Death of an Assassin (Saint Roch City Book 1) (3 page)

Once my eyes readjust to the dark room, I think about switching on my bedside lamp when I see my cellular phone blinking. It’s a relic that I refuse to replace, but I barely use it. It’s for contacting my broker, Malcolm, and nothing else. So I know who it is that’s left me a text before I even pick it up.

Tomorrow. Cargill’s Bagels. 8 a.m.

Beside my lamp that remains dark, my analog clock ticks to a little past four. Looks like not much sleep tonight.

Fuck.

alcolm never meets me. I haven’t met him in person for about three years now, and I can’t lie: I’m a little spooked. He slipped my payment under the door last night, though, so I’m not worried that it has to do with a past kill.

I pull my hood up higher and press my sunglasses tighter to my face. My hair is a particular shade of color I like to think of as baby-poo brown, and I made sure to grab the dirtiest pair of sweatpants I could from the sack of clothes I keep in my bathroom closet.

It’s one of the downsides of being a siren. You have to actively make yourself ugly to keep people from killing themselves to get to you. Not exactly what most nineteen-year-olds have to tolerate. I almost vomit as the smell of the fox urine I purchased at a hunting store on the North Side of the city wafts up to meet my nose, despite having sprayed it on my ankles. Sometimes I overdo it, but I need to make sure no one gets the urge to jump me. Passing a news kiosk on the street of the bagel store, I spot a copy of
The Spire
, the local newspaper detailing the result of my feminine wiles.

Max Spencer. Forty-two. Traveling salesman divorcee with two kids plummets to his death. Cops assume suicide.

I know I should feel guilty. Normal girls wouldn’t be standing on their balcony in the middle of the frosty winter night. Nearly nude. And leaning over a railing.

At least my hair wasn’t red by then. Maybe he would’ve made a running leap and landed in the street instead of the curb. Could’ve hit a car or something.

But there are still two little kids that will never see their father again, and I’m fairly certain I’m to blame. I can’t say that I actually feel the guilt. I know that, in a normal person, it would be right there, gnawing just beneath the surface. A normal person might confess. Or try to make amends. Maybe go out and save a life, or even end her own. It might save a few more innocent souls if I ran a few miles east and pitched myself into the Swift to be torn apart by the things living beneath its waves.

But I’m not normal. And, as I open up the door of the bagel shop and the hipster sitting nearest the door at a raised counter turns his nose up at me, I’m reminded that I don’t care. No matter how hard I try to feel, I can’t.

I sidle into the booth across from my broker and notice that he’s shaved his goatee off since I saw him last. He’s wearing a rather nice sweater vest over a button-down shirt, giving him the appearance of the most disturbing children’s television show host ever. He sips his coffee as he looks up at me.

“Layla, darling, you don’t need to get yourself all dolled up for me.” He rolls his eyes and slides a thick manila envelope across the table. Thicker than I’ve ever received.

I take off my glasses and glare at his sarcasm, and he glares right back. At the moment, I’m agitated that Malcolm is so flamboyantly gay. It was a requirement when I found my broker, actually. The first one to attempt it was an ex-mafia boss who went into business for himself. He landed on his own letter opener as he threw himself over his desk at me. After that, I tried a woman, who assured me over the phone that it wouldn’t be a problem. She leapt in front of the subway train at our first meet. She must’ve been bicurious at minimum.

Malcolm and I met up at the Fireman’s Hose. It was a club two blocks away from the Crux and had nothing to do with firemen, nor the tools of their trade.

I put my glasses back on, sure that the sickly yellow shade I’ve given my eyes will not be enough to ward off a passerby college student home on winter break. Gripping the envelope, I mutter to Malcolm as gruffly as I can.

“Why the personal treatment?”

He smirks at my guttural attempt and says, “Well, this is a special one and needs to be handled very carefully. It’s a two-for-one deal and―”

“I don’t do two-for-ones. I can only focus on one person at a time.”

Malcolm waves his hands at me. Pishposh. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You handled that tall, muscular fellow last night, didn’t you? I saw the after pictures; I hope you enjoyed the before.” He winks. When Malcolm’s not riding my ass for hits, someone is riding his. Sex, sex, sex.

“That’s still just one guy. I can’t do two at once. That’s the whole point. Every…” I struggle to find the word and instead just wave at my body like it’s a workshop tool I use. “Every …
thing
, gets focused on one person. Lures them in. Everyone else doesn’t even notice me.”

“Come now, can’t you just jack it up a little? Share the wealth with the rest of the room?”

I nod as if I’m agreeing. “Yeah, good idea! I mean, if I want to have the entire room rush me or start killing each other to stake their claim.”

“Plant their flag? Drill their well? Plug your dike?” Malcolm keeps going as the waitress comes by and sets a coffee mug in front of me. She starts to pour me some while asking what I’d like when she catches scent of me and gags a little. She stops just short of running away from the table as Malcolm finishes with, “Drop their deposit in your bank?” and snickers.

“I don’t do two at a time. Can’t be done. They’ll have to find another hitter. Are they Inhumans? See if Tim wants it. I hear he’s willing to make a few bucks while working his night gig.”

One of the few humans I would not want to cross paths with, Tim is a vigilante with a strong dislike for Inhumans. Inhumans like me. I’ve managed to run across a few of his “after” pictures. There are some things you can’t unsee.

Malcolm shakes his head. “No. I will not talk to Tim until he apologizes for decapitating that new swimsuit model who moved into town.”

I scoff as I drink my coffee, aware that it’s hot enough to scald, but not caring. “The guy was dealing coke to middle-schoolers on the side. Tim had every right.”

“Well, whatever. They want you on it. It needs to look like an accident, and that’s pretty much what you’re best at, right? They’ve never cried murder at any of your hits or even your mother’s―”

He stops himself and looks away as though someone else brought up my mom. He spies around the restaurant for the perpetrator until he decides to turn back and meet my eye. I’m wearing glasses, though. He can’t see the blood-red color my irises take on.

“You should try the pancakes here,” he says sunnily. “Out of this world. I swear, they’ll change your life. Here, I’ll order you some.” He waves to the waitress, who, glancing at me, pretends not to see him.

I shove the envelope back over to him. “Find. Another. Hitter.”

I slide out of the booth and head for the door when Malcolm says sharply, with just a hint of anger at me, “They’re offering eight hundred!”

I’m a pace away from the door. I’m not a tactician. I have one target, I go with the flow, and just let the person die. It’s not that hard. Like nudging a domino to set off the rest. I desperately want to reach out and grab the door handle and give the whole damn thing not a single extra moment of thought.

But I don’t. I turn back to Malcolm.

“Eight?”

“Well… a mil. But I have to take my twenty percent.”

I walk back to the table and lean over, glowering. “And when this goes sideways, are you going to take twenty percent of the bullet they try to put in my head?”

“It won’t go sideways. It’s easy. They’ve even picked out a time and place for it, this weekend. Just… do one at a time or something?” Malcolm suggests, weakly. Like I’m playing a game of checkers, not arranging accidental deaths.

Yeah, it’s easy as pie. Jump, jump, jump. King me, bitch.

He slides the envelope toward me and talks slow. He’s my handler; I’m the tiger. Tigers have been known to disembowel their handlers, and I can see the appeal.

“It’s a pair of brothers. Humans. About your age. It really couldn’t be easier.”

I snatch the envelope from him, never breaking eye contact. I pull off my glasses so he can see. To his credit, his recoil is only just noticeable. I can control my appearance in ways that every teenage girl would kill their best friend for. Sometimes, the changes don’t really fall under my control, though. A reflex.

My eyes are boiling red now.

“I want four hundred under my door by Friday.”

“Ah, that’s the other problem. It’s all or nothing. They refuse to pay until the brothers are both dead.” Malcolm speaks quickly like I’ll be less angry if he gets the words out there fast.

“Well, then
you
better come up with four hundred thousand dollars by Friday for me, Malcolm. Otherwise, you can find someone else to be your whore.” Gripping the envelope hard enough to puncture it with my nails, I stalk toward the door.

The hipster at the counter mutters, “Jeez, bathe much?”

I stop and consider grabbing him by his douche beanie and snapping his neck, but resolve to just kick the stool out from under him. His chin slams into the counter, and blood sprays across the granite surface as his glasses shatter into his forehead. He probably doesn’t even need them.

I leave the bagel store before they can call the police. I won’t be trying their pancakes today.