Beauty and the Assassin

by Nadia Lee

  I raise an eyebrow, like this is unexpected.

  She clears her throat and takes a small step forward. “I know we barely know each other. But I feel like you’re it.” You have to be it, her eyes say.

  “It?” I roll the word in my mouth. I don’t enjoy it when people presume I’m the solution they need to make their problems go away. Perversely enough, I expected it to be the same in this case, even though I engineered events to make her think exactly that. But somehow it doesn’t feel as offensive. Or entitled.

  Reassuring words swell in my chest, but I catch them before they can come out. Deviating from a plan without a solid reason is never a good idea. I have multiple contingency scenarios, but my delivering reassurance isn’t one of them.

  I frown slightly at my unusual urge. The only explanation is that I must be more tired of waiting for her to come to me than I suspected.

  After all, I only have one name left on my kill list. And I’m so very close to crossing it off.

  But she must be interpreting my reaction as annoyance or rejection. She steps forward and puts a hand on my forearm. I despise people touching me without my permission. Normally I’d shake her off.

  I look down at her slim hand, the fingers flexing like they want to cling but aren’t sure if they’re allowed. She’s afraid of my answer. And she smells of desperation. If I pull back, even a little, she’s going to tighten her hold.

  Is she going to cry, too? Maybe get on her knees to beg?

  For the briefest moment, I want to step back and watch her shed tears.

  Another odd reaction. I don’t, as a rule, kick people when they’re vulnerable, unless they deserve it. This little fawn hasn’t earned a kick.

  But she bothers me. Not like a pebble in one’s shoe. More like a small, round pearl underneath a mattress. It’s not obvious, but you can feel it when you shift or when you think you have everything under control and want to relax your guard.

  I know the fairytale says it’s a pea, but that’s idiotic. The original writers screwed up because they were too poor to realize a pearl was an option. Peas aren’t strong enough to withstand the weight of a fully grown and well-fed adult. Plus, peas rot easily. A pea would turn into a mush before anybody noticed anything underneath the mattress.

  “Look, I know I sound crazy, but please. I’m not.” Her words come out fast and desperate. “My stepbrother’s a psychopath. He’s been harassing me, and the police say they can’t do anything until he does something more physically threatening. Apparently, playing mind games doesn’t count. He has to do something concrete.”

  That’s always the case. Mental torture is far superior, and it’s much harder for law enforcement to deal with, especially when the target keeps moving. It’s virtually impossible to build a case among so many different jurisdictions. That’s one reason the most prolific serial killers generally kill across state lines.

  Roy Wilks is a cunning little jackal. It’s so simple to break a person. And you don’t even have to touch them to do that.

  Just look at this girl. She wouldn’t be asking a man she barely knows for help if she hadn’t been driven almost to her breaking point. For all I know, she might be broken already.

  “I can pay you,” she adds. “I have some money saved up. Just in case.” Just in case I need to hire somebody to take my brother out is what she really wants to say.

  I raise my eyebrows. The last time I checked, she had nine thousand and fifty-six dollars and twenty-two cents in her bank account. According to the statements over the years, she’s been saving a little bit at a time, despite working minimum-wage jobs.

  It came with sacrifice. She doesn’t go to movies, doesn’t go out, doesn’t buy anything except the bare essentials—clearance-rack clothes and shoes—and she eats only what’s cheapest. Given her reaction last night, I’m pretty sure she skips meals when she can.

  The notion puts a nasty taste in my mouth. People who don’t need killing should eat.

  “I can give you all of it,” she says, then nods for emphasis. “It’s all yours.”

  “I don’t want your money,” I say.

  Her chin comes up as fire sparks in her whiskey gaze. “Look, it’s not a small amount. I have almost ten grand.”

  “I don’t care if you have ten billion.”

  Her fingers tighten. Her hand is barely large enough to circle half my forearm, but she’s trying her best to hold on to me.

  For a reason I can’t quite identify, I like that. And because I like it, I want to be a jerk about what she’s saying even though I’m going to say yes at the end anyway. I don’t want her knowing how much I enjoy this small contact.

  Before I can say anything, her mouth firms. “Okay. I hate to have to use this, but… I know what you did last night.”

  “You do?”

  She nods.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  I give her a purposefully salacious smile. “I should update my security. I didn’t know you were watching me masturbate in the shower.”

  Her face flushes.

  I let my smile grow wider. “I came hard. Twice. Hope you enjoyed it. If I’d known you were watching, I would’ve—”

  “No!” She hunches her shoulders as though just realizing how loud she was. “I meant,” she hisses, “I saw you at the house. The man in the news today who supposedly committed suicide. You…suicided him, didn’t you?”

  Suicided. When did that become a verb? “You were there? At the house?”

  “Yes.” She tries for a hard-bitten stare.

  This is an amusing turn of events. I didn’t expect her to attempt to blackmail me. What’s next? Trying to strangle me into submission? She just might, from the desperation in her eyes. Whatever she got in the package freaked the hell out of her.

  Strangely enough, I want her to try to put her hands on my bare skin, even if it’s around my neck. Of course I’m too tall for her to strangle me while standing, so she’d have to pull me down to the ground, then straddle me, her inner thighs pressed tightly against my sides. As she strained—futilely—her hot breath would fan my face, her eyes burning into mine. When I’d had enough, it’d be child’s play to flip her over, watch her gasp while she was spread underneath my much bigger and stronger body. And I’d enjoy the realization dawning in those whiskey eyes that she was utterly in my power.

  “I’m very willing to go to the police.” Her words break my thoughts.

  I almost laugh. She honestly believes she was good enough to tail me without my noticing. Either she’s lost her better judgment, or she’s too desperate to think clearly.

  “And I’ll tell them everything I saw,” she says, her hands in tight fists.

  I let out a soft sigh. Her threat is about as serious as a kitten smacking a lion with its tiny paw. “And after I fed you dinner last night.”

  Her throat works as she swallows. She shifts her weight and looks like she wishes she could sink into the concrete. Ashamed, aren’t you, little fawn? You have a functioning conscience. A liability in my business.

  “That’s…different.” She can’t meet my gaze. Her face is red, too.

  She’s cute. “Ah, yes. Say thank you for the sandwich, then run to the cops and put the man in jail. Two very different activities.”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, but I’m not for hire. I’m too busy with my job at the foundation as an assistant.”

  Confusion crosses her pretty face. She probably thought I worked in security. Cute. Very cute.

  I pull out some money from my pocket, then smack it square into her hand. “Here. Take this and buy yourself something nice.”

  “Ow!” She gasps, but not because I just placed three hundred bucks in her hand. “What did you…?” she says numbly. She tries to look at her hand, but her legs start to fold.

  I catch her and pick her up, like Prince Charming carrying his Cinderella. She grows increa
singly limp, her eyes unfocused. “Wha…”

  “Don’t worry.” I smile. “The needle’s very thin. You won’t even find the hole when you wake up.”

  Chapter Nine

  Angelika

  Something tickles my face. Hot breath hits me on the chin and neck and mouth, all at the same time. Something long, wet and warm swipes my cheek.

  My heart races abruptly. Is this… Did Roy get me? He used to lick my face when he got tired of watching me sleep…

  Except…no. Roy didn’t take me. It was Tolyan who pricked me with something to make me pass out, and…

  My eyes snap open. I yelp and recoil. Three large Dobermans are right in my face. They aren’t growling or acting aggressive, but I’ve seen how obedient and well trained they are. If Tolyan gives a whistle, they’ll rip me to pieces. But for now, they seem entirely too happy to lick me.

  I slowly put my hands up, trying to forestall more licking, and look around as well as I can. I need to figure out where I am.

  A bedroom, with me on the bed. White walls with no pictures. The temperature’s a bit too cool, but maybe Tolyan likes it that way. The room smells faintly of laundry detergent. One lit lamp on the night table by the bed.

  The curtains are shut, no lights coming in. Must be blackout curtains. Hopefully I wasn’t out for more than a few hours.

  I examine my right hand, the one Tolyan pricked. I look carefully, but he’s right. I can’t spot a puncture wound. It’s like nothing happened in the parking lot—except something did happen, and I lost consciousness.

  I bury my face in my hands. Hysterical laughter bubbles up, and I clench my teeth to contain it. I must be losing my mind. I’m ninety-nine percent certain Tolyan is a killer. I should be freaked out and looking for something to use as a weapon. But instead, all I can think is Thank God I’m not in Roy’s clutches.

  After a moment, I slowly drop my hands and inhale deeply a few times. Tolyan could be dangerous, but something inside me doesn’t go on full alert like it normally does every time I think of danger…like with Roy.

  I strain to hear what’s happening outside, but all I can hear is the dogs breathing. Time to move.

  I start to sit up, then stop abruptly. I’m naked under the sheets. Not even wearing underwear. Unless Tolyan lives with a woman—which I highly doubt, since no guy in a relationship could come up with a good reason for bringing a girl home, stripping her and depositing her in his bed—he removed my clothes while I was out.

  Which means he saw me naked. Probably with the lights on.

  Shit. My blood chills, from the most inner part of my heart to the tips of my fingers and toes. Did he…do something? I don’t feel even the slightest hint of soreness. But vaginal penetration isn’t the only option when a man is a pervert.

  Back in the parking lot he mentioned masturbating like it’s something he casually discusses over coffee. He also seemed amused by my embarrassed reaction, but then, isn’t that the normal reaction?

  Besides, Roy liked to watch me too. And jerk off when he knew I was awake and every cell in my body was recoiling with fear and disgust.

  I sniff again, lowering my nose close to the sheets, for any hint that Tolyan did something…awful. But the only smells are laundry detergent and fabric softener and dogs.

  All right. I can’t stay in this room with the Dobermans forever. Gotta figure out where I am first and what Tolyan’s planning to do with me. Obviously it isn’t his intention to kill me—if it were, I wouldn’t still be breathing.

  I stand up, one eye on the dogs, wrap a sheet around myself toga-style and then clench it together in my fist so it doesn’t come undone. The sheet’s too long and big to make a decent toga, but beggars can’t be choosers. Especially naked beggars.

  Once I’m certain I’m decently covered, I make my way to the window and push the curtain aside to check out the surrounding area. All I see is the city spread out below. At least I’m still in Los Angeles—the San Gabriel Mountains are still providing a majestic backdrop to the city’s skyscrapers. But there’s no escaping out this window. No wonder Tolyan didn’t try to tie me up or anything. There’s only one way out.

  I open the door, which swings wide without a sound and reveals a short hallway. I step out and walk carefully and quietly down the cool marble floor of the corridor. Some kind of dramatic classical music is coming from the sound system. Something with an orchestra and piano. The volume’s set low enough for a conversation.

  No sign of Tolyan, but there is a kitchen off to my left. If I can just get there undetected, I might be able to grab a knife. I’ve never used one in a fight, but having one would be better than nothing, even though—

  “You’re up,” comes Tolyan’s voice from ahead of me.

  I turn my head and see the sunken living room. He’s seated in an armchair, his jacket gone. One ankle is propped on a knee, and he has a glass of water on a small table by his seat. He’s holding a fat cigar in one hand. The picture of an indolent man enjoying a quiet, cultured evening.

  It belies the apex predator impression he made at the hotel. But I guess there’s no detour to the kitchen, then. He’s too relaxed. Probably has a gun nearby.

  The Dobermans slide past me, padding toward him, bobbed tails wagging like crazy.

  He puffs out smoke. It doesn’t smell anything like a cigarette. More like heavily roasted nutmeg and hazelnut with a hint of coffee.

  He tilts his chin at the sectional near him. “Sit.”

  “I’d rather stand.” It’s a pathetic attempt at trying to regain some control, especially since I sound shaky. But I have to try. I do what I want, buster, not what you want.

  His pale eyes glimmer with amusement and something else I can’t identify. “There’s no needle hidden in the cushions, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I don’t trust you,” I say, feeling like a cat with its hackles raised in front of a huge, mean dog.

  “Then why did you ask me for help?”

  That shuts me up. I don’t have a good answer, except I’m really scared and tired of running. And the package from Roy freaked me out. He’s never sent anything this fast. Never rummaged through my things, either. Or if he did, he didn’t let me know.

  “Sit,” Tolyan says again. “Let’s talk. It’s more comfortable here than the parking lot. And my home has better amenities.”

  Since he seems a tad more willing to engage, I park my butt on the edge of the sectional. If I’d known he likes to be comfortable while talking, I would’ve taken him to a Starbucks next to his office.

  But first things first. “What happened to my clothes?”

  “Ah. I’m keeping them. Insurance.”

  “For what?”

  “To prevent you from running to the police and telling them you saw me at the house of the man you claimed I ‘suicided.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers.

  I look down, my mouth going dry. “I only said that because you were being difficult.” In retrospect, it was a seriously dumb move. We were alone in the lot. He’s strong and skilled enough to kill a man. He could’ve killed me easily and disposed of my body.

  Another thing occurs to me, chilling for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold air blowing from the vents. Don’t killers prefer to tie up their loose ends, like witnesses?

  And I just blurted out what I saw. I even threatened to report him.

  Cold sweat slickens my palms. I steal a glance at Tolyan. He’s quietly puffing his cigar, his eyes narrowed. Maybe he does intend to kill me. He’s just taking his time, trying to figure out how to make it look like a suicide. He probably doesn’t want to use the same method he used back at that house again. It might look too suspicious.

  “But I’m not really going to tell anybody,” I add, licking my lips. I’m so jittery, I think even my tongue’s trembling. “It isn’t like I have friends or anything.”

  “You didn’t say you were telling your friends.” There’s a short, heavy-looking spring on th
e table beside him. He picks it up and starts squeezing it like one of those grip-builder things. “You did mention the police.”

  “I don’t have any cop friends, either.” I force a smile, but my facial muscles are twitching.

  “I do.” He smiles. “Lots of them.”

  “Good for you…?” Shit. Maybe he’s like that serial killer character I read about in a novel. That Dexter guy. He only kills other criminals, ones who deserve to die. And unlike in the story, maybe cops in real life actually like that. It prevents tax dollars from being wasted on feeding and jailing criminals.

  For all I know, the man who died last night was a serial killer or rapist. Not that that makes me feel much better…

  “Look, I’m not going to tell anybody. Can I please have my clothes back? It’s really awkward to be…you know…naked.” Especially in front of him. This man who is leisurely studying me like a tiger that can’t seem to decide if it’s hungry enough to get off its butt and pounce or not.

  He shrugs. “I could strip, too.”

  And talk to him while he’s sitting there naked? Given how shameless and open he is about sex, I doubt he’d cover himself. No. He’d sit there, one ankle over the other knee, and smoke his cigar and sip his water, like he has the world at his feet.

  “That’s…okay,” I say finally.

  “If you’re certain. Just let me know if you change your mind. I wouldn’t want a guest feeling uncomfortable.”

  If you wanted me to feel comfortable, you’d give me my clothes back! But the words stay trapped in my mouth. Right now, that isn’t the point.

  The point is, I’m in his home. Under his control. I could put up the best fight of my life, but it would be about as effective as a mouse fighting a panther. I really wish I’d been able to snag a knife from the kitchen.

  He transfers the spring to the other hand and starts squeezing it. The spring compresses, expands, compresses, expands. “So. Now that you can’t just run off to the authorities when you hear answers you don’t like, talk. Tell me why you came to me.”

  I eye him warily. He could do anything to me here, and nobody would be able to help. For all I know, he might just chop me up and feed me to his dogs, which are watching us with keen interest.