The Spider(Elemental Assassin series)

2





TEN YEARS AGO


My target never even saw me coming.

He had apparently forgotten the fact that I was just as cunning and even more ruthless than he was. He thought he was so smart, so clever, so very safe, perched on top of the rocks in his little sniper’s nest, that he didn’t remember one of the most important rules: watch your own back first.

He’d picked an excellent spot for his ambush, the highest point in this part of the old Ashland Rock Quarry, which let him see for a quarter-mile in every direction. The stack of rocks curved up, up, and up, before spreading out into a large shelf, almost like the trunk of a tree sprouting up and out into one long, thick, sturdy branch. A couple of small pine trees and rhododendron bushes had somehow managed to embed themselves in the top of the rocky shelf, giving him even more cover. He’d camouflaged himself well too, his gray T-shirt and khaki pants blending into the muted colors of the rocks and foliage. If I hadn’t already known he was out here hunting me, I might never have spotted him.

But I had—and now he was going to pay for his mistake.

His position indicated that he’d focused his attention on the quarry entrance, where a tall iron gate stood, one that was missing more than a few of its bars, as though they were teeth that had been knocked out of its metal mouth. Even though I was a hundred feet away from the gate, I could still hear the rusty sign attached to the remaining bars creak-creak-creaking back and forth in the gusty breeze. Every once in a while, I caught a glimpse of the faded words painted on the sign: Enter at your own risk.

Rather appropriate, since the man on the stone shelf had been sent here to get the best of me. But I was going to outsmart him instead. My source had told me that the sniper would be lurking somewhere in the quarry, so instead of strolling in through the front gate like he’d expected, I’d hiked into the area via a little-used access road, the same one that Bria and I used to race down when we were kids and heading to the quarry to play.

My heart tightened at the thought of my dead baby sister, with her big blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a head full of bouncing golden curls. But I ruthlessly forced the memory from my mind, along with the anger, sorrow, and helplessness that always came with it.

I wasn’t helpless anymore, and I was here to beat my enemy, not moon about the past and things that couldn’t be changed.

It had taken me the better part of half an hour to find the sniper’s perch, but I’d eased from rock to rock and one side of the quarry to the other until I’d located him. Now all that was left to do was to get close enough to strike. If he’d been down here, I could have gotten on with things already, but he’d decided to make things difficult.

He always did.

A bit of annoyance flitted through me as I stared up at the ridge. The sniper stayed where he was in the shadows cast out by the trees, the black barrel of his gun barely peeping over the lip of the rock. I was huddled underneath a small stone outcropping off to his right, so he couldn’t see me unless he turned and specifically looked in this direction.

He wouldn’t see me—until it was too late.

But there was one more thing I needed to do before I approached him, so I placed my hand on the stone formation next to me and reached out with my magic.

All around me, the rocks whispered of their history, of everything that had happened to them, of all the things that people had done on, in, and around them over the years. As a Stone elemental, not only could I hear those emotional vibrations, but I could also interpret them.

The quarry rocks muttered with anger about how they’d been blasted, broken, and bored into, forced to give up the precious gems, ores, and minerals that they had contained until now there was nothing left of them but these empty, crumbling shells. But there were softer, gentler murmurs too, ones that spoke of the rocks’ relief that the summer sun had started to descend behind the western mountains, taking all of its stifling heat along with it.

I reached out, sinking even deeper into the stone and listening for any signs of worry, distress, or danger.

But I didn’t hear any evil intentions rippling through the sunbaked rocks, only their desire to be left alone and their cranky grumbles about the weather that constantly eroded them bit by tiny bit. Few folks came here anymore, except for bums looking for a quiet place to make camp or people with small pickaxes digging for whatever leftover gems or chunks of ore they could find in the jagged formations.

Satisfied that the sniper was alone, I dropped my hand from the rocks.

His position on top of the ridge might have given him a great view of the entrance, but he couldn’t see what was directly below him, so he didn’t notice me dart from one stone outcropping to the next until I’d worked my way around to the back side of his location.

I shielded my eyes against the sun’s glare and stared up at the stones. The ridge rose about a hundred feet, much of it sheer and slick with age, but a few rocks jutted out here and there to offer handholds and climbing perches. More annoyance spurted through me; I wanted to take out my enemy and be done with things, but my mentor firmly believed in the old saying that good things came to those who waited. Actually, I thought that good things came to those who took action.

So I stepped over to the ridge and placed my hand on the rocks, once again listening to them, but they still only murmured of the hot sun and the damage that had been done to them. I curled my fingers around the rocks, feeling the sharp edges digging into my palms, and hoisted myself off the ground a few inches, making sure that they would hold my weight and not crumble to dust.

Of course, I could have used my magic to help me climb—my Ice magic.

In addition to my Stone power, I was one of the rare elementals who was gifted in another one of the four main areas—Ice, in my case—although that magic was far weaker than my Stone power. Still, I could have made a couple of small Ice knives to dig into the rocks and help me work my way up the ridge.

But I decided not to. The sniper didn’t have any magic, so he wouldn’t sense me actively using my power like another elemental might have. But he’d made it to the top without using magic. So would I. Besides, I didn’t like using my magic any more than necessary. I didn’t want it to become a crutch that I couldn’t function without.

I couldn’t afford for that to happen—not as the Spider.

I would have liked to have hoisted myself up the rocks as quickly as possible, but that would be far too noisy, and I was too determined to win to risk my victory like that. So I slowly, carefully, quietly scaled the ridge, moving from one patch of rocks to the next and working my way higher and higher up the steep slope. It was after eight in the evening, and while the sun might not be directly overhead anymore, heat still shimmered up out of the quarry, rising in sultry, sticky waves. It was almost August, which was often the hottest month in Ashland, but the heat seemed particularly blistering this year. The rocks were pleasantly warm under my hands, while bits of white and rose quartz glittered like pale, milky diamonds between my grasping fingers. Perhaps when I had taken care of the sniper, I’d get my own pickax, come back out here one day, and see if I could find any gemstones for myself.

I reached the top of the ridge and hung there for a moment, like a spider dangling from the top of its own stony web. Then, still being as quiet as possible, I slowly hoisted myself up so that I could peer over the lip of rock and see what the sniper was doing and whether he’d heard my approach and aimed his rifle in my direction, ready to put three bullets through my right eye the second he saw me.

The sniper was here, all right, but he hadn’t realized that I was too.

Another rule he’d forgotten: arrogance will get you, every single time.

He was turned away from me, lying flat on his stomach, his rifle pointed out toward the gate at the front of the quarry, in the same position as when I’d first seen him. In fact, it looked like he hadn’t moved an inch the whole time I’d been climbing. He had his right eye close to the scope mounted on the weapon, and his entire body was a study in stillness as he waited for me to step into his sights. Good for him for being so diligent. Too bad it wasn’t going to save him.

“Where are you?” he whispered, the breeze blowing his words back to me. “Where are you hiding?”

I grinned. He’d find that out in another minute, two tops.

Still being as quiet as possible, I hooked one leg over the edge of the ridge, then the other, before coming up into a low crouch. The sniper might have his rifle, but I had something even better: my five silverstone knives. One up either sleeve, one tucked into the small of my back, and two hidden in the sides of my boots.

Still crouching low, I palmed one of the knives up my sleeve and headed toward the sniper. I didn’t try to be quiet anymore, not now, when I knew that I had already won.

Too late, he heard my boots scrape against the stones. He rolled over, trying to raise his rifle to get a shot off at me, but I was quicker. I kicked the weapon out of his hands, sending it skittering across the rocks. He reached for the second gun tucked into the holster on his black leather belt, but I threw myself on top of him and pressed my knife up against his throat, telling him exactly what would happen if he decided to struggle.

Action always triumphs—and so do I.

“Say it.” I sneered in his face. “C’mon. Say it.”

My opponent arched his head away from me, as if I would be dumb enough to drop the knife from his throat just because he wanted me to. My foster brother’s green eyes blazed with anger in his handsome face, although his walnut-colored hair had remained perfectly, artfully in place, despite our scuffle.

“Fine,” Finnegan Lane muttered. “You win, Gin. Again. There, are you happy now?”

I grinned. “Ecstatic.”

I rolled off him, bounced up onto my feet, and tucked my knife back up my sleeve. Then I leaned over and held out my hand to him. Finn stared at the silvery mark branded into my palm, a small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. A spider rune—the symbol for patience and my assassin name.

Finn gave me another sour look, but he reached up, took my hand, and let me pull him to his feet. He might be my foster brother, but he didn’t like to lose when we played our war games. Then again, neither did I.

“So where do you think the old man is?” Finn asked, staring down into the quarry.

I froze. “You haven’t seen him? Then that means—”

A red dot appeared on Finn’s chest. Before I could react, before I could move, before I could try to duck, the dot zoomed over to land on my chest, right over my heart.

Dammit. My annoyance returned, stronger than ever, along with more than a little anger. At him for being such a sneaky bastard but mostly at myself for falling for such a simple trick.

“That means I’ve just killed you both,” a low, deep voice called out.

Finn might have taken the primo spot at the front of the ridge beneath the pines, but a few scraggly rhododendron bushes clung to the far left side, along with a tangle of blackberry briars. The bushes and thorny branches whipped back and forth as a man stood up and eased out of the dense thicket of leaves and limbs.

He wore a short-sleeved blue work shirt, along with matching pants, while brown boots covered his feet. His hair was more silver than walnut now, with a slight wave in the front, while faint lines fanned out from his eyes and grooved around his mouth, showing all of the living he’d done in his sixty-some years. Still, his eyes were the same glassy green as Finn’s and just as sharp and bright as his son’s. A rifle with a laser sight attached to it was propped up on his right shoulder—the weapon he’d used to mock-kill us with.

Fletcher Lane. Finn’s dad. My mentor. The assassin the Tin Man.

“You should have made sure that you were the only one clever enough to think of using this ridge as a sniper’s perch,” Fletcher drawled, eyeing his son. “I’d already been up here for twenty minutes before you showed up.”

“I know, I know,” Finn grumbled. “There are no original ideas anymore, especially when it comes to the assassination business.”

Fletcher nodded before he fixed his gaze on me. “And you should have made sure that he was alone before you approached him. That someone wasn’t lying in wait to kill you both.”

His voice was far sterner with me than it had been with Finn, since Fletcher was training me to be an assassin, training me to be the Spider, like he had ever since he’d taken me in off the streets when I was thirteen.

I gave him a curt nod. I managed to hide my wince, if not the embarrassed flush that stained my cheeks. Even though I was twenty now, Fletcher still had the ability to make me feel like that lost little girl, the one who had no clue how to defend herself. Seven years of training, and he’d gotten the best of me—again—not by being tougher or stronger or having more magic but simply by being smarter.

Fletcher was always telling me to take things slow, to think, to wait and plot and plan, but I’d seen an opportunity to beat Finn, so I’d seized it without doing any of those things. My action had gotten me exactly one thing: eliminated. Fletcher was right. I should have known better.

I had to know better, or I’d get dead for real one day.

Fletcher stared at me another moment before nodding again, satisfied that I’d learned my lesson, at least for today. “All right. I think that’s enough for tonight.”

“Finally,” Finn muttered, leaning down to grab his rifle from where it had landed. “We’ve been out here for three hours already. I thought the day was never going to end.”

“Aw, you wouldn’t be saying that if you had managed to kill me a single time,” I drawled. “Just because I’ve killed you five times since we’ve been here is no reason to pout.”

Finn narrowed his eyes at my crowing. Before we’d played sniper-versus-assassin, we’d done a few rounds of hand-to-hand combat, all of which I’d easily won. All of which I’d loved, since that was one arena where quick, decisive action always came in handy, instead of the wait-and-see approach that Fletcher preferred.

“Whatever,” Finn muttered again. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve got work to do.”

“More boring reports to read for your summer job?”

He sniffed. “The reports are not boring, and it’s not some lame summer job. It’s an internship with one of the most prestigious banks in Ashland. If I play my cards right, this could lead to a full-time position.”

I rolled my eyes at his snotty, superior tone. Finn had recently turned twenty-three and was finishing up his MBA with his internship and some sort of accounting program that he was taking online through a university in Bigtime, New York. With his new job and fancy suits, Finn thought that he was it on a stick—and then some.

“Whatever. I’d rather be cooking in the Pork Pit than sitting in some stuffy old bank day after day.”

Finn sniffed again, but he didn’t respond to my taunt this time.

Fletcher didn’t comment on our sniping. He’d long ago given up trying to referee the two of us.

“Come on,” the old man said. “I want to go home and get some supper.”

? ? ?

The three of us climbed down the ridge using some rope that Fletcher had brought along, piled into his beat-up white van, and headed back to the city. Thirty minutes later, Fletcher dropped Finn off at his apartment building downtown.

“You coming by the restaurant for lunch tomorrow?” Fletcher asked through his open window.

Finn hesitated. “I’ll try, but it depends on work. I’ll call and let you know, okay?”

Fletcher nodded and smiled, but not before I saw the flicker of hurt that pinched his face. Finn hadn’t been around much this summer, spending more time at that stupid bank than he had with his dad. Anger sizzled in my chest that he could be so thoughtless toward Fletcher. Finn should be grateful that he still had a dad, especially one like Fletcher. But I kept my mouth shut. There was no use arguing with Finn. He was even more stubborn than I was.

Finn waved at his dad, then headed into his building. He didn’t wave at me or tell me good-bye, though. He was still pissed that I’d beaten him so many times tonight. I grinned. Too bad.

Fletcher threw the van into gear, pulled away from the curb, and drove through downtown, going by the Pork Pit. Since it was after nine now, the restaurant was closed, although the neon pig sign over the front door burned with bright, multicolored lights. The sight never failed to cheer me up.

“You know, I noticed that there are a couple of apartments for rent in that building across from the Pit,” I said, trying to make my voice light and casual as I pointed out the window. “See the sign right there? I thought I might call about one and see how much the rent is.”

Fletcher harrumphed in the back of his throat, but that was his only reaction. Finn had his own apartment, and I was itching to move out of Fletcher’s house too. I loved the old man, really, I did, but I was an assassin. I was the Spider. Fletcher had been sending me on solo jobs for a while now, and I felt like I should have my own place, my own space, and not what I’d carved out for myself in his cluttered house.

“So?” I asked, impatience creeping into my voice. “What do you think? About the apartment?”

Fletcher stared out the windshield, instead of looking at me. “We’ll see.”

I wanted to pester him about it and get him to say yes right then, but I forced myself to wait, even though I ended up grinding my teeth the whole time.

But that was all he said.

If Finn and I were stubborn, then Fletcher was doubly so, and I knew that nothing short of being quartered by wild horses would make him say another word before he was ready to.

It was difficult, but I made myself unclench my jaw, although I couldn’t keep from tapping my fingers against the open window frame in frustration. As I watched the passing scenery, I wondered how much longer it would be before the old man realized that I was all grown up.