Page 64 of Pulling Strings

The shadows restraining Avery retreated, and he whirled around with the blood-slicked knife raised. Before he could swing down, Holland’s corporeal form wisped into a cloud of smoke rolling across the floor.

“Where’d she go?” Donovan asked with a tremor in his voice. He turned a circle as the low-lying haze dissipated. The pistol rattled off another round that struck the cement floor with a puff of powder.

“Give me that.” Avery snatched the weapon from my brother’s grasp, then waggled it in front of his face. “Who gave you this, anyway? Was it me?” The gun vanished from existence, and the conjurer frowned. “Must have been me.”

Shamed as Donovan looked, I hoped Grimm was paying attention. My brother was untrained, unskilled, and unequipped for situations like this. A liability to himself and others. Marksmanship and self-defensecould be taught, but it would take years to hone skills that could hold up to the speed and efficacy of most brands of magic.

From his fallen position by the wall, Grimm rumbled a laugh. “Fitch, you’re gonna have fun with that one. Unless you think she’s too much for you to handle.”

He’d missed the conversation with Donovan entirely. Had he not heard the reckless gunfire, either?

My brow dipped in frustration. “Not as long as I carry a flashlight.”

“Too much talking,” Vinton growled. “We’re wasting time.” He rose, looking almost average-sized after my time with Clyde. Without another word, he charged toward the closed infirmary door.

Vinton barreled full speed ahead, ready to meet the resistance of the heavy steel door when it swung inward. He had no time to slow or stop, instead careening into a suspiciously-placed gurney.

Thorngate’s Goth doctor poked his head around the doorframe. He wore no mask this time and looked singularly unimpressed as he asked, “Did no one think to knock?”

22

Left Behind

“Ripley, you rat bastard.” Grimm offered a hand for the scrawny teen to shake. “How long has it been?”

The doctor surveyed the rest of us hanging back. A short distance away, Vinton lumbered to his feet, red-faced and frowning.

After a pause, Grimm grabbed Ripley’s hand from where it hung at his side and pulled him into an embrace, then thumped his palm against the other man’s back.

“Twelve years,” Ripley replied, yanking free of Grimm’s grasp. “Long enough for that one to grow up.” He nodded to me. “You were right about him.”

“I’m right about most things, old chap.” Grimm smiled while the doctor’s expression soured. “And I was right when I told the boysyoucould be reasoned with. Didn’t I tell you so, Avery?”

The conjurer stood with his arms crossed, skeptical. “I wouldn’t go counting your wins just yet.” He tipped his chin toward the doctor. “Nice to see you, Rip.”

“Likewise,” Ripley replied.

Grimm’s gaze flicked up to the caged clock on the wall. “Well, that’s about it for pleasantries. Fitch tellsme you’re on board with the plan?”

I glanced at Donovan, wondering what had been left out of our limited conversations. My brother had been clueless as to Grimm’s purpose for the defunct healer, which meant I was, too.

Ripley didn’t bat an eye. “‘Twas no mention of a plan, mate,” he told Grimm. “Just the same dirty tricks as always. But yes, I’m on board.”

Grimm smiled. “No questions, then?”

“No point,” Ripley said.

Grimm turned toward where Avery, Donovan, and I clustered just inside the entry. “Gentlemen?”

The word was directed at all of us, but only Avery moved. A stack of gas masks appeared in his arms, ominous on their own, more so in this already eerie setting. When he began doling them out, Donovan voiced the question that sprung to my mind.

“What are these for?”

Grimm took his mask and secured the straps across the back of his head. The mouthpiece rested above his brow so he could speak. “Ripley here is going to clear our path for escape.” He gestured to the doctor, who made no move to take a mask for himself.

“Fitch.” Grimm’s summons drew my attention. “Give Ripley the visitor pass.”

My hand moved to cover the badge tucked safely in my breast pocket. It took all the composure I could muster not to tell the doctor to pry it from my cold, dead hands. Losing access to my magic again was a crueler fate than spending another night in prison. I couldn’t bring myself to give it away.

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