it had been no use. The stones were too far
gone to listen or respond to my magic. Just like the poor souls who shuffled along on top of them.
Now, I just blocked out the damn noise—the way I did so many other things.
A woman at the head of the circle of plastic chairs leaned forward. She was directly across from me, so it was
easy for her light eyes to find mine. “Now, Gin, you’ve made this claim before. We’ve discussed this. You only
think you’re an assassin. You are most certainly not one.”
Evelyn Edwards. The shrink who was supposed to cure all the crazies in this magical nuthouse. She radiated
professional cool and confidence in her tight black pantsuit, ivory blouse, and kitten heels. Square black glasses
hung on the end of her pointed nose, highlighting her greenish eyes, and her sandy hair was cropped into a
short, tousled bob. Evelyn was pretty enough, but a hungry look pinched her pasty face—a look I recognized.
The hard gaze of a sly predator.
The reason I was here today.
“I most certainly am not a mere assassin,” I countered. “I’m the Spider. Surely, you’ve heard of me.”
Evelyn rolled her eyes and looked at the tall orderly standing just beyond the ring of chairs. He snickered, then
raised his finger to his temple and made a circle.
“Of course I’ve heard of the Spider,” Evelyn said, attempting to be patient. “Everybody’s heard of the Spider.
But you are certainly not him.”
“Her,” I corrected.
The orderly snickered again. I raised an eyebrow in displeasure. The joke was on him because that laugh had just
cost him his life. I didn’t care to be mocked, even if I’d spent the last few days masquerading as a loon.
In order to kill people, you have to get close to them. Put yourself in their world. Make their likes your likes.
Their habits your habits. Their thoughts your thoughts.
For this job, putting myself in Evelyn Edwards’s world had meant getting tossed into Ashland Asylum. To
Evelyn and her orderly underlings, I was just another schizo dragged off the streets, driven crazy by elemental
magic, drugs, or a combination of the two. Another poor, lost ward of the state who wasn’t worth their time,
attention, consideration, or sympathy.
I’d spent the last few days locked up in the asylum convincing Evelyn and the others I was just as June-bug
crazy as the rest of the babbling psychos. Spouting nonsense about being an assassin. Drooling. Finger-painting
with the moldy peas they served for lunch. I’d even hacked off gobs of my long, bleached blond hair during
craft time to keep up the pretense. The orderlies on call had taken the scissors away from me, but not before I’d
used them to pry a screw loose from the rec room table.
The same screw I’d sharpened to a two-inch-long, dartlike point. The same screw I had palmed in my hand. The
same screw I was going to shove into Evelyn’s throat. The weapon rested on my palm, and the steel felt rough
against my scarred skin. Hard. Substantial. Cold. Comforting.
Of course, I didn’t really need a weapon to kill the shrink. I could have offed Evelyn with my Stone magic.
Could have reached for the elemental power flowing through my veins. Could have tapped into the acres of
granite the asylum was constructed out of and made the whole building come crashing down on her head. Using
my Stone magic was easier than breathing.
Call it professional pride, but I didn’t use my elemental power to kill unless I absolutely had to, unless there was
no other way to get the job done. Just too easy otherwise. But even more important, magic got you noticed in
these parts. Especially elemental magic. If I started collapsing buildings on people or braining them with bricks,
the police and other, more unsavory characters would be sure to take note—and an unhealthy interest in me. I’d
made more than my share of enemies over the years, and the only reason I’d stayed alive this long was by
keeping to the shadows. By creeping in and out of places completely unnoticed, just the way my namesake did.
Besides, there were plenty of ways to make someone quit breathing. I didn’t need my magic to help me with that.
“The Spider.” Evelyn’s scarlet lips twitched, and she allowed herself a small titter. “As if someone like you could
be someone like that. The most feared assassin in the South.”
“East of the Mississippi,” I corrected her again. “And I most certainly am the Spider. In fact, I’m going to kill
you, Evelyn. T-minus three minutes and counting.”
Maybe it was the calm way I stared at her, my gray eyes steady and level. Or perhaps it was the complete lack of
emotion in my tone. But the laughter caught and died in Evelyn’s throat like an animal in a trap. She wouldn’t be
too far behind.
I got to my feet and stretched my arms over my head, moving the screw into a better position in my hand. The
long-sleeved, white T-shirt I wore rode up over my matching pajama pants, exposing my flat stomach. The tall
orderly licked his lips, his eyes locked on my crotch. Dead man walking.
“But enough about me,” I said, dropping into my chair once more. “Let’s talk about you, Evelyn.”
She shook her head. “Now, Gin, you know that’s against the rules. Therapists aren’t allowed to talk to patients
about themselves.”
“Why not? You’ve been asking me questions for days now. Trying to get me to open up about my past. To talk
about my feelings. To come to grips with the fact I’m cold and emotionally unavailable. Turnabout, you know.
Besides, you did plenty of talking to Ricky Jordan.”
Her eyes widened behind her glasses. “Where—where did you hear that name?”
I ignored her question. “Ricky Robert Jordan. Age seventeen. An Air elemental with a serious bipolar disorder. A
sweet but confused kid, from all accounts. You really shouldn’t have gotten involved with him, Evelyn.”
The shrink’s hand tightened around her long, gold pen until her knuckles cracked from the pressure. The orderly
frowned, and his eyes flicked back and forth between us, as though Evelyn and I were playing a game of verbal
tennis. Jackson and the three other patients sitting around me kept drooling, gurgling, and murmuring nonsense,
locked in their own twisted worlds.
“Correction,” I continued. “You shouldn’t have used him as your psycho ward boy toy. Did you panic when he
realized you weren’t really leaving your husband for him? Did he threaten to tell his parents how you seduced
him the way you do all the handsome young men put into your care? Is that why you pumped him full of
hallucinogens and sent him home to his family?”
Evelyn’s breath puffed out of her mouth in short gasps. The pulse in her throat fluttered like a hummingbird’s
delicate wings.
I leaned forward, capturing her panicked gaze. “Mommy and Daddy Jordan didn’t appreciate it when Ricky had
a psychotic break and hung himself in his own closet, Evelyn. But before he died, he wrote them a letter, telling
them how he just couldn’t go on without you.”
Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered with the whole assassin’s exposition. Such a cliché. I would have infiltrated
the asylum, killed Evelyn, and escaped before anyone knew she was dead. But letting Evelyn Edwards know
exactly why she was dying had been part of the job requirement. And was netting me an extra half million
dollars.
“That’s why I’m here, Evelyn. That’s why you’re going to die. You fucked with the wrong boy.”
“Guard!” Evelyn screamed.
Last word she ever said. I flicked my wrist, and the sharp point of the screw zipped across the room and sank
into her throat, puncturing her windpipe. Ace. Evelyn’s scream turned into a whistling wheeze. She slid from her
plastic chair and hit the floor. Her hand wrapped around the screw, and she pulled it free. Blood spattered onto
the carpet, looking like an abstract Rorschach pattern. Stupid of her. She might have lived another minute if
she’d left it in her throat.
The orderly cursed and raced forward, but I was faster. I snatched the shrink’s gold pen from the floor where it
had fallen, stood up, and rammed it into his heart.
“And you,” I murmured in his ear as he jerked and flailed against me, “I’m not getting paid for you. But
considering how you get your kicks by raping female patients, I’ll consider it a public service. Pro-fuckingbono.”
I yanked the pen out of his chest and stabbed him twice more. Once in the stomach, and once in the balls. The
flickering, lecherous light in the orderly’s eyes dimmed and died. I let go, and he thumped to the floor.
In less than thirty seconds, it was over. Game, set, match. Too easy. I wasn’t even winded.
My gray eyes flicked to the four other people in the room. Jackson still drooled at nothing. The other two men
stared at the floor as if something was wrong, but they weren’t sure what it was. The fourth person, a woman,
had already gotten down on her hands and knees. She dipped her fingers into Evelyn’s blackening blood, then
licked it off like it was the sweetest honey. Vampires. They really would eat anything.
The granite floor’s insane murmurs intensified, fueled by the fresh coat of blood seeping through the loose
weave in the carpet and dripping onto the stone. The harsh discord made me grind my teeth together. I would be
glad to leave this place and that noise behind. Far, far behind.
I yanked the pen out of the orderly’s groin and picked up my screw. Witnesses were bad, especially in my line of
work, and I considered killing Jackson and the others. But I wasn’t here for them. And I didn’t slaughter
innocents, not even these pathetic souls who would be better off dead and free of their cracked mortal shells.
So I pocketed my still bloody weapons and headed toward the door. Before I stepped out into the hallway, I
glanced over my shoulder at Evelyn Edwards’s lifeless body. Her face and eyes were wide open in a look of
shocked surprise. An expression I’d seen more than once over the years. No matter how bad people were, no
matter what evil they committed, or who they fucked over, nobody ever really believed death was coming for
them, courtesy of an assassin like me.
Until it was too late.

2
Now came the trickier part—getting out of the asylum. Because while all it had taken to get thrown in here was a
faked psychotic episode and a few greased palms, several obstacles lay between me and the outside world,
namely two dozen orderlies, a couple of security guards, a variety of locks, and twelve-foot-high walls topped
with razor wire.
I crept to the end of the hall and peered down the next passageway. Deserted. It was after seven, and most of the
patients had already been put back into their padded cells to scream away the night. With any luck, Evelyn and
the orderly wouldn’t be discovered until morning. But I was going to be long gone before then. Never count on
luck to get you through anything. A lesson I’d learned the hard way long ago.
Using the route I’d memorized and keeping in mind the orderlies’ timed circular sweeps, it was easy enough to
make my way through the dim corridors to the right wing of the asylum. Thanks to the piece of tape I’d put over
the lock, the door to one of the supply closets was already open. I slipped inside. Industrial supplies were
crammed into the dark area. Mops. Brooms. Toilet paper. Cleaning solvents.
I walked to the back corner, where the builders had been too cheap to cover the granite wall with paint, and
pressed my hand to the rough stone. Listening. As a Stone elemental, I had the power, the magic, the ability, to
listen to the element wherever it was, in whatever form it took. Whether it was gravel under my feet, a rocky
mountain outcropping soaring above my head, or just a simple wall, like the one I had my hand on now, I could
hear the stone’s vibrations. Since people’s emotions and actions sink into their surroundings, especially stone,
over time, tuning into those vibrations could tell me a number of things, from the temperament of a person
living in a house to whether a murder had taken place on the premises.
But the stone wall underneath my hand only babbled its usual insanity. There were no sharp notes of alarm. No
clashing and clanging vibrations of hurried activity. No sudden disturbances rippling through the rock. The
bodies hadn’t been discovered yet, and my fellow crazies were probably still drooling on each other. Excellent.
I climbed up on a metal shelf set against the wall, pushed aside a loose ceiling tile, and grabbed the plasticwrapped
bundle of clothes I’d hidden there. I stripped off my blood-spattered, white inmate pajamas and
shimmied into the new garments. One of the first things I’d done when I’d been committed had been to break
into the patients’ repository and liberate the clothes I was wearing when the cops had brought me here. In
addition to my blue jeans, long-sleeved navy T-shirt, boots, and navy hooded fleece jacket, I’d also had a couple
of pocketknives on me, along with a silver watch that had a long spool of garrote wire coiled inside the back.
Small, flimsy weapons, but I’d learned long ago to make do with what I had.
In addition to the repository, I’d also paid a visit to the records room, grabbed my fake Jane Doe files, and
destroyed those, as well as erased any mention of my stay here from the computer system. Now, there was no
trace I’d ever been in the asylum at all. Besides Evelyn Edwards’s cooling body, of course.
I snapped the watch around my wrist. A bit of moonlight streaming in the window hit my hand, highlighting a
scar embedded deep in my palm. A small circle with eight thin lines radiating out of it. A matching scar
decorated my other palm. Spider runes—the symbol for patience.
I uncurled my hands and stared at the lines. At the tender age of thirteen, I’d been beaten, blindfolded, and
tortured—forced to hold onto a piece of silverstone metal, a medallion shaped like the spider rune. My hands
had been duct-taped around the rune, which had then been superheated by a Fire elemental. The magical metal
had melted and burned into my palms, hence the scars. Back then, seventeen years ago, the marks had been
fresh, ugly, red—like my screams and the laughter of the bitch who’d tortured me. The scars had faded with
time. Now, they were just silvery lines crisscrossing the swirls of my pale skin. I wished my memories of that
night were as dull.
Moonlight highlighted the silverstone metal still in my flesh and made the marks more visible than they were
during the day. Or maybe that was because I did most of my work at night, when the dark things, the dark
emotions, came out to play. Sometimes I almost forgot the runes were there until moments like these, when they
showed themselves.
And reminded me of the night my family had been murdered.
I ignored the painful tug of memories and continued with my work. The job was only half-done, and I had no
intention of getting caught because I’d become misty-eyed and maudlin over things best forgotten. Emotions
were for those too weak to turn them off.
And I hadn’t been weak in a very long time.
I stuffed the bloody pajamas and the empty plastic wrap into the bottom of one of the buckets the janitors used
to mop the floors. Then I grabbed a can of bleach off the metal shelf, opened it, and dumped the liquid into the
bucket. Using my jacket sleeve to hold one of the mop handles, I gave the whole thing a good stir. There’d be no
DNA to be had from these clothes. Assuming the police even bothered to check for any. Murders, especially
stabbings, weren’t exactly uncommon in the asylum, which is why I’d decided to take out the shrink here instead
of at her home.
When that was done, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a pair of silver glasses with oval frames. The
bluish lenses went on my face, obscuring my gray eyes. The other pocket held a baseball hat, to hide my dyed
blond hair and cast my features in shadow. Simple tools really did work best, especially when it came to
changing your appearance. A bit of glass here, some baggy clothes there, and most people couldn’t tell what
color your skin was, much less what you actually looked like.
My disguise complete, I palmed one of the pocketknives, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway.
Wearing my regular clothes and a big ole, friendly, southern smile, I left. Nobody gave me a second look, not
even the so-called security guards who were paid for their stellar vigilance and exceptional attention to detail.
Five minutes later, I scrawled a fake name across the visitors’ sign-out sheet at the front desk. Another orderly,
female this time, scowled at me from behind the glass partition.
“Visiting hours were over thirty minutes ago,” she sniped, her face drawn tight with disapproval. I’d interrupted
her nightly appointment with her romance novel and chocolate bar.
“Oh, I know, sugar,” I cooed in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice. “But I had a delivery to make to one of the
kitchen folks, and Big Bertha told me to take my sweet time.”
Lies, of course. But I put a concerned look on my face to keep up the act.
“I hope that was all right with y’all? Big Bertha said it was fine.”
The orderly blanched. Big Bertha was the wizened woman who ran the kitchen—and just about everything else
in the asylum—with an iron fist. Nobody wanted to mess with Big Bertha and risk getting whacked with the castiron
skillet she always carried. Especially not for twelve bucks an hour.
“Whatever,” the orderly snapped. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
It wouldn’t happen again because I had no intention of ever coming back to this horrid place. I turned up the
wattage on my fake smile. “Don’t worry, sugar, I sure won’t.”
The orderly buzzed open the door, and I stepped outside. After the asylum’s overpowering stench of drool,
urine, and bleach, the night air smelled as clean, crisp, and fresh as line-dried sheets. If I hadn’t just killed two
people, I might have dawdled, enjoying the sound of the frogs croaking in the trees and the soft, answering
hoots of the owls in the distance.
Instead, I walked toward the front gate with sure, purposeful steps. The metal rattled back at my approach, and I
gave the guard in his bulletproof booth a cheerful wave. He nodded sleepily and went back to the sports section
of the newspaper.
I stepped back into the real world. My feet crunched on the gravel scattered outside the gate, and the stone
whispered in my ears. Low and steady, like the cars that rumbled over it day in and day out. A far happier sound
than the constant, insane shriek of the granite of the asylum.
A large parking lot flanked by a row of dense pine trees greeted me. The far end of the smooth pavement led
out to a four-lane road. No headlights could be seen coming or going in either direction. Not surprising.
Ashland Asylum was situated on the edge of Ashland, the southern metropolis that bordered Tennessee, North
Carolina, and Virginia. The metropolitan city wasn’t as big as Atlanta, but it was close, and one of the jewels of
the South. Ashland sprawled over the Appalachian Mountains like a dog splayed out on a cool cement floor in
the summertime. The surrounding forests, rolling hills, and lazy rivers gave the city the illusion of being a
peaceful, tranquil, pristine place—
A siren blared out, cutting through the still night, overpowering everything else. Illusion shattered once again.
“Lockdown! Lockdown!” someone squawked over the intercom.
So the bodies had been discovered. I picked up my pace, slipped past several cars, and checked my watch.
Twenty minutes. Quicker than I’d expected. Luck hadn’t smiled on me tonight. Capricious bitch.
“Hey, you there! Stop!”
Ah, the usual cry of dismay after the fox had already raided the henhouse. Or in this case, killed the rabid dog
that lurked inside. The gate hadn’t slid shut yet, and I heard it creak to a stop. Footsteps scuffled on the gravel
behind me.
I might have been concerned, if I hadn’t already melted into the surrounding forest.
Although I would have liked to have gone straight home and washed the stench of insanity out of my hair, I had
a dinner date to keep. And Fletcher hated to be kept waiting, especially when there was money to collect and
wire transfers to check on.
I jogged about a mile, keeping inside the row of pines that lined the highway, before stepping out onto the main
road. A half mile farther down, I reached a small café called the End of the Line, the sort of dingy, stagnate
place that stays open all night and serves three-day-old pie and coffee. After the asylum’s moldy peas and pureed
carrots, the stale, crumbly strawberry shortcake tasted like heaven. I wolfed down a piece while I waited for a
cab to come pick me up.
The driver dropped me off in one of Ashland’s seedier downtown neighborhoods, ten blocks from my actual
destination. Storefronts advertising cheap liquor and cheaper peep shows lined the cracked sidewalk. Groups of
young black, white, and Hispanic men wearing baggy clothes eyed each other from opposite sides and ends of
the block, forming a triangle of potential trouble.
An Air elemental begged on the corner and promised to make it rain for whoever would give him enough money
to buy a bottle of whiskey. Another sad example of the fact that elementals weren’t immune to social problems
like homelessness, alcoholism, and addiction. We all had our weaknesses and caught bad breaks in life, even the
magic users. It was what folks did afterward that determined whether or not they ended up on the street like this
poor bum. I gave him a twenty and walked on by.
Hookers also ambled down the street like worn-out soldiers forced into another tour of duty by their general
pimps. Most of the prostitutes were vampires, and their yellow teeth gleamed like dull bits of topaz underneath
the flickering streetlights. Sex was just as stimulating to some vamps as drinking blood. It gave them a great high
and let them fuel their bodies just as well as a nice, cold glass of A-positive, which is why so many of them were
hookers. Besides, it was the world’s oldest profession. Barring your normal traumatic, life-threatening injuries,
vamps could live a long time—several hundred years. It was always good to have a skill that would never go out
of style.
A few of the vampire whores called out to me, but one look at the hard set of my mouth sent them scurrying on
in search of easier, more profitable prospects.
I walked two blocks before ditching the glasses in a Dumpster next to a Chinese restaurant. The metal container
reeked of soy sauce and week-old fried rice. The baseball hat and fleece jacket got left on top of a homeless
woman’s shopping cart. From the threadbare condition of her own green army jacket, she could use it. If she
came out of her rambling, drunken binge long enough to notice they were even there.
The neighborhood got a little better the more blocks I walked, going from drug-using, gang-banging, white trash
to blue-collar redneck and working poor. Tattoo parlors and check-cashing joints replaced the liquor stores and
peep shows. The few prostitutes who trolled these streets looked cleaner and better fed than their tired, gaunt
brothers and sisters to the south. More of them were human, too.
With the pieces of my disguise disposed of, I slowed my pace and strolled the rest of the way, enjoying the crisp
fall air. I couldn’t get enough of it, even if it was tinged with burned tobacco. Several good ole boys chainsmoked
and knocked back beers on their front stoops, while inside, their wives hurried to put dinner on the
table in time to avoid getting a fresh shiner.
Thirty minutes later I reached my destination—the Pork Pit.
The Pit, as locals called it, was nothing more than a hole-in-the-wall, but it had the best barbecue in Ashland.
Hell, the whole South. The outline of a multicolored, neon pig holding a full platter of food burned over the
faded blue awning. I trailed my fingers over the battered brick that outlined the front door. The stone vibrated
with muted, clogged contentment, like the stomachs and arteries of so many after eating here.
The sign in the front window read Closed, but I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Old-fashioned, pink
and blue vinyl booths crouched in front of the windows. A counter with matching stools ran along the back
wall, where patrons could sit and watch cooks on the far side dish up plates of barbecue beef and pork. Even
though the grill had been closed for at least an hour, the smell of charred meat, smoke, and spices hung heavy in
the air, a cloud of aroma almost thick enough to eat. Pink and blue pig tracks done in peeling paint covered the
floor, leading, respectively, to the women’s and men’s restrooms.
My gray eyes focused on the cash register perched on the right side of the counter. A lone man sat next to it,
reading a tattered paperback copy of Where the Red Fern Grows and sipping a cup of chicory coffee. An old
man, late seventies, with a wispy thatch of white hair that covered his mottled, brown scalp. A grease-stained
apron hung off his thin neck and trailed down his blue work shirt and pants.
The bell over the door chimed when I entered, but the man didn’t look up from his paperback.
“You’re late, Gin,” he said.
“Sorry. I was busy talking about my feelings and killing people.”
“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“Why, Fletcher, it almost sounds like you were worried about me.”
Fletcher glanced up from his book. His rheumy eyes resembled the dull green glass of a soda pop bottle. “Me?
Worry? Don’t be silly.”
“Never.”
Fletcher Lane was my go-between. The cutout who made the appointments with potential clients, took the
money, and set up my assignments. The middleman who got his hands dirty—for a substantial fee. He’d taken
me in off the streets seventeen years ago and had taught me everything I knew about being an assassin. The
good, the bad, the ugly. He was also one of only a few people I trusted—another being his son, Finnegan, who
was just as greedy as the old man was and not afraid to show it.
Fletcher set his book aside. “Hungry?”
“I’ve been pushing peas around a plastic plate for the better part of a week. What do you think?”
I settled myself at the counter, while Fletcher went to work behind it. The old man clunked down a glass of tart
lemonade filled with blackberries in front of me.
I tasted it and grimaced. “It’s lukewarm.”
“All the ice is in the freezer for the night. Cool it yourself.”
In addition to being a Stone elemental, I also had the rare gift of being able to control another element—Ice,
though my magic in that area was far weaker. I put my hand on the glass and concentrated, reaching for the cool
power that lay deep inside me. Snowflake-shaped Ice crystals spread out from my palm and fingertips. They
frosted up the side of the glass, arced over the lip, and ran down into the beverage below. I held my hand palm
up over the glass and reached for my magic again. A cold, silver light flickered there, centered in the spider rune
scar. I concentrated, and the light coalesced into a square Ice cube. I tipped it into the yellow liquid, then formed
a few more and dropped them in as well.
I tasted the lemonade again. “Much better.”
The next thing Fletcher set on the counter was a half pound hamburger dripping with mayonnaise and piled high
with smoked Swiss cheese, sweet butter-leaf lettuce, a juicy tomato slice, and a thick slab of red onion. A bowl
of spicy baked beans followed, along with a saucer of carrot-laced coleslaw.
I dug into the food, relishing the play of sweet and spice, salt and vinegar, on my tongue. I swallowed a
spoonful of the warm beans and focused on the sauce that coated them, trying to isolate the many flavors.
The Pork Pit was famous for its barbecue sauce, which Fletcher whipped up in secret in the back of the
restaurant. People bought gallons of it at a time. Over the years, I’d tried to discover Fletcher’s secret recipe. But
no matter what I attempted, no matter how many batches of the stuff I made, my sauce just never tasted the
same as his. Fletcher claimed there was one secret ingredient that gave the sauce its spicy kick. But the gruff old
man wouldn’t tell me what it was or how much of it he used.
“Are you ever going to tell me what’s in the barbecue sauce?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Are you ever going to quit trying to find out?”
“No.”
“Then I guess we’re locked in a stalemate.”
“I could fix that,” I muttered.
An amused grin flashed across Fletcher’s face. “Then you’d never get the recipe.”
I shook my head and concentrated on my food. While I ate, Fletcher picked up his book and read a few more
pages. He didn’t ask me about the job. Didn’t have to. He knew I wouldn’t have come back unless it was done.
I always missed the Pit’s food when I was working. Missed the smell of spices and grease tickling my nose.
Missed the loud clatter of plates and the cheerful scrape of silverware. Missed cooking in the kitchen and
bitching about demanding customers and lousy tips. But mostly, I missed shooting the breeze with Fletcher late at
night, when the front door was locked and everything was quiet, except for the two of us. The Pork Pit was
more than just a restaurant to me. It was home—or at least the closest to one I’d had the last seventeen years.
The only one I was likely to ever have again. The life of an assassin wasn’t exactly conducive to puppies and
picket fences.
“How’s Finn?” I asked after I’d eaten enough to take the edge off.
Fletcher shrugged. “He’s fine. Making his deals. Taking control of other people’s money. My son, the investment
banker and computer genius. He should have taken up an honest job, like thieving.”
I hid my grin behind my glass of lemonade. Finnegan Lane’s gloss of legitimate civility never failed to amuse his
father. Or me.
I’d just popped the last bite of the heart-stoppingly good hamburger into my mouth when Fletcher reached
below the counter. He came up with a manila folder and placed it beside my empty plate. His speckled brown
hands rested on the folder a moment before sliding away.
“What’s this?” I asked. “I told you I was taking a vacation after the shrink.”
“You’ve been on vacation for days now.” Fletcher took a long slurp of his cooling coffee.
“Spending six days locked away in an insane asylum isn’t my idea of a good time.”
Fletcher didn’t respond. The folder lay between us, a silent question. I couldn’t help but wonder what secrets it
contained. And who had pissed someone off enough to wind up in my line of sight. My expertise didn’t come
cheap. Especially when you added Fletcher’s handling fee on top of it.
“Who’s the target?” I asked, giving in to the inevitable.
Damn curiosity. One emotion I couldn’t quite squash, no matter how hard I tried. Something I’d picked up from
the old man over the years. He was even more inquisitive than me.
Fletcher grinned and flipped open the folder. “Target’s name is Gordon Giles.”
He pushed the file over to me, and I skimmed the contents. Gordon Giles. Fifty-four. The chief financial officer
of Halo Industries. A glorified accountant and paper pusher, in other words. Divorced. No kids. Enjoys fly
fishing. Likes to visit hookers at least twice a week. An Air elemental.
That last piece of information was unfortunate. Elementals were folks who could create, control, and manipulate
the four elements—Ice, Stone, Air, and Fire. Some people also had talents for using offshoots of those, like
water, metal, and electricity. But you weren’t considered a true elemental unless you could tap into one of the big
four.
My Stone magic was strong and let me do just about anything I wanted to with the element, from crumbling
bricks to cracking concrete to making my own skin as hard as marble. I couldn’t do as much with my weaker Ice
magic, other than create cubes, icicles, the occasional knife, and other small shapes. The miniature animal Ice
sculptures made me popular at parties, though.
Since Gordon Giles was an Air elemental, he could control currents, sense the wind, feel vibrations in the air the
same way I could in stone. And he could manipulate them too, just like me. Depending on what sort of innate
talents he had and how strong his power was, Giles could use his Air magic to try to suffocate me before I killed
him. Force oxygen bubbles into my veins. Pummel me with the wind. Or a hundred other nasty things.
I studied the photo clipped on top of the information. Gordon Giles’s salt-and-pepper hair flopped over his
forehead, just brushing the tops of his gold glasses. His eyes were like puddles of powder-blue ink behind the
lenses. His face reminded me of a ferret’s—long and thin. Pinched lips. Pointed chin. A sharp triangle of a nose.
Gordon’s eyes held a look of nervous anticipation. The gaze of a man who knew monsters walked the streets
and expected them to leap out and grab him any second. Twitchy men were far more difficult to kill than
oblivious ones. I’d have to be careful with him.
“And what’s Giles done to merit my particular brand of attention?”
“Seems the chief financial officer has been cooking the books at Halo Industries,” Fletcher said. “Somebody
found out and wants to address the situation.”
“Protection?” I asked.
Fletcher shrugged. “None that I know of, but the rumor is Giles is getting nervous and thinking about turning
himself over to the cops, as if they would even bother to keep him safe.”
Cops. I snorted. What a joke. Most of Ashland’s finest were more crooked than the mountain roads that
crisscrossed the city. If you went to the po-po for protection, you might as well hang yourself and save your
cellmate the trouble of tearing up his perfectly good bed sheets.
“Halo Industries,” I murmured. “Isn’t that one of Mab Monroe’s companies?”
“She’s the major stockholder,” Fletcher said. “But one of her flunkies, Haley James, and James’s sister, Alexis,
actually front the business. Halo Industries was started by their father, Lawrence. Him and the sisters kept it in
the family for years, until Mab decided she wanted a piece of the action and muscled in on them. The father died
of a heart attack two weeks after Mab took over. At least, that’s what the official word was.”
“And unofficially?” I asked.
Fletcher shrugged. “Rumor has it the father was making lots of problems. Wouldn’t surprise me if his heart
attack was more of an unfortunate accident arranged by Mab herself.”
“A heart attack? That’s not really her style,” I said. “Usually, she just incinerates people with her magic, burns
their house to the ground, that sort of thing.”
“True,” Fletcher agreed. “Which meant she probably passed the job on to one of her boys and asked them to
make it look like natural causes. Either way, Lawrence James ended up dead.”
Ashland might have a working police force and government, but the city was really run by one woman. Mab
Monroe. Mab was a Fire elemental—strong, powerful, deadly. All that was bad enough, but she wasn’t just your
run-of-the-mill elemental. Mab Monroe had more magic, more raw power, than any elemental had had in five
hundred years. At least, that’s what the rumor mill churned out. Given the fact that anyone who went up against
her got dead sooner rather than later, I tended to believe the hype.
A respectable, multitiered business front hid Mab’s moblike empire. Intimidation. Bribes. Drugs. Kidnappings.
Murder. None of it bothered Mab. She reveled in the blood like a hog in slop. She had her spies everywhere.
Police department. City council. Mayor’s office. Cops, district attorneys, judges, and other assorted good guys
didn’t last long in this city, unless they went over to the dark side—and into Mab’s hip pocket.
Like all savvy businesswomen, Mab Monroe hid her true nature behind a veneer of cultured sophistication.
Donating money to charity. Spearheading fund-raisers. Giving back to the community. All of it designed to
distance her from the ugly things she ordered done on a daily basis. Mab kept her eye on the big picture, which
is why she had two lieutenants, for lack of a better word, who ran the day-to-day operations. Her lawyer, Jonah
McAllister, and Elliot Slater.
McAllister handled the people who challenged Mab through legal means. The slick lawyer buried the poor folks
in so much paperwork and red tape that most of them went bankrupt just trying to pay their own attorneys.
Slater claimed to be a security consultant, but the giant was really nothing more than an enforcer in a nice suit.
He handled Mab’s minions and dealt with those who crossed the Fire elemental in a swift, brutal, permanent
manner—when Mab didn’t deign to do it herself.
To most folks, Mab Monroe was a paragon of elemental virtue, a perfect marriage of money and magic. But
those of us who dealt in the shady side of life knew Mab for what she really was—ruthless. The Fire elemental
had a stranglehold on Ashland, her fingers in every worthwhile, lucrative, or helpful operation in the city, but it
just didn’t seem to be enough for her. Mab just kept reaching for, and accumulating, more and more and more,
as though money, power, and influence were the vital oxygen she needed to fuel herself. Simply put, she was a
bully, albeit one with enough magic to back up any claim she made and get her anything she wanted.
I’d never liked bullies.
But Mab’s magic didn’t keep folks from quietly plotting against her. Several times a year, Fletcher got inquiries
about hiring me to take out Mab Monroe. We’d done some recon on her over the years and had decided it was
too close to being a suicide mission to bother with. Even if I could get through her layers of security and giant
bodyguards, Mab could always kill me herself. She wasn’t afraid to use her own Fire elemental magic. That’s
how she’d clawed her way to the top in the first place—by killing anyone who challenged her meteoric rise
through the ranks of Ashland’s underworld.
Still, Fletcher kept an open file on the Fire elemental, tracking her security, her movements, looking for any signs
of weakness. For some reason, the old man wanted Mab dead. He just hadn’t found a way to get it done yet. At
least, not one that didn’t involve him going out in a blaze of glory with her.
“You’re telling me Gordon Giles was stupid enough to embezzle money from one of Mab Monroe’s companies?”
I asked.
Fletcher shrugged. “It appears that way. Client didn’t give any more details, and I didn’t ask. If you’ll flip to the
back page, you’ll see there’s a time limit on this one.”
I turned to the appropriate sheet and read the info. “They want the job done by tomorrow night? You want me to
do a job on less than twenty-four hours’ notice? That’s not like you, Fletcher.”
“Read the payment.”
My eyes skimmed farther down the paper. Five million. Question asked and answered. Fletcher might have
loved me like a daughter, but he also loved getting his fifteen percent. I wasn’t adverse to my cut, either.
“It’s not a bad chunk of change,” I admitted.
“Not bad? It’s twice your going rate.” A mixture of pride and anticipation colored Fletcher’s rough voice. “The
client’s already made the fifty percent deposit. Do this job, and you can retire.”
Retirement. Something that had been on Fletcher’s mind ever since I’d come back with a broken arm and a
bruised spleen from a botched job six months ago in St. Augustine. The old man kept talking about me retiring
in a dreamy tone, as if there were a world of options that would magically open up to me the second I put down
my knives. Instead of the dull boredom of reality.
“I’m thirty, Fletcher. A highly effective, well-paid, sought-after professional in my area of expertise. I’m good at
my job, the blood doesn’t bother me, and the people I kill have it coming. Why would I want to retire?”
More importantly, what would I do with myself? I had a very particular skill set, one that didn’t lend itself to a
lot of options.
“Because there’s more to life than killing people and counting money, no matter how much one might enjoy
them.” His green eyes locked with mine. “Because you shouldn’t have to look over your shoulder for the rest of
your life. Don’t you want to live in the daylight a little, kid?”
Live in the daylight . Fletcher’s catchphrase for having a normal life. Seventeen years ago, I’d wanted nothing
more. I’d prayed for the world to right itself, for time to rewind so I could go back to the safe, sheltered
existence I’d once had. But I’d given up that fairy tale long ago. Nothing but wistful pain would ever come of
wanting something I couldn’t have. That gilded dream, that soft hope, that sentimental part of me was dead,
burned away and crumbled to ash—just like my family had been.
People like me didn’t retire. They just kept going until they got dead—which was usually sooner, rather than
later. But I was going to roll the dice as long as I could. Even if it was a sucker’s bet in the end.
But I didn’t want to fight with the old man. Not tonight. Like it or not, he was one of the few people left in this
world that I loved. So I distracted him by waving the folder in the air. “You really think this is a good idea? This
assignment?”
“For five million dollars, I do.”
“But there’s no time to do prep work with this job,” I protested. “No time to plan, to go over exit points, nothing.
”
“Come on, Gin,” Fletcher wheedled. “It’s an easy job. You can do something like this in your sleep. The client
even suggested a place for you to do the hit.”
I read some more. “The opera house?”
“The opera house,” Fletcher repeated. “There’s going to be a big shindig tomorrow night. They’re dedicating a
new wing to Mab Monroe.”
“Another one?” I asked. “Aren’t enough buildings in this city named after her already?”
“Apparently not. My point is there will be lots of people there. Lots of press. Lots of opportunity to get lost in
the crowd. It should be easy enough for you to slip in, do Giles, and slip out. You are the Spider after all, known
far and wide for your skill and prowess.”
I grimaced at his grandiose tone. Sometimes Fletcher reminded me of a circus ringmaster making the sad
elephants, browbeaten horses, and two-bit acts seem more thrilling than they actually were.
“The Spider was your idea, not mine. You’re the one who thought you could charge more for my services if I
had a catchy name, Tin Man,” I said, referring to the old man by his assumed assassin name.
Fletcher grinned. “I was right, too. Every assassin has a name. Yours just happens to have a better ring than
most, thanks to me.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
“C’mon, Gin. It’s easy money. Pop the accountant tomorrow night, and then you can take a vacation,” Fletcher
promised. “A real vacation. Somewhere warm, with oily cabana boys and boat drinks.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And what would you know about oily cabana boys?”
“Finnegan might have pointed them out when he took me to Key West last year,” Fletcher said. “Although our
attention quickly wandered to the lovely ladies sunning topless by the pool.”
Of course it had.
“Fine,” I said, closing the folder. “I’ll do it. But only because I love you, even if you are a greedy bastard who
works me too hard.”
Fletcher raised his coffee mug. “I’ll drink to that.”

3
I finished my lemonade, took the folder, said good night to Fletcher, and went home.
My apartment was located in the building across the street, five stories up on the top floor, but I never went
straight home from the restaurant—or anywhere else. I circled around three blocks and cut through two alleys,
making sure I wasn’t being followed, before coming back and slipping into the building. Everything was quiet,
given the late hour, except the squeak of my shoes on the granite floor in the lobby.
I rode the elevator up to my floor. Before I slid my key in the lock, I pressed my hand against the stone around
the door frame. Nothing of note. Just the stone’s usual low, muted voice. I wasn’t home enough for my presence
to sink into the gray-colored brick. Or perhaps I just didn’t care to listen to my own innate vibrations.
I’d chosen this particular apartment because it was the one closest to the stairwell, with access to the roof and a
sturdy drainpipe that ran down the outside of the building. My escape routes, along with a few others. I tested
them at least once a month, played possible scenarios of capture and evasion in my mind. My own mantra for
survival. You could never be too careful, especially in my line of work, when even a small fuckup could mean
death. My death.
I flipped on the lights. The front room was an oversize kitchen and den, with the master bedroom and bathroom
off to the left, and a spare set of matching rooms off to the right. A couch, a love seat, a couple of recliners,
appliances. A plasma-screen TV, with DVDs and CDs piled around it. Piles and piles of well-worn books
stacked three feet high in some places. A nice set of copper pots and pans hanging from a rack in the kitchen. A
butcher block full of high-end, silverstone knives sitting on the counter.
There was nothing in here I couldn’t walk away from on a moment’s notice. Always a possibility in my
profession. I was careful on my jobs, and Fletcher was extremely selective when choosing clients. But there was
always a chance of discovery, exposure, torture, death. More reasons Fletcher wanted me to give up the
business.
Still, to placate the old man, I tried to lead a somewhat normal life, except for my nighttime activities. My main
cover ID was as Gin Blanco, a part-time cook and waitress at the Pork Pit and perpetual student at Ashland
Community College. Architecture, sculpture, the role of women in fantasy fiction. I took any class that appealed
to me, no matter how eclectic.
But the literature and cooking classes were my favorites, and I signed up for at least one every semester. Cooking
was a passion of mine—the only real one I had besides reading. I enjoyed the smell of sugar and spices. The
endless combinations of sweet and salty. The simple and complex formulas that let you turn separate ingredients
into cohesive, edible works of art. Plus, cooking gave me an excuse to have plenty of knives lying around.
Another necessity in my line of work.
Seeing everything was in order, I moved farther into the apartment. I should have gone on into the bathroom,
taken a shower, then curled up in bed, studying the Gordon Giles file. Planning the hit. Writing down the
supplies I’d need. Visualizing my escape. And dreaming about the oily cabana boys Fletcher had promised were
waiting for me in Key West.
But I lingered in the den, staring at a series of framed drawings on the mantel over the television. An art class I’d
just finished. For our final project, the instructor had asked us to do a series. Three drawings in all, each one
different, but with a connected theme.
I’d drawn the runes of my dead family.
Instead of a crest or coat of arms, magic users identified themselves through runes. Vampires, giants, dwarves,
elementals. Runes were everywhere you looked. Tattoos, necklaces, rings, T-shirts. Even some humans used
them, especially for business logos.
Some of the magic users sniffed at that, claiming that runes should only be used by those with power. Most of
those same folks also harbored crackpot dreams of a magic-controlled society run by elementals and the like,
instead of the current balance of power between all the races. The reason no one race had taken over was
simple: guns were great equalizers. So were knives, baseball bats, chain saws, and wood chippers. And most
folks in Ashland had at least one of each. Magic was great, but three bullets in the back of the head was enough
to put almost anyone’s lights out for good. So the humans used runes, the magic users scoffed at them, and the
city kept on turning.
But the humans using runes had no real impact on anything. Only elementals could imbue runes with magic;
make the symbols come to life and perform some specific function. And really, a Fire elemental tracing a
sunburst rune into a wooden log to start a campfire was just a flashy way of showing off. Especially when he
could just snap his fingers and do it outright. But magical runes were good for some things—trip wires, alarms,
timed or delayed bursts of magic. That last one had obvious appeal to certain assassins. Trace an explosive Fire
rune on a package, mail it to your mark, and you could be sipping margaritas in the Caribbean when the poor
idiot opened the box and it went boom.
Most runes had no power in and of themselves, but were simply ways to announce your lineage, show your
alliances, and say something about your temperament, business, occupation, or hobbies. The rune of my family,
the Snow family, had been a snowflake—the symbol for icy calm. My mother, Eira, had the rune fashioned into
a silverstone medallion she’d worn on a chain around her neck. My mother had taken the tradition a step further
and had a rune necklace created for each of us, with the symbol revealing something about our personalities.
The snowflake rune was the first piece on the mantel, followed by a curling ivy vine—representing elegance
—my older sister, Annabella’s, rune and necklace. And finally, there was a primrose, symbolizing beauty, which
had been given to my younger sister, Bria.
There wasn’t a picture of my rune—the spider rune—on the mantel. The small circle surrounded by eight
equidistant lines hadn’t been intricate or interesting enough to merit a drawing for my class. Of course, I didn’t
actually have the spider rune medallion anymore, but if I wanted to see the damn thing, all I had to do was look
at the scars on my palms.
I shook myself out of my trance. The memories were always worse during the fall. That’s when my mother and
Annabella had been killed by the Fire elemental, their bodies reduced to ash. Bria had escaped that fate, only to
be buried alive by the crumbling remains of our house. All I’d found of my baby sister had been a splash of
blood on the stone foundation.
The clear, crisp tang in the air. The bright, cerulean blue of the sky. The rich, damp smell of the earth turning.
The way the approaching winter chill slowed the murmur of the stones underfoot. It all reminded me of them,
even now, seventeen years later.
But the runes on my mantel weren’t going to bring my family back. Nothing could do that. I didn’t know why
I’d done the damn drawings in the first place. I really did need a vacation. Or perhaps Fletcher’s talk of
retirement had unsettled me more than I’d realized.
My fingers tightened around the folder in my hand. I pulled my eyes away from the drawings, went into the
bedroom, and closed the door, cutting off my view of the runes.
Out of sight, almost out of mind.
At eight o’clock the next evening, I stood outside on the topmost balcony of the Ashland Opera House, a
massive building constructed of gray granite and glistening white marble. An old-fashioned architectural gem,
the opera house spread over three downtown blocks. A slender turret marked each one of the building’s three
wings, which always made it seem like an elaborate dollhouse to me. Black flags embossed with silver music
notes—the opera’s rune—fluttered on top of each turret in the listless September breeze.
Twenty minutes ago, I’d walked through the front door of the opera house. With my white shirt, black pants,
low-heeled boots, and cello case, I looked like any one of the dozens of musicians here for tonight’s
performance. No one had glanced twice at me as I’d strolled through the lobby, walked up the grand staircase,
and climbed up several more flights. I’d used my Ice magic to create a pair of long, slender lock picks, which I’d
used to jimmy the door that led out to the balcony. I might have come in through the front, but after the job was
done, I was making my escape out the back. So to speak.
While the front of the opera house faced one of Ashland’s busy downtown streets, the back side of the building
squatted on top of a series of jagged cliffs, which fell away to the Aneirin River. Cliffs I was going to rappel
down in another hour or so.
Staying in the shadows, I opened my cello case and pulled out the plastic shell that resembled the classical
instrument. Hidden beneath was a secret compartment with my supplies for the evening, including two hundred
feet of climbing rope. I anchored the rope to a brass flagpole planted in the low balcony wall and threw the
length of it down the side of the cliffs. The gray rope blended into the uneven stones below, and you wouldn’t
spot it unless you knew it was there. Still, I grabbed a few crumpled brown leaves from the balcony floor and
spread them over the base of the flagpole, obscuring the rope. It was unlikely anyone would venture out here,
given the activity and excitement inside the building, but you never knew who might wander this way for a
quick cigarette or a quicker fuck. Better not to take unnecessary chances.
As I worked, my hands brushed the stone of the building. The granite sang under my fingertips. The music from
the orchestra’s performances had long ago permeated the rock and now ran through it like a vein of ore. I closed
my eyes and flattened both hands against the rough stone. The sound was so rich, so pure, so beautiful, after the
insane discord of the asylum, that I reached for my magic.
I sent a trickle of my power through the stone, giving it a subtle command. The separate seams of the granite
dipped and rose in a small wave, one after another, as though I were running my fingers up and down a piano
keyboard. The seams settled back into place, and I allowed myself a small smile. Elemental magic could be
amusing as well as deadly.
My work here done, I grabbed my cello case, opened the balcony door, and slid back inside.
The balcony was an extension of the topmost floor of the opera house, a gray, featureless space where the
executive and administrative offices were located. The area was deserted, with only the low house lights on for
illumination. I slipped into the emergency stairwell and walked down several flights of stairs, before emerging
onto the second floor of the building.
It was like stepping into another world. The second floor was circular, with a large entrance room several
thousand feet wide. A grand staircase led down to the ground floor, topped by a dazzling crystal chandelier that
resembled an elegant cluster of icicles. The carpet was a warm burgundy, swirled throughout with a delicate gold
paisley pattern. The walls featured heavy, matching soundproof drapes, along with an occasional mirror and
glossy painting. White marble set with squares of black and burgundy gleamed in the lobby below.
A couple of blocks over, a vampire hooker would do you in your car for fifty bucks, while the homeless guys
dug through trash cans looking for enough garbage to eat for the night. But here, the darkest, dirtiest things were
the lipstick stains on the champagne glasses—and the souls of the people indulging in the bubbly.
People milled around the entrance room, with some trailing down either side of the wide staircase. As befitting
any elite arts function in Ashland, the attendees wore designer gowns in jewel tones, resplendent black tuxedos,
and other appropriate finery that was just as sophisticated as the furnishings. Gems small, medium, and large
flashed, winked, and glittered on throats, wrists, and fingers. The stones whispered proudly of their own beauty
and elegance. Some people sipped champagne and mixed drinks, while others took chicken skewers, spring
rolls, and other dainty, bite-size hors d’oeuvres from passing waiters. Conversation trilled through the air,
punctuated with bass rumbles of laughter and sudden, sharp guffaws.
Since I looked like all the other musicians, the glitterati paid me about as much attention as they did the carpet,
and I moved through the crush of people with ease, looking for my quarry.
Gasps surged through the crowd, and I searched for the source of the sudden disturbance. My gaze locked onto
Mab Monroe. The Fire elemental swept through the lobby and walked up the grand staircase. Every eye turned to
her, and conversation stopped, like a song cut off in mid-chorus. Mab had that effect on most people. Her softly
curled red hair gleamed like a new penny, and she wore a gown of the darkest scarlet imaginable, cut low in the
front to show off her creamy décolletage. Her eyes were black pools in her face. Fire and brimstone. That’s what
I thought about every time I saw Mab.
A flat gold necklace ringed the Fire elemental’s delicate neck. My eyes caught on the centerpiece of the design: a
circular ruby surrounded by several dozen wavy rays. The intricate diamond cutting on the gold made it seem as
though the rays actually flickered. A sunburst. The symbol for fire. Mab’s personal rune, used by her and her
alone. Even across the room, I could hear the gemstone’s vibrations. Instead of beauty and elegance, it
whispered of raw, fiery power. The sound made my stomach clench.
Mab Monroe strolled through the crowd, laughing, talking, smiling, shaking hands. I eyed the elemental, once
again thinking about how much money I’d turned down over the years to kill her. A shame, really. I didn’t
consider myself to be any sort of hero, but I wouldn’t have minded giving the good citizens of Ashland a
fighting chance by removing Mab’s fist from around their throats. Bullies always made me eager to see how
tough they really were—and knock them down a few pegs.
My gaze skipped over to her entourage. A burly man wearing a tuxedo stayed close to Mab, while two more
circulated through the room at large. Elliot Slater wasn’t among them tonight, but they were all giants like him,
with thick necks, oversize fists, and big, buglike eyes. Perfect meat shields. Not that Mab really needed them. Her
Fire elemental magic was more than enough to deal with any threat. The giants were for show, more than
anything else.
Mab Monroe’s current path was going to take her close to me, and I melted back into the shadows. But she and
her guards swept by without a glance in my direction, and I continued searching for my prey for the evening
—and any other players who might impact the drama about to unfold.
Haley James entered the lobby a few minutes later and headed for the stairs. Her skin was the color of fresh
cream, and her strawberry-blonde hair was curled into ringlets piled on top of her head. She wore a short
cocktail sheath dress done in sage green, which showed off her lush, curvy body. The emeralds in her chandelier
earrings sparked and flashed like smoldering embers. The gems matched the blue-green of her eyes.
Alexis James followed her sister inside. Alexis was several inches taller, with the same light coloring, although
her hair was cropped short. She wore a simple black cocktail dress. A string of pearls ringed her throat, while
black gloves crawled up to her elbows. A pearl bracelet hung off her right wrist. Understated class, compared to
Haley’s emerald flash.
Haley James called out to Mab, and the two women paused to exchange meaningless pleasantries. Alexis stood
off to one side, her face expressionless.
According to Fletcher’s file, Haley James was the chief executive officer of Halo Industries, with Alexis serving
as the head of marketing and public relations. The company had been in their family for years and dealt in a
variety of areas, but the main focus was magical speculation, specifically harnessing Air elemental magic for a
variety of medical and cosmetic products. The James sisters employed a whole staff of the elementals, but they
weren’t known to be magic types themselves.
I wondered if Haley James was the one who’d discovered Gordon Giles cooking the books. If she’d put the
contract out on him to cover it up. To make an example of him. Or to keep Mab Monroe from finding out she
was getting bilked out of millions and avoid the Fire elemental’s wrath. If Mab discovered Giles’s embezzlement,
she’d not only take her ire out on the accountant, but on the James sisters as well for letting themselves get
bamboozled. There were any number of reasons Haley James could have decided to eliminate Giles.
But I put the conjecture out of my mind. It didn’t matter to me who had put the hit out on Giles, as long as the
rest of the money appeared in a timely fashion after the fact. If it didn’t, well, then I’d get interested in who
wanted Gordon Giles dead. But not before.
Speaking of Mr. Giles, he’d finally arrived. He shuffled through the lobby and up the grand staircase, just as Mab
Monroe had done, although with far less fanfare.
Gordon Giles wore a tuxedo that was just a bit too large for his small frame. He was so thin, his shoulder bones
poked up through the fabric of his suit. His face was tight and pinched, as though the very act of breathing
pained him. He continually dry-washed his hands, and his eyes flicked back and forth over the lobby, moving
from Haley James to Alexis to Mab Monroe, through their sea of onlookers, and back again. Trying to see which
direction the danger would come from. What shadow the bullet would whiz out of. But he wouldn’t see it,
wouldn’t see me, until it was too late.
But really, it had been too late as soon as the client had contacted Fletcher. Because I was the Spider. I always
followed through.
And I never, ever missed.

4
People started drifting into their boxes to watch the performance. Gordon Giles slipped into a box marked A3,
the one I’d been told was his.
I climbed back up to the top floor, created another pair of lock picks with my Ice magic, then used them to open
the door to the stairs that led to the catwalk. I paused inside the door and stripped off my thick white shirt,
revealing a long-sleeved black T-shirt underneath. The white garment got stuffed inside the cello case, and I
pulled out a snug-fitting, black vest filled with my usual supplies: cash, disposable cell ph