Elemental Assassin 01 - Spider's Bite

anyone could come in after me. I ripped open the bag, tore into the sandwich, and chewed. So good, I wanted to cry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had meat, especially this much. Hands shaking, I popped the top off the Styrofoam cup, tilted back the container, and let the lukewarm baked beans slide into my mouth. The sauce on them was sweet, but with a spicy kick. After the garbage I’d been eating, it tasted like heaven —
    “Son of a bitch!”
    The cursing woke me. I cracked open my gray eyes, my hand already around the hilt of the silverstone knife under my pillow.
    “Son of a bitch!”
    The exasperated voice came again. Finn. Just Finn. I relaxed my grip, slid out of bed, and padded into the den. Finn stood in the kitchen, flipping a toaster pastry from one hand to the other to keep from getting burned.
    “What time is it?” I asked, my voice thick with sleep and dreamlike memories I couldn’t quite banish.
    “Five in the afternoon.” Finn took a bite of the pastry and almost spit it back out because it was so hot.
    “Twelve hours? Why did you let me sleep so long?”
    “Because you needed the rest. We both did.”
    He was right. Jo-Jo might be the best, but being healed by an Air elemental still took a toll, as your body tried to adjust from being severely injured to suddenly being well again. Despite my day of sleep, I still felt tired, my arms and legs moving slower than usual. Or perhaps that was because I’d used my body so strenuously for so long last night. But magic always had a cost, which was another reason I didn’t like to use my power to kill. I didn’t like paying the price afterward. It always drained me, made me weak. I couldn’t afford to be weak. Ever.
    The toaster burped up another pastry. Finn grabbed it and tossed it to me. I clutched the thin wafer in my right hand. The heat didn’t bother me. Then again, Finn wasn’t the one with scars on his hands. Wasn’t the one who’d felt the spider rune burn into his flesh. Silverstone metal could contain only so much magic. The Fire elemental who’d been torturing me had had more than enough to turn my rune into superheated liquid, mark me forever, and laugh all the while. The memory made my head ache, and I massaged my temple.
    The television was on, although the sound was muted. Some incomprehensible game show with what looked like screaming contestants flickered on the screen. I changed the channel to the Food Network.
    “Any more news about my botched hit last night?”
    “Nothing much,” Finn said. “More press conferences at lunchtime with the police, namely Captain Wayne Stephenson vowing to catch you no matter what. Another one with Alexis James talking about what a great guy Gordon Giles was and how she hopes the reward will help bring his killer to justice. Do you know they’ve gotten more than a thousand tips since she offered that money last night?”
    “A million dollars.” I shook my head. “Every nut job in Ashland, elemental and otherwise, will be after me. Or at least chasing my ghost.”
    “Hell, for that much, I’m tempted to turn you in myself.”
    I stared at him.
    “Not that I ever would,” Finn amended. “Friendship is much more important than money.”
    I arched an eyebrow. Finn’s lips started to twitch, and he let out a low chuckle.
    I snorted. “I can’t believe you said that with a straight face.”
    “Me either,” he confessed.
    I threw one of the sofa pillows at him. Finn ducked out of the way.
    His smile faded, and he jerked his head at one of the windows that fronted the street. “Sophia called the cops to the Pork Pit. They arrived around three this afternoon.”
    I got up and stared through a crack in the curtains at the street below. Yellow crime-scene tape hung across the front door of the restaurant. The afternoon sun flashed on the slick tape, creating a bright spot that burned my eyes. No one moved inside the storefront. Normally, at five on a weekday afternoon, folks would be waiting to get in and be seated. But people passing by only slowed their steps and shot curious but knowing looks at the restaurant. In Ashland, crime-scene tape was better than an obit in the newspaper.
    I usually worked in the afternoons, since the restaurant was so slammed, and I missed the noise and rush of the supper crowd, along with just knowing that Fletcher was leaning against the cash register, sipping his chicory coffee and reading a few pages of his latest book the way he had