Mr. Bck Sheep cut into his roast with more force than necessary. The knife scraped against the pte, and Mary—his twin, his mirror, his better half in every way that mattered to the world—winced slightly at the sound.

  "Sorry," he muttered, though he wasn't.

  The dining room was warm. Homey. Everything about Mary's house was warm and homey—the kind of pce that appeared in catalogs, where families gathered and ughed and belonged. The kind of pce that made his chest tight every time he walked through the door.

  But Mary invited him. Every week, sometimes twice, she invited him. Because that's what Mary did. She tried. She always tried.

  "Uncle!" His nephew—Lee, ten years old and entirely too enthusiastic—bounced in his chair. "Did you bring me anything?"

  "Lee," Mary's husband, David, said quietly. His tone was patient. Tired. "We don't ask for gifts."

  Mr. Bck Sheep reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box. "Here."

  Lee's eyes went wide. He tore it open immediately, revealing a pocketknife with an eborate carved handle. Expensive. Completely inappropriate for a ten-year-old.

  "Whoa!" Lee breathed.

  David's jaw tightened. "That's... very generous."

  "Boys should have knives," Mr. Bck Sheep said, spearing a piece of meat. "Teaches them responsibility. How to be men."

  Mary smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you , Leonard. That's very thoughtful."

  His niece—Cire, eight—looked up from her pte. "What about me?"

  "You don't need a knife, sweetheart," Mary said quickly.

  "Girls don't need knives," Mr. Bck Sheep agreed. He took a sip of wine. "Girls need to be pretty. That's their job."

  The table went quiet.

  Mary's fork paused halfway to her mouth. David's expression went carefully bnk. Lee llooked confused, gncing between the adults.

  "Actually," David said, his voice measured, "Cire is learning carpentry at school. She's quite good with tools."

  Mr. Bck Sheep made a dismissive sound. "That's nice for a hobby. But let's be honest—women have it easy. They just need to bat their pretty eyes, and men fall over themselves. Meanwhile, men keep the world running. We can't afford to be soft."

  "Some men are soft," Lee said suddenly. "My teacher Mr. Harrison cries during movies."

  "Then Mr. Harrison needs to grow a spine," Mr. Bck Sheep said. He cut another piece of meat, watching the juice run across his pte. "Men control themselves. Women get to feel everything and everyone calls it beautiful. Men feel anything and they're called weak."

  Mary set down her fork. "That's not fair."

  "Isn't it?" He looked at her—really looked at her. Same face as his. Same dark eyes, same sharp cheekbones. But on her, it was elegant. Beautiful. She could be soft and vulnerable and cry at movies and have a husband who looked at her like she hung the moon. She could have children. She could have love.

  And what did he have? An office full of problems and responsibility.

  "Women get everything handed to them," he continued, his voice tight. "They don't have to be strong. They don't have to be in control. They just have to exist and look pretty, and the world bends over backward."

  "That's not true," Mary said quietly. "Women work just as hard—"

  "Do they?" He leaned back in his chair. "Or do they just have to smile and let men do the real work?"

  David's knuckles were white around his fork. "I think that's enough."

  "I'm just being honest." Mr. Bck Sheep took another drink. The wine was good. Expensive. He'd brought it. "Mary, you have a beautiful home. A family. You get to be... soft. Emotional. And everyone loves you for it."

  "And what's wrong with being soft?" Mary asked. Her voice was gentle, but there was something underneath it. Something that knew. That had always known, maybe, even if she'd never said it out loud.

  His throat tightened. "Nothing's wrong with it. For women."

  "But not for men?"

  "No. Not for men." He pushed his pte away, suddenly not hungry anymore. "Men have to be strong. In control. Always."

  "That sounds exhausting," Mary said.

  It was. God, it was exhausting.

  Lee was turning the knife over in his hands, examining the carved handle. "I think you're really strong, Uncle. You're like... the strongest guy I know."

  Something twisted in Mr. Bck Sheep's chest. The boy looked at him with pure admiration. Hero worship in a child's eyes, praising someone who wanted to y down his persona.

  "Thank you, Lee."

  "You run your whole business by yourself, right? That's so cool."

  "He does," Mary said carefully. Her eyes were on her brother. "Though I wish he'd talk about it more. About what he actually does."

  "Business is boring," Mr. Bck Sheep said quickly. "Nothing you need to worry about."

  "I'm your sister. I worry anyway."

  "Don't." He stood abruptly, his chair scraping back. "I should go. I have work early tomorrow."

  "You just got here," Mary protested. "We haven't even had dessert."

  "I'm not hungry." He was already heading for the door, pulling his jacket from the coat rack. His hands were steady. They were always steady in public.

  Mary followed him. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  "You seem—"

  "I said I'm fine, Mary." He turned to face her. His twin. His mirror. The person who got to live the life he wanted. "Thank you for dinner. Tell David it was excellent."

  She studied him with those dark eyes that matched his own. "Larry you know you can talk to me. About anything."

  "There's nothing to talk about."

  "Is there someone—" She stopped. Started again. "Are you seeing anyone?"

  His ugh was sharp. "No. No, I'm not seeing anyone important."

  "You could, you know. You deserve to be happy."

  Happy. As if happiness was something men like him got to have.

  "I'll see you next week," he said, and left before she could say anything else.

  Outside, the air was cold. He stood by his car for a moment, looking back at his sister's home at the warm light, the family gathered around the table. Lee was showing Cire the knife. David was clearing ptes. Mary stood in the doorway, watching him go.

  He turned away and opened his car door.

  He had another stop to make tonight anyway.

  The Rabbit Hole was waiting.---

  The alley behind the old textile mill reeked of piss and rotting garbage. Grim didn't mind anymore—after three years slinging wool for Mr. Bck Sheep, you got used to worse smells. What he couldn't get used to was the emptiness.

  Used to be, this corner was *packed*. Six, seven S-Boys working shifts, moving product hand over fist. Now it was just him and Eric, and Eric wouldn't shut the hell up.

  "I'm telling you, Grim, we should bail." Eric was young—barely twenty—with that nervous energy elves always seemed to have. His pointed ears kept twitching at every sound, his fingers drumming against his thigh. "Everyone else left. Boss *told* us to leave. And I've got—Sera and I are supposed to get married in the spring. I need to actually be *alive* for that."

  Grim leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed. At thirty, he was the older one here, and his tiger ears flicked with irritation as his tail swished behind him. "And how you gonna pay for a wedding if you run now? You know what those elf ceremonies cost? The flowers, the fancy outfits, the whole traditional bullshit?" He'd been in this game long enough to recognize opportunity when he saw it. "Look, kid. Mr. Bck Sheep's entire crew cleared out of the eastern territory, fine. You know what that means for us?"

  Eric shook his head, his expression uncertain.

  "More territory. More buyers. Same supply." Grim patted the satchel at his hip—wool, carefully packaged, ready to move. "We've been loyal to Mr. Bck Sheep for *years*. We stay a few more weeks, stack some serious cash, and you can give Sera the wedding she deserves. How else are you gonna make that happen?"

  "It's not about money, it's about not ending up like Lysander—"

  "Keep your voice down." Grim's amber eyes scanned the street. Empty. No foot traffic. Just the distant sound of music from the tavern three blocks over. "Look, kid. Mr. Bck Sheep's entire crew cleared out of the eastern territory, fine. You know what that means for us?"

  Eric shook his head, his expression uncertain.

  "More territory. More buyers. Same supply. We've been loyal to Mr. Bck Sheep for *years*. We know this corner, we know these customers. Why should we lose our income because some maniac is making moves?"

  "Some maniac who put Lysander's head in a *box*." Eric's voice cracked slightly. "Boss said to get out. He was serious, Grim. He doesn't say shit like that unless—"

  "Unless he's taken this serious. Yeah." Grim's tail shed once, sharp and dismissive. "But we're not bosses, kid. We're street level. Nobody's coming after *us*. We're too small. And if Mr. Bck Sheep comes back strong, if he handles this, he's gonna remember who had the balls to keep working while everyone else ran."

  "And if he doesn't come back strong?"

  "Then we've made enough money to disappear somewhere nice." Grim straightened up as a figure emerged from the shadows at the end of the alley—a customer. Finally. "Now shut up and look professional."

  The customer was a fairy, skinny, twitchy, pupils blown wide even in the dim light. Junkie. They always looked the same, species didn't matter. He shuffled forward, hands in his pockets, eyes darting between Grim and Eric.

  "You got any wool?" The fairies voice was scratchy, desperate.

  Grim nodded, pulling a small packet from his satchel. "Fresh batch. Pure as it comes."

  "How much?"

  "Twenty for this." Grim held up the packet. "Forty for double."

  The attic dug into his pocket, produced a crumpled wad of bills. His hands trembled as he counted. "Just the twenty."

  Money changed hands. The packet disappeared into the customers jacket. He was gone a moment ter, scurrying back into the darkness like he'd never been there at all.

  Grim turned to Eric, grinning, his fangs showing. "See? Money hand over fist. Told you."

  Eric didn't smile back. His face was pale, still looking around nervously. "Grim, I don't feel good about this. Boss said—"

  "Boss said a lot of things. Boss also pays us shit compared to what we could be making right now." Grim counted the bills, tucked them into his jacket. "Stop being such a pussy. You wanna make money or not?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Then shut up and let's keep doing what we're doing." Grim turned back toward the street, his ears swiveling, scanning for sounds of approach. "This is our shot, Eric. Our chance to actually get ahead for once. When this all blows over and Mr. Bck Sheep sees we held the line—"

  Eric made a sound.

  Not a word. Just a wet, choking gasp.

  Grim spun around.

  Eric was standing there, both hands clutching at his face. Blood—dark, almost bck in the dim light—poured between his fingers. His slim frame was rigid, trembling. His eyes were wide, panicked, confused.

  "Eric—?"

  The young elf dropped to his knees, then pitched forward onto his face. His hands fell away.

  There was a star shape piece of metal buried in his left eye socket, the metal gleaming wetly.

  Grim's brain stuttered. He looked down at Eric's body. At the blood pooling around his head, already soaking into his blonde hair. At the way Eric's remaining eye stared at nothing.

  "What the—"

  The second throwing star took him in the throat.

  Grim's hands flew to his neck, trying to stop the blood, trying to understand what was happening, trying to breathe—

  But the bde had severed something vital.

  He fell beside Eric, his vision tunneling, darkness creeping in from the edges. His tiger ears went ft against his skull. His tail twitched once, twice, then went still.

  The st thing Grim saw was a shadow moving at the mouth of the alley. Short. Silent. Already gone.

  Then nothing.