Elemental Assassin 01 - Spider's Bite

bedding to the detective. “Knock yourself out.”
    “Thanks,” he said.
    Caine shook out the blue and green blankets and started making up the sleeper sofa. I drifted over to the front door and pretended I was double-checking the locks. I pressed my hand against the stone, listening to its faint murmur. Low and steady, just like always. Once more, I traced small, tight curls onto the surface of the stone—the symbol for protection. The runes shimmered silver before sinking into the wall and fading away. I sent a burst of magic through the rock to test my magical trip wire. A sharp note of alarm sounded back to me, rising to an ear-splitting shriek. If someone attempted to open the door and enter the apartment, that same sound would wake me.
    It would also ring out if someone tried to leave. Donovan Caine and I might have an agreement, but our tenuous partnership might not keep him from sneaking out in the middle of the night. Or trying to. The detective wasn’t going anywhere without me.
    Caine put down one blanket and unfolded another. He wasn’t an elemental, wasn’t a Stone, so he couldn’t sense or hear the vibration.
    He fluffed out the last pillow and set it on top of the outstretched sofa. He turned to face me. I nodded a good night at him and headed for my bedroom.
    “Sleep well.” The detective’s deep voice rumbled out and touched me, like a silk rope flicking against my spine. “If you can.”
    I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Why wouldn’t I sleep well? Because my conscience is troubling me? Hardly.”
    “It should bother you.”
    “Because of tonight?” I shrugged. “I did what needed to be done to save your life, detective. Even you shouldn’t fault me for that.”
    “Not because of tonight. Because of Cliff.”
    The old, predictable hatred flared in his hazel eyes, and his face tightened with determination. Caine was still counting down the minutes until he could come after me for his partner’s murder.
    For a moment, I considered telling the detective exactly what Cliff Ingles had been like. About the protection money he’d extorted from various pimps. About the vampire hookers he’d forced to give him freebies in the back of his city-issued sedan while he was on duty. About the thirteen-year-old girl he’d so brutally raped, beaten, and left for dead. The knowledge would wipe that self-righteous sneer off Donovan Caine’s face. Burn it up like it had never existed.
    But I held my tongue. That information was an ace up my sleeve, and I wasn’t about to throw it down just for spite. Let the detective keep his illusions about his partner. I needed him focused on finding the Air elemental—not moping over how wrong he’d been about Cliff Ingles. Caine was so fucking idealistic. Still determined to believe in the good in everyone, despite all evidence to the contrary. It’s going to get him killed one day.
    I gave him a flat, cold stare. “I sleep like a rock, detective. Always have, always will.”
    I stepped inside my bedroom and shut the door behind me.
    My sleep was dark, black, comforting, and free of any troubling dreams or flickering memories of Fletcher. Sunlight slanting in through the window warmed my face and crept in under my eyelids. I sighed, rolled over, and stared at the clock radio by the bed. Almost noon. Time to get on with things.
    I crawled out of bed, opened the door, and padded into the den. Finn sat in front of his computer, a steaming cup of chicory coffee by his side. The familiar, comforting smell reminded me of Fletcher, and I felt the sharp pain of his loss. The image of his flayed body flashed in front of my eyes, but I pushed it aside and focused on my last memory of Fletcher—the old man drinking his own cup of coffee at the Pork Pit. I breathed in, letting the rich aroma coat my lungs, pretending Fletcher was warming the apartment with his ghostly presence. Pretending he was warming me.
    Finn saw me step into the room. He waved at me, then pressed a finger to his lips and pointed at the sofa. I looked over the back of the furniture. A mound of blankets covered Donovan Caine like the thick layers of a burial shroud. I could just barely make out the top of his head through the fabric. For a moment, I wondered if the detective slept nude. Mmm. Wouldn’t have minded a peek if he did.
    Finn pointed to something beside the sofa. I leaned over. One of the detective’s guns lay on the floor within easy reach. I frowned. Despite our truce,