Page 23 of Pulling Strings

Very subtle, Avery.I frowned.

Only a storm door separated me from the carnage I imagined waited inside: Jacoby Thatcher bound and gagged, no doubt bloodied from the struggle that had already transpired. Things would be broken, tables overturned, and the floor littered with all manner of debris.

The Bloody Hex had outgrown quick, merciful kills long before I met them. Simple murder lost its luster after years of repetition. Repeat offenders either burned out or found a kink to keep things interesting. Avery liked toying with people. Torture was always on the menu when he was involved. Vinton got most of his jollies in postmortem. When we didn’t need to leave a body at the scene, he usually carted it home to play Dr. Frankenstein until the whole building reeked of decay. Grimm preyed off fear. He was the least violent of us all, but he had more than a few common phobias on illusion tap, and he loved watching people squirm.

“Donnie! Fitch!” A deep, gravelly voice came from inside the house. Grimm. “Get your asses in here, boys.We got work to do!”

Breath whooshed out of me to cloud in the crisp air. He must have seen the car, but not well enough to realize I’d come alone in it.

What was my plan? I hadn’t thought this far ahead. Driving Donovan to the outskirts of town was a half-formed idea borne of last-minute desperation. It hadn’t worked, either. Not really. He’d be there when I returned, no more convinced to cut ties with the Bloody Hex than he had been last night.

If I marched in there now and broke Jacoby Thatcher in half, it solved nothing. If anything, it made matters worse. Grimm already had a bead on me after last night’s conversation, and directly defying his orders by stonewalling Donovan’s initiation could get us both in hot water.

“Boys!” the voice from inside bellowed, and I cringed. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

I swung a hand toward the storm door, opening it so hard the top hinge popped loose from the frame. It slammed against the house at an angle, then dragged back a foot or so before it stopped. The metal bottom corner stuck in the trench it had dug in the wood decking.

I cursed and clenched my fist, ratcheting a mental grip on the damaged door. The glass pane broke with a loud pop, and I crumpled the frame like a ball of tinfoil. Shoving it aside, I walked into the darkness of Jacoby Thatcher’s house.

Judging by the sparse furnishings, drab color scheme, and lack of pictures on the walls, Jacoby lived alone. As I ventured further inside, I decided he barely lived here at all. Everything appeared untouched like a model home meant to be toured and appreciated but not interacted with. I’d seen these types before.Workaholics with empty refrigerators and strictly shirt/suit wardrobes. It made sense for Maximus Lyle’s loyal lapdog. The guy probably ate, drank, and slept Capitol matters. All business, all the time. No wonder he looked so bland every time his face came up on the news.

Moving toward the dining room found signs of a struggle. A modern art piece hung askew, and a vase had been reduced to a pile of porcelain and flower stems on the ground. Getting warmer.

This house blurred together with so many others. Kitchens and bedrooms and dogs that barked while children cried. How many times had we done this? Made ourselves into boogeymen who crept in at night, wrecking homes and ending lives?

I heard the men laughing and talking.

Down a hallway into the back of the house, I arrived in a sunken room populated by rich, dark furniture, a wall-mounted television, and a fireplace. In the center of the space, Jacoby Thatcher sat gagged and bound with a bright orange extension cord. Grimm, Avery, and Vinton flocked around him.

Grimm stood aside with his hands in his jacket pockets while Vinton rifled through the built-in cabinets on the fireplace wall. Avery crouched at eye level with the restrained man, dragging the flat side of a knife up Thatcher’s exposed forearm.

Stepping down into the carpeted area drew the attention of Thatcher. Sweat soaked his thin brown hair and gave a fishy sheen to his sallow skin. He wore striped, button-down pajamas, proof he owned something that didn’t qualify as business professional.

As I approached, Thatcher’s whimpers became fervent grunts. He bucked back in the chair so hard it almost tipped.

Avery buried the dagger in the man’s thigh, pinning him to the chair. Thatcher howled through his gag—a sock from his bare foot secured by a strip of duct tape.

“Do you know how degrading that is?” Avery scowled at me. Another knife appeared in his hand, and he used it to gesture to Thatcher, who wailed. “I’ve been working this schmuck for the past fifteen minutes, then you walk in and make me feel like the opening act.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, thanks for warming up the crowd, Avery. I’ll take it from here.”

When I moved forward, Grimm sidestepped to block my path. “Fitch.” He looked past me, searching for and finding no one else. “What’s going on?”

“Just doing what you told me to, boss,” I said.

Vinton glanced back then, realizing what the others already had. “Where’s Donnie?”

I didn’t answer, locked in a stare-down with Grimm that neither of us proved willing to yield. “How do you want this done?” I gestured to Thatcher. “Any special requests?”

The bound man started up again in a cacophony of grunts and wails. He rocked in the chair, scooting it slowly across the low pile carpet.

“Just get it over with.” Avery crossed his arms over his tweed waistcoat. “It’s no fun anymore.”

Grimm said my name again. “Where’s your brother?”

The ceiling fan spun circles overhead, failing to dispel the smell of panic in the room—Thatcher’s and mine, mingling. As my pulse picked up tempo, the electrical cord constricted around Thatcher’s body. It cut deeply into his arms and chest, and the tail end snaked around his neck.

“Fitch,” Grimm repeated. “What did you do?”

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