Page 2 of Pulling Strings

Damn. Why so far away?

I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, and shook my hands loose, trying to stir the magic I’d put to bed along with my problems last night. I didn’t know what effect booze had on other witches’ power, but I’d learned years ago it knocked mine out cold.

Mind-centered magic—telekinesis, in my case—was best wielded by those with great mental fortitude, self-control, and the inner peace of a Buddhist monk. Having been blessed with none of those qualities, Imade do with self-loathing, bouts of rage, and an impressive tolerance for pain. Running any kind of machine with the wrong fuel was bound to cause problems, and my brain was no exception. Hence the need for whiskey when I’d exhausted all my other coping mechanisms.

Rather than crawl across the room to retrieve the shoe, or God forbid walk, I stretched a hand toward it. The exertion made me grunt, grabbing the boot with all the mental power I could muster and dragging it toward me. Pain sparked in my temple like a static shock, and the boot slid forward an inch. Maybe two. Then it flopped over, the open side toward me like a mouth howling with laughter.

“Need a little help?” Nash’s deadpan expression only increased my frustration.

“No,” I muttered.

More than footwear, I needed the little glass bottles the alchemist kept in his bedside table, like a hotel minibar stocked especially for me. I assumed it was for me because Nash rarely indulged in his own products. He probably got that out of his system before he met me, burned himself out on alcohol like anyone with unlimited access to something.

Arriving at the door, I scrambled up the frame to stand at last. The headache took on a new beat, deep and steady, resounding down my brain stem.

I staggered toward where Nash perched on the bed. He didn’t budge as I stumbled toward him, almost falling into his lap as I yanked open the drawer of the table beside him and dug through the contents. I found a notepad and pens, a journal, a bottle of aspirin, and a hand that shot past mine to retrieve something from the far recesses of the drawer.

Nash pulled out a potion bottle and waggled it inmy line of sight. When I reached for it, he swung his arm away.

“You sure you can’t get a raincheck on this job?” he asked.

My phone buzzed against my thigh with a reminder of the calendar event I couldn’t possibly have forgotten. “Vote today,” I replied. “If it passes, I’m fucked.”

A hitman who couldn’t kill was like a bird dog that couldn’t hunt. Both were equally likely to end up dumped in the woods with a bullet in their brain.

Nash’s eyes pinched. “Am I an enabler? Tell me the truth.”

Rather than make a fool of myself wrestling the potion away from him, I let my head loll back and groaned. “Nash, I don’t have time for your self-actualizing bullshit right now. Thanks for the fuck. Give me that go juice. I need to leave.”

We stared at each other for a long moment before Nash huffed a breath. He pushed the bottle into my chest.

Popping the cork, I raised the bottle in a one-sided toast before dumping its contents into my mouth. The immediate taste of gasoline made me gag. When I wheezed my next breath, it felt like I could spit fire.

“That’s the good shit,” I grunted. Power sputtered in my skull, gargling like a choked motor.

The flavor lingered, no less noxious than when it first hit my tongue. The headache seemed to subside, though. Less of an all-out attack on my gray matter and now a pressure that thrummed behind my eyes. Sleep called to me like a siren’s song, but all thoughts of rest took a backseat to my phone vibrating again.

Out of time.

The door to the hallway stood only a few feet away. Beyond it lay a spiral staircase I was convinced Nashput in for the sole purpose of watching me stumble down it on weekend mornings.

The upstairs hall was bordered by a wall on one side and a wrought iron railing on the other. Peering over the edge gave me immediate vertigo, and I sucked a steeling breath. My hands wrapped around the metal rail as I used it to reel myself along.

The stairs came like a roller coaster with all the feels and none of the thrills. I made it to the bottom and took a moment, clinging to the banister with both arms and one leg, before daring to stand upright.

Something dropped from above and clunked onto the floor beside me with a one-two count. I leaped backward, dodging the items as they landed: a pair of scuffed black leather boots.

“Wear your goddamned shoes!” Nash hollered from the second-floor railing.

Stepping into them, I barely took the time to wave before rushing out of the building, still hungover and getting later by the minute. I may have looked like the white rabbit frantically checking his pocket watch, but I felt more like Alice tumbling headfirst into chaos.

2

The Job

I’d visited the East Side Tower as a child, tagging after my father on one of his after-hours business meetings. I remembered being impressed by the building’s stature—the tallest in the city at eighteen stories. It boasted a fountain spewing an umbrella of water, windows that spanned every exterior wall, and it housed the offices of Maine’s executive elite. One of whom would be less than thrilled to see me, the angel of death, pulling up to the curb in a ‘90s model Porsche 911.

The valet attendant waved from the check-in desk as I rolled to a stop beside him. My hand quivered as I moved it from the wheel to the gearshift, prompting a last-minute search through the cigarette butts in the center console to find one with some life left in it.

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