Nice Guys Bite

by Jennifer Estep

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  To my mom, my grandma, and Andre—for your love, ­patience, and everything else that you’ve given me over the years.

  To all the Silvio fans out there, this one is for you.

  1

  “You work too much.”

  I ignored the teasing drawl and swiped through another screen on my tablet, reviewing our schedule and wondering if I could squeeze in a meeting today. Or, rather, if I could get her to squeeze in a meeting today. Probably not. Getting her to agree to them in the first place was always a struggle, and she would be even more reluctant now, given how badly the one yesterday had gone.

  But mid-level underworld boss Liam Carter had called me earlier, asking for a sit-down in hopes of smoothing out a territorial dispute before it turned any bloodier than it already was. He’d actually been quite polite with his request, calm and respectful, unlike so many of the other bosses who went straight to bellowing and bullying.

  As if such things would intimidate me. As a personal assistant, I highly valued politeness, especially when it was directed at me, and I really wanted to accommodate Mr. Carter—

  “Silvio, please put your tablet down.” The voice sounded again, this time with a little more emphasis. “Before I take it away from you.”

  I looked up from the screen to find my boss, Gin Blanco, staring at me. She was sitting on a stool next to the cash register, but for once she wasn’t ringing up orders or running credit cards. Instead, a pair of scissors glinted in her hand, and red, white, and green construction paper covered the counter in front of her, along with glue sticks, pots of glitter, and an assortment of ribbons.

  I nudged a couple of the curling ribbons aside with my index finger so that they wouldn’t further encroach on my work space, which was the only clear patch of counter left. But of course, the ribbons slithered right back to where they’d been, like tiny snakes determined to infect me with their holiday cheer.

  “Tell me again why you’re doing arts and crafts?” I asked.

  Gin held up the sheet of red paper that she’d been snipping with her scissors for the last few minutes, took an end in either hand, and unfolded it like an accordion, revealing a string of, well, let’s just say unusual snowflakes.

  She beamed at me, her gray eyes bright in her pretty face, proud of her crafty creation. “Because the holiday party is in a few hours, and what says ‘Merry Christmas’ better than pig-shaped snowflakes?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said in a dry tone. “Anything other than pig-shaped snowflakes?”

  Gin rolled her eyes and set her string of snowflakes down on the counter. “You’re no fun.”

  “You don’t pay me to be fun. You pay me to be your assistant.” I waved my tablet at her. “So why don’t you let me get back to actually assisting you?”

  “Because you’re supposed to take the afternoon off, just like everyone else, remember? Now, be a nice assistant, and put that thing down.” She brandished her scissors at me. “Before I stab it to death—literally.”

  With anyone else, I would have considered it an idle threat. But not when my boss was Gin Blanco, the assassin known as the Spider. I’d seen her kill men with her bare hands . . . trash-can lids . . . loose bricks . . . even a fork once. Give her anything sharp and pointed, like the silverstone knives she always carried, and she was lethal. Not to mention her Ice and Stone elemental magic, which gave her even more deadly power.

  I was a vampire and pretty deadly myself, but I knew when I was beaten. So I sighed, turned off my tablet, and set it on the counter next to my phone.

  Gin nodded in satisfaction and went back to her project. She spread her red snowflakes out on the counter, ran a glue stick over the paper, and carefully sprinkled silver glitter on the pigs’ faces, giving them all sparkly little eyes. Then she repeated the process on their curlicued tails. All that glitter made the pigs even creepier than they already were, but I would never hurt Gin’s feelings by saying so.

  Besides, the pig-shaped snowflakes perfectly matched the rest of the decorations.

  The two of us were sitting in the Pork Pit, Gin’s barbecue restaurant in downtown Ashland, just before noon on a cold, snowy December day. Normally, the restaurant would have been packed with people looking to “get their barbecue on,” as Gin was so fond of saying. But it was closed today so that she could throw a holiday party for the restaurant staff and her friends and family.

  And she was determined to make me, her personal assistant, join in the festivities, whether I wanted to or not.

  Gin had started working on the decorations after the Pork Pit had shut down last night, and she’d gotten here bright and early this morning to keep going. In a matter of hours, she’d transformed the inside of the restaurant into a Christmas wonderland—with a heavy barbecue theme.

  Intertwined red and silver tinsel lined the tops of the blue and pink vinyl booths and wound through the slats on the backs of the chairs. That, along with the red-and-white-striped tablecloths, made the restaurant look like one giant candy cane. Each table also boasted several party-favor gift baskets filled with pig-shaped chocolates, jars of the Pork Pit’s secret barbecue sauce, and aprons patterned with the same blue and pink pig tracks that ran across the floor, up the walls, and out onto the ceiling. Classic and contemporary Christmas carols trilled softly in the background, and the air smelled sharp and sweet thanks to the vats of peppermint hot chocolate that Gin had been whipping up all morning.

  But she’d been especially busy when it came to her paper snowflakes. Dozens of red, white, and green strings swooped down from the ceiling like holiday spiderwebs. Some of them were actually cut into the shapes of spiderwebs, a nod to Gin’s assassin moniker, and she’d even hung a large, glittery silver spider in the middle of the restaurant, amid all her paper snowflakes. The Spider’s version of a holiday disco ball.

  Gin finished with the glue and held the snowflakes up to me again. Now each little pig had a bright, glittery silver eye that shimmered under the lights and continuously winked at me.

  Yeah, still creepy.

  “Aren’t they cute?” she crooned.

  “Mmm.”

  Cute was most certainly not the word that I would use, but I decided to be diplomatic. Always the best approach when dealing with a deadly assassin. Oh, Gin might look all sweet and innocent, especially with her flushed cheeks, her dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and her red holiday apron that featured a sprig of green-sequined mistletoe, along with the words Kiss the Cook—Or Else, but I knew exactly how dangerous she was.

  I also knew how much this party meant to her.

  Over the last few weeks, Gin had had a couple of run-ins with Hugh Tucker, a vampire who claimed to be part of “the Circle,” a secret society responsible for much of the crime and corruption in Ashland. But she’d finally gotten the better of Tucker, stopping him from getting his hands on millions of dollars’ worth of precious jewels that had been hidden at the Bullet Pointe resort complex.

  That victory had really gotten Gin into the holiday spirit. A couple of days after we’d returned from Bullet Pointe, she’d announced that she was throwing a massive party. She’d been planning it ever since, and she’d gone all out for the occasion.

  In addition to the decorations, Gin was cooking up a holiday f
east, with hams, turkeys, and sourdough rolls baking in the restaurant’s ovens and cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and other fixings warming on the stovetops. She’d already whipped up several desserts, and glass cake stands full of gingerbread cookies, fruitcake brownies, and dark chocolate peppermint bark gleamed farther down on the counter, away from the arts-and-crafts mess by the cash register.

  “Well, Silvio?” Gin asked, waggling the snowflakes at me again. “What do you think? Are pig snowflakes the newest holiday trend just waiting to take off?”

  I shook my head. “I knew that I shouldn’t have shared those patterns I found online with you.”

  She grinned, completely ignoring my sarcasm. “I’m going to do ones shaped like knives and forks next. But of course, you won’t be here for that.”

  “And why not?” I asked, looking at my tablet and wondering if I could turn it back on before she picked up her scissors again.

  “Because you have a hot date, remember?”

  I sighed again, longer, louder, and deeper this time. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not a date.”

  Gin arched her eyebrows. “Did a cute younger gentleman ask you to meet him for coffee this afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you say yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did your heart do a little pitter-patter of glee when you said yes?”

  I gave her a sour look. “My heart does not pitter-patter at anything.”

  Amusement flashed in Gin’s eyes. “Uh-huh.”

  “Since when are you so interested in my love life?” I grumbled.

  “Ever since you started flirting with that cute guy whenever he comes into the Pork Pit for lunch. And especially since he finally asked you out. What’s his name again? Mikey, Michael, Mario . . .”

  “Martin—Martin Mahoney.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Martin! That’s it! You know, if things go well on your coffee date, you should bring him to the holiday party. There will be plenty of food and gifts for everyone.”

  I eyed all the pots and pans on the stoves, along with all the mixing bowls, spatulas, and spice bottles lined up on the surrounding countertops. What she said was certainly true; Gin was exceptionally generous that way. To her, cooking was an expression of love, a chance to show people just how much she cared about them. Hence the holiday feast for all her friends and family.

  “Actually, I’m thinking about canceling my coffee date.”

  She frowned. “Why would you do something silly like that?”

  “I got a call. Liam Carter wants to meet with you.”

  Gin made a face, then picked up her scissors and started flipping them end over end in her hand with steady, practiced ease. I’d seen her do the same thing with everything from forks to butter knives to the silverstone blades she kept tucked up her sleeves. I’d also seen her flick her wrist and send those same projectiles shooting out into the throats, hearts, and stomachs of her enemies with deadly accuracy.

  “What does he want?” she growled.

  Not only was Gin an assassin, but as head of the Ashland underworld, she was responsible for keeping the peace among the many criminals who called the city home. Or at least trying to.

  “He’s having some issues with a rival that he hopes you can help him sort out before things escalate from merely violent to all-out war.” I cleared my throat. “And he also wants to come to the restaurant and wish you a Merry Christmas in person. He mentioned having a gift for you.”

  Gin snorted. “I just bet he does. Just like those guys did yesterday. The ones who whipped out all those guns and tried to shoot me to death. That was a nice little holiday treat.”

  I grimaced. Instead of agreeing to quit shooting up the streets and terrorizing the folks in their neighborhood, several members of the Southern Shine biker gang had tried to kill Gin. They’d blocked off both ends of the alley behind the Pork Pit with their motorcycles, trapping her in the middle. Then they’d raced down the alley, trying to mow her down with their bikes, along with their guns.

  Big mistake.

  Gin had used her Ice magic to send sprays of daggers shooting into all the bikers’ tires, making them crash into the alley walls. Then she’d hardened her skin with her Stone magic, palmed her knives, and thrown herself right into the midst of the gang members. Magic, knives, blood, screams, death—it wasn’t the first time that I’d seen the Spider in action, but it had been particularly impressive, with all the bikers taken down in less than two minutes.

  All of which had left me to play the part of the dutiful assistant. In other words, clean up the mess. So I’d ducked into the restaurant and asked Sophia Deveraux, the head cook, to come help me dump the bodies into a couple of nearby coolers until Sophia could properly and permanently dispose of them at a later date. She’d also helped me hide the motorcycle debris in the trash cans and Dumpsters that lined the alley walls.

  Gin quit flipping the scissors, grabbed them by the hilt, and stabbed them toward me. “Well, you can tell Mr. Liam Carter that we’re closed and that he’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. I don’t feel like bloodying up my clothes today when he does something stupid and tries to kill me.”

  I nodded, grabbed my phone off the counter, and texted him a far more polite version of Gin’s snarky words. And, since I had my phone in my hand anyway, I kept right on going, scrolling through screens and checking for updates.

  “Okay, you texted Carter. That’s all you need to do. Now, you’re just working for fun. Didn’t I ask you to turn your phone off and relax?”

  “Oh, no.” This time, I grinned. “You only mentioned my tablet. You didn’t say anything about my phone.”

  Gin’s eyes narrowed, and she brandished her scissors at me again. “Well, that’s enough for today, Mr. Sanchez. Now, leave. Get out of here, and go meet your hot date.”

  I huffed. “I’m a middle-aged man. I’m not sure that I’ll ever have a hot date again.”

  “You might be surprised.” Gin winked at me.

  Still, it was time to leave, so I did as she asked and slid my phone and tablet into a protective pocket inside my silverstone briefcase. Then I grabbed my gray coat, hat, and scarf from the rack behind the cash register. I’d just finished bundling up when my phone beeped with a new notification. I started to open my briefcase to see what it was, but Gin shook her head, took my elbow, and guided me toward the front of the restaurant.

  “Go,” she said, opening the door. “Have a good time, and don’t even think about work. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gin smiled, and nudged me outside. Once again, I knew when I was beaten, so I tipped the brim of my fedora to her, left the Pork Pit, and set off down the sidewalk.

  2

  It was just after noon, and people packed the sidewalks, streaming out of their offices to grab lunch and do some errands before returning to their desks to slave away the rest of the afternoon. It was only a few days before Christmas, and everyone was rushing around, frantic to get all their chores completed in time for the holiday. Folks compared sale prices on their phones, grabbed last-minute stocking stuffers, and hauled bags of brightly wrapped presents from one store to the next. Lights twinkled on all the windows, and carols blasted out onto the street as the doors opened and shoppers streamed in and out.

  It wasn’t supposed to snow until later this evening, but a few flurries drifted down from the gunmetal-gray clouds, then danced along the street, pushed back and forth by the steady, chilly breeze. But I didn’t mind the snow or the cold. It just made it feel more like Christmas.

  I’d never been a big fan of the holiday, thinking that it was more for children than anything, but Gin had worn me down with her relentless good cheer over the past few days. Maybe she was right. Maybe I should bring Martin to the holiday party if things went well. The food would
certainly be fantastic, better than anything you could get at any other downtown restaurant. As for the decor, well, maybe he would find the Christmas-and-barbecue theme charming. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice the pig-shaped snowflakes. I could hope, anyway.

  I waited my turn at the corner to cross over to the next street, then stepped into the flow of human traffic. As I walked, I glanced around and peered at the reflections in the storefront windows that I passed, just to make sure that no one was following me or watching me in any way that they shouldn’t.

  I’d spent years working for Beauregard Benson, a sadistic vampire who’d controlled much of the drug trade in Southtown, the part of Ashland that was home to gangs, dealers, and other dangerous, desperate, and down-on-their-luck folks. In addition to gorging himself on blood, Beau had also been capable of sucking the life right out of a person with his Air magic—something that he did whenever the mood struck him. Given that on a whim he’d even do this to his own men, I was used to watching my back and being on guard against pretty much everyone, including my employer.

  Of course, I didn’t have to worry about Gin ever doing anything like that to me. She might be an assassin, but she had one of the best hearts of anyone I’d ever met, if not the best taste in holiday decorations.

  I glanced around again, but no one was paying me any attention; I was just another face in the crowd. Everyone had their chins tucked down into their coats and their eyes glued to their phones as they hurried to their destinations, and I actually found myself relaxing a bit, just like Gin had wanted me to.

  So I settled my hat a little farther down on my head, pulled my scarf up a little higher around my neck, and walked on, admiring the colorful lights, evergreen wreaths, and decorated trees. I even whistled along with some of the carols.

  Three blocks later, I stopped behind a group of people heading into a store. In the window, an enormous sign shaped like a chocolate cake, complete with a tower of whipped cream and a cherry on top, lit up one neon slice at a time. When the cake was fully lit, it started flashing, along with the words The Cake Walk that arched over the dessert.