The park was empty at this hour, the evening light fading to purple between the trees. Nice neighborhood. Clean benches. Flower beds that someone actually tended. The kind of pce where nothing bad was supposed to happen.

  Gretel sat on one of those benches, legs crossed, hands folded in her p. Beside her, the Puppet ninja sat with perfect posture—a woman in a simple dress, attractive in an understated way, dark hair pulled back, eyes that seemed to take in everything without moving. Her name was Columbina, though Gretel doubted that was real. The Puppets rarely used their real names.

  That's why Gretel preferred them.

  The Crickets were fine—competent, professional, reliable. But the Puppets were *ruthless*. They didn't hesitate. Didn't question. Didn't leave loose ends. Jiminy Cricket's cn had honor, which made them predictable. Pinocchio's Puppets had survival instinct and a willingness to do whatever the job required. In this business, Gretel would take ruthless over honorable every single time.

  Jack used both cns depending on what needed doing. Message delivery? Crickets. Eliminations? Puppets. Tonight could've gone either way, but Gretel had specifically requested Columbina. She had a feeling this meeting might go sideways.

  She was rarely wrong about these things.

  Two figures appeared at the far end of the park path. One walked with the easy confidence of someone who thought himself important—tall, well-dressed, the kind of pretty-boy arrogance that came from never being told no. His hair was styled, his coat expensive.

  Behind him lumbered something much rger. A troll, Gretel realized as they got closer. Eight feet tall, gray-skinned, shoulders like boulders. The kind of muscle you brought when you wanted to intimidate.

  The pretty boy stopped a few feet from the bench, looking Gretel up and down with an expression that made her skin crawl. Not fear. Disgust. She'd seen that look before—men who thought women were toys or obstacles, nothing in between.

  "You're Jack's representative?" he asked, his voice smooth and dismissive.

  "I am." Gretel didn't stand. Didn't uncross her legs. "And you're Mr. Bck Sheep's second-in-command. I didn't catch your name."

  "Lysander Vale." He said it like she should be impressed. "And you are?"

  "Gretel."

  "Just Gretel?"

  "Just Gretel."

  Lysander's smile was all teeth, no warmth. "Well, *Just Gretel*, I have to say—I'm disappointed. Mr. Bck Sheep expected Jack himself. Sending a woman to negotiate expansion into *our* territory?" He shook his head. "That's disrespectful."

  "Jack sent me because I handle business expansions," Gretel said evenly. "And I'm authorized to make the offer directly. Jack is willing to split profits seventy-thirty on any product he manufactures and distributes in Bck Sheep territory. Your boss keeps seventy, we take thirty for the work. Clean, simple, profitable for everyone."

  "And if Mr. Bck Sheep wants to keep selling his own product?"

  "Then Jack pays seven percent of gross revenue as a territory fee. Bck Sheep keeps his operation, we keep ours, everyone makes money." Gretel met his eyes. "It's a generous offer."

  "Generous." Lysander ughed. "You come into *our* territory, offer to *take* thirty percent of profits or *graciously* pay seven percent to operate, and you call that generous?" He took a step closer. "Here's what's generous, sweetheart. You walk away right now, tell Jack that Mr. Bck Sheep says no, and maybe—*maybe*—we don't expand this into a war."

  Gretel felt Columbina shift slightly beside her. Not obvious. Just a fraction of an inch, weight redistributing. Ready.

  "That's your final answer?" Gretel asked.

  "No." Lysander's smile widened. "My final answer is that Mr. Bck Sheep doesn't appreciate being disrespected. Jack should've come himself. Should've shown proper deference. Instead, he sends..." His eyes raked over Gretel again, then flicked to Columbina. "...two pretty little things to try and negotiate with us like we're equals."

  The troll stepped forward at some unspoken signal.

  "So here's what's going to happen," Lysander continued, his voice taking on a casual cruelty that made Gretel's stomach tighten. "Bruck here is going to grab you both. Bring you over to that bench. And I'm going to have some fun. Might let Bruck have a turn too, if I'm feeling generous. After that..." He shrugged. "Well, we'll see if you're still breathing. Either way, Jack gets his message. Don't disrespect Mr. Bck Sheep."

  Gretel didn't move. Didn't flinch. She'd been threatened before—by scarier men than this preening peacock.

  "That's your py?" she asked quietly.

  "That's my py." Lysander gestured to the troll. "Bruck, bring them—"

  The troll took one step toward them.

  Columbina moved.

  One moment she was sitting demurely on the bench. The next, she was in motion—fluid, impossibly fast, a bde appearing in her hand from nowhere. The troll barely had time to register the threat before she was inside his reach, the knife driving up under his jaw, through the soft pate, into his brain.

  Eight feet of muscle and bone colpsed like a puppet with cut strings.

  Lysander stumbled backward, eyes wide, hand going for the pistol at his belt—

  Columbina was already there, kicking the weapon away, another bde at his throat. He froze, breathing hard, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time.

  "What—what are you—"

  "Puppet," Columbina said simply, her voice calm and musical. "Pinocchio's cn."

  The color drained from Lysander's face.

  Gretel stood up slowly, smoothing her skirt, and walked over to where Lysander stood with a bde pressed to his jugur. His eyes darted to her, then back to Columbina, panic finally repcing arrogance.

  "Please," he whispered. "I didn't—I didn't know—"

  "You didn't know I brought a ninja?" Gretel tilted her head. "That's your defense? You were going to rape two unarmed women, but you're sorry because one of them turned out to be dangerous?"

  "I—Mr. Bck Sheep—he told me to send a message—"

  "And you chose *that* message." Gretel's voice was ft. Cold. "Not a beating. Not a threat. That."

  Lysander's mouth opened and closed. No words came out.

  Columbina looked at Gretel, her bde steady against Lysander's throat. "What do you want me to do?"

  Gretel studied Lysander for a long moment. Watched him shake. Watched him realize exactly how badly he'd miscalcuted.

  Then she smiled.

  "How about we send Mr. Bck Sheep a message of our own?"