I settled myself at the counter, while Fletcher went to work behind it. The old man clunked down a glass of tart lemonade filled with blackberries in front of me.
I tasted it and grimaced. "It's lukewarm."
"All the ice is in the freezer for the night. Cool it yourself."
In addition to being a Stone elemental, I also had the rare gift of being able to control another element-Ice, though my magic in that area was far weaker. I put my hand on the glass and concentrated, reaching for the cool power that lay deep inside me.
Snowflake-shaped Ice crystals spread out from my palm and fingertips. They frosted up the side of the glass, arced over the lip, and ran down into the beverage below. I held my hand palm up over the glass and reached for my magic again. A cold, silver light flickered there, centered in the spider rune scar. I concentrated, and the light coalesced into a square Ice cube. I tipped it into the yellow liquid, then formed a few more and dropped them in as well.
I tasted the lemonade again. "Much better."
The next thing Fletcher set on the counter was a half pound hamburger dripping with mayonnaise and piled high with smoked Swiss cheese, sweet butter-leaf lettuce, a juicy tomato slice, and a thick slab of red onion. A bowl of spicy baked beans followed, along with a saucer of carrot-laced coleslaw.
I dug into the food, relishing the play of sweet and spice, salt and vinegar, on my tongue. I swallowed a spoonful of the warm beans and focused on the sauce that coated them, trying to isolate the many flavors.
The Pork Pit was famous for its barbecue sauce, which Fletcher whipped up in secret in the back of the restaurant. People bought gallons of it at a time. Over the years, I'd tried to discover Fletcher's secret recipe. But no matter what I attempted, no matter how many batches of the stuff I made, my sauce just never tasted the same as his. Fletcher claimed there was one secret ingredient that gave the sauce its spicy kick. But the gruff old man wouldn't tell me what it was or how much of it he used.
"Are you ever going to tell me what's in the barbecue sauce?" I asked. "No," he said.
"Are you ever going to quit trying to find out?"
"No."
"Then I guess we're locked in a stalemate." "I could fix that," I muttered.
An amused grin flashed across Fletcher's face. "Then you'd never get the recipe." I shook my head and concentrated on my food. While I ate, Fletcher picked up his book and read a few more pages. He didn't ask me about the job. Didn't have to. He knew I wouldn't have come back unless it was done.
I always missed the Pit's food when I was working. Missed the smell of spices and grease tickling my nose. Missed the loud clatter of plates and the cheerful scrape of silverware. Missed cooking in the kitchen and bitching about demanding customers and lousy tips. But mostly, I missed shooting the breeze with Fletcher late at night, when the front door was locked and everything was quiet, except for the two of us.
The Pork Pit was more than just a restaurant to me. It was home-or at least the closest to one I'd had the last seventeen years. The only one I was likely to ever have again. The life of an assassin wasn't exactly conducive to puppies and picket fences.
"How's Finn?" I asked after I'd eaten enough to take the edge off.
Fletcher shrugged. "He's fine. Making his deals. Taking control of other people's money. My son, the investment banker and computer genius. He should have taken up an honest job, like thieving."
I hid my grin behind my glass of lemonade. Finnegan Lane's gloss of legitimate civility never failed to amuse his father. Or me.
I'd just popped the last bite of the heart-stoppingly good hamburger into my mouth when Fletcher reached below the counter. He came up with a manila folder and placed it beside my empty plate. His speckled brown hands rested on the folder a moment before sliding away.
"What's this?" I asked. "I told you I was taking a vacation after the shrink."
"You've been on vacation for days now." Fletcher took a long slurp of his cooling coffee. "Spending six days locked away in an insane asylum isn't my idea of a good time."
Fletcher didn't respond. The folder lay between us, a silent question. I couldn't help but wonder what secrets it contained. And who had pissed someone off enough to wind up in my line of sight. My expertise didn't come cheap. Especially when you added Fletcher's handling fee on top of it.
"Who's the target?" I asked, giving in to the inevitable.
Damn curiosity. One emotion I couldn't quite squash, no matter how hard I tried.
Something I'd picked up from the old man over the years. He was even more inquisitive than me.
Fletcher grinned and flipped open the folder. "Target's name is Gordon Giles." He pushed the file over to me, and I skimmed the contents. Gordon Giles. Fifty-four.
The chief financial officer of Halo Industries. A glorified accountant and paper pusher, in other words.
Divorced. No kids. Enjoys fly fishing. Likes to visit hookers at least twice a week. An Air elemental.
That last piece of information was unfortunate. Elementals were folks who could create, control, and manipulate the four elements-Ice, Stone, Air, and Fire. Some people also had talents for using offshoots of those, like water, metal, and electricity.
But you weren't considered a true elemental unless you could tap into one of the big four.
My Stone magic was strong and let me do just about anything I wanted to with the element, from crumbling bricks to cracking concrete to making my own skin as hard as marble. I couldn't do as much with my weaker Ice magic, other than create cubes, icicles, the occasional knife, and other small shapes. The miniature animal Ice sculptures made me popular at parties, though.
Since Gordon Giles was an Air elemental, he could control currents, sense the wind, feel vibrations in the air the same way I could in stone. And he could manipulate them too, just like me. Depending on what sort of innate talents he had and how strong his power was, Giles could use his Air magic to try to suffocate me before I killed him. Force oxygen bubbles into my veins. Pummel me with the wind. Or a hundred other nasty things.
I studied the photo clipped on top of the information. Gordon Giles's salt-and-pepper hair flopped over his forehead, just brushing the tops of his gold glasses. His eyes were like puddles of powder-blue ink behind the lenses. His face reminded me of a ferret's-long and thin. Pinched lips. Pointed chin. A sharp triangle of a nose.
Gordon's eyes held a look of nervous anticipation. The gaze of a man who knew monsters walked the streets and expected them to leap out and grab him any second.
Twitchy men were far more difficult to kill than oblivious ones. I'd have to be careful with him.