Death of an Assassin (Saint Roch City Book 1) (4 page)

he champagne served at the Donahue’s engagement party reminds me of the eternal smell of cat urine in the apartment I grew up in. One of those awful smells so strong you can taste it. We didn’t even own a cat, and the landlord couldn’t remember any of the tenants ever having one.

The week had gone by silently, which disappointed me. Every day I had hoped to get a text from Malcolm that the hit was off. Or that I wouldn’t get the money on Friday. But Friday night showed up as it was scheduled to, and after another late-night balcony session―with no civilian accidents―I came back in for a glass of Jack and tripped over a trio of envelopes. He couldn’t fit all of the bills in one.

Four hundred thousand dollars. I could fill my bathtub with Benjamins if I wanted.

The string quartet begins to play something elegant and just a bit flighty. Not really my taste, but it did beat the club tunes likely playing tonight several miles away in the center of Saint Roch. The Manchester Country Club, situated on the only cove of the Swift River, was a favorite of the Donahue family. The Donahues being one of the Seven.

Saint Roch has a menagerie of creatures like me. I couldn’t begin to tell you why so many of us have flocked to the same place, but we have. And anyone who believes we don’t own the city now is simply kidding themselves.

But the Seven have managed to hang on. Seven human families still holding on to what little power they can. It’s funny, really. They could be wiped out by us in a night, but they still retain so much control over Saint Roch that the city would collapse without them.

Take Richard Donahue, for example. The Old Man. Malcolm’s briefing didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. His family owned Saint Roch long before our numbers ever showed up. Rumor has it he still holds the deeds to over half of the buildings in the city.

I sip my champagne, the bubbly having its intended effect on the rest of the party. A man with too bushy of a mustache has already removed his tie and begun playfully snapping the women who pass by. They squeal in delight at the attention, but more likely the flowing liquor of the party is the reason for their elation.

At the head table, just over the line of sobriety, sits my prey.

My ears jingle just so as I set my glass down on the bar, the diamond earrings I’ve selected for the evening far gaudier than I have the taste for. But the job calls for such things on occasion. I carefully sweep back a bundle of my curled locks of platinum blond hair, letting it drape over a bare shoulder to only just tease the plunging neckline of my black dress. Using the dimly lit mirror positioned behind the bartender, I adjust my eye color. Blue. Blue. Blue. Now just a hint of green. A little more. There.

The bartender stares at me for a moment, but everything about me is pointed now. Aimed. Mom said we give off pheromones. And that we could cater to the tastes of our… customers. The bartender stares, but he doesn’t leap across the counter. He traces from my face, down my neck to my chest, and back. With nothing but his eyes and palpable desire. No. He admires the view, he longs for the full experience, but he can contain himself.

I pucker my lips at him and blow him an intoxicating kiss across the bar. It’ll be the best tip he gets tonight. I turn from the bar to walk away, my gown trailing behind me and clinging so that it’s nothing more than my melted shadow.

By now, the quartet has grown tired of being ignored by the rowdy audience. Prerecorded music filters in through speakers built into the ballroom, the bass turned up so loud my heart begins to do battle with the beats.

My eyes, as piercing as I ensured they would look, drill to the front of the room. Beside his beautiful fiancée sits Andrew Donahue. If my dossier from Malcolm is to be believed, he’s twenty-six years young and has already written himself a novel. Four DUIs, two assaults, and one rape case thrown out when the girl recanted and promptly disappeared a week later.

Sometimes my job is a real pleasure.

And, yes, his fiancée is beautiful. Or could be. Full lips. Miraculously real curves. Irises that could melt the burliest of men. She’s tanned, but it’s probably due to the amount of time she keeps very still under UV lamps. She hopes to grow into a flower, but instead is more of a weed.

It’s not love. My dossier hints that she’s knocked up, hence the reason Andy’s got to get hitched. She’ll be on the Donahue payroll. The marriage license will be a contract with the baby to be the signing stroke. The poor bastard child will only exist to keep the money flowing.

It will remain an unsigned contract because, even as I slink through the crowd, the provocative dances of couples and even triples parting before me as the Red Sea would, little Andy’s seen me. I pause and look back with a smile. From so far away, I can see him flinch and his knee hits the bottom of the table, rattling it and his bride-to-be. A glass tips and spills all over the poor woman’s dress.

“Jeez, Andy! Why don’t ya watchit?” She scowls and slaps the boy’s shoulder. I find myself enjoying the mark just a little bit more. People who can’t enunciate deserve every ounce of pain the world is willing to dole out. “Ya know this is a new dress an’ everythin’, right? Ya bettah believe ya dad’s payin’ fah this.” She stomps away to clean her dress. All the while, Andy hasn’t noticed a thing she’s whined about. In fact, since I stepped across the dance floor toward his table, I don’t believe he’s even taken a breath. Convenient, as that’s just the way I want him.

Before he can blink, I glide across the floor to his table and stand before him. I offer him my hand and lean over, threatening to spill out of my dress onto his table. His eyes, drinking in every bare inch of me, are more than hopeful for that very thing.

“I wanted to congratulate you, Mr. Donahue, on your pending marriage.”

He looks up at me, and I let him think I’m looking him up and down with at least a fraction of the desire he has for me. More intelligent men, ironically, would already be trying to mount me. But I’ve used words he probably doesn’t understand. He takes my hand, and he’s mine. He inhales deeply and tightens his grip as though I’ve shocked him.

Oh, his never-to-be widow. She’s about to be unemployed. Without Andrew, she’ll never be able to prove the baby in her was his. Not for sure.

Because I have plans for Andrew. And there won’t be anything left to test DNA against.

“I was going to step outside for a cigarette, Mr. Donahue. Would you care to join me?”

He shivers as he follows my stroll down the stone walkway that’s only faintly dusted with snow that comes down indecisively. A flake lands on my bare shoulder and melts there, signaling its friends to give it up for a short while.

He never thinks to question why I don’t have any cigarettes for our excursion onto the grounds of the golf course. Instead he just smiles at his company.

“So, Mr. Donahue―”

“You can call me Andrew,” he says with a grin. His eyes grow wide, those of a child finally understanding peek-a-boo. “I don’t know your name.” He’s a little drunk, but not nearly enough to justify this behavior. No, this is me. And I’m about to make sure that his criminal record never extends to beating the woman or his unborn child.

“You can call me…” Oh, what the hell. He’ll never be able to tell anyone. “Layla. My name is Layla.” I smile and lean over to kiss his cheek.

When the hook is set, you have to give it a stiff jerk to make sure it’s seated well. Otherwise, the catch could still slip off.

He grabs my shoulders and tries to kiss my lips, but I twist my neck. His affections land on my jaw line, which seems fine for him. He slobbers down my neck with all the grace of an untrained pup, and I glance back to see that we’re far enough from the party.

“Not here,” I purr in his ear.

He nods. “Right. Someone might see us.”

I look about, letting my inner actress take over. Turning back to my doomed lover, I bite my lip. “Where can we go?”

As though he read my script, Andrew points. “The boathouse?”

I arch my eyebrow. “I love boats. The way they rock… and sway…”

I step forward and press myself against him. If his dull-witted smile weren’t enough of an indication, the thrust he gives me would tell me just how well I hunt. I wrap a finger around the knot of his tie and pull. “Let’s go find a boat?” A boat I’ll never set foot on.

He grabs my hand and we’re walking. Jogging. Running. His shoes are slapping the wet walkway, and my heels―annoying necessities―are clacking the whole way. Had it not been so cold, other people might be out here. But as it is, my heels and his heavy breathing go unheard by the rest of the world. The frigid, uncaring night is ours, and soon, just mine.

He stumbles into the boathouse door, tugging me after him. As though
he
were leading
me
. He throws the door open, the echoing
splash splosh
of waves filling my ears. After pulling me into the building, he slams the door shut. The moonlight burns through the clouds, which are accidentally dropping bits of snow, and reflects off the water of the cove visible from the opening of each boat slip. The horns of several brave vessels can be heard out on the river, but I’m the only one who notices.

Andrew’s already slid the straps of my dress down and is exploring me with his mouth. But now that I have him here, there’s no more need for that. I pull him off me, and for a moment he glares like a toddler denied his favorite candy.

I tap his nose playfully. “I thought you were going to find me a boat to play on?”

He grins and nods. With some woe, he steps away from me and my slowly falling gown. Every second he wastes, he misses just a little bit more alabaster skin being exposed to the night.

The water beneath the docks splashes loud enough that I know they are not from the tides. During the day, the Cove is protected territory for humans. During the night, however, it’s anything but. You’re safer punching a grizzly bear in the face while wearing a steak around your neck than you are swimming in the cove at night.

Andrew shambles down the docks across from me and finds a boat―unlikely to be his―and unzips the canvas. He turns back to me. “Is this one good enough?”

I smile, and with a slight tug so as to look accidental, let the front of my gown drop just low enough. Andrew gapes at my half-nude form before him and grins, stepping forward, neglecting the boating slip between us. The slip that had been, sadly, emptied out earlier in the day by a freckled girl with frizzy hair who smelled of fish.

He plunges into the cold water and eventually bobs to the surface, treading water. He laughs and stares up at me with a stupefied grin. “Could you lower one of those ropes to me?” He nods to the dock lines hanging up behind me. But I’m done with him.

I step away and to the metal lockers standing in the corner.

“Hey, what’re you doing, Lesley?”

I’m already stripping down and grabbing a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt from the locker, slipping them on and stowing my gown and jewelry in the locker. I swap the heels―grateful to be rid of them―for far more conservative tennis shoes.

Andrew swims to one of the nearby pylons. Gripping the algae-coated wood, he splutters river water before speaking again.

“Laura? Toss the rope? Shit. Lindsey?”

My pheromones aren’t reaching him from there. He’s made his tumble. And as I step back to him, my blond curls are burning to an orange-red color and bunching together far too much to be attractive to him. He looks up at me with very real terror, suddenly realizing that he’s been duped.

“What do you want, you freak bitch?” he snarls. He clearly knows enough about Saint Roch to know I’m not human. But not that the Swift River is a foolish place to find yourself after sundown. I got very lucky this time.

I watch him, silent. Just waiting. For whoever gets here first.

“Come on, Lizzie. Lara? Just lower one of the ropes.” The cold water is really sobering him up. He’s actually showing fear now, and it’s not an emotion I get to see on my marks all that often. It’s usually only just for that split second before they plummet to their deaths, if I’ve chosen a falling accident of course.

I focus for a moment, setting freckles to erupt all over my cheeks.

“Linda? Lex! Le―”

He disappears, yanked beneath the surface.

I sigh, imagining my face as a canvas, and place a few freckles along my nose. “It’s
Layla
.”

In the glowing white moonlight, I see the blossom of red rising to the surface like an underwater mushroom cloud. Andrew does not rise again.

“Jackass…”

I leave the boathouse behind, not ashamed to admit I’m worried whatever’s chewing on Andy-boy may decide it wants seconds.

One down―one to go.