The Spider

Page 14

I quickly scooted away from the entrance, got to my feet, and ran down the hallway and around the corner. Heart racing, I slid through an open office door just as Vaughn appeared, and I stayed there until he vanished from view.
Vaughn went straight back to his office. He never even bothered to glance around to make sure that he was alone. But my streak of bad luck continued, because he left the door open behind him this time, which meant that he would see me coming before I could get close enough to take him out. I hissed out my frustration. Instead of just getting on with the business of killing him, I once again had to stop in the next hallway over, drop down into a crouch, and look around the corner, peering down the corridor and through the doorway.
Vaughn threw the file on top of his desk. He glared at it a moment before sitting down, pulling his chair up to the desk, opening the folder, and perusing all of the papers and photos inside. Whatever Harry had given him, it didn’t make Vaughn happy. His frown deepened, and the lines on his face became more and more pronounced the longer he read through the information. By the time he closed the file, he looked sick and haggard, as though whatever was inside had thoroughly disgusted him.
Vaughn stared at the closed folder for the better part of a minute. Then he roused himself from his thoughts, grabbed the file, got up from the desk, and went over to the far right side of the office, out of my line of sight. A few seconds later, several soft click-click-clicks sounded, along with the sharp crack of a lever being thrown open and then the loud bang of a door shutting. My eyes narrowed. He must have put the folder in his office safe, the one that was hidden behind a panel in the bottom of a bookcase, according to Fletcher’s info.
Vaughn stepped back into view as he strode over to the far left side of his office. This time, I heard the tink-tink-tink of ice dropping into a glass, followed by bottles rattling together and a steady splash of liquid. Now he was pouring himself a drink, trying to drown the sorrow of whatever he’d learned.
I waited, thinking that Vaughn might take his drink back to his desk, but he stayed where he was, out of my line of sight. Well, if I couldn’t see him, then that meant that he couldn’t see me either.
And I was ready to end this.
I got to my feet and eased down the corridor, hugging the wall. More bottles rattled, making me pause until I realized that Vaughn was fixing himself another drink. He must have decided to take his time with his second round, because I didn’t hear anything else as I crept up to the open door, flattened myself against the wall outside the office, and peered inside, careful to stay as quiet and hidden as possible.
The office was a spacious area, taking up a corner chunk of the building, and it was the only room I’d seen so far that had a bit of luxury to it. More thick Persian rugs covered the floor, the bright reds and golds creating a pretty contrast against the gray stone, while all of the furniture was done in dark cherry wood, from the antique desk in the back of the room to the cushioned chairs that sat in front of it to the other small tables that perched here and there.
But the bookcase was the largest and most impressive thing in the office. It took up the entire right wall from floor to ceiling. But instead of being filled with books, the shelves were lined with small scale models. Tall, skinny skyscrapers with glittering silverstone points, long strip malls complete with toy cars sitting on tiny paved parking lots, a greenhouse with panes of glinting glass, even a miniature mausoleum surrounded by a carpet of fake grass and slender trees. All of the models were exquisite in their perfect detail, and all were crafted out of varying types of stone—granite for the skyscrapers, bricks for the strip mall, marble for the mausoleum.
I recognized a few of the buildings, mostly the downtown skyscrapers, since they had such distinctive shapes. The models must be scale versions of some of the buildings that Vaughn had built, restored, and worked on. His own way of memorializing his achievements. I wondered if he took the time to make the models himself. Probably, given his Stone magic.
My gaze dropped from the models to a square panel on the bottom of the bookcase, the one that hid Vaughn’s safe. I wondered if I should get Vaughn to open the safe before I killed him, so I could grab the file of information and take it to Fletcher. But I decided not to. Vaughn would put up a struggle once he realized that I was going to kill him anyway, and a struggle meant more risk of noise and more chance of discovery. Besides, Charlotte’s problems would vanish with her father dead, and that was all that I really cared about.
Vaughn turned away from the wet bar, a third drink in his hand. I drew back a bit, not wanting him to spot me lurking outside his office, but he didn’t even glance in my direction. Instead, he stared at the spot where the safe was hidden in the bookcase, before sighing, ambling over to the windows behind the desk, and turning his back to the open door—and me.
I wanted to rush forward, but I forced myself to calm my heart and keep my breathing steady. I waited, thinking that Vaughn would soon get tired of the view of cinder blocks and concrete mixers, but he seemed content to sip his drink, stare out the windows, and brood.
I wouldn’t get a better chance than this.
So I drew in a breath, clutched my knife tighter, and slipped into the office, making sure to close the door behind me. It shut with a soft snick. I winced, thinking that Vaughn would whirl around at the small sound, but he rattled the ice cubes in his glass and kept staring out the windows, lost in his own thoughts.
Heart still pounding, I locked the door, wincing again at the faint click that sounded, then headed toward Vaughn. The thick rugs drowned out my footsteps, but I still took care not to rustle my clothes any more than necessary. I made it from the door over to the chairs in front of his desk. I paused, but Vaughn still seemed oblivious to my presence, so I eased around the chairs and lined myself up with him, so that I had a straight shot at his back. Then I tiptoed forward again, still moving slowly, carefully, and quietly.
I was ten feet away from him, close enough that I could smell the harsh fumes of whatever whiskey he was drinking . . .
Seven feet . . . the overhead lights made the silver threads in his hair glint like the sharp points of the skyscrapers on the bookshelves . . .
Five . . . the facets of the crystal tumbler in his hand winked at me, one after another . . .
Three . . . now catching a hint of the day’s sweat and sawdust that clung to his skin . . .
One . . . go!
I raised my knife to strike, but Vaughn must have finally heard the stones’ sharp warnings about me, or perhaps he saw my reflection in the windows, or maybe I was just too damn slow again. Either way, he turned at the last possible second.
Vaughn took in my black clothes and the knife in my hand in an instant. His brain kicked into gear, and he dropped his drink and threw himself to one side, out of the way of my deadly strike. My knife skidded off the window with a loud, ear-splitting screech, as though it were diamond that I was trying to cut the glass with. I winced and lost my grip on the blade, which thumped to the floor. I didn’t want to waste time reaching for it, so I palmed another knife and whirled toward him.
He had scurried over to the far right side of his office and put his back against the bookcase. But he didn’t make a break for the door. Instead, a grim, determined look filled his face, and he reached out and grabbed a stone model of a strip mall off the shelf. I tightened my grip on my knife and started forward. Vaughn reared back and threw the model at me, his aim surprisingly good. But that wasn’t all he did. As the stone sailed through the air toward my head, I felt a hard wave of magic roll off Vaughn.
The model broke into a hundred pieces.
It was like a bomb had exploded in my face. Sharp shards of shrapnel zipped through the air, all of it purposefully propelled in my direction by Vaughn’s magic. A neat trick, one that I’d have to remember for my own use later on. On instinct, I threw my hand up and reached for my own Stone magic, using it to harden my head, hair, skin, and eyes. The shrapnel pelted my body like nails, but the jagged pieces couldn’t penetrate my skin, thanks to the protective shell of my magic.
Silence.
Then I dropped my hand, brushed the bits of shattered stone off my clothes, and looked at my target.
Vaughn’s eyes widened to the point of almost bulging out of his face, as if I’d done something so surprising that he simply couldn’t believe it. “Your magic . . . it’s so strong . . .”
And that was all he got out before I went on the offensive again.
I took a step forward, but Vaughn was quicker than I was. He grabbed another model, this one a skyscraper, hurled it at me, and used his magic to make the stone explode in my face again. But I was still holding on to my own power, and the shrapnel hit my body and clattered off the same way it had before.
Back and forth we fought, with Vaughn moving from one side of the bookcase to the other, picking up every single model that he could get his hands on and tossing them all at me like grenades. I kept a grip on my own Stone magic and chased after him, but his miniature model bombs held me at bay.
Slowly, though, I started wearing him down. Vaughn was strong in his magic, but he was putting all of his power into his bomb blasts. It was much harder and far more draining to actively shatter thick chunks of solid stone over and over again, whereas I had the easier and far less magic-intensive task of keeping my skin just hard enough to withstand the assaults.
Vaughn threw another model at me, but this one only cracked into two pieces, instead of splintering into shrapnel like all the others. His breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat streamed down his face from the intense effort and the sheer amount of power he’d expended. I could feel the rest of his magic falling away, like the chips of stone dropping from my silverstone vest. Still, he made one final effort to take me down, this time with a particularly large model of a multistory mansion. But once again, he only managed to split the stone into two pieces, which plummeted to the floor before they even got close to me. Vaughn kept fighting, though, his hand reaching back toward the shelves for another model . . .
And coming up empty.
His eyes bulged again when he realized that he’d used up all his makeshift weapons, and his panicked gaze flicked to the door, as if he were finally thinking about running away. I needed to end the fight—now.
So I did.
While he hesitated, I leaped forward, raised my knife high, and drove it down into his chest.
Vaughn opened his mouth to scream, but I clamped my gloved hand over his lips, muffling the sound. He’d already made far too much noise setting off his model grenades, and it was a wonder that the guard hadn’t come to check on him already—if he wasn’t hurrying back here at this very second.
Vaughn’s body went slack against mine, and I knew that the job was finally done.
I pulled the knife out and started to step away, but he reached up and grabbed my arm, his grip still surprisingly firm, given the blood gushing out of his chest.
“I don’t know who sent you, but if this is about what happened at the restaurant . . .” he rasped. “Leave . . . my family . . . out of it. . . . Spare . . . them . . . please. . . .”
I leaned closer so he could see the coldness in my wintry gray eyes. “I am sparing them—from you. Did you think that you could slap around your kid and get away with it?”
Vaughn frowned, as though he didn’t understand what I was talking about. Hard to think when your brain was shutting down along with the rest of your body. But after a moment, understanding flickered in his dark eyes, along with sadness.
“Charlotte,” he rasped again, his voice even weaker than before, blood bubbling out of his lips. “Charlotte—”
Then the light faded from his eyes, his hand fell from my arm, and he dropped to the floor.
Dead.
11
I stood there and stared down at Cesar Vaughn’s dead, crumpled figure.
Why had he thought of Charlotte at the end? He was the one who’d been hurting her. Or perhaps he thought that whoever had hired me had told me to kill his entire family. A common enough occurrence and a reasonable assumption in Ashland. Vaughn had seemed to think this was about payback for the terrace collapse. Maybe he reasoned that I’d been ordered to take out his loved ones, as eye-for-an-eye retribution for the dead and injured. But that hadn’t been my assignment.
And for the first time, I wondered why it wasn’t.
If someone really wanted to hurt Vaughn, to wound him, to make him suffer like they had suffered, then I should have been hired to kill Charlotte and Sebastian too. Not that I would ever hurt a kid, but if this was truly about payback, you’d think that my mysterious employer would have wanted to hit Vaughn where he would feel it the most. One would assume that would be by murdering his family. Plus, revenge would have been an obvious, logical move and motivation for someone who had been injured in the terrace collapse or who had lost a loved one because of it. But someone had simply wanted Vaughn dead instead.
Now, I didn’t mind such short, sweet, and to-the-point assignments. In fact, I felt a great deal of dark satisfaction that I’d eliminated the threat to Charlotte and had gotten a bit of payback for the accident victims and their families. But, with the dirty deed done, for the first time doubts whispered in my mind, doubts about what this was all really about, who exactly had wanted Vaughn dead, and why.
I sighed, realizing that I was worrying too much, like Fletcher did. But it was far too late for any sorts of doubts and unanswered questions. The job was done, and Cesar Vaughn was bleeding out on the floor, his blood soaking into the rugs, the broken bits of his stone models already muttering about their master’s murder.
Still, I couldn’t quite quiet the worried whispers in my mind or shake off all of the warnings that Fletcher had drilled into my head over the years, so I stepped over Vaughn’s body and crouched down in front of the bookcase. It only took me a moment to slide back the bottom wooden panel that hid his safe. It was a sturdy, old-fashioned device, a thick gray metal box with a simple spin lock. Enter the appropriate numbers, pull down the lever, and the safe would open. I didn’t have the combination, but I still eyed the lock, wondering if I could somehow use my weak Ice magic to shatter it and open the safe that way—