Web of Deceit
Elemental Assassin - 2.5
by
Jennifer Estep
The girl was a natural-born assassin.
Cold, calm, centered. Confident in herself and her abilities. As she bloody well should be. I hadn’t spent the last three years training her to be a shrinking violet.
As an assassin myself, as the Tin Man, I’d killed my share of bad sorts—for money or revenge, mostly. Sometimes, because they’d simply needed killing. But the years and the injuries and the blood had started to wear on me, more so since a job of mine a few years back had gone so badly for everyone involved—and a couple of innocent folks had died as a result. Eventually, every assassin needed an apprentice, a fresh face and a clean set of hands to take over and do what needed to be done—and Gin Blanco was mine.
I’d dubbed her the Spider, partly because that’s what she’d reminded me of the first time that I’d seen her cowering in a small crack in the alley that ran behind the Pork Pit, my barbecue restaurant in downtown Ashland. Thin arms, long legs, gaunt face. To me, Gin was a granddaddy long legs spider come to life, full of poison but not strong enough to bite back at those who’d done her wrong—yet.
Mostly, though, I’d named Gin the Spider because of the scars that adorned her palms. A small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. A spider rune. The symbol for patience. Gin had that all right—in spades. She’d had gotten the scars after a particularly nasty Fire elemental had tortured her by melting a silverstone medallion shaped like the rune into the poor girl’s hands. But Gin had lived to tell the tale, one of many ways in which the girl was a survivor, as well as an assassin.
Now, I stood in the coal-black shadows across the street from a row house, one of many that littered Southtown, the part of Ashland that was home to the downtrodden, down-on-their-luck, and just plain dangerous. With its peeling gray paint, plywood-covered door, and barred windows, the house had a forlorn, abandoned air. Everything about it suggested that no one lived there any more, and the steps leading up to the front porch sagged like the skin under an old crone’s neck. The outside was a disguise, though, a misleading facade like so many other things, so many other people, wore in the southern metropolis of Ashland.
Inside, I knew that the house boasted the finest things that money could buy. Expensive furniture. Bone china. Gilded mirrors. Beds made up with silk sheets. Even fucking mints placed on the pillows just so. The expensive fixings made it easier for a soul-sucking giant scumbag like Jimmy Fontaine to lure the rich folks who lived in the elegant confines of Northtown down here to his dressed up drug-and-kiddie whorehouse.
Jimmy Fontaine was something of an Ashland success story—a white trash gangbanger who’d put together enough cash to fix up a place, increase the quality of his drugs, and market his services to a richer clientele. Which, in turn, upped his own profits even more. Fontaine’s game was simple. He hooked runaway, teenage girls and boys on drugs, then made them turn tricks in his row house in order to get their next fix—or just enough fucking food to eat for the day. And when he ran low on volunteers, Fontaine snatched kids off the street to be the grist in his ever-grinding mill.
The giant’s most recent victim had been Violet Wong, a pretty, bright, happy, sixteen-year-old girl who’d left home one night to go to a party with some of her friends—a party that she’d never come home from. A week later, Violet had been found dumped in a Southtown alley, dead from a vicious beating. As if that hadn’t been bad enough, the autopsy had shown that the girl had been brutalized from a series of rapes and had enough drugs in her system to kill a cow.
Two days after Violet’s funeral, Victor Wong, the girl’s distraught father, had asked me to find out who was responsible and do something about him—permanently. Because that’s what I did—tracked down people who did bad things and made them pay with their very lives. Me. Fletcher Lane. The assassin known as the Tin Man.
People talked, the way that they always did in Ashland, and the rumor mill had quickly led me to Jimmy Fontaine and his gussied-up row house. I’d spent a week doing recon, then another prepping Gin for this, her first solo job as an assassin, as the Spider. Now, all that was left to do was wait for my apprentice to arrive and see how well she’d learned all the deadly skills that I’d taught her—
“Are you sure that she’s ready for this, Fletcher?” a light, sweet voice whispered in the darkness beside me.
I turned to look at Jolene “Jo-Jo” Deveraux, one of my oldest and dearest friends. Even though we were haunting this dangerous Southtown neighborhood just after midnight, the five-foot-tall dwarf wore a pink flowered dress trimmed with white lace and a pair of matching pink sandals. Her getup would have fit in perfectly at one of those swanky, Northtown garden parties that she was always going to. A set of pearls topped off Jo-Jo’s dress. The moonlight slanted down onto the stones, making them gleam like teeth strung together.
Maybe I should have brought Jo-Jo’s sister, Sophia, along tonight instead of my middle-aged dwarven friend. With her black clothes, black lipstick, and even blacker soul, the Goth dwarf would have blended perfectly into the shadows with me. But Sophia didn’t have the same sort of healing Air elemental magic that Jo-Jo did—magic that Gin might need before the night was through. This might be the Spider’s first solo job, but the Tin Man was going to look after his apprentice tonight.
Especially since I hadn’t managed to do that before, when Gin had really needed me.
“She’s ready,” I said. “She’s been helping me on my hits for more than a year now. Hell, she practically did the last two herself. That girl can wield a knife like no one I’ve ever seen before. And the blood doesn’t bother her at all. That’s important, you know.”
“Maybe,” Jo-Jo murmured. “But you know as well as I do, Fletcher, that deep down, Gin is still just a little girl who’s missing her family, even though it’s been three years now since they were murdered.”
The dwarf stared back at me, her pupils looking like dots of black ink in her clear, almost colorless eyes. There was no judgment in her gaze, no accusation for what I’d failed to do, and I knew that there never would be. Still, I shifted in the shadows, although the movement didn’t do anything to lighten the guilt on my soul. The truth was that Gin was one of the many heavy weights that swung back and forth there, like the slow arc of a clock hand circling my heart. Turning, turning, turning, and never stopping, not even for a second’s respite.
A long, white Cadillac coasted down the street, stopping in front of the row house, and a boy of about twenty hopped out of the driver’s seat. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Clear skin. Nice smile. A tall, thick, six-foot-six frame that marked him as being a half-giant. The kid looked like a fucking star quarterback, right down to the puffy letterman’s jacket that he wore over his white T-shirt, blue jeans, and expensive sneakers. Jackson Fontaine, Jimmy’s younger brother, who was responsible for trolling local football games, parties, and high schools in search of young, fresh meat for the older giant’s operation.
Jackson hurried around to open the door on the other side of the Cadillac. He held out his hand and helped the girl inside up and out onto her feet—Gin Blanco.
My green eyes fixed on my apprentice. At sixteen, Gin was still lean and thin, with curves that hadn’t quite filled out yet, but you could still see the stunner that she was going to turn out to be in a few more years. She wore a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers just like Jackson did, although she’d topped her outfit off with a navy fleece jacket. All the better to hide the silverstone knives that she had tucked up her sleeves—and the blood that would splatter on her after she used them. Gin had pulled her chocolate brown hair back into a high ponytail tonight, which made her look younger, softer, innocent, even. Although I knew that her innocence had been burned away the night that her mother and older sister had been murdered by a Fire elemental.
Jackson said something and laughed, making a joke of some sort. Gin laughed as well, although her smile did little to thaw the ice that coated her gray eyes. Jackson didn’t notice, though. Targets never did, until it was too late.
Jackson opened the back door of the car and reached inside for something. Gin turned away from him and started scanning the house in front of her. We’d gone over the photos and blueprints a dozen times, and I knew that Gin was comparing the physical house with the mental image that she’d formed in her mind. Marking all the entrances and exits, just in case things didn’t go as planned.
The plan itself was simple. Gin would attract Jackson’s interest when he made his usual round of the weekend parties, tell him that she was a runaway, and get him to take her back to his older brother Jimmy’s row
