“Bitch!” The detective snarled, his hand drifting down to the gun on his belt, like he wanted to pull it out and cold-cock her with it.
The vampire’s dark eyes widened, and she backed up a couple of steps.
But before Ingles could pull his gun and retaliate, one of the giant bouncers cut through the crowd, taking up a defensive position in front of the waitress, shielding her from Ingles with his seven-foot frame. The giant’s shaved head glinted like onyx under the club’s black lights.
“Is there a problem here?” the giant rumbled, his deep baritone voice cutting through the pulsing beat of the music.
I’d seen this particular giant around the club a time or two when I’d been in here before. Hard to miss seven feet of solid muscle. Xavier was his name.
Ingles stared at the giant in front of him. His eyes cut to the waitress before flicking back to Xavier. The waitress’s handprint marked Ingles’ cheek like a scarlet letter, not even starting to fade. But the detective made a visible effort to get himself under control. He might be a member of the Ashland po-po, but Ingles knew he’d get his ass kicked if he kept pushing things. Even cops couldn’t get away with assaulting women—at least not in public.
“No problem,” Ingles spat out. “The bitch isn’t worth it. I was just leaving.”
Xavier nodded. “You do that.”
Ingles’ eyes narrowed to slits in his face, but he reached into his pocket, drew out a couple of bills, and tossed them on the Ice bar. Then, the detective turned and started shoving his way through the crowd, heading for the door.
But instead of immediately following him, my gray eyes skimmed over the scene, flicking from the people three deep around the Ice bar to those grooving out on the dance floor to some old song by The Pretenders. Looking for trouble, searching for anything out of place, anyone who was taking a particular interest in my target or me. I’d been an assassin for almost twenty years now, and I hadn’t survived this long by being sloppy.
But once he made sure Ingles was really leaving, Xavier turned back to the waitress, and the two of them started talking. To them, the detective was just another creepy customer they’d had to kick to the curb. It happened, even here at Northern Aggression, where very little was off limits. But no one else showed any interest in Detective Cliff Ingles or more importantly in me.
Which meant it was finally time to make my move.
I swallowed the rest of my gin, enjoying the sensation of the cold liquor sliding down my throat before starting its slow, sweet burn in my stomach. Then, I paid my own tab, walked away from the Ice bar, and sauntered out of the club, moving ever closer toward my prey.
The Spider was ready to spin her web for the evening.
It was late July, and the night air was thick with humidity the way it always was this time of year. Ashland was located in the mountainous corner where Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina met in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains. So muggy summer nights were part of the region’s many charms. Even here in the city, more than a few fireflies winked on and off in the darkness, their quick little flashes matching the smoldering red glows from the cigarettes of those smoking outside.
Even though it was after midnight now, a line of people still stood outside the nightclub waiting to get in past the giant guarding the velvet rope in front of the entrance. Above his head, a neon sign shaped like a heart with an arrow through it flashed red, then yellow, then orange. The rune for Northern Aggression, the symbol the nightclub’s owner, Roslyn Phillips, used to promote and identify her business.
I walked away from the club’s entrance, scanning the rows of parked cars, looking for Detective Cliff Ingles. Ten…twenty…it didn’t even take me thirty seconds to spot him.
Because Ingles hadn’t gotten far. The detective had moved off into the parking lot and was now stalking back and forth underneath the gently swaying tendrils of a weeping willow. An anonymous black car sat next to the large tree. The detective’s city-issued sedan. The license plate and description had been in the file of information that Fletcher Lane had given me. The old man was nothing if not thorough.
I looked at everything, from the people still standing in line to Ingles to the few folks staggering out to their cars in the side lots that flanked the nightclub. Nobody gave me a second glance, and nobody was sober or close enough to the detective to notice anything—especially not him dying.
Perfect.
I smoothed down my black leather miniskirt and put a little swing in my hips as I approached the detective. If I’d just come to the club to enjoy myself, I would have worn my usual outfit of jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. But tonight, since I was going out on the town as the Spider, I’d dressed up a bit, just in case I had to use my feminine wiles to lure Cliff Ingles to my side long enough to stab the bastard to death.
Which is why in addition to the leather miniskirt, I was also sporting a long-sleeved, red silk skirt and a pair of black, stiletto-heeled boots that came all the way up to my thighs. I’d even teased out my bleached blonde hair to TBH—Tennessee Big Hair—proportions. In short, I looked like a girl out to have an evening to remember.
Cliff Ingles certainly wouldn’t forget meeting me.
I didn’t bother to walk quietly, and the sharp crack of my heels on the pavement soon caught Ingles’ attention. The detective glared in my direction, but the hot anger shimmering in his brown eyes soon turned to something darker and uglier as he took in my outfit.
I tossed my hair back over my shoulder to take one more quick glance around, but nobody was staring in our direction. Excellent.
I finally stopped when I was within arm’s reach of Ingles. I put one hand on my hip and struck a pose, letting him get a good, long look at me and all I had to offer.
“Hey, there, sugar,” I cooed in my best slow, sweet, husky, southern drawl. “Got a light?”
Ingles’ brown eyes flicked down my body and back up again, mentally checking off parts of my anatomy one by one. Boobs. Thighs. And the sweet spot in between them. He must have liked what he saw, because a cold, hard smile lifted his lips.
“For you, darling? Of course,” Ingles murmured.
The detective started patting the pockets of his suit, looking for his cigarette lighter. While he was distracted, I discreetly slid my right arm behind my back and palmed a silverstone knife—one of five that I had on me tonight. A second knife was tucked up my other sleeve, while one rested in the small of my back. Two more were hidden in the tops of my fuck-me boots. My usual five-point arsenal. Never left home without ‘em.
While Ingles searched for his lighter, my gray eyes scanned the area around us one more time. But the closest person was at least a hundred feet away, and the music drifting out from the club would cover any sound the detective might make.
My hand tightened around the hilt of my knife. The weapon felt cold, hard, solid against my skin. The weight of it comforted me the way that it always did.
Ingles finally found his lighter, flicked it on, and held it up to me. The flame wavered in the darkness between us, a tiny beacon of sputtering light.
Ingles frowned when I didn’t immediately produce a cigarette, lean forward, and let him get a better look at my boobs.
“Hey,” he snapped. “Don’t you have a smoke on you? Because I’m not giving you one of mine. Damn things are too expensive for that, these days.”
He paused, his eyes narrowing and his smile getting that much colder. “Unless you want to trade me something for it, darling.”
Fuck him for a cigarette? I’d rather stab myself. Yeah, Cliff Ingles was a real class act.
But I gave him my most winsome smile, keeping up the charade just a few seconds longer. “No,” I replied. “I don’t have a smoke on me. I’ve got something better. This.”
I brought my hand around from behind my back and showed him the silverstone knife. The magical metal glinted dully in the semi-darkness.
Ingles’ brown eyes widened in surprise, but before he could open his mouth to scream, my arm punched forward, and I buried my silverstone knife in his heart.
All the way up to the hilt.
Ingles drew in another breath, but before he could scream it out, I clamped my free hand over his mouth,
