Page 45 of Pulling Strings

I shook my head, stirring fresh pain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Or maybe I did. Fallen investigators framed on the wall of the Investigative Department, thirty strings tattooed on my fingers, and that wasn’t counting Jacoby Thatcher. It was Grimm’s agenda, I’d told Donovan. He pointed, and I shot.

Like an attack dog?The memory of Holland’s accusation stirred resentment anew.

“Don’t feign ignorance for my sake,” Ripley said, tugging on the second glove. “I killed for him, too.”

“Is that why you’re here?” I asked. “Because of Grimm?”

Ripley shook his head. “Not in the way you think. Now, hold still.” He bent forward and placed his hands on my cheeks.

I fought the urge to jerk back as he situated one thumb on either side of my nose. He pressed in, and pain stabbed into my skull, building to a crunching click.

Something moved.

I yelped.

Both eyes watered, blinding me. I tasted blood and felt it, too, though the flow was staunched by the cotton packing the doctor stuffed hastily into both nostrils.

He stepped back, peeling off the latex gloves. “Better?”

“No!” I blinked, teary and beset with heat throbbing between my eyes. “Fuck.”

He squinted at my face, then nodded. “It’s better.”

Turning toward the tray and his doctor’s bag, he dug into the pile of medical miscellany. When he rounded on me again, he held a shiny, silver tool.

A scalpel flashed in the light, deadly sharp. He swung it toward my throat.

I raised a hand, but no power accompanied the motion. Cold panic washed over me. I would have cursed if I hadn’t been so focused on holding my breath as the scalpel blade hovered too near my skin.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Don’t squirm,” he hissed. “I’ve just mopped.”

Not a fan of the Hippocratic oath, apparently. But, if he wanted to flay me open, he would have already done it. Scalpels were whisper sharp. I’d have been gurgling blood before I could blink. Those small assurances didn’t convince me to relax or to draw less careful breaths.

“Why’d you fix my face if you were gonna kill me?” I asked.

“I’m a doctor,” he replied. “And this way you’ll look pretty in your casket.” He bent in, showing the nearest thing I’d seen to a smile.

I suddenly understood the welcome back offer. Ripley Vaughn was not like any healer I’d met, but he was exactly the kind Grimm would want around.

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Words tumbled out. “Why are you doing this? Was it something I said?”

“You asked if I’m here because of Grimm. Answer’s no.” He shook his head, unsettling drippy black locks. “I was willing to go down and take the whole bloody gang with me. But that didn’t happen. Not then. With you gone, it might be possible now.”

My lips curled with disdain. “You turned coat on the Hex? Then why the fuck do they want you back?”

He sniffed. “Who said they want me back?”

“I’m the messenger, but it came from the top.”

If Grimm thought I was reckless, how did he justify extending an olive branch to a self professed traitor? Maybe he thought Ripley had a change of heart during his incarceration, but everything I’d seen pointed to the contrary.

“Sorry to say they sent you on a fool’s errand. I want no part of the Bloody Hex.” Ripley kept the scalpel aimed at my throat while I pressed back harder against the padded gurney.

“What about jail?” I asked. “Do you want to get out of jail? They’re going to break me out. You, too.”

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