Evil Ways by Justin Gustainis Page A

beautiful soprano voice that sounded like angels singing. "Pity you won't get the chance to spread the word."
    "Who… who sent you?"
    "The family of your second victim. The second in this town, anyway. You didn't disguise your work quite as well as you thought. They figured out that it was one of you leeches who killed him."
    Her boots tapped out another slow rhythm on the floorboards as she walked over to the nearby window. Miraculously, its shade was still intact. She moved it aside a few inches and glanced outside. "Sun's almost up," she said, conversationally, and walked back to where the wounded vampire lay.
    "What are you… waiting for?" Krause moaned. "Finish it."
    "In due time," she said. "Which will be very soon, now."
    "Just… because your first shot… missed…"
    She laughed with what sounded like genuine amusement. "Missed? Oh, dear gracious me, no. That bullet went exactly where I wanted it."
    "Why maim… not kill?"
    "Because I wanted to spend a few minutes having this little chat with you, Gunther. You don't mind if I call you Gunther, do you?"
    A few minutes later, she sauntered back to the window and peered out again. "Ah, sunrise!" she said. "Looks like it should be a beautiful day."
    She turned back toward Gunther Krause again, and for a moment there was something in her face that would have frightened half the demons in hell. Then she reached down slowly and grasped the bottom of the window shade.
    "Any last words?" she asked pleasantly.
    "Fuck you… you twisted fucking… cunt."
    Hannah Widmark, known in some circles as Widowmaker, smiled broadly. "Well, those will serve, I suppose."
    She yanked the bottom of the shade down hard, then released it.
    She stood there for a full minute longer, watching impassively and listening to the screams.
    Then she left, her boots crunching as they walked over the gray ashes that lay strewn across the floor in the shape of a man.

Chapter 3
    Howdy, this is Quincey Morris. Sorry I can't talk to you right now, but I'm off battling the forces of darkness. Or maybe I'm just taking a nap. In any case, leave a message after the beep, and I'll get back to you just as soon as I can, podner.
    Libby Chastain sighed. Quincey was laying the Texan on pretty thick for someone who had graduated, with honors, from Princeton, but he had said once that some of his clients seemed to expect it. When the "beep" sounded in her ear she said, "Quincey, it's Libby. I've got a problem, a bad one. Call me as soon as you can, will you?"
    Libby pocketed her phone and frowned at the two corpses that lay sprawled on her living room carpet. She was not looking forward to this next part. Well, might as well get it over with. They're not going to get any less dead if I stand around and wait.
    She knelt down next to the nearest of the two corpses, and began methodically to go through his pockets.
    Ten minutes later, she was looking at the small pile of objects that she'd recovered. There was no ID on either man, which confirmed what Libby had already suspected: these two were professional killers. Along with a few personal belongings was the wand that had been tucked into a boot worn by one of her would-be assassins.
    Libby had seen this kind before, the magical equivalent of a cadmium battery. It had been charged with a limited amount of magical power, which would fade with use. Anyone with some intelligence and a little aptitude could use it, properly instructed. With one of these, you could perform a wide range of mid-level spells without putting in the years of study and practice that went into becoming a practitioner of the Art. Libby hated the things, looking upon them the way a true marksman views laser gun sights: they conveyed skills that the user hadn't earned, and didn't deserve.
    Someone had charged this wand, and taught one of the men how it could be employed to disable the magical defenses protecting Libby's condo. The set of lock picks she'd found in the other man's pockets showed how