Page 22 of Pulling Strings

“I mean sort of, but—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Donovan!” I said his name sternly enough I hoped it would be the verbal equivalent of shaking him so hard his brain rattled. “You don’t have to be a murderer. Why would you want to be?”

No answer.

We stood squared off on the side of the rural highway. Judging from his posture, and his still-curled fists, he wanted to take a swing at me. I invited the challenge, but we both knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. Sparring or scrapping with my brother was a dramatically one-sided event unless I took a fall and let him win. The real world wasn’t so kind or considerate of a person’s pride, and that was my whole point.

It wasn’t safe for Donovan here, in a world where he was grossly outmatched by most of the population. The Bloody Hex had plenty of enemies: Capitol investigators, do-gooder vigilantes, and a whole slew of criminals who wanted the street credit that came with the gang tattoo my brother currently sported. A human in the midst of that mess was like chum in the water. They’d eat him alive.

After a long moment, Donovan expelled a breath. “You’re gonna leave me here, aren’t you?”

I pulled the pack of Lucky Strikes out of my hip pocket, dumping a cig and the lighter I’d stored beside them into my hand. Without replying, I lit it and took a drag. The cigarette tip glowed faintly in the darkness.

He watched me with his mouth pressed into a line. Finally, he grunted. “And you’re going to kill Thatcher.”

Smoke curled from my nostrils as I looked down the road once more.

“Why?” Donovan asked. The word sounded like a sob.

I chewed my lip ring, clutching my keys in one hand and the cigarette in the other.

“Do you really think I’d run to the border and rat on all of you? Leave you behind? What kind of advice is that?” Tears dampened his cheeks.

“My advice is to do whatever it takes,” I replied. “The gang will survive. Or not. It doesn’t matter—”

“Doesn’t matter?” Donovan reeled back, his nostrils flaring. “Have you got a death wish? If the Capitol gets ahold of you, they’ll mount your head on a plaque.”

The mental image gave me pause. “I’ll be fine,” I told him, though I wasn’t sure which of us needed the assurance more.

Donovan dropped down to sit in the grass. “Go on, then.” His expression was solemn. “Leave. I can’t stop you.”

My fingers tightened around the key fob, jagged edges digging in. I’d come back after Jacoby Thatcher was dead. We could talk more. Maybe I could persuade him. For now, we both needed time.

Time to cool off?

I cringed.

“Goodbye, Donnie.” I skirted around the Porsche and got in before I could change my mind.

The car door slammed shut, and I sat. One more glance in the rearview found darkness all around. I looked out the passenger window where Donovan sat hunkered with his head down. The knot in my gut twisted painfully tight.

He’d be fine until I returned. Or maybe he’d seereason and march on up to the city gate, after all. No time to worry about it now, though. I had work to do.

8

Initiation

Just past 11:00 PM, I arrived in the sleepy suburban neighborhood. Lamplit streets wove between houses with boxed hedges and deep green lawns. It smelled like home here, the home I was born in, far removed from the grime and grit of downtown. My destination sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, painted navy and white in a typically coastal style.

I parked the Porsche and rocked back in my seat. My phone had yet to ring, so I wasn’t too late. Grimm must have assumed that my brother and I were having a pep talk about losing his murder virginity. The real shit family bonded over.

The memory of Donovan sitting, defeated, in the grass stuck with me. I scrubbed my hands along the shaved sides of my head, wishing I was an Etch a Sketch and could shake my mental slate clean. Magic required concentration, and explaining to my boss why I’d turned up to this job alone demanded a level of composure I lacked.

Another cigarette wouldn’t help, and the bottles of Jameson in the backseat floorboard were empty—I’d checked. So, I’d be doing this sober. Nothing would take the razor edge off my nerves or ease myapprehension that four members of the Bloody Hex marching into Jacoby Thatcher’s house with intent to kill was easier said than done.

But they were inside, with security presumably disabled. They set this up for Donovan, like Crime for Dummies. I didn’t need such allowances. I was a professional, a mercenary, a gun for hire. And this was a cakewalk.

I made it onto the porch, flanked by pampas grass that swished in the wind. When my boots crunched on broken glass, I looked up to find the overhead light shattered. The doorbell, one of the video camera kinds, had been ripped from the wall, leaving bare wires exposed.

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