5. Time Out
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.