Page 14 of Pulling Strings

Between dreams this afternoon, I had considered what Isha said about Donovan’s “insignificance,” and my reservations when it came to his place in the gang. It was nothing I could explain to Grimm, not that I cared to. He would accuse me of going soft or losing my edge. Maybe it was that, or maybe watching my brother reach the end of his innocence had sated the bloodlust in me.

“I expect you to help him,” Grimm said. “I want his first kill to be successful.”

“Kill?” I echoed.

Grimm nodded. “We discussed this. We’re down a member since that unfortunate incident last fall. A loss for us, but a win for your brother if he’s up to the task.”

Our missing fifth member, Bristol Spencer, was a hemomancer who used blood magic to exsanguinate his victims. The nearest thing I’d seen to a real vampire. The “unfortunate incident” that claimed his life was better described as a gruesome accident involving one of Avery’s old stage magic acts. Even our residentnecromancer couldn’t piece Bristol back together. And Avery never did get the stains out of his prop box.

“You expect Donnie to take up for Bristol?” I asked. “That’s not exactly an even trade.”

“We all have different skills, Fitch,” Grimm replied. “What your brother lacks in ability, he makes up for in grit.” He smiled, self-assured.

I didn’t believe him.

“The boys and I will clear the scene and prepare the victim for Donovan to deliver the killing blow,” Grimm explained. “I’ve left the method to his discretion, and I leave you to ensure the job gets done.”

“What do you mean?”

Grimm faced me. “I mean, if your brother finds himself unable or unwilling, I expect you to intervene.”

“And kill them for him?”

I could manage that. A little more blood on my hands hardly mattered.

“And force him to do what he’s sworn to me he will do,” Grimm corrected. “That’s what you excel at, after all. Forcing things.” His mouth pressed a stern line.

Argument bubbled up my throat. It was bad enough to know what would be happening, worse to have to watch. Now, I was the safeguard orchestrating my own brother’s descent into villainy. My stomach flipped.

Grimm moved forward and cupped his hand around the nape of my neck. “But I don’t believe that will be necessary. As I said, Donovan is eager. I doubt he’ll hesitate.”

Still gripping me, Grimm turned us both toward the Bitters’ End, its exterior warmly aglow and deceptively innocuous.

“When you come back inside, bring a smile and well wishes for the birthday boy,” Grimm said. “Proving you can behave yourself would be a step toward rebuildingthat trust I mentioned.”

No one but Grimm could make me feel like a scolded child put firmly in my place. I fought it—inwardly more than out—but rebellious thoughts were no less juvenile than being told to act right or else. There was always an implied or else.

“Yes, sir,” I muttered.

He squeezed my neck. “Good boy.”

Grimm left me then, but I didn’t breathe easy until he was out of sight. I worked my jaw, sore from biting back every shitty comment that had sprung to mind. I’d likely given too much away already. Grimm was no fool, and he knew my tells. He must have seen I had doubts, which made my assignment as Donovan’s wingman as much a test for me as it was for my brother.

I hoped he would fail, but I couldn’t. We’d always been subject to different expectations. No need to change that now. I was the killer. Donovan was the innocent, our roommate, designated gofer, and background character to our all-star cast. He was unremarkable, yes. Also insignificant, but that made him salvageable. And, if he wouldn’t save himself, I would do it for him.

6

Tat, Too

I debated going home. Not because of the ribbing I was due to receive from Vinton and Avery or even to avoid the questions Donovan would not have forgotten in the ten minutes I’d been gone. It was selfish to consider bailing, but I had a bad feeling about this so-called party. It could have been as advertised: toasting Donovan’s coming of age, giving speeches, then falling into bed with whoever hung around after the bar closed. But I suspected it would be more than that.

The Bloody Hex predated me, so the only initiation I’d been part of was my own. I’d been told then that membership was strictly one out, one in. As in, if you wanted into the gang, you needed to forcibly—permanently—remove one of its members. We’d had our share of would-be usurpers but, in the last twelve years, none had succeeded. Bristol would have been the first dethroned if he’d been killed by someone outside the gang.

Hence the mock execution, to simulate Donovan’s triumphal entry into our ranks. It was very theatrical, very forced, very fake, and I’d yet to hear a convincing argument about why it had to happen at all.

After the cold finally got the better of me, I draggedmyself back into the bar where the festivities were in full swing. Donovan sat in the middle of the room, swarmed by gang groupies. Each of them took turns dumping Nash’s assortment of shots into Donovan’s mouth. He laughed and sputtered, soaked from the onslaught and swallowing as fast as they could pour.

Grimm occupied a corner booth, flanked by Avery and Vinton like devils on his shoulders. I caught his gaze as I walked past. Being on my best behavior, or at least giving the illusion of it, required me to stay as far from them as possible. Vinton wasn’t so much a problem, having no use for me in general, but Grimm would be watching for the smallest slip-up, and Avery was a thirsty brat who thought I looked best in any shade of pissed off.

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