“What is it?” I asked.

  “Recall potion,” he replied. “Thought you could test it for me. Break or drink it, and it should bring you back here.”

  “Should?” I echoed.

  Pippa snickered, nibbling another olive.

  Nash continued with a nod, “Might come in handy for someone needing to avoid negative attention. Or arrest.”

  “Could’ve used this earlier.” I gave the potion a swish.

  “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

  He said it jokingly, but I was entirely serious as I replied, “I would never say that.”

  “When you use it, would you make a note of any sensations or side effects?” Nash asked, unmoved by my effort at sincerity. I half-expected him to hand me a steno pad and pen. “Up to seventy-two hours after consumption.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

  Tucking the potion into the jeans pocket opposite my car keys, I already worried about accidentally popping it at the worst possible moment. I’d find a safer way to store it when I got back to the motel later.

  Awareness of the late hour reminded me I hadn’t expected to be drinking alone. I scanned the walls for a clock.

  “What time is everybody supposed to get here?”

  “Well, you’re never early and they’re always late, so you all usually arrive about the same time,” Nash said. “I’d guess they’re about to walk in right now.”

  “Fitch!” My brother’s voice carried on a shout across the bar.

  I grimaced. Not at Donovan’s audible enthusiasm at finding me here, but rather at his presence heralding the arrival of the rest of the party guests. I swiveled on the barstool and stood to greet him with a smile.

  “Happy birthday, kid,” I said as he leaned in for a hug.

  After a brief embrace, he pulled back, surveying the balloons and streamers populating every surface. He beamed, mocha brown eyes glittering with enthusiasm so genuine I regretted saying the décor was juvenile. Maybe I’d missed the mark all these years and he would have been happier with a cake and a clown.

  “This is great, you guys.” Donovan shared thanks with each of us in turn and ended on me. “Fitch, is this where you’ve been all day?”

  “Oh, yes.” Pippa pressed the half-drank Boulevardier into my hand then climbed off the counter. “It was Fitch’s idea to dress up the place. Blowing up balloons with his own breath and spit, running up and down a ladder…”

  She laughed, amused by the joke, but Donovan’s expression sobered.

  “So, you weren’t here,” he said flatly. “Why didn’t you come home?”

  He didn’t know. Nice to see at least one person had better things to do than watch TV all day.

  “We could’ve used your help, actually,” Pippa told me. “I bet you’re a whiz with crepe paper rolls. Like point and shoot.” She aimed both hands as finger guns into the air, firing a few pretend shots before turning to the tray she’d set on the bar. Hefting it onto one shoulder, she moved away, forging a path toward the entrance where customers were beginning to file in.

  The bar filled with people and the general din. Whoops and shouts came in response to Nash’s party décor, delaying my reply to Donovan’s question. I had yet to fabricate a believable excuse when more of our group sauntered in.

  Front and center, Avery Hale led the charge, tooting a party horn. He always dressed to the nines, and tonight was no exception. A tweed vest buttoned over his starched white shirt and ascot tie. His auburn hair was slicked back, shiny with grease.

  To his left, the human boulder known as Vinton Everly lumbered past. The guy had ham hocks for arms and muscles that bulged even in his bald head—all brawn, no brains. He could palm a man’s skull like a basketball, then crush it with one squeeze of his sausage fingers. I’d seen it. I’d also seen him resurrect that same squish-headed man and repeat the process all over again. Necromancy was a hell of an art form.

  Avery spotted us first.

  “Look who turned up after all,” he called out, drawing the attention of the growing crowd. His party horn disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  “Heads up, fucker,” he said, raising one hand. A flash of silver took shape in flight: a dagger spinning end over end toward my face.

  I opened my palm, ready to stop it, but the knife vanished inches before reaching me.

  Peals of laughter echoed to the high ceiling. They’d already been drinking, and I hadn’t even begun. The Boulevardier waited in my grasp. I downed it in a quick gulp as Avery finished his approach.

  “Great job today,” he said, his smile increasingly impish. “And damn, that news recap. We should have had a watch party. Big screen, popcorn, the whole bit.”

  He ducked past me to grab a couple of party hats from the counter and toss them to Donovan and me. Rather than don one himself, he smoothed his hands along the sides of his head, conjuring a flat cap topped with a sign that flashed the words “Gettin’ Lit” in neon.

  I stared at the party hat, speechless, and was further silenced when Donovan asked, “You had a job today?”

  I chewed my lip, running out of options where to look with Avery grinning like an idiot, Donovan frowning, and Nash doing God knew what behind me. Minding his own business, hopefully, but not likely.

  I’d been spared from answering earlier by the gang’s arrival, and it seemed I’d been granted another stay when a newcomer darkened the bar’s doorway.

  Grimm entered the room. Not a stay at all, but rather the executioner himself. He walked toward me, unavoidable, and apparently sober. Dark, wavy hair framed his bearded face, and his blue eyes fixed on mine.

  Avery sat to my left, spinning on his barstool. He caught Donovan with a barred arm and knocked him back onto the stool I’d vacated.

  “Take a seat, Donnie-boy,” he chortled. “Show’s about to start.”

  Donovan shot me a sideways look. “Fitch, what’s going on?”

  Behind the bar, Nash polished a glass with a towel as if he didn’t have a dozen customers to tend to. Nosey fucker.

  “I’m gonna need like five more of these.” I shoved the empty old-fashioned glass toward him. “Stat.”

  The bartender reached into the shelves behind him and produced a square, clear bottle with a glass cork. It hit the copper counter with a thunk. “Save us both some time,” he advised, then wandered off down the bar, whistling.

  “Definitely an enabler,” I muttered, uncapping the bottle and pouring its amber contents to the brim of my glass. When I lifted it for a sip—or guzzle—a hand clapping on my shoulder almost knocked it from my grasp.

  “Fitch.” Grimm’s voice was soft and low. “Glad you could make it. I was concerned since you had such a… challenging day.”

  I took a noisy slurp of the whiskey before replying, “Wasn’t so bad. I went for a drive, stopped by the tattoo parlor…” I raised my hand with its fresh line of ink. “Did you know Reeves was number thirty?”

  Grimm pressed in behind me. “We should talk about that,” he said. “Debrief.”

  “Later.” I swallowed another mouthful and considered emptying the glass. “I don’t want to miss the party.”

  “Oh, the party hasn’t started yet,” Grimm said. “We have time.”

  Pippa wandered by, ferrying the tray of shots. I gestured to her, then looked at my brother. “You want one of those?”

  I didn’t wait for Donovan’s answer before stepping out to slide past Grimm. “I’m gonna get a few.”

  Grimm shifted to block my path. He wasn’t much bigger than me, but still undeniably imposing. I shouldered by anyway, neither pausing nor slowing as he rumbled my name.

  “Fitch!”

  Pippa’s green eyes widened when she saw me coming, or maybe it was Grimm closing quickly behind me that prompted her to shake her head and try to walk away.

  I mentally pinned her feet in place, and she pitched forward, off-balance. She had more than a few things to say about my overstep, obvious from the way her cheeks flushed and her lips puckered in protest.

  “Just a moment, little lady.” I smiled, wolfish, and reached for the nearest glass on her tray—something green and fizzy. These drinks weren’t alcohol. They were alchemy, and their effects were anyone’s guess.

  I’d almost grabbed it when Grimm latched onto my wrist, gripping it with white-knuckled rage.

  “Outside,” Grimm said, his voice a dull roar. “Now.”

  He shoved my arm away then turned toward the nearest exit, trusting I would follow.

  I blew a breath through clenched teeth and released Pippa’s feet. She steadied herself and flipped me her middle finger before dipping back into the crowd.

  Grimm moved swiftly out of the bar. I had half a mind to let him go outside alone and see how long he’d wait before blowing back in here like a tornado, ready to tear the place to the studs. But a glance back at Donovan, still sitting on the barstool, swayed me to obedience. It wasn’t worth making more of a scene and ruining his night. Better to get this over with.

  As I followed Grimm’s path, Avery’s mocking tone chased me. “Yes, Daddy. Right behind you, Daddy!”

  5

  Time Out

  The Bitters’ End perched on a cliff near a lighthouse. Gulls squawked where they hung in the breeze, and the ocean crashed against unseen boulders below, raising a mist of salty air. The lighthouse’s beam spun in steady circles, casting into the deep over and again. When I was a child, I’d imagined pirate ships on that dark horizon, their white sails stark in the blanket of night.

  Tonight, there was only blackness and stars, with a waning moon reflected in cresting waves.

  I shivered, less dressed for the cold night than Grimm, who stood apart from me. He cut a stoic silhouette with his hands in the pockets of his brown leather bomber jacket while the wind whipped hair around his face. I joined him in silence, anxiously waiting for the words that would first come out of his mouth.

  “I’m a prideful man, Fitch,” he said at last. “I care a great deal about the work we do and the way we’re perceived by the public. We have a reputation to protect, I think you’ll agree. So, you can imagine my surprise when I turned on the evening news and saw your pretty face captured by every security camera in the East Side Tower. The scene of a rather high-profile murder.”

  Another chill shook me, and I hugged my arms around my chest. “Looked more like a suicide to me.”

  Grimm rounded on me, his eyes sharp and piercing as a crow’s. “Don’t test me, boy.” He spat the words. “I’ve had more than enough of you today, and I’ve only just arrived.” He took a breath and held it, settling back into cool composure. When he spoke again, he did so deliberately. “Did you happen to watch the report?”

  I shook my head. My afternoon had passed in Isha’s bed, dozing, kissing, and cuddling until she was called away to deal with business matters. If she’d stayed, I might have never left.

  “It was quite detailed,” he continued. “Besides the security footage, there were several eyewitnesses who claimed to have seen and even spoken to you.” He counted them off, rage building audibly with every word. “Reeves’s secretary, a maid and, my personal favorite, Timothy Lawrence.” He eyed me, waiting for a reaction that might give something away. “Do you know who that is?”

  “No clue,” I replied.

  Grimm inhaled deeply as if practicing some doctor-prescribed breathing exercise. “Timothy Lawrence was the young man parking cars for the valet service.”

  I huffed a laugh just as the back of Grimm’s fist struck my cheek with a hard knock. My head snapped to the side, and the tang of blood leaked into my mouth.

  “You used the fucking valet?” he shouted.

  I stifled the urge to retaliate, clenching my hands so tightly that my bitten-down fingernails dug into my palms.

  Gulls cawed.

  Grimm sighed long and loud.

  “I entrust you with these tasks, Fitch,” he said. “Important tasks. But I’m beginning to fear that my trust may be misplaced.”

  Because of one botched job? I wanted to snap back. Not even botched since Warren Reeves was definitely dead. So I’d been seen. I was hardly anonymous before today. No one watched me telekinetically throw the man off the tenth floor of the East Side Tower and, while the news thought it wildly salacious to speculate on the extent of my abilities, forced suicide was a hard sell in any court of law.

  “Your brother is very eager,” Grimm continued. “And compliant. He believes he will succeed you.” The older man glanced back at me. “I admire his ambition at the same time I wonder what happened to yours.”

  Between dreams this afternoon, I had considered what Isha said about Donovan’s “insignificance,” and my reservations when it came to his place in the gang. It was nothing I could explain to Grimm, not that I cared to. He would accuse me of going soft or losing my edge. Maybe it was that, or maybe watching my brother reach the end of his innocence had sated the bloodlust in me.

  “I expect you to help him,” Grimm said. “I want his first kill to be successful.”

  “Kill?” I echoed.

  Grimm nodded. “We discussed this. We’re down a member since that unfortunate incident last fall. A loss for us, but a win for your brother if he’s up to the task.”

  Our missing fifth member, Bristol Spencer, was a hemomancer who used blood magic to exsanguinate his victims. The nearest thing I’d seen to a real vampire. The “unfortunate incident” that claimed his life was better described as a gruesome accident involving one of Avery’s old stage magic acts. Even our resident necromancer couldn’t piece Bristol back together. And Avery never did get the stains out of his prop box.

  “You expect Donnie to take up for Bristol?” I asked. “That’s not exactly an even trade.”

  “We all have different skills, Fitch,” Grimm replied. “What your brother lacks in ability, he makes up for in grit.” He smiled, self-assured.

  I didn’t believe him.

  “The boys and I will clear the scene and prepare the victim for Donovan to deliver the killing blow,” Grimm explained. “I’ve left the method to his discretion, and I leave you to ensure the job gets done.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Grimm faced me. “I mean, if your brother finds himself unable or unwilling, I expect you to intervene.”

  “And kill them for him?”

  I could manage that. A little more blood on my hands hardly mattered.

  “And force him to do what he’s sworn to me he will do,” Grimm corrected. “That’s what you excel at, after all. Forcing things.” His mouth pressed a stern line.

  Argument bubbled up my throat. It was bad enough to know what would be happening, worse to have to watch. Now, I was the safeguard orchestrating my own brother’s descent into villainy. My stomach flipped.

  Grimm moved forward and cupped his hand around the nape of my neck. “But I don’t believe that will be necessary. As I said, Donovan is eager. I doubt he’ll hesitate.”

  Still gripping me, Grimm turned us both toward the Bitters’ End, its exterior warmly aglow and deceptively innocuous.

  “When you come back inside, bring a smile and well wishes for the birthday boy,” Grimm said. “Proving you can behave yourself would be a step toward rebuilding that trust I mentioned.”

  No one but Grimm could make me feel like a scolded child put firmly in my place. I fought it—inwardly more than out—but rebellious thoughts were no less juvenile than being told to act right or else. There was always an implied or else.

  “Yes, sir,” I muttered.

  He squeezed my neck. “Good boy.”

  Grimm left me then, but I didn’t breathe easy until he was out of sight. I worked my jaw, sore from biting back every shitty comment that had sprung to mind. I’d likely given too much away already. Grimm was no fool, and he knew my tells. He must have seen I had doubts, which made my assignment as Donovan’s wingman as much a test for me as it was for my brother.

  I hoped he would fail, but I couldn’t. We’d always been subject to different expectations. No need to change that now. I was the killer. Donovan was the innocent, our roommate, designated gofer, and background character to our all-star cast. He was unremarkable, yes. Also insignificant, but that made him salvageable. And, if he wouldn’t save himself, I would do it for him.

  6

  Tat, Too

  I debated going home. Not because of the ribbing I was due to receive from Vinton and Avery or even to avoid the questions Donovan would not have forgotten in the ten minutes I’d been gone. It was selfish to consider bailing, but I had a bad feeling about this so-called party. It could have been as advertised: toasting Donovan’s coming of age, giving speeches, then falling into bed with whoever hung around after the bar closed. But I suspected it would be more than that.

  The Bloody Hex predated me, so the only initiation I’d been part of was my own. I’d been told then that membership was strictly one out, one in. As in, if you wanted into the gang, you needed to forcibly—permanently—remove one of its members. We’d had our share of would-be usurpers but, in the last twelve years, none had succeeded. Bristol would have been the first dethroned if he’d been killed by someone outside the gang.

  Hence the mock execution, to simulate Donovan’s triumphal entry into our ranks. It was very theatrical, very forced, very fake, and I’d yet to hear a convincing argument about why it had to happen at all.

  After the cold finally got the better of me, I dragged myself back into the bar where the festivities were in full swing. Donovan sat in the middle of the room, swarmed by gang groupies. Each of them took turns dumping Nash’s assortment of shots into Donovan’s mouth. He laughed and sputtered, soaked from the onslaught and swallowing as fast as they could pour.

  Grimm occupied a corner booth, flanked by Avery and Vinton like devils on his shoulders. I caught his gaze as I walked past. Being on my best behavior, or at least giving the illusion of it, required me to stay as far from them as possible. Vinton wasn’t so much a problem, having no use for me in general, but Grimm would be watching for the smallest slip-up, and Avery was a thirsty brat who thought I looked best in any shade of pissed off.