Spider's Bite

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 phone, credit cards, a couple of fake IDs. A black toboggan I’d had folded in my pocket went on my head, hiding my bleached blond hair.

I made my way up the steps and strode out onto the catwalk. It wasn’t a true metal catwalk but a carpeted balcony, a narrow, walled strip ringing the entire opera house in a giant circle, just as the floors below did. The houselights had already gone down, and several spotlights focused on the stage, highlighting the gleaming instruments of the orchestra. The musicians sat silent on the wide, semicircular stage, waiting for the cue from the maestro.

I crept down the catwalk. From this high vantage point, I could look down over the entire complex — and straight into the second-floor VIP boxes, including the one that belonged to Gordon Giles.

Giles was already seated. He must not have found the program for the evening very interesting, because he’d rolled it up. Giles shook his hand, and the paper baton slapped against his knee in a rapid, staccato pattern. The nervous twitch of a man who knows he’s in trouble.

The maestro cleared his throat and tapped his baton. The crowd sputtered, stilled, and hushed. The metal baton came down again, and the orchestra burst into song. Energy. Emotion. Joy. I closed my eyes, listening to the swell of the orchestra, the perfect harmony the instruments created as they enunciated their complex patterns of notes and chords. All blending and melting together into a cacophony of supreme beauty.

I listened a few seconds more, reveling in the harmony. Then I tuned out the music and got to work. According to the timetable in Fletcher’s file, the job had to be done before intermission. The client wanted to make a spectacle of Gordon Giles’s untimely demise by having his body discovered then.

I opened my cello case and pulled out the plastic shell once more. Hidden in the compartment underneath was my weapon of choice for the evening — a crossbow.

The weapon looked like your typical crossbow, except for the powerful rifle scope mounted above the trigger and the barbed metal bolt already in firing position. The bow was the perfect weapon for mid-range jobs like this one. Since I didn’t want to take a chance on Gordon Giles using his elemental Air magic against me, I’d decided to do this one from a distance. Pull the trigger and walk away. No muss, no fuss, no blood spattered on my clothes, for a change. The only real downside of my job.

I could have used a rifle, of course. Easier to get, cheaper to buy, same result in the end. But guns jammed too much for my liking. With a bow, you didn’t run that risk. The same reason I used silverstone knives on most of my jobs. Along with the crossbow, I had several knives secreted on my person tonight. Two tucked up my sleeves. One against the small of my back. Two stuffed inside my boots. My usual five-point arsenal. Just in case things didn’t go exactly as planned, and I had to get up close and personal with someone.

The great thing about using silverstone knives was the fact that the magical metal was almost unbreakable, and the only jamming a blade ever did was when I shoved it too far into someone’s chest and had trouble yanking it out again. By that time, well, it didn’t much matter.

I grabbed the crossbow and placed it on the edge of the balcony wall. It was dark up here, and no one looked in my direction, but I’d still chosen to launch my attack from the deepest shadow. Same reason I’d ditched the white shirt. I didn’t want some bored kid staring up and asking Mommy what the black figure with the scary weapon was doing way, way up in the rafters. I might be here to kill somebody, but there was no need to frighten the other people in attendance and ruin their evening out. And one scream could shatter my moment of opportunity. Given Gordon Giles’s jumpy nature, I doubted I’d get another shot at him anytime soon. I was surprised he’d appeared at such a public function. If I’d been an accountant stealing millions from Mab Monroe, I would have been having my face lifted on a deserted island. Not taking in a performance at the local opera house.

The scope’s magnification gave me an eagle-eyed view into the box. Which is why I was able to see a sliver of light as the door in the back cracked open. My gray eye widened in the scope, trying to determine the identity of the newcomer — and how much he was going to fuck up my plans.

Donovan Caine stepped into the box.

I knew Caine by sight — and reputation. Donovan Caine was one of the few honest cops in the city, raised to be so by his dearly departed detective daddy. According to Fletcher, Caine was the sort of man who didn’t look the other way, no matter who was putting on the pressure. Didn’t take bribes. Didn’t do drugs. Hell, he didn’t even smoke, according to Fletcher.

The detective had been assigned to investigate some of my previous Ashland jobs, although with little success. Unlike some of my fellow assassins, I wasn’t stupid enough to sign my work. Some contract guys, especially the magic users, actually took the time to carve their own personal runes into the flesh of their victims or on the surrounding walls or floor. I’d even heard rumors of a cer tain vampire who liked to draw the rune with his victim’s blood — after mixing it with his own. Idiots. Leaving a rune behind was as bad as leaving a fingerprint. Showing off with them was a one-way ticket to the electric chair. Folks in the South weren’t shy about executing people, especially when such demonstrations were sanctioned by the government.

But Caine knew I existed, mainly because of my last assignment in the city a couple months ago — when I’d killed his partner.

Cliff Ingles hadn’t been a bad cop — except for his off-duty tendency to beat up and rape hookers. In Ashland, that wasn’t even enough to get him thrown off the force, much less warrant my particular brand of attention. Until Ingles had turned his forcible ways to the thirteen-year-old daughter of one of the hookers. The vampire knew enough to send a message asking for help in Fletcher’s general direction. The old man didn’t like rapists, especially those who targeted kids. I didn’t either, so I’d done the job pro bono. Another public service. The mayor should give me a medal.

Caine had known his partner wasn’t the cleanest guy around, but evidently he didn’t realize the extent of Ingles’s depravity. Because after I’d put a knife in Ingles’s oversize gut and sliced off his balls, Donovan Caine had publicly vowed to bring his partner’s killer to justice. Swore up one side and down the other to find the assassin responsible for his partner’s painful, untimely demise and make her pay every which way he could. The investigation had stalled, but Caine hadn’t given up. Every week or so, he sent out a new public service announcement to the local media outlets, pleading for info on the Ingles murder.

Oh, Caine didn’t know it was specifically me, Gin Blanco, the Spider, who had killed his partner. All the detective knew was that an assassin had hit Cliff Ingles. If it had been a gangbanger or some other lowlife, he might have been stupid enough to brag about it, somebody would have snitched, and Caine probably would have found him by now. Either way, the detective wanted to hit back at whomever had murdered Ingles and get revenge for his dead partner.

Since then I’d taken an interest in the detective. His dogged determination amused me, however fruitless and misguided it was, and I had Fletcher compile a file on him.

I tracked Caine through the scope as he approached Giles. Thirty-two. Six foot one. Cropped black hair. Hazel eyes. Strong chin. Square jaw. Bumpy, crooked nose. Lean body. Bronze skin that showed his Hispanic heritage.

He was handsome enough, although not as pretty as some of the other men I’d seen in the lobby. But Caine moved with the loose, easy confidence of a man who knows what he’s doing — and knows he can handle anything that comes his way.

Was there anything sexier than confidence and the skill to back it up? I didn’t think so. A hot awareness coursed through my body. My breasts tightened, and a small, pleasant ache settled between my thighs. I wondered if Donovan Caine would be that smooth and sure in bed. Bet he would.

For a moment, I let myself fantasize about the detective. Naked. Writhing under me. His mouth teasing my pebbled nipple. His calloused fingers kneading my breasts. I pictured myself sinking onto his throbbing length. Riding him with quickening strokes until he screamed out my name. Draining every ounce of pleasure I could out of his lean body, until we were both spent and sweaty and satiated. Mmm.

Too bad he played for the opposition and wanted to put a bullet in my head. My daydream would remain just that.

Fletcher had said Gordon Giles might go to the police for protection. That must be why Caine was here. To meet with Giles. Placate him with the usual assurances of safety, immunity, whatever.

A smile tugged at my lips. I wondered what Donovan Caine would do when I put an arrow in Gordon Giles’s heart. Would he try to administer some sort of medical attention, even though it was already too late? Would he call for help? Or would he race out of the box, gun drawn, determined to find the assassin?

All I had to do was pull the trigger and I’d find out.

But instead of finishing the job, I watched the detective. Caine took a seat to Giles’s right. The two of them bent their heads together and started whispering. Well, Caine did most of the whispering. Gordon just shook his ferretlike face in a definite no-no-no pattern. Whatever Caine wanted him to do, Gordon wasn’t giving in just yet.

I was so preoccupied with Donovan Caine that the telltale click didn’t register until it was too late. But the cold gun pressed against the back of my neck definitely got my attention.

“Drop the weapon,” a voice hissed in my ear.