Elemental Assassin 01 - Spider's Bite

ever really believed death was coming for them, courtesy of an assassin like me.
    Until it was too late. 

2
    Now came the trickier part—getting out of the asylum. Because while all it had taken to get thrown in here was a faked psychotic episode and a few greased palms, several obstacles lay between me and the outside world, namely two dozen orderlies, a couple of security guards, a variety of locks, and twelve-foot-high walls topped with razor wire.
    I crept to the end of the hall and peered down the next passageway. Deserted. It was after seven, and most of the patients had already been put back into their padded cells to scream away the night. With any luck, Evelyn and the orderly wouldn’t be discovered until morning. But I was going to be long gone before then. Never count on luck to get you through anything. A lesson I’d learned the hard way long ago.
    Using the route I’d memorized and keeping in mind the orderlies’ timed circular sweeps, it was easy enough to make my way through the dim corridors to the right wing of the asylum. Thanks to the piece of tape I’d put over the lock, the door to one of the supply closets was already open. I slipped inside. Industrial supplies were crammed into the dark area. Mops. Brooms. Toilet paper. Cleaning solvents.
    I walked to the back corner, where the builders had been too cheap to cover the granite wall with paint, and pressed my hand to the rough stone. Listening. As a Stone elemental, I had the power, the magic, the ability, to listen to the element wherever it was, in whatever form it took. Whether it was gravel under my feet, a rocky mountain outcropping soaring above my head, or just a simple wall, like the one I had my hand on now, I could hear the stone’s vibrations. Since people’s emotions and actions sink into their surroundings, especially stone, over time, tuning into those vibrations could tell me a number of things, from the temperament of a person living in a house to whether a murder had taken place on the premises.
    But the stone wall underneath my hand only babbled its usual insanity. There were no sharp notes of alarm. No clashing and clanging vibrations of hurried activity. No sudden disturbances rippling through the rock. The bodies hadn’t been discovered yet, and my fellow crazies were probably still drooling on each other. Excellent.
    I climbed up on a metal shelf set against the wall, pushed aside a loose ceiling tile, and grabbed the plastic-wrapped bundle of clothes I’d hidden there. I stripped off my blood-spattered, white inmate pajamas and shimmied into the new garments. One of the first things I’d done when I’d been committed had been to break into the patients’ repository and liberate the clothes I was wearing when the cops had brought me here. In addition to my blue jeans, long-sleeved navy T-shirt, boots, and navy hooded fleece jacket, I’d also had a couple of pocketknives on me, along with a silver watch that had a long spool of garrote wire coiled inside the back. Small, flimsy weapons, but I’d learned long ago to make do with what I had.
    In addition to the repository, I’d also paid a visit to the records room, grabbed my fake Jane Doe files, and destroyed those, as well as erased any mention of my stay here from the computer system. Now, there was no trace I’d ever been in the asylum at all. Besides Evelyn Edwards’s cooling body, of course.
    I snapped the watch around my wrist. A bit of moonlight streaming in the window hit my hand, highlighting a scar embedded deep in my palm. A small circle with eight thin lines radiating out of it. A matching scar decorated my other palm. Spider runes—the symbol for patience.
    I uncurled my hands and stared at the lines. At the tender age of thirteen, I’d been beaten, blindfolded, and tortured—forced to hold onto a piece of silverstone metal, a medallion shaped like the spider rune. My hands had been duct-taped around the rune, which had then been superheated by a Fire elemental. The magical metal had melted and burned into my palms, hence the scars. Back then, seventeen years ago, the marks had been fresh, ugly, red—like my screams and the laughter of the bitch who’d tortured me. The scars had faded with time. Now, they were just silvery lines crisscrossing the swirls of my pale skin. I wished my memories of that night were as dull.
    Moonlight highlighted the silverstone metal still in my flesh and made the marks more visible than they were during the