Page 56 of Brother's Keeper

It was after midnight by the time emergency crews arrived with blaring sirens and medics to tend to the dozen or so people with minor cuts and scrapes. Most everyone had already left, having fled in the middle of the mayhem, or were loading into their cars now. I watched them pull away from the sunken, lopsided mess that had once been the Lyle estate.

Holland had already been by to debrief me. Everyone made it out alive and accounted for. Ezrah Everett was taken into custody. His twin brother, Ethan, came and went unfound. It had been a hell of a party.

Holland had also sicced the healer on me. She was either bothered by the blood steadily dripping from my nostrils or more aware than I wanted her to be that I hadn’t budged from this soft patch of grass in almost an hour.

Satisfied with her work, the healer stepped out of my line of sight. Hanging a few feet back, Tobin stood, ready to take her place. Everything from his slick black hair to his tuxedo was covered in dust. He regarded me with his usual disdain.

“Vesper said you were made of stout stuff.”

I didn’t look very stout right now, sitting slouched in the dew-damp grass with my nose leaking. Despite the sorry sight, Tobin nodded. “Guess she was right. I owe you one.”

“Two,” I muttered.

His dark eyes narrowed. “Jackass.”

“Dick bag,” I retorted.

We glared at each other for a moment before both of us broke into weary smiles.

“Nice work, Farrow,” Tobin said. “That was some heroic shit.”

And I would be paying for it with the migraine from hell for the next twenty-four hours. I was lucky I hadn’t given myself an aneurysm. That was what the healer said. Pushing the magical boundaries of a mostly human body. Now I was resigned to sitting and telling anyone who asked that I’d never been better because I was ready to get out of here.

I watched Tobin join the crowd making their way out of this place. Cars reversed then pulled into a line headed down the private drive. So much more orderly than the same people had been while in the confines of the shaking home. With the crisis behind us, social etiquette was restored.

I was still staring and dealing with the headache that had burrowed deep in my gray matter when someone else sauntered up.

“Heroic.” Grimm—wearing his Maximus disguise—stopped across from me. “Not a word I ever thought I’d hear used to describe you.”

Unlike Tobin, Grimm appeared immaculate. Nothing was askew, and not a hair was out of place. Such precision could have been explained by the illusion spell, but I had a feeling there was more to it than that.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked him.

He smiled, sedate. “Around,” he said, then added, “Close by.” Slipping his hands into his pockets, he moved nearer. “Tell me, do you think I should be impressed enough by these antics to make you a proper investigator? Or should the hiring process be more rigorous?”

We were back on this again? And why did he want it? He’d gotten caught up in the notion while I was in prison after Holland let slip that an investigator position might be in my very distant future. But she would balk at hiring me only weeks after a rigged trial with no training and no relevant experience.

“You can’t just hand me a badge.” I shook my aching head. “I’m not qualified. I didn’t even go to the academy.”

“Ah, but you have a legacy to fulfill,” Grimm replied. “It’s the kind of story people get behind. From what I’ve heard, they’re hungry for it. Former criminal changes his ways.” He waved his hand through the air as though pantomiming an invisible headline. “Uses his once-tainted powers for good.”

A sour taste filled my mouth. “None of what I’m doing here is ‘for good.’ We both know that.”

I was no more a hero or an investigator than Grimm was Maximus Lyle. We were playing a deception game, worming deeper into the company and confidence of the Capitol’s elite. Even Tobin was starting to warm up to me. But, instead of feeling relief about winning over the stubborn investigator, guilt piled up.

“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,” Grimm replied. “You could have told them you weren’t able to savethose people. By the looks of you, that may not have been far from the truth.” His gesture to my reposed form—draped in the dark red suit coat Holland had returned—indicated he was aware of the toll the exertion had taken on me.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Of course, you are.” His smile turned prideful. “Always fine. I taught you that, didn’t I?”

My father may have introduced me to magic, but Grimm showed me my limits. Rather, he shoved me into them with all the finesse and care of repeatedly driving a car into a wall. He’d seen crippling migraines, blackouts, and nosebleeds worse than this. Valuable information, he claimed, as knowledge was intricately connected to power. My pursuit of that knowledge had been both memorable and painful.

“Never hesitate,” Grimm ticked the rules off on his fingers, “never show weakness, and never tell me no. So, when that promotion offer comes across your desk, know who it’s from, and know what your answer should be.”

After waiting out mymental fog and the endless procession of cars filing down the drive, I was one of the last to leave. I dragged myself to the Porsche and collapsed into the driver’s seat, already knowing where I wanted to go next, and it wasn’t to another night’s restless sleep on the floor of the houseboat.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the lot outside the Bitters’ End and was selfishly pleased to find no other vehicles in sight. That meant I had the bar—and the bartender—all to myself.

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