Shira Read online

  Shira

  An Urban Fantasy

  Ann Gimpel

  Contents

  Shira

  Book Description, Shira

  Books in the Circle of Assassins Series

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Book Description, Quinn

  Quinn, Chapter One

  About the Author

  Also by Ann Gimpel

  Shira

  Circle of Assassins, Book One

  Urban Fantasy

  * * *

  By

  Ann Gimpel

  * * *

  Tumble off reality’s edge into a twisted world fueled by lore and magic

  Copyright Page

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © November 2020, Ann Gimpel

  Cover Art Copyright © August 2020, Covers by Julie, JMN Art

  Edited by: Kate Richards

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or people living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, e-mail, or web posting without written permission from the author.

  Book Description, Shira

  If they had one of those anonymous rehabilitation programs for folks like me, my introduction would be, “Hi, I’m Shira, and I kill people.” Except rehab suggests killing people bothers me. It doesn’t.

  Neither am I particularly committed to anything other than not being caught. That sounded a shred on the hard-hearted side. I’m not. I’m a lot like you. I get up every morning, clean myself up, and check my phone to see what I have cooking.

  Everyone has a job. Mine happens to be ridding the world of people who shouldn’t be here. Not that I’m making those decisions. People hire me, and I trust they’ve done their homework.

  I’ve always been…different, never had a close circle of friends or even associates. Once I discovered I could do unusual things, I kept to myself. Those rare skills make me a perfect choice because I kill from a distance and leave no evidence. What I do is lucrative. I’m pretty much set even for my rather long lifetime.

  In theory, I could quit anytime.

  I say that after every job. That I should walk away, except I don’t. Tell you what. Don’t judge me, and I might spare you if your number comes up on my dance card. Deal?

  Books in the Circle of Assassins Series

  Shira, Book One

  Quinn, Book Two

  Rhiana, Book Three

  Kylian, Book Four

  Author’s Note

  Between Covid-19 and the California fires, I’ve had a lot of time to dream up ideas for books. Watching too much Blacklist and Warehouse 13 and Stranger Things probably didn’t help. And the last season of Supernatural. I will miss Sam and Dean…

  Meanwhile, a concept shaped up for me. Assassins have always held a fascination factor. Death is a job for them, but what kind of people are they beneath their knives and guns and poison? Toss a few bond animals into the mix, and the bones for a darkish urban fantasy series took shape.

  Within its pages, you’ll ride alongside men and women who found their way to an age-old profession. Every king worth his salt had a court assassin, and so has every ruler from olden times to modern. If you’re shaking your head saying such things can’t happen today, take a look at “suicides” that are swept under a whole bunch of rugs. Oddly enough, all those suspicious deaths had stories to tell, stories someone wanted silenced—forever.

  Shira would understand completely. I can’t wait for you to meet her.

  Chapter 1

  Neon flickered, casting garish lights over the alleyway beneath me. Water ran down gullies in the cracked pavement. Every now and again, a flash of red from rodent eyes was accompanied by the squeals of rats squabbling over a prime piece of garbage.

  I pushed straggling bits of hair under my hood to keep them out of my eyes. I’d been here for longer than was prudent, but my target hadn’t shown. A pounding, punishing rain had soaked me all the way to my skin. Was this a setup? Or had the nameless faceless ones who employed me screwed up?

  It happened, and more often than I’d like.

  I work through a dark web registry. In theory, I have no idea who hires me. On the flip side, they don’t know me, either. Anonymity is a gift in the assassin trade.

  I gave it another fifteen minutes, but the only life forms in the alley were rats and the occasional feral cat. Every once in a while, a cat made a move, but they usually backed down. Not much bigger than the king-sized rats, they usually thought better of the proposition. Cats are scrappy fighters, but rats pack up and are totally unprincipled and lethal as all get out.

  Time to go. Past time, actually.

  Unwinding the spells I’d swathed around myself so I wouldn’t be quite so exposed on the narrow wrought iron balcony where I’d settled in to wait, I took one last look around. Still no one. I grabbed hold of the pole I’d used to slither into position. Whatever magical talents I possess are self-taught, so they leave a lot to be desired, but what the hell.

  It’s not as if I can google witches or magical instruction and come up with anyone other than total charlatans. The Internet wasn’t even a gleam in anyone’s eye when I was born, but once it hit its stride, I did make a good faith effort to find a teacher. What joke that turned out to be.

  My hand slipped on the pole. Ninety minutes ago when I’d shown up, it had only been sprinkling. I’d been on time, even a few minutes early. This job was supposed to be a slam-dunk. Easy in, fast out. But my target, who supposedly took this route every night after leaving his favorite watering hole, had either changed his routine—or someone had tipped him off.

  I took a few deep breaths. I was overreacting all over the place. He could have hired a hooker, or a boy-toy, or fallen face down dead drunk.

  I make a point of getting as little information as possible about my hits. That way, they’re more like jobs and less like people, maybe people with lives and homes and kids and families. I also don’t give a flying fuck why someone thinks the world would be better off with them dead.

  Above my paygrade and not my call.

  I do require a JPEG, but only to make certain I kill the right person. My night vision is impeccable; it’s part of my magic, and I’m conscientious about shredding the photographs once a job is done.

  I made a full commitment to the pole I’d planned to climb back up. Once I hit the roof, the fire escape offered an easy out. Taking a firm hold, and wrapping all my limbs around the slick pole, I tried to shinny.

  And slid right back down.

  Oops. Two more tries convinced me I’d never manage it. Not without ropes and a grappling hook. I hadn’t counted on the rain cutting off my exit route. The balcony was really only a cage around windows that were probably locked. Was anyone inside? I’d scoped out this perch for a few days before I selected it. In all that time, I hadn’t seen the drapes shrouding the windows so much as flicker. Before I added a potential B&E to my rap sheet—and yeah, I do have one—I peered downward.

  A good hundred feet separated me from the pave
ment below. Made sense since I was eight floors up. Too far to jump. My handy-dandy pole extended downward as well. It was probably some sort of drainpipe from the roof, but it stopped maybe twenty feet from the bottom.

  Twenty feet was manageable. I could twist a bit of magic into a cushion to break my fall. It would work for twenty feet, but not for a hundred. I hunched my shoulders against the downpour. It was raining harder, if that was even possible, and I longed for my cozy home and a hot shower. Usually, I make quick decisions, but for whatever reason I looked from the window to the alley a few times. The window route was simpler—so long as I didn’t run into whoever liked living in the dark.

  This was an upscale neighborhood in a renovated area of downtown Seattle. My odds of running into dead bodies or decaying skulls were thin, but most people didn’t keep their curtains closed all the time, either. The Pacific Northwest was gloomy enough without exacerbating the problem.

  Splaying my palm across the glass, I snaked a thread of power through it and pulled my hand back as if I’d been burned. What in the hell lived inside? I cursed myself for retreating before I’d gleaned much except a growing sense of unease. Black magic has a particular zing to it, and if some iteration didn’t live inside that apartment, I’d eat raw brains.

  Footsteps and drunken voices sounded from the far end of the alley. Shit. Could things get any worse?

  Um, of course they could. Lots worse. I was pretty exposed since I’d dismantled my don’t look here spell. Mortals wouldn’t notice if I resurrected it, but what if whoever was lurching my way had power of their own? Magic calls to itself—I’d found that out the hard way—so I had to be careful.

  What were the odds this was my target?

  Not good since three men were closing the distance between us, and I’d only been expecting one. In my line of work, it’s best not to leave witnesses. My exit from below had just been cut off. The window route was viable—so long as I was prepared to fight my way through whatever lay on the other side of the glass.

  I took a chance, did a sloppy job dragging my concealment spell back into place, and waited. The men’s slurred words were in Russian. My target was Russian, so maybe he was down there after all. While I recognized a word here and there, it’s not one of the languages I’m fluent in.

  My cell phone vibrated against my chest, but I couldn’t take my attention away from the tableau unfolding beneath me. The men were close enough for me to see their faces. Sure enough, my target was in the middle. Burley with slicked-back dark hair and Slavic features, he was ripe for the plucking.

  Or he would have been if he’d been alone.

  Should I make it a clean sweep? Or come back and try another day?

  I was edging toward shelving tonight—since nothing was coming together and I didn’t have good feelings about any of it—when the man on the right end of the group pivoted. When he came around, a gun was in his hand.

  Bullets splattered too close for comfort.

  Fuck. Who’d set me up? When I found out, I’d cut the balls out from under him and stuff them down his throat.

  More bullets. They knew I was here somewhere, but they couldn’t see me. Nothing magical about this batch. They were using the scatter technique, figuring if they took out the sides of a few buildings with ammo, they’d hit me. Sure enough, the next round peppered the building next door. I made a full commitment to shielding myself.

  Adrenaline coursed through me, leaving a metallic taste on my tongue. My heart shot into triple-time rhythm. Fight or flight is a bitch when there’s nowhere to run to. More gunfire lit the night. Where in the fuck were Seattle’s finest? Someone must have dialed 911 by now. No love lost between the cops and me. I’m on a first name basis with a few of them, and I’ve spent the odd night locked up.

  Someone beneath me had switched to a semi-automatic weapon. The phut-phut-phut of bullets releasing every couple of seconds was unnerving. I laid a hand on the window again, determined to ride it out this time. Didn’t take all that long before I had my answer. Vampires lived within. I’d thought they went to ground during the day in caskets, but this batch lived on the eighth floor of a spanking new condo complex.

  The blood business must pay well.

  I’d almost decided to jimmy the window with magic when I realized at least two of the Undead were inside. Nighttime was their time, but what was the worst they could do to me? I didn’t care for the answer. They could turn me. I’d heard they liked magic-wielders. Apparently, we didn’t have quite as rocky a transition as mortals to the blood-sucking life.

  I’m not immortal, and I had zero desire to turn into one courtesy of dying.

  Welp. My choices had thinned considerably. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they might not get here soon enough. In one of the split-second decisions that have made me one of the most sought-after killers on the West Coast, I threaded power through the eye of a magical needle and split it three ways.

  Shouts were replaced by gasps and mumbled curses as three hearts stopped beating. My favorite method to kill involves poisons of various natures, preferably tailored to my marks, but what I chose in this instance was quick. A shot of power to the aorta rips it in two, and my victims bleed out. All without a visible mark on them. The ME will cite heart attacks, albeit under suspicious circumstances. Since when do three relatively young men have cardiac events at the same time?

  I surveyed the wreckage and would have dusted my hands together if they weren’t soaking wet. Would my employer triple my take? Ha. More likely, they wouldn’t pay me at all because I’d drawn undue attention to what should have been a quiet little operation. Sirens warbled. Car doors slammed. Shit. Crap. Fuck. Past time to leave.

  What in the hell was I doing still crouched in this wrought iron trap?

  Grabbing hold of the pipe, I rode it to its end, dropped to the ground, and faded into the cramped space between two buildings. Something stinky squished under my feet. Probably human shit. Or maybe something even more ominous like an entire body. This part of town had been sketchy before an urban renewal project rescued it from the homeless.

  Sheer will and adrenaline propelled me forward. I hadn’t researched exit venues nearly well enough; the way my luck had been running tonight I might end up with concrete walls all around and have to backtrack. Except the alley was crawling with boys in blue. I pressed forward, willing my path to lead somewhere. The slender space widened and spit me out on First Avenue not far from the Pike Place Market. Since I don’t require weaponry, I was safe enough. Even if someone stopped me for questioning—and why would they?—I wasn’t carrying anything that would label me a suspect.

  Remembering the message that had come through on my phone, I dragged it from an inside pocket. Luckily, iPhones are impervious to water. Despite being as drenched as the rest of me, its display lit like always. The rain had slacked off, but it still sluiced over my head. At least it was cleaning the muck off my boots.

  One word flashed across my screen: Abort.

  I’d have laughed, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Aborting hadn’t been on the table. Not after the trio began shooting at me. The message suggested someone knew I was in danger. It had to be my anonymous employer. If they were warning me, they probably hadn’t sold me out.

  No guarantees on that one, though. People do a lot of strange things to create the illusion of innocence. I glanced at my display again. The text had come in half an hour ago, just after the three men entered the alley.

  Running on autopilot, I circled around to where I’d left my nondescript Ford. An older beat-up Explorer, it was ubiquitous enough to escape notice. Thousands of white SUVs traveled the highways, many of them old Ford Explorers.

  I hit the clicker to open my door and then hesitated. If I sat on the upholstery, it would take days to dry. Snagging a towel from the back, I draped it over the driver’s seat. It would absorb some of the moisture drenching my garments. After pulling the door shut and hitting the central lock button, I grap
pled for my keys.

  The mournful sound of a pack of wolves howling filled the car. My phone must have been shunted off silent when I was reading the text. I glanced at the screen. Private Number flared across it. Screwing my face into a grimace, I punched accept.

  In my business, all incoming calls originate from private numbers.

  “Shira,” a man’s deep gravelly voice said.

  “What’s it to you?” I replied. In a surly mood, I wasn’t in a hurry to mitigate it. My windows started to fog from my soaked hair and clothing.

  “Did you get my message?” he asked.

  “Maybe—depends who you are and what the message was—but the one I got was too late.”

  A long breathy sigh rustled against my ears. Christ, I loathe men who are drama kings. “But you got it,” the man pressed.

  “After my position had been compromised.” I gave up on being coy and stopped to suck in a breath. “It’s been a long night. I’m off duty. Unless there’s something specific you need, this call is over.”

  I started the car, turned the defroster to high, and rolled into light traffic. I’d drive around a bit to make certain no one was tailing me, and then I’d go home.

  “You didn’t do as we requested, and—” the man went on.

  “Your intel was fucked,” I spoke over him. “I expect to collect at the usual location.”