Page 12 of Pulling Strings

“We could’ve used your help, actually,” Pippa told me. “I bet you’re a whiz with crepe paper rolls. Like point and shoot.” She aimed both hands as finger guns into the air, firing a few pretend shots before turning to the tray she’d set on the bar. Hefting it onto one shoulder, she moved away, forging a path toward the entrance where customers were beginning to file in.

The bar filled with people and the general din. Whoops and shouts came in response to Nash’s party décor, delaying my reply to Donovan’squestion. I had yet to fabricate a believable excuse when more of our group sauntered in.

Front and center, Avery Hale led the charge, tooting a party horn. He always dressed to the nines, and tonight was no exception. A tweed vest buttoned over his starched white shirt and ascot tie. His auburn hair was slicked back, shiny with grease.

To his left, the human boulder known as Vinton Everly lumbered past. The guy had ham hocks for arms and muscles that bulged even in his bald head—all brawn, no brains. He could palm a man’s skull like a basketball, then crush it with one squeeze of his sausage fingers. I’d seen it. I’d also seen him resurrect that same squish-headed man and repeat the process all over again. Necromancy was a hell of an art form.

Avery spotted us first.

“Look who turned up after all,” he called out, drawing the attention of the growing crowd. His party horn disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“Heads up, fucker,” he said, raising one hand. A flash of silver took shape in flight: a dagger spinning end over end toward my face.

I opened my palm, ready to stop it, but the knife vanished inches before reaching me.

Peals of laughter echoed to the high ceiling. They’d already been drinking, and I hadn’t even begun. The Boulevardier waited in my grasp. I downed it in a quick gulp as Avery finished his approach.

“Great job today,” he said, his smile increasingly impish. “And damn, that news recap. We should have had a watch party. Big screen, popcorn, the whole bit.”

He ducked past me to grab a couple of party hats from the counter and toss them to Donovan and me. Rather than don one himself, he smoothed his hands along the sides of his head, conjuring a flat cap toppedwith a sign that flashed the words “Gettin’ Lit” in neon.

I stared at the party hat, speechless, and was further silenced when Donovan asked, “You had a job today?”

I chewed my lip, running out of options where to look with Avery grinning like an idiot, Donovan frowning, and Nash doing God knew what behind me. Minding his own business, hopefully, but not likely.

I’d been spared from answering earlier by the gang’s arrival, and it seemed I’d been granted another stay when a newcomer darkened the bar’s doorway.

Grimm entered the room. Not a stay at all, but rather the executioner himself. He walked toward me, unavoidable, and apparently sober. Dark, wavy hair framed his bearded face, and his blue eyes fixed on mine.

Avery sat to my left, spinning on his barstool. He caught Donovan with a barred arm and knocked him back onto the stool I’d vacated.

“Take a seat, Donnie-boy,” he chortled. “Show’s about to start.”

Donovan shot me a sideways look. “Fitch, what’s going on?”

Behind the bar, Nash polished a glass with a towel as if he didn’t have a dozen customers to tend to. Nosey fucker.

“I’m gonna need like five more of these.” I shoved the empty old-fashioned glass toward him. “Stat.”

The bartender reached into the shelves behind him and produced a square, clear bottle with a glass cork. It hit the copper counter with a thunk. “Save us both some time,” he advised, then wandered off down the bar, whistling.

“Definitely an enabler,” I muttered, uncapping the bottle and pouring its amber contents to the brim of my glass. When I lifted it for a sip—or guzzle—a handclapping on my shoulder almost knocked it from my grasp.

“Fitch.” Grimm’s voice was soft and low. “Glad you could make it. I was concerned since you had such a… challenging day.”

I took a noisy slurp of the whiskey before replying, “Wasn’t so bad. I went for a drive, stopped by the tattoo parlor…” I raised my hand with its fresh line of ink. “Did you know Reeves was number thirty?”

Grimm pressed in behind me. “We should talk about that,” he said. “Debrief.”

“Later.” I swallowed another mouthful and considered emptying the glass. “I don’t want to miss the party.”

“Oh, the party hasn’t started yet,” Grimm said. “We have time.”

Pippa wandered by, ferrying the tray of shots. I gestured to her, then looked at my brother. “You want one of those?”

I didn’t wait for Donovan’s answer before stepping out to slide past Grimm. “I’m gonna get a few.”

Grimm shifted to block my path. He wasn’t much bigger than me, but still undeniably imposing. I shouldered by anyway, neither pausing nor slowing as he rumbled my name.

---