To my left, a familiar sedan rolled down the street and stopped at the corner. Bria and Xavier got out of the car, along with Owen. The three of them stayed next to the sedan and drew their guns, just like we’d planned.
I walked right up to the low stone wall that cordoned off the mansion from the street, raised my fingers to my lips, and let out a loud, ear-splitting whistle, the way Sophia had taught me years ago. The sharp shriek caught the attention of the guards patrolling the lawn between the wall and the mansion, and their heads snapped around in my direction. One of them yanked his phone out of his jacket pocket and started texting frantically on it, no doubt alerting his boss that I was here, out in the open for everyone to see.
When I was sure that I had the guards’ attention, I turned to face the people who had gathered on the sidewalks behind me. A few of them ducked down behind mailboxes or pressed their backs up against the sides of buildings. Nobody liked the wide, crazy smile on my face but me.
“I’m glad that y’all could make it,” I called out in a loud, booming voice. “Because the show’s about to begin.”
I swept my hand out to the side and gave them all a low, gallant bow, something I’d seen Finn do more than once. Then I straightened up and focused on my first target: Benson’s baby-blue Bentley.
It was parked by itself on the street in its usual spot, to the right of the open gate that led to the mansion. The pale blue paint gleamed under the noon sun, the silver trim and accents shimmered, and the glass in the windshield was so clear and perfect that it looked like it wasn’t even really there. It truly was a beautiful machine, a work of art in its own mechanical right. I paused a moment, admiring the sleek lines, gleaming glass, and flawless paint.
Then I grinned and stepped over to the car.
As I walked, I casually swung the tool in my right hand back and forth, like the pendulum of doom that it was. I’d come into Southtown with my usual assortment of knives, but I’d also brought along one more weapon for this particular purpose: one of Owen’s blacksmith hammers. A long, hard length of silverstone that had been blackened from the countless hours he’d used it in his forge. The perfect weapon for caving in lots of things. Giant skulls, dwarven kneecaps, elemental ribcages.
Fancy cars.
I approached the Bentley and started twirling the hammer around and around, moving it from one of my hands to the other and back again, limbering up my shoulders, the way I’d seen Owen do in fights. I liked the solid, substantial weight of the hammer in my hands, although I would always prefer the sharp, slender sheaths of my knives.
The crowd behind me pressed forward a little, tiptoeing to the edges of the sidewalks, although all the folks made sure to stay on the opposite side of the street, well away from me and my insanity. Everyone sucked in a collective breath as I walked around and around the car, looking for the best place to make my first strike.
“Don’t do it, lady,” someone in the crowd called out.
“Doesn’t she know whose car that is?”
“Crazy assassin bitch must have a suicide wish.”
I grinned at that last muttered comment. If they only knew.
I stopped next to the driver’s-side door, hoisting the hammer up and over my shoulder. Everyone behind me sucked in another breath. Then I brought the weapon down as hard as I could onto the front windshield.
The hammer punched into the glass with a loud, satisfying crack, the jagged tears zigzagging out like the silken strings of a spider’s web—my web of destruction.
That first swing got me going, and I smashed the hammer into the car over and over again. Each crack of glass and crunch of metal satisfied the primal need I had deep down inside to hurt Benson as badly as he had wounded me, to take something away from him just like he had taken from me, to destroy a part of him the way he had done to me.
Oh, yes. It was on his precious car that I took out all the rage, all the frustration, all the fear and helplessness I’d felt when Benson had drugged me. I slammed the hammer into all of the windows, the top, the sides. I even palmed one of my knives and slashed all four tires. I let it all out, using the car as a substitute for Benson. Because I would need to keep my emotions in check when I faced the vampire, lest he try to feed on my feelings, and I was working all the rage out of my system now, leaving nothing behind but the cold determination to end him.
Bria, Xavier, and Owen kept their eyes and guns on the guards, but none of them made a move toward me. Neither did anyone in the crowd. They were all too shocked by my actions.
Finally, after about three minutes of whaling on the car, I lowered the hammer and stepped back, breathing hard, although I felt much calmer, my earlier tension wiped away by the energizing exertion.
“Oh, man,” Finn groaned through the receiver hidden in my ear. “Really, Gin, did you have to smash up the car? I’m starting to think that’s some sort of fetish of yours.”
“Maybe,” I agreed in a cheery voice. “I do quite enjoy it.”
I twirled the hammer around again and slammed it into the hood, adding another dent to the dozen already there.
“Great,” someone muttered in the crowd. “Crazy assassin bitch is talking to herself now.”
“Is it my imagination, or are your admirers making snide comments about your sanity?” This time, Phillip’s voice sounded in my ear.
I couldn’t see him, but Phillip was ensconced with Finn on the rooftop closest to Benson’s mansion. He, Finn, Owen, Xavier, Bria, and I were all wearing earpieces so that we could communicate with one another.
“Apparently, you agree with them,” I murmured back.
“If the hammer fits . . .” Phillip trailed off.
“Says the man who likes to throw people off his riverboat,” Owen cut in.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Philly,” I chimed in again, using Eva’s nickname for him. “That sounds like fun.”
“See?” Phillip said in a smug voice. “Your crazy woman agrees with me, Owen.”
“Whatever,” Owen rumbled back.
“Enough talk,” Bria cut in.
“Yeah.” Xavier joined the conversation. “You’ve finally got some guards headed your way, Gin—a lot of them.”
I glanced toward the mansion. Sure enough, about a dozen vamps were marching in my direction, all of them clutching guns. Several were murmuring into their phones, trying to coordinate with one another, but I looked past them. Waiting—just waiting for the king himself to make his appearance.