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. "
Chapter Three
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.