The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy by Mike Resnick Page A
Authors: Mike Resnick
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exquisite statues of ice, or perhaps quartz that resembled ice; Nighthawk couldn't tell which they were.
As he crossed the room, a door slid into place behind him. He whirled, gun in hand, as he heard the sound, then quickly moved toward the next doorway. A glittering white door slid shut before he was halfway there.
A low chuckle told him that he wasn't alone, and he turned to find himself facing a small, lithe woman with wild dark hair and matching eyes. She was dressed in a form-fitting black outfit made of a delicate lace.
"How did you get in here?” demanded Nighthawk.
"This is my home,” she replied. “I come and go as I please."
"You're Spanish Lace?"
"And you are Jefferson Nighthawk."
"Who told you so?"
"I have my sources,” she replied. She stared at him. “Of all the lackeys the Marquis of Queensbury has sent, you are the youngest. You must be very skilled at your trade."
"I'm not a lackey."
"But you are a killer?"
"I'm many things,” he said. “That's one of the less important ones."
She uttered a mocking laugh. He stared at her for a moment, then began examining the room, walking through it, studying the artifacts, while she stood perfectly still, watching him intently. Finally he stopped and turned back to her.
"What's so special about you?” he asked. “Why does he want you dead?"
"He wants me dead because he fears me,” said Spanish Lace.
"He doesn't strike me as a man who is afraid of anything,” replied Nighthawk.
"If he doesn't fear me, why did he send you to do his dirty work?"
"Because I'm not afraid of you either—and he's got all the money,” answered Nighthawk with a smile.
"Have you thought of how you are going to get back?"
"Same way I got here."
"I don't think so,” she replied. “Why not go and check for yourself?"
"After you."
She shrugged and retraced his route through the palace. Doors dilated or slid back as she approached, and in less than a minute she came to the main gate. As it slid into the wall, she stepped aside and Nighthawk saw what remained of his powersled, a crushed, twisted mass of metal.
"What the hell happened to it?” muttered Nighthawk, more to himself than to Spanish Lace.
"Poor Jefferson Nighthawk,” she said. “How are you to leave here?"
Suddenly Nighthawk was aware of the freezing cold, of the wind whipping across his face and body. He turned to Spanish Lace, who stood next to him, totally oblivious to the wind and cold. His first instinct was to stay out there and outlast her, to prove that he could stand anything she could stand, but he quickly realized that it was precisely that kind of machismo which could get him killed, for she seemed truly impervious to the elements.
He turned and walked back into the Ice Palace. Spanish Lace fell into step behind him.
"You asked a question a few moments ago,” she said when they had reached the chamber they had left.
"I did?"
"I think your precise words were: ‘What the hell happened to it?'” She smiled. “ I happened to it."
"You were with me."
"I know."
"You did it before you came into this room?"
"I did it while I was in this room,” she replied.
"How?"
"I promise you that you will discover that before this day is over, Jefferson Nighthawk.” She sat down in a chair that looked like sculpted ice. “Have you decided how you will kill me yet? Will it be death by heat or death by sound? Will I die before a weapon, or beneath your fists? Will my end be swift or slow?"
"I haven't said I would kill you at all,” replied Nighthawk. “I only said that I was sent to kill you."
"Ah,” she said, smiling again. “You await a counter offer."
"Not necessarily."
She looked puzzled. “Then what?"
"Let's just talk for awhile."
"Why?"
"Have you got anything better to do?” asked Nighthawk.
She stared at him for a long moment. “What kind of killer are you?"
"A reluctant one. Why does he want you dead?"
"I am a rival, and he is very territorial. What better reason is
As he crossed the room, a door slid into place behind him. He whirled, gun in hand, as he heard the sound, then quickly moved toward the next doorway. A glittering white door slid shut before he was halfway there.
A low chuckle told him that he wasn't alone, and he turned to find himself facing a small, lithe woman with wild dark hair and matching eyes. She was dressed in a form-fitting black outfit made of a delicate lace.
"How did you get in here?” demanded Nighthawk.
"This is my home,” she replied. “I come and go as I please."
"You're Spanish Lace?"
"And you are Jefferson Nighthawk."
"Who told you so?"
"I have my sources,” she replied. She stared at him. “Of all the lackeys the Marquis of Queensbury has sent, you are the youngest. You must be very skilled at your trade."
"I'm not a lackey."
"But you are a killer?"
"I'm many things,” he said. “That's one of the less important ones."
She uttered a mocking laugh. He stared at her for a moment, then began examining the room, walking through it, studying the artifacts, while she stood perfectly still, watching him intently. Finally he stopped and turned back to her.
"What's so special about you?” he asked. “Why does he want you dead?"
"He wants me dead because he fears me,” said Spanish Lace.
"He doesn't strike me as a man who is afraid of anything,” replied Nighthawk.
"If he doesn't fear me, why did he send you to do his dirty work?"
"Because I'm not afraid of you either—and he's got all the money,” answered Nighthawk with a smile.
"Have you thought of how you are going to get back?"
"Same way I got here."
"I don't think so,” she replied. “Why not go and check for yourself?"
"After you."
She shrugged and retraced his route through the palace. Doors dilated or slid back as she approached, and in less than a minute she came to the main gate. As it slid into the wall, she stepped aside and Nighthawk saw what remained of his powersled, a crushed, twisted mass of metal.
"What the hell happened to it?” muttered Nighthawk, more to himself than to Spanish Lace.
"Poor Jefferson Nighthawk,” she said. “How are you to leave here?"
Suddenly Nighthawk was aware of the freezing cold, of the wind whipping across his face and body. He turned to Spanish Lace, who stood next to him, totally oblivious to the wind and cold. His first instinct was to stay out there and outlast her, to prove that he could stand anything she could stand, but he quickly realized that it was precisely that kind of machismo which could get him killed, for she seemed truly impervious to the elements.
He turned and walked back into the Ice Palace. Spanish Lace fell into step behind him.
"You asked a question a few moments ago,” she said when they had reached the chamber they had left.
"I did?"
"I think your precise words were: ‘What the hell happened to it?'” She smiled. “ I happened to it."
"You were with me."
"I know."
"You did it before you came into this room?"
"I did it while I was in this room,” she replied.
"How?"
"I promise you that you will discover that before this day is over, Jefferson Nighthawk.” She sat down in a chair that looked like sculpted ice. “Have you decided how you will kill me yet? Will it be death by heat or death by sound? Will I die before a weapon, or beneath your fists? Will my end be swift or slow?"
"I haven't said I would kill you at all,” replied Nighthawk. “I only said that I was sent to kill you."
"Ah,” she said, smiling again. “You await a counter offer."
"Not necessarily."
She looked puzzled. “Then what?"
"Let's just talk for awhile."
"Why?"
"Have you got anything better to do?” asked Nighthawk.
She stared at him for a long moment. “What kind of killer are you?"
"A reluctant one. Why does he want you dead?"
"I am a rival, and he is very territorial. What better reason is
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