Death of an Assassin (Saint Roch City Book 1) (15 page)

When there’s no response, I move forward. “Block me.”

Thomas stumbles out of my way. “What?”

I grumble, turn around, and grab Thomas to guide him with my hands, positioning him between me and the street. I pull out the small lock pick kit I’ve had stowed in my sweatshirt pocket for special circumstances ever since I had to kill a shut-in a year or so back. The fire department ruled it a suicide. Why else would someone fill their house with fireplace gas, then light a candle for dinner?

Within a few moments, I’ve got the door to the brownstone open, and I tuck my kit back into the pocket and urge Thomas in as I enter behind him.

I nod toward the hardwood stairs flanked by a gorgeously carved banister. “Third floor.”

The two of us make our way up the stairs, Thomas, about as subtle as a pack of wild dogs, and me, at least a little less tactful than I’d normally like to be. But we’re in a rush.

By the time we reach the third floor, my vision clouds briefly as the exhaustion of not sleeping for days catches up, and though he tries to hide it, Thomas isn’t faring much better. I slip my arm to my back and pull the gun from my waistband. I hold my hand up to Thomas.

Stay.

Malcolm’s door stands closed, but I see the split wood around the deadbolt. The way the knob hangs loose on the door. Someone’s been here before us.

I nudge the door with the barrel of my gun, the hinges creaking as it swings open.

The disarray that just about bursts from Malcolm’s once pristine apartment is all too apparent. Being a master―former master―of bringing about “accidental” deaths, I see every detail that lead to the scene before me.

The kitchen was torn apart, marble countertops broken out of anger rather than need. Drawers thrown off their tracks, silver―real silver―utensils thrown. The ones that weren’t used for other purposes.

Thomas steps in behind me, without my signal―something he’ll have to learn to watch for.

“Shit,” he mutters.

The fridge has been opened, frozen food scattered about the room. Pricey gelato that Malcolm likely had specially shipped from whatever country makes the best kind. I’m not a dessert connoisseur. When the intruder didn’t find what they were looking for, they pulled the fridge away from the wall.

A quick scan of the apartment tells me we’re alone, and I wander into the living room, still clutching my gun in case I’m wrong. The furniture, elegant leather, has been torn apart, thrown aside. The bookshelf that held tomes of questionable content based on the covers I see lying scattered over the floor has been pushed away from the wall and broken into pieces. The bedroom beyond has been likewise searched, mattress flipped and slashed, drawers torn open, and clothes tossed aside. I move to the closet. The safe that I knew was hidden behind his shelves has been opened. The money inside has been torn into, but left.

“I think he’s…” Thomas says behind me. “I think it was the same person.”

I finally lower my gun and walk back to the living room to the crime that likely occurred first. Duct-taped to a beautiful wood carved kitchen chair is my broker, Malcolm. He’s naked, his body covered in slashes so deep they must have carved bone once or twice. The floor encircling him is sticky with blood, and from what I can tell, each of his fingers has been broken―individually.

“They came here looking for me,” I say to Thomas.

Thomas looks over my broker. Former broker. “I don’t think your apartment is going to be safe anymore. Can’t blame the guy for giving you up.”

“He didn’t.” I find myself smiling at my poor broker’s loyalty. “But you’re still right.”

“They tortured him, Layla. He probably gave you up.”

I gesture around the apartment. “Then why search the apartment? If they got my location from him, they wouldn’t have had to do this.”

Thomas glances around and hangs his head. “Right. But if he didn’t give you up…?”

“They must have found something. Otherwise they’d be waiting here for me.” I struggle to pull Malcolm’s eyelids down. His eyes, much like the countless Donahue lackeys and the Old Man himself, are black with tar-like blood.

The siren’s kiss.

“Don’t ever kiss anyone other than your mother…”

“Why?”

My mother held my hand. The full extent of her affection toward her only child. Even the six-year-old Layla could tell she was undecided about speaking.

“Remember how I told you it’s most important that your playtime be accidents? How no one can tell it was you who killed someone?”

I nod, gleeful at being able to answer. “So I don’t get caught!”

My mother smiles. “That’s right, Layla. You need to escape every time. But if you kiss someone…”

Like a dutiful student and eager daughter, I tug on my mother’s hand, wanting more.

“You’ll kill them, but it will be very obvious that it was you. Humans cannot take a siren’s kiss. It’s a poison, sweetie.”

I try to understand, but the only kisses I’ve ever seen have been on television that I sneak when my mother is out working.

She’s frustrated with my naivety, but tries to go on. “Your lips will infect a normal human. They will be a poison, and it will mean you will get caught. They’ll be able to hunt you down. Promise Mommy you’ll never kiss anyone.”

I do. I’m happy to please her.

“That’s a good girl.” My mother hugs me, and I feel so warm at this.

“Layla.” Thomas shakes me, snapping me back to the moment. “Layla, we should get out of here.”

“Right.” I grab a dish towel and wipe Malcolm’s blood from my fingers. “Sorry, Mal. Rest in peace.”

Thomas attempts to close the door behind us, but gives up quickly. “So where should we go?”

“The only place we can at a time like this.”

When we get there, I order my bourbon. Thomas orders a soda. He was bound to disappoint me eventually.

’m nursing my drink at the farthest corner of the bar, far from the door, hood pulled down. The Old Haunt is a favorite watering hole of mine. The barkeep, apart from being a burly Scot of two hundred or so pounds, is gay. He doesn’t seem to know it, but the first time I made a kill on my own, I stumbled in to take some of the edge off. Being so green to the job, I left myself in the same getup that I had to use to make my first hit. Some wise guy was running drugs on the Westside and someone―probably Pete Dawson himself―wanted that to end. The punk, fresh off the boat from across the big pond, was into the ditzy co-ed look.

A handful of college guys, stumbling in from a study session for Saint Roch University’s legendary finals weeks, came at me. The barkeep, Bran, handled them quite deftly and threw them out. Literally. Out of sight, out of mind, they wandered off bruised and cowed. Bran gave me a drink on the house to ease my nerves and recommended I not go out wearing such skimpy clothing on this side of town. Ever since then my first drink has been free, and the small talk between us has been warm.

“You sure this guy ain’t givin’ ya trouble, Layla?” Bran asks, wiping down the bar in front of Thomas even though the wood is spotless. He makes sure to inconvenience the poor boy as much as possible, and Thomas lifts his glass of soda so the man can continue his pointless wiping.

I nod beneath my hood. “He’s okay. I promise, Bran.”

Face covered by a thick red beard that’s more tangled than a spider’s nest, Bran nods and makes a gruff noise in Thomas’s direction. He stalks off, taking a few orders from regulars who know far better than to even glance in my direction. Bran’s broken knuckles for less.

“Friendly guy,” Thomas says.

“I think he used to have a daughter. Only way I can figure he likes me.” I take a swig from my glass, the cool whiskey burning all the way down.

Thomas nods. “So what do we do?” He takes a similar sip of his soda. I think he ordered a Sprite to the mutterings of “pussy” from Bran. It’s not like he’s trying to look more intense than he is, but I’m sure most of the other guys in the bar are willing to glance at
him
and think that.

I lean over the bar and grab a cocktail napkin and pen and slide them over to Thomas.

He holds the pen and napkin and looks at me. “Are we supposed to come up with our master plan with this?”

“Nope. We’re supposed to write our epitaphs. Make sure you only take up one side. I’ve got a lot I want to say on the back.” I take a drink and dump the lonely ice cubes in the nearby sink, then tap the glass on the bar for Bran, who smirks and comes by to fill it up without the rocks.

“So we’re back to just giving up? We might as well go back to your apartment so you can finish drowning yourself.” He chugs his soda and taps it on the bar. Bran sees it, rolls his eyes, and grabs a bottle from beneath the bar and sets it beside Thomas. He nods a vague thank-you, accepting that he’s not a badass.

“Might as well. Mom tried to do it years ago. Maybe she had it right.” I drink more.

In between his sips, Thomas sputters soda out onto the bar. “Are you serious?” The pitying look he gives me makes me want to vomit.

“Yep. Repressed memories are a bitch.” I finish my drink and tap the glass on the bar again. Bran trudges over and fixes me in the same pitying stare as Thomas.

“Hittin’ it hard tonight, ain’t ya?”

“Been a rough day, Bran.” I peer up at him and try to smile. Despite my poor attempt, he gives a genuine grin back.

“You’ll get through it. Pretty girl like you can take o’er the world if she wants.” He pats my hand. “In spite of the company you keep.”

“Nonsense, Bran! This is Thomas.” I put an arm around the boy whose very life is the reason for my death.

Bran looks down at Thomas, who smiles sheepishly. “Hi, Bran.” He holds out his hand, and Bran looks at it like he’s being handed a raw fish.

“You get yourself into some trouble?” Bran asks me, ignoring the boy.

I stare down into my glass, only the barest stain of brown liquor sticking to the bottom. I slide it across the bar to him. “You could say that.”

His eyes pierce me; I know without looking up to meet them. He hesitates before tilting the bottle to my glass and filling it. It takes a great deal of alcohol to really hit me, and I’m desperate to hit that level tonight. Bran pushes the bottle aside toward Thomas, certain it’ll be safe there. He leans over and brings his face close to me.

“Is there anythin’ I can do?” It’s a whisper, and even through his husky voice and snarled beard, I can tell that he means it. I wrap my hand around the glass, grateful that it doesn’t carry the condensation cocktails and beers pick up. Instead, it only offers warmth when drunk.

I lift my stare to find his olive eyes peering out beneath cliffs of red brows. For a grizzled keep, he manages to look caring and protective of his favorite barfly. I let a smirk escape me for his benefit alone.

“Nah, Bran. I’m fine. Just a rough time of late.” I take a sip from my drink, woefully reserved.

Bran slips a hand over mine and pats. “You’ll come out on top.”

“Just the way I like it.” I wink and he bellows laughter, waving me off before snatching the whiskey from in front of Thomas who was busying himself reading the label. Attempting to look more traveled than he can hope to, Thomas grips his glass and follows my eyes, watching Bran attending to the other folks with no other respite from the world than a dive bar on the fringe of the Westside.