Page 44 of Pulling Strings

“Bet that smarts.” The doctor’s eyes crinkled. With contemplation or amusement, I couldn’t be sure.

“You think?” I snapped.

Since healers worked exclusively for the Capitol, the Bloody Hex had no access to them. I’d been put back together with sewing thread and super glue more times than I could count, and I was becoming more convinced by the second that I was as qualified to tend to myself as this guy was.

The doctor turned to one of the wall cabinets and pulled out a lumpy leather bag. He set it on the tray table, then unzipped it and began rummaging through its contents.

“What are we going to do about you, eh?” he asked. “Notorious villain Fitch Farrow bested by common criminals. Not great for your reputation, mate.”

My reputation had taken a beating, all right, along with my pride. My gamble to eliminate the threat of Jax and his ilk had yielded less than optimal results. I wouldn’t be here now if I’d left him reeling with that cat scratch on his neck and ran out of the bathroom.

I frowned. Neither Jax nor his cronies would have dared to challenge me outside of this powerless place. With magic at my disposal, I could crush them like empty soda cans. They knew that as well as I knew they’d make a go at me again. Why not? I’d given them no reason not to.

“What was it about? Your little dust-up?” the doctor asked, rifling through his bag.

I raised my tattooed hand. “Everybody wants to be famous.”

He grunted in agreement. “That’s a constant problem, innit? Worse for you, I imagine, since you make it look so bloody glamorous.”

My mouth twisted. “So I’ve been told.”

The doctor produced a small stack of butterfly bandages and white cotton packing to pile on the tray table.

Eyeing the supplies, I asked, “What’s the prognosis, doc?”

“You’ll live.” He pulled a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his coveralls and started putting them on.

Suddenly far more interesting than the conversation, or the specifics of the doctor’s gloomy aesthetic, was the tattoo on the back of his hand: a thorny skull I would have known anywhere.

“What the fuck is that?” I asked.

He looked up. It was hard to be sure with the mask obscuring most of his face, but he seemed surprisingly young. Waifish and close to Donovan’s age, if I were to guess. But appearances could be deceiving when magicwas involved.

He stopped with one glove on, and his bicolored eyes dropped to the tattoo now on display. “Well, would you look at that?” he said with mocking awe. “When did that get there?”

I pushed myself upright on the gurney, unsure if I should prepare for another fight or if I’d finally found one of those friends Clyde mentioned. No, not just a friend. Grimm didn’t dole out Hex marks like hand stamps at the county fair. They were exclusive to gang members only. A very select few.

“How’d you get that?” I asked the doctor.

Heaving a breath, he resumed tugging on the gloves. “Same way anybody does.”

“You’re in the Bloody Hex?” I sputtered. “What’s your name? Why don’t I know you?”

He loosed the medical mask to swing from one ear, giving me a good look at his face. “Name’s Ripley Vaughn,” he replied. “And you did know me, but it’s been some years since then.”

My mouth hung open, full of questions but unsure which to ask first. I looked him over again. Teenaged. With hollow cheeks and pale skin. That, combined with the edgy haircut, made him a poster boy for Goth culture. The prison-issued coveralls must have been really cramping his style.

But wait. Grimm sent his message for this kid? Was he going to replace me with a younger model like I wasn’t still in my prime? And what did this Ripley Vaughn character even do? A healer? Hardly an even swap. Like filling the void left by our resident bloodsucker with my powerless brother. Our so-called fearless leader was making some questionable decisions of late.

“But you already have the mark.” My thoughtsfound their way to voice. “So, you’re already in? I thought it was just five of us.”

“It’s called the BloodyHex, mate,” Ripley replied. “Hex as in six. You just put that together?” His incredulous look made me scowl, and he huffed a laugh before continuing.

“I hate to say so, but Grimm was right about you. You turned out every bit the show pony he thought you’d be. Just what the gang needed to save itself from extinction.”

My confusion must have shown despite my busted face because he explained.

“The Capitol was hot on our asses back then, closing in. Then there you were. The lynchpin.” His features darkened, suddenly severe. “How’d it feel to save the very thing that should’ve killed you?”

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