Page 3 of Pulling Strings

No such luck.

Grumbling, I yanked the keys from the ignition and swung the door wide, nearly taking the valet out at the knees. His smile flagged as I stepped out of the coupe, giving him a clear view of the car’s interior littered with fast-food wrappers and empty energy drink cans. If I’d had more time, I would have borrowed a less distinctive vehicle. But, with half-assed becoming the theme of theday, driving my personal car to a job seemed appropriate.

The valet ripped the bottom off a claim tag and handed it to me. He told me to have a good day and even called me sir, though we must have been about the same age. Too bad I didn’t have any cash for a tip, especially with how hard the guy was trying to maintain his customer service cheer.

Passing the water fountain, I glanced into the bottom bowl littered with pennies. Any coins I’d tossed in there when I was younger were long gone, along with the wishes about what I’d be when I grew up. As far back as I could remember, I’d been slated to join my father as a Capitol investigator. We shared the same magic, and he made a point of introducing me to every influential person he met. High hopes dashed, as I was here now doing the opposite of everything he taught me.

I checked my phone’s clock. 8:51. That left me with nine minutes to find my target, assuming he wasn’t a go-getter who liked to show up early, and that the meeting didn’t kick off before its scheduled time.

Entering the building, I was relieved to find no receptionist. The atrium was empty save for an elevator bay boasting six steel doors. Since the place opened at 8:00 AM, the employees had already arrived, and it was too early for lunch breaks. So, I found myself waiting alone by the elevator button panel, watching the numbers light as the car moved down.

The sign beside me labeled the building’s occupants along with corresponding suite numbers. W. Reeves & Associates occupied the tenth floor.

Warren Reeves. I’d done the barest amount of research on my mark—only enough to ensure I’d recognize the guy when I saw him. He was middle-agedand balding with a gut that hung over his belt. His nose had a bulb end, and his left cheek sported a misshapen liver spot. He was human, which made my job easier, and made it all the more interesting that he was weighing in on local tourism reform.

Money must have been the motivator. But, if the city needed money, sell tickets. We could put on a hell of a show with aquamancers in pools like Sea World’s Shamu, conjurers pulling flower bouquets out of thin air, and who wouldn’t pay a necromancer for a legitimate séance with their dearly departed?

The Capitol would never allow it; the risk was too great. God forbid we stirred a hair on a precious human head. Then they wouldn’t be convinced we witches were as tame as house cats. Like we weren’t killing each other daily in ways that would blow a mortal’s mind.

Damn. I’d absorbed more of Grimm’s propaganda than I realized.

I shook my head, stirring the buzzing pest of a migraine that seemed determined to cling on. It was along for the ride, apparently, since Nash’s hangover cure had fully kicked in by now.

How long did I have to wait for the goddamned elevator?

I was ready to search for a staircase when the steel door slid aside with a ding. I stepped inside, faced with a wall of mirrors which I turned rapidly away from. I needed no reminders of my disheveled state, though it may have been my saving grace if anyone on the building’s security team was watching the feed. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize me.

The car rose smoothly to deposit me on the tenth floor. I exited into a large room arranged with cubicles and a central path leading to proper offices. Warren Reeves would be in the back. People in power tendedto put as much distance as possible between themselves and their underlings.

Cameras were mounted in the corners of the open area, not to mention webcams on every computer I passed on my way up the aisle. Workers swiveled to watch, prompting me to tuck both hands into my ripped jeans. My tattoos were a topic of conversation to even the most naïve, but the skull inked on the back of my left hand—a hallmark reserved for members of the Bloody Hex—gave away more than I could risk.

Most of my jobs weren’t this public. I favored suburban residences and solitary corners of the city. But I’d missed my chance to reason with Warren in the privacy of his home, instead spending last night tangled up with Nash and some nameless brunette. Now Reeves’ murder and, by default, his murderer, would be on display.

Grimm’s orders were always clear, but these were explicit. Send a message. A warning to those in favor of opening the borders. Not a hint some might fail to decipher. A big, bloody sign.

Across the beehive of cubicles, the room funneled into a hall. Wooden doors with glass windowpanes let in light from outside and allowed passersby a slim view of each room. Names on brass plates identified the offices. My eyes flicked over them in turn, failing to find the one I sought until I turned the corner.

The corridor formed an L-shape with a doorway on the left and a secondary hall on the right. The open doorway had the same sliver of a window and nameplate as the others, but this one belonged to Warren G. Reeves.

So far, none of the suits had stirred from their offices, unbothered by my intrusion. Avoiding the notice of Reeves’s secretary wouldn’t be as simple. Shemanned a desk beyond the entry, preoccupied with the contents of her computer screen.

Sucking a breath, I entered the small room. A bay of windows comprised the side wall, lined with houseplants. That meant Reeves’s inner sanctum was ahead, behind the door situated in the back corner. He must have had a nice view of the city from there. A third of the length of the building, if I were to guess.

The secretary glanced over her computer monitor and immediately frowned. She wore a frumpy button-up blouse and horn-rimmed glasses, and her gray hair was twisted into a bun. Not the eye candy I would hire if I had Warren Reeves’s resources. She looked like she came with the building. Antiquated. Also possibly a witch. Some of us blended in more easily than others.

“May I help you?” she asked. Her hand moved toward the phone on her desktop, a visual reminder that security was a call away.

“I need to speak with Mr. Reeves,” I said.

It only took a thought and a crook of one finger to unplug the power cord from the back of the phone. If she decided to raise an alarm, that would slow things down.

Skepticism scrawled across her features. Since her job relied on keeping her boss’s schedule clear of unwanted company, I couldn’t fault her for gatekeeping.

But the clock ticked.

Literally, an analog clock hung on the wall beside me, counting down seconds. 8:58 now. I had seconds to spare before—

“He’s in a meeting,” the woman said. “I can take a memo if you’d like.”

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