Page 82 of Pulling Strings

“Hey, jackass!” A gruff shout drew my attention to a pool of moonglow at the edge of the building. A lone silhouette broke away from a group of people. It was too tall and stocky to be Donovan.

I wasn’t even sure the other man was looking my way until he added, “Yeah, Marionette, I’m talking to you!”

A prickle raced down my spine. I downed another mouthful of the swill, then let the bottle drop on the patchy grass. “Interview’s over!” I called back to the man, who squared his body with mine. “Thank you for your interest, but we’ve decided to pursue other candidates. Or none at all.”

Donovan rounded the corner into view, stopping a few feet behind the other man. The scarce light showed confusion on his face.

“Forget all that,” the man said. Something metallic flashed in his grasp, and the click of the slide informedme he held a gun. “I figure why bother trying to put a hand on you when I can put a bullet in you?”

A burst of movement drew my eye as Donovan charged toward the gunman.

Shouting my brother’s name neither slowed nor stopped him. He reached the attacker in seconds and grabbed the man’s throat with his left hand. The Hex mark on the back of Donovan’s hand began to glow. Fiery orange deepened into red, channeling magic I recognized immediately.

The Bloody Hex’s namesake was a curse as descriptive as it was deadly. It guaranteed we were never defenseless and functioned as the gang’s official calling card. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen it used, and I couldn’t fathom the sight of my typically meek brother going for a killing blow.

“Donnie, no!” The words ripped up my throat.

The gunman’s eyes opened wide as blood broke loose in crimson tears. It streaked down his cheeks and mingled with streams gushing from his nose. He screamed, a garbled sound, but Donovan held on.

I thought too late to stop it. A loop of magic through the air caught my brother around the wrist and jerked his hand back, breaking his grip on the other man. He tried to dive in again, but I raced forward, mentally binding him until I could pull him into my arms and pin him tightly against me.

“Let go!” Donovan’s chest heaved with rapid breaths as he thrashed. “I have to do this!”

The other man slumped, oozing blood. The gun fell away with a muted thump.

Donovan struggled as I locked him in a constricting grip. Gradually, his struggle slowed, but I didn’t release until I heard him gasp. He fell, coughing, onto the ground.

28

Aftermath

I gaped at the fallen man as though I’d never seen a corpse before. His friends stood in similar shock, their mouths hanging open and hands stifling gasps.

Below me, Donovan shoved to sitting and took rapid, recovering breaths.

“We need to go,” I murmured. “Get up.”

My brother’s eyes darted from the downed gunman to me, then back again. “Is he dead?”

I nodded. My stomach churned.

“I did it,” Donovan whispered.

He was still on the ground, so I caught him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him up.

“I said let’s go!”

A shove toward the Bronco sent him stumbling while I lingered, watching the dead man’s friends swarm around him. One of them screamed.

I bolted then, racing to the driver’s side of the car and the door Donovan had opened. The keys jingled in his quivering hands. I snatched them away, then shooed him across the center console into the passenger’s seat.

“You can’t drive,” he sputtered. “You’re drunk.”

“Shut up, Donnie!” I jammed the keyinto the ignition.

The Bronco revved. I stomped for the clutch before remembering it was an automatic. The headlights were on and drive was engaged, but our path around the building was blocked by the dead gunman and the crowd around his bloodied body.

I pumped the gas again, hoping the engine’s roar would stir them. No luck. Instead, they shouted while pulling out cell phones to call or snap pictures of Donovan and me through the bug-smeared windshield.

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