Page 1 of Pulling Strings

1

Hungover

The headache pounded like a fist inside my skull. Whatever demons I’d tried to drown in liquor last night had survived and were ready for another round.

Gummy eyelids opened, first one then the other, and I peered out. I lay on the floor of a bathroom, wedged between the toilet and the wall. My legs were pinned and numb, my face was slicked with drool, and every inch of me was cold.

The lights were off—a blessing—but I could discern the shape of the pedestal sink and claw-footed bathtub, and the bare-chested man standing overhead. Nicholas Nash’s red hair was mussed, and the sheets had pressed wrinkles into his face. He must have been out as hard as I had been and was no more pleased to be awake, judging by his grimace.

“Fitch,” he groaned, “why the hell did you set an eight o’clock alarm?”

I must have missed the steady beeping with the migraine infecting my brain, but I heard it now. Growing louder and pulsing with the bright flashing of the screen Nash turned toward me.

“Shut it off and come back to bed.” He tossed thecell to land on the tile. “All I can do is snooze the damn thing.”

Squinting, I scooped up the phone from where it buzzed against the floor. Fingerprint recognition silenced the squawking alarm and restored quiet. Both Nash and I sighed relief before he wandered back into the adjoining bedroom.

Attempting to sit unfolded my knees to a flurry of fire ant bites. Blood rushed in and brought pain, and I let out a low groan. Memories of programming the alarm were distant and vague. I was supposed to be somewhere today. Early.

Checking my cell’s cracked screen showed the time: 8:22. Below that, a calendar reminder contained relevant information. East Side Tower. Floor 10. 8:40 AM.

I had an appointment in eighteen minutes, and to say it was a matter of life and death was no exaggeration.

My feet tingled with protest as I worked my way onto all fours. I half-crawled, half-dragged myself onto the scrubby carpet of the bedroom.

A sliver of sunlight cut across the floor, illuminating ornate wooden furniture including a four-poster bed. The sounds of soft snoring reminded me of the third person who had joined Nash and me in last night’s tryst. Pulling myself up to the footboard, I found Nash reposed with his arm draped across his eyes and a brunette woman sprawled beside him. Her lacy black lingerie paired nicely with the Sharpie scribble across her cleavage, barely legible as F. Farrow. My autograph.

Tempted as I was to crawl into the nest of sheets between them, I had places to be, and an appointment that wouldn’t wait for hangovers or post-coital cuddles.

Another search of the bedroom found discarded clothes in piles. Some mine; some not. I moved awayfrom the bed on my knees, making slow progress through the garments scattered across the floor. I found my jeans first and shimmied into them, then belly-crawled to the next heap of clothing to search for my shirt. Sitting up to tug it over my head brought a wave of nausea that laid me back flat.

Get it together, Fitch. You’re a professional. Act like it.

Fumbling with my phone again, I flipped to the camera function and switched it to forward-facing. When my image appeared on the screen, I cringed. Dark shadows ringed my hazel eyes and my hair lay flat on one side from where it had been pressed against the bathroom wall. That was besides the chapped lips and days-old stubble—to most, a five o’clock shadow, but puberty passed me over in the body hair department.

A second attempt to sit brought success. I ran my tongue around my mouth. How was everything so damn dry? I’d guzzled half the bar last night. I should have been hydrated as hell.

The rustling of sheets drew my attention to Nash swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He scrubbed his hands over his bearded cheeks.

“Why are you getting dressed?” he asked.

“I’m late,” I mumbled despite my uncooperative tongue.

He frowned. “It’s too early to be late.” My weary glare served as response enough, and prompted him to ask, “Late for what?”

Awareness of my assignment filtered slowly into my mind. “There’s a meeting. With a vote. Some guy’s gonna vote yes. Grimm doesn’t want him to vote at all.” I raised both hands in a grandiose gesture to myself. “Which is where I come in.”

There was more to it, of course. Grimm had waxed poetic about the motion to open the city gates; to burstour bubble of a world and satisfy the curiosity of the human public. Witches had been billed as society’s bad guys since the Salem trials. We’d achieved an unsteady peace by giving humans every assurance and agreeing to their every demand. That was my boss’s perspective, anyway, and the platform of the terrorist group known as the Bloody Hex. Since I was a member of that elite bunch of brutes, it was my opinion, too. For official purposes, at least.

Nash folded his arms across his broad torso. With the muscles, tattoos, and a full, ginger beard, he was missing only his trademark plaid shirt to be the embodiment of my lumberjack fantasies.

He sighed. “Where are you supposed to find ‘this guy?’”

“Downtown,” I answered, rubbing my eyes. “East Side Tower.”

He let out a mad cackle. “Those snooty execs will never let you in. You’ve gotta put on shoes, at least.”

My eyes swam around the room. Velvet drapes curtained the balcony windows on the far wall, parted enough to show only a thin line of the brightness outside. Nash and the woman remained in bed, where I wished I could be and, in the corner beside the armoire, one of my boots sat upright.

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