By a Thread by Jennifer Estep Page B

back. Since we were on vacation and I was wearing sneakers, I’d left the two in my boots in my suitcase at the hotel. But the other three knives were locked and loaded in their appropriate slots, so to speak, even though I knew it would take only one to deal with the likes of Pete Procter.
    â€œDid you say cut you? Why, I’d be happy to oblige,” I drawled again.
    It was one thing to try to keep the violence to a minimum, but I wasn’t about to let some lowlife hood come at me with a broken bottle and not fight back. Especially not when he could easily turn his attention to Bria if I didn’t take him down.
    My hand tightened on the knife, and I could feel the small spider rune stamped into the hilt pressing against the larger, matching scar on my palm. Owen had made this set of knives for me as a Christmas present, and he’d put my rune, my mark, on all the weapons. They were the best blades I’d ever had, and I had no qualms about using one to whittle Pete down to size.
    Pete’s eyes widened, but he didn’t back down, even though he’d just watched me take out his giant friend. Dumbass. He lurched forward, swiping at me with the broken bottle. I easily sidestepped him again and again and again. I could have kept this dance up all night long.
    â€œStand still,” he growled.
    â€œWhy, whatever you say, sugar.”
    The next time he came at me, I stepped into his body, already turning, turning, turning. I put my back to his chest, grabbed the arm with the broken bottle, and used his own momentum to neatlyflip him over my shoulder. Pete slammed into the floor, the bottle sliding out of his fingers and tinkling across the floor. He blinked and started to get up, so I punched him in the face, cutting off that idea. But Pete kept flailing around, his right hand reaching, reaching, reaching for his broken bottle, so I drove my silverstone knife all the way through his palm, pinning it to the floorboard underneath.
    For a moment, silence filled the restaurant—complete, utter silence.
    Then Pete started screaming, and he didn’t stop. I let him blubber on for about thirty seconds before I yanked the knife out of his palm and used the hilt to clip him in the temple. He immediately went slack and still, although blood continued to pour out of his wounded hand. The steady stream soaked into weathered wood, covering it like a fresh, glossy coat of crimson varnish.
    I got to my feet and realized that everyone was staring at me—again. Just like they had for weeks now at the Pork Pit. Eyes wide, nostrils flared, fear tightening their faces. This time, I couldn’t help the tired sigh that escaped my lips.
    So much for my vacation.
    Once I made sure that Pete and Trent were out cold, I headed over to the bar where Callie was now slumped on a stool and took a seat beside her. The other diners had paid up and left as soon as the fight was over, and the two waitresses had scurried out the door as well. That left me, Bria, Callie, and the bartender in the restaurant, along with the still-unconscious goons.
    â€œDo you want me to call him beforeI leave?” the bartender asked.
    Callie stared at the two men, the shattered shelves, and the mess of broken bottles, glass, and liquor behind the bar. She bit her lip, then nodded. “He’ll hear about it one way or another. Besides, this is his beat now, remember? So go ahead and call it in.”
    â€œWho are you talking about?” Bria asked.
    â€œMy fiancé,” she said. “He’s a cop just like you, Bria. I told you about him, remember? Don’t worry. He’ll take care of those two. They won’t bother me again. At least not for tonight.”
    She murmured the last few words in a sad, defeated voice, but Bria and I still heard them. The bartender moved to the other end of the counter, picked up a phone there, and made his call. As soon as he was out of earshot, Bria turned to me.
    â€œI