“Serviceable.” I sniffed. “But I could do better.”

Phillip rolled his eyes. “I’ll be sure to give your regards to my chef, with all his many years in culinary school and time working in some of the finest restaurants on the East Coast.”

“Better watch out, Gin,” Owen said, teasing Phillip and me. “Gustav doesn’t take insults to his food too kindly, and he’s almost as good with knives as you are.”

“Oh,” I drawled. “I doubt that.”

Owen snickered, but Phillip rolled his eyes again and drained the rest of his mimosa in exaggerated annoyance.

I polished off two plates of food. So did Owen, and Finn was still going strong and well into his fourth one. While he finished eating, we sat there in companionable silence, listening to the rush of the river. A faint breeze ruffled my hair, bringing a rich, earthy smell along with it. I breathed in deeply, letting the taste of fall come in through my mouth and roll over my tongue before trickling down into my throat and lungs. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the air seemed tangier than ever before, with an almost metallic, coppery taste to it.

Or maybe that was just my anticipation of making Beauregard Benson bleed later on today.

“So what’s the plan?” Finn asked, shoving another strip of bacon into his mouth.

I shrugged. “I figured that we would have a nice, leisurely morning here on the riverboat, and then I would suit up, go over to Southtown, knock on Benson’s front door, and kill him when he answers. With y’all backing me up, of course. After that, who knows? Drinks at Northern Aggression all around?”

The three guys looked at one another, then at me.

“You’re not going to be a little more . . . circumspect about things?” Phillip asked. “You know, slip into his mansion late at night, kill him under the cover of darkness, and leave his bloody body for his men to find the next morning?”

Instead of answering him, I stared up into the sky. A bit of cloud cover had formed, making it seem as though rays were streaming out of the sun. The bloody streaks reminded me of Coral’s hair. Thanks to my dreams, I’d been thinking a lot about my time with her, especially how I’d hidden in the closet while her pimp had beaten her to death. And I’d realized that I’d been doing the same exact thing these past several months, hiding at the Pork Pit and waiting for the underworld bosses to try to take me out, when I should have been the one on the offensive, on the attack, instead.

It was time to do something about that, all of it, starting with Benson.

“Gin?” Owen asked.

“No,” I growled, answering them. “No sneak attacks. Not today. I’m tired of skulking around in the shadows, and there’s no point in it. Not anymore, when everyone in the underworld knows who I am. They’ve been messing with me for months now. Well, I think it’s finally time I showed them exactly who they are dealing with, starting with Benson.”

Owen, Finn, and Phillip exchanged glances at the cold violence echoing through my words, but they didn’t try to talk me out of my plan.

“Besides,” I said in a more normal voice, “Benson has to realize that I’ll be coming for Silvio, if nothing else.”

“And?” Owen asked.

I let out a breath. “And it’s personal too. I won’t deny it. That bastard strapped me down to a chair, pumped me full of drugs, and sat there and took notes like I was his own private lab rat. I can’t let that stand. Not as Gin, and definitely not as the Spider. I can already imagine what folks are saying about me.”

Finn winced. “Nothing good. The rumors are already flying around. Basically, most of them boil down to Benson making you scream like a girl.”

I stabbed my finger at him. “Exactly. Everyone knows that he got the upper hand on me and that you guys had to come and bust me out of his mansion. If I don’t take care of him now, it’ll only get worse. It’ll renew everyone’s interest in killing me.”

“Did that ever really wane?” Phillip asked in a snide voice.

I shot him a dirty look, but he merely arched a golden eyebrow in return before pouring himself another mimosa from the pitcher on the table.

“As I was saying, Benson’s probably been crowing all over town about how he so thoroughly humbled me,” I said. “Well, I plan to return the favor. Benson thinks that he’s the king of Southtown, and he’s put all his rivals in the ground for years now. I say it’s time to knock the king off his throne.”

Finn sighed, grabbed a final strip of bacon off his plate, and crunched down on it. “Why do I get the feeling that this is going to be some grand operation that will most likely involve me schlepping to some disgusting rooftop and getting my clothes dirty yet again?”

I grinned. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve already worked out some of the details with Bria. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

26

Just before noon, I strolled down the street that led up to Beauregard Benson’s mansion.

Forget the sidewalks. I walked right down the center of the street between the two faded double yellow lines, just like I had been doing for the last several blocks.

I’d started my journey at the community college, where the whole shebang had begun a few days ago. It seemed ironic and rather fitting. I’d parked my car in the lot there, gotten out, and headed into Southtown on foot. I’d been walking ever since.

At first, everything had been normal. People moved on the streets, flowing in and out of restaurants, grocery stores, and other businesses. Conversation floated through the air, along with the rumble of cars and the smells of exhaust and fried foods. But the deeper I headed into Southtown, the more storefronts were boarded up, the more rune graffiti covered the buildings, and the more people ducked their heads and scurried away from one another as fast as they could.

It wasn’t all that far from the college to Benson’s mansion, maybe ten blocks, but eyes had been on me the whole time.

Gangbangers had already gathered on the street corners, smoking, drinking, and selling their daily allotment of weed, pills, and other drugs. A few vampire hookers had already started trolling for clients, slowly sashaying back and forth on the sidewalks, while their pimps dozed on the stoops or in their cars, knowing that the real action wouldn’t start until sunset. The bums had begun their daily trash rounds, digging in the Dumpsters for whatever they could salvage, while the working-class folks hurried along the sidewalks or zoomed by in their cars. But everyone peered at me, wondering what the crazy chick was doing and how many more blocks I would make it before someone started hassling me.

Good. For once, I wanted everyone to notice me. I wanted everyone to see the Spider and exactly what she was capable of.

That wasn’t to say that there weren’t a few problems with my march. There was still traffic on the street, and cars beeped their horns as they approached me, wondering what I was doing strolling down the pavement like I owned it.

I was wearing my usual ensemble of dark jeans, black boots, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and my black silverstone vest. With my hair pulled back into a ponytail, I looked like some college student who’d gotten lost in the bad part of town. I didn’t seem particularly threatening, but one look at my hard face and cold eyes had most drivers putting their feet on the gas and steering away from me as fast as they could. A few of the gangbangers whistled and catcalled in my direction, but I gave them the same flat stares that I gave the drivers, and their jeers and laughter soon quieted down. Given the mood I was in, I was killing anyone who got between me and Benson, stepping over their bodies, and walking on. The folks on the street didn’t have his Air power and the precognition that went along with it, but it was easy to tell that I was up to no good.

As I walked, I whistled out a cheery tune. I was actually looking forward to what was coming. For months now, my anger and frustration about everyone targeting me had been slowly building. All I’d wanted was to be left alone, but the underworld bosses hadn’t gotten the message. Well, Benson was going to be the perfect outlet for all my rage, and he was going to help me drive my point home—right before I shoved my knife through his heart and out the other side.

But something curious and most unexpected happened: the farther I went, the more people appeared on the sidewalks. The gangbangers, the hookers, the pimps, even some of the homeless bums, started following me. Someone must have recognized me, because it wasn’t long before the whispers began.

“Hey, isn’t that the Spider?’

“You mean the assassin chick?”

“I thought she was dead, that Benson killed her.”

“Apparently not. Looks like she is here for payback.”

I grinned. And then some.

The whispers continued, and the crowd followed me block after block, until I finally reached my destination.

The street I was on led straight into the one that fronted Benson’s estate, which spread out before me like the palace of a king. I’d been too woozy from the sedative yesterday to really appreciate the beauty of the prewar gray stone mansion with its elegant crenellation and soaring columns. It used to be an apartment building, from the information that Silvio had given me, before Benson had it converted into his own private residence and drug-cooking factory. The mansion butted right up against the street, and I’d seen the lush green grounds and the river beyond it for myself yesterday, when Bria had rescued me.

To my left, a familiar sedan rolled down the street and stopped at the corner. Bria and Xavier got out of the car, along with Owen. The three of them stayed next to the sedan and drew their guns, just like we’d planned.

I walked right up to the low stone wall that cordoned off the mansion from the street, raised my fingers to my lips, and let out a loud, ear-splitting whistle, the way Sophia had taught me years ago. The sharp shriek caught the attention of the guards patrolling the lawn between the wall and the mansion, and their heads snapped around in my direction. One of them yanked his phone out of his jacket pocket and started texting frantically on it, no doubt alerting his boss that I was here, out in the open for everyone to see.

When I was sure that I had the guards’ attention, I turned to face the people who had gathered on the sidewalks behind me. A few of them ducked down behind mailboxes or pressed their backs up against the sides of buildings. Nobody liked the wide, crazy smile on my face but me.

“I’m glad that y’all could make it,” I called out in a loud, booming voice. “Because the show’s about to begin.”

I swept my hand out to the side and gave them all a low, gallant bow, something I’d seen Finn do more than once. Then I straightened up and focused on my first target: Benson’s baby-blue Bentley.

It was parked by itself on the street in its usual spot, to the right of the open gate that led to the mansion. The pale blue paint gleamed under the noon sun, the silver trim and accents shimmered, and the glass in the windshield was so clear and perfect that it looked like it wasn’t even really there. It truly was a beautiful machine, a work of art in its own mechanical right. I paused a moment, admiring the sleek lines, gleaming glass, and flawless paint.

Then I grinned and stepped over to the car.

As I walked, I casually swung the tool in my right hand back and forth, like the pendulum of doom that it was. I’d come into Southtown with my usual assortment of knives, but I’d also brought along one more weapon for this particular purpose: one of Owen’s blacksmith hammers. A long, hard length of silverstone that had been blackened from the countless hours he’d used it in his forge. The perfect weapon for caving in lots of things. Giant skulls, dwarven kneecaps, elemental ribcages.

Fancy cars.

I approached the Bentley and started twirling the hammer around and around, moving it from one of my hands to the other and back again, limbering up my shoulders, the way I’d seen Owen do in fights. I liked the solid, substantial weight of the hammer in my hands, although I would always prefer the sharp, slender sheaths of my knives.

The crowd behind me pressed forward a little, tiptoeing to the edges of the sidewalks, although all the folks made sure to stay on the opposite side of the street, well away from me and my insanity. Everyone sucked in a collective breath as I walked around and around the car, looking for the best place to make my first strike.

“Don’t do it, lady,” someone in the crowd called out.

“Doesn’t she know whose car that is?”

“Crazy assassin bitch must have a suicide wish.”

I grinned at that last muttered comment. If they only knew.

I stopped next to the driver’s-side door, hoisting the hammer up and over my shoulder. Everyone behind me sucked in another breath. Then I brought the weapon down as hard as I could onto the front windshield.

The hammer punched into the glass with a loud, satisfying crack, the jagged tears zigzagging out like the silken strings of a spider’s web—my web of destruction.

That first swing got me going, and I smashed the hammer into the car over and over again. Each crack of glass and crunch of metal satisfied the primal need I had deep down inside to hurt Benson as badly as he had wounded me, to take something away from him just like he had taken from me, to destroy a part of him the way he had done to me.

Oh, yes. It was on his precious car that I took out all the rage, all the frustration, all the fear and helplessness I’d felt when Benson had drugged me. I slammed the hammer into all of the windows, the top, the sides. I even palmed one of my knives and slashed all four tires. I let it all out, using the car as a substitute for Benson. Because I would need to keep my emotions in check when I faced the vampire, lest he try to feed on my feelings, and I was working all the rage out of my system now, leaving nothing behind but the cold determination to end him.