Copyright © 2024 by Quinn Cameron

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Contents

  1. Hungover

  2. The Job

  3. Dirty Thirty

  4. Gang’s All Here

  5. Time Out

  6. Tat, Too

  7. Ride to Nowhere

  8. Initiation

  9. Under Arrest

  10. Capitol Importance

  11. In Processing

  12. Behavioral Correction

  13. Visiting Hours

  14. Peace Talks

  15. The Doctor’s In

  16. Strike Two

  17. Payback’s a Bitch

  18. Negotiations

  19. Solitary

  20. Legally Speaking

  21. Break Out

  22. Left Behind

  23. On Trial

  24. Guilty Until…

  25. We, the Jury

  26. Now Hiring

  27. Application Denied

  28. Aftermath

  29. Unlikely Ally

  30. Out to Brunch

  31. Shake On It

  1

  Hungover

  The headache pounded like a fist inside my skull. Whatever demons I’d tried to drown in liquor last night had survived and were ready for another round.

  Gummy eyelids opened, first one then the other, and I peered out. I lay on the floor of a bathroom, wedged between the toilet and the wall. My legs were pinned and numb, my face was slicked with drool, and every inch of me was cold.

  The lights were off—a blessing—but I could discern the shape of the pedestal sink and claw-footed bathtub, and the bare-chested man standing overhead. Nicholas Nash’s red hair was mussed, and the sheets had pressed wrinkles into his face. He must have been out as hard as I had been and was no more pleased to be awake, judging by his grimace.

  “Fitch,” he groaned, “why the hell did you set an eight o’clock alarm?”

  I must have missed the steady beeping with the migraine infecting my brain, but I heard it now. Growing louder and pulsing with the bright flashing of the screen Nash turned toward me.

  “Shut it off and come back to bed.” He tossed the cell to land on the tile. “All I can do is snooze the damn thing.”

  Squinting, I scooped up the phone from where it buzzed against the floor. Fingerprint recognition silenced the squawking alarm and restored quiet. Both Nash and I sighed relief before he wandered back into the adjoining bedroom.

  Attempting to sit unfolded my knees to a flurry of fire ant bites. Blood rushed in and brought pain, and I let out a low groan. Memories of programming the alarm were distant and vague. I was supposed to be somewhere today. Early.

  Checking my cell’s cracked screen showed the time: 8:22. Below that, a calendar reminder contained relevant information. East Side Tower. Floor 10. 8:40 AM.

  I had an appointment in eighteen minutes, and to say it was a matter of life and death was no exaggeration.

  My feet tingled with protest as I worked my way onto all fours. I half-crawled, half-dragged myself onto the scrubby carpet of the bedroom.

  A sliver of sunlight cut across the floor, illuminating ornate wooden furniture including a four-poster bed. The sounds of soft snoring reminded me of the third person who had joined Nash and me in last night’s tryst. Pulling myself up to the footboard, I found Nash reposed with his arm draped across his eyes and a brunette woman sprawled beside him. Her lacy black lingerie paired nicely with the Sharpie scribble across her cleavage, barely legible as F. Farrow. My autograph.

  Tempted as I was to crawl into the nest of sheets between them, I had places to be, and an appointment that wouldn’t wait for hangovers or post-coital cuddles.

  Another search of the bedroom found discarded clothes in piles. Some mine; some not. I moved away from the bed on my knees, making slow progress through the garments scattered across the floor. I found my jeans first and shimmied into them, then belly-crawled to the next heap of clothing to search for my shirt. Sitting up to tug it over my head brought a wave of nausea that laid me back flat.

  Get it together, Fitch. You’re a professional. Act like it.

  Fumbling with my phone again, I flipped to the camera function and switched it to forward-facing. When my image appeared on the screen, I cringed. Dark shadows ringed my hazel eyes and my hair lay flat on one side from where it had been pressed against the bathroom wall. That was besides the chapped lips and days-old stubble—to most, a five o’clock shadow, but puberty passed me over in the body hair department.

  A second attempt to sit brought success. I ran my tongue around my mouth. How was everything so damn dry? I’d guzzled half the bar last night. I should have been hydrated as hell.

  The rustling of sheets drew my attention to Nash swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He scrubbed his hands over his bearded cheeks.

  “Why are you getting dressed?” he asked.

  “I’m late,” I mumbled despite my uncooperative tongue.

  He frowned. “It’s too early to be late.” My weary glare served as response enough, and prompted him to ask, “Late for what?”

  Awareness of my assignment filtered slowly into my mind. “There’s a meeting. With a vote. Some guy’s gonna vote yes. Grimm doesn’t want him to vote at all.” I raised both hands in a grandiose gesture to myself. “Which is where I come in.”

  There was more to it, of course. Grimm had waxed poetic about the motion to open the city gates; to burst our bubble of a world and satisfy the curiosity of the human public. Witches had been billed as society’s bad guys since the Salem trials. We’d achieved an unsteady peace by giving humans every assurance and agreeing to their every demand. That was my boss’s perspective, anyway, and the platform of the terrorist group known as the Bloody Hex. Since I was a member of that elite bunch of brutes, it was my opinion, too. For official purposes, at least.

  Nash folded his arms across his broad torso. With the muscles, tattoos, and a full, ginger beard, he was missing only his trademark plaid shirt to be the embodiment of my lumberjack fantasies.

  He sighed. “Where are you supposed to find ‘this guy?’”

  “Downtown,” I answered, rubbing my eyes. “East Side Tower.”

  He let out a mad cackle. “Those snooty execs will never let you in. You’ve gotta put on shoes, at least.”

  My eyes swam around the room. Velvet drapes curtained the balcony windows on the far wall, parted enough to show only a thin line of the brightness outside. Nash and the woman remained in bed, where I wished I could be and, in the corner beside the armoire, one of my boots sat upright.

  Damn. Why so far away?

  I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, and shook my hands loose, trying to stir the magic I’d put to bed along with my problems last night. I didn’t know what effect booze had on other witches’ power, but I’d learned years ago it knocked mine out cold.

  Mind-centered magic—telekinesis, in my case—was best wielded by those with great mental fortitude, self-control, and the inner peace of a Buddhist monk. Having been blessed with none of those qualities, I made do with self-loathing, bouts of rage, and an impressive tolerance for pain. Running any kind of machine with the wrong fuel was bound to cause problems, and my brain was no exception. Hence the need for whiskey when I’d exhausted all my other coping mechanisms.

  Rather than crawl across the room to retrieve the shoe, or God forbid walk, I stretched a hand toward it. The exertion made me grunt, grabbing the boot with all the mental power I could muster and dragging it toward me. Pain sparked in my temple like a static shock, and the boot slid forward an inch. Maybe two. Then it flopped over, the open side toward me like a mouth howling with laughter.

  “Need a little help?” Nash’s deadpan expression only increased my frustration.

  “No,” I muttered.

  More than footwear, I needed the little glass bottles the alchemist kept in his bedside table, like a hotel minibar stocked especially for me. I assumed it was for me because Nash rarely indulged in his own products. He probably got that out of his system before he met me, burned himself out on alcohol like anyone with unlimited access to something.

  Arriving at the door, I scrambled up the frame to stand at last. The headache took on a new beat, deep and steady, resounding down my brain stem.

  I staggered toward where Nash perched on the bed. He didn’t budge as I stumbled toward him, almost falling into his lap as I yanked open the drawer of the table beside him and dug through the contents. I found a notepad and pens, a journal, a bottle of aspirin, and a hand that shot past mine to retrieve something from the far recesses of the drawer.

  Nash pulled out a potion bottle and waggled it in my line of sight. When I reached for it, he swung his arm away.

  “You sure you can’t get a raincheck on this job?” he asked.

  My phone buzzed against my thigh with a reminder of the calendar event I couldn’t possibly have forgotten. “Vote today,” I replied. “If it passes, I’m fucked.”

  A hitman who couldn’t kill was like a bird dog that couldn’t hunt. Both were equally likely to end up dumped in the woods with a bullet in their brain.

  Nash’s eyes pinched. “Am I an enabler? Tell me the truth.”

  Rather than make a fool of myself wrestling the potion away from him, I let my head loll back
and groaned. “Nash, I don’t have time for your self-actualizing bullshit right now. Thanks for the fuck. Give me that go juice. I need to leave.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment before Nash huffed a breath. He pushed the bottle into my chest.

  Popping the cork, I raised the bottle in a one-sided toast before dumping its contents into my mouth. The immediate taste of gasoline made me gag. When I wheezed my next breath, it felt like I could spit fire.

  “That’s the good shit,” I grunted. Power sputtered in my skull, gargling like a choked motor.

  The flavor lingered, no less noxious than when it first hit my tongue. The headache seemed to subside, though. Less of an all-out attack on my gray matter and now a pressure that thrummed behind my eyes. Sleep called to me like a siren’s song, but all thoughts of rest took a backseat to my phone vibrating again.

  Out of time.

  The door to the hallway stood only a few feet away. Beyond it lay a spiral staircase I was convinced Nash put in for the sole purpose of watching me stumble down it on weekend mornings.

  The upstairs hall was bordered by a wall on one side and a wrought iron railing on the other. Peering over the edge gave me immediate vertigo, and I sucked a steeling breath. My hands wrapped around the metal rail as I used it to reel myself along.

  The stairs came like a roller coaster with all the feels and none of the thrills. I made it to the bottom and took a moment, clinging to the banister with both arms and one leg, before daring to stand upright.

  Something dropped from above and clunked onto the floor beside me with a one-two count. I leaped backward, dodging the items as they landed: a pair of scuffed black leather boots.

  “Wear your goddamned shoes!” Nash hollered from the second-floor railing.

  Stepping into them, I barely took the time to wave before rushing out of the building, still hungover and getting later by the minute. I may have looked like the white rabbit frantically checking his pocket watch, but I felt more like Alice tumbling headfirst into chaos.

  2

  The Job

  I’d visited the East Side Tower as a child, tagging after my father on one of his after-hours business meetings. I remembered being impressed by the building’s stature—the tallest in the city at eighteen stories. It boasted a fountain spewing an umbrella of water, windows that spanned every exterior wall, and it housed the offices of Maine’s executive elite. One of whom would be less than thrilled to see me, the angel of death, pulling up to the curb in a ‘90s model Porsche 911.

  The valet attendant waved from the check-in desk as I rolled to a stop beside him. My hand quivered as I moved it from the wheel to the gearshift, prompting a last-minute search through the cigarette butts in the center console to find one with some life left in it.

  No such luck.

  Grumbling, I yanked the keys from the ignition and swung the door wide, nearly taking the valet out at the knees. His smile flagged as I stepped out of the coupe, giving him a clear view of the car’s interior littered with fast-food wrappers and empty energy drink cans. If I’d had more time, I would have borrowed a less distinctive vehicle. But, with half-assed becoming the theme of the day, driving my personal car to a job seemed appropriate.

  The valet ripped the bottom off a claim tag and handed it to me. He told me to have a good day and even called me sir, though we must have been about the same age. Too bad I didn’t have any cash for a tip, especially with how hard the guy was trying to maintain his customer service cheer.

  Passing the water fountain, I glanced into the bottom bowl littered with pennies. Any coins I’d tossed in there when I was younger were long gone, along with the wishes about what I’d be when I grew up. As far back as I could remember, I’d been slated to join my father as a Capitol investigator. We shared the same magic, and he made a point of introducing me to every influential person he met. High hopes dashed, as I was here now doing the opposite of everything he taught me.

  I checked my phone’s clock. 8:51. That left me with nine minutes to find my target, assuming he wasn’t a go-getter who liked to show up early, and that the meeting didn’t kick off before its scheduled time.

  Entering the building, I was relieved to find no receptionist. The atrium was empty save for an elevator bay boasting six steel doors. Since the place opened at 8:00 AM, the employees had already arrived, and it was too early for lunch breaks. So, I found myself waiting alone by the elevator button panel, watching the numbers light as the car moved down.

  The sign beside me labeled the building’s occupants along with corresponding suite numbers. W. Reeves & Associates occupied the tenth floor.

  Warren Reeves. I’d done the barest amount of research on my mark—only enough to ensure I’d recognize the guy when I saw him. He was middle-aged and balding with a gut that hung over his belt. His nose had a bulb end, and his left cheek sported a misshapen liver spot. He was human, which made my job easier, and made it all the more interesting that he was weighing in on local tourism reform.

  Money must have been the motivator. But, if the city needed money, sell tickets. We could put on a hell of a show with aquamancers in pools like Sea World’s Shamu, conjurers pulling flower bouquets out of thin air, and who wouldn’t pay a necromancer for a legitimate séance with their dearly departed?

  The Capitol would never allow it; the risk was too great. God forbid we stirred a hair on a precious human head. Then they wouldn’t be convinced we witches were as tame as house cats. Like we weren’t killing each other daily in ways that would blow a mortal’s mind.

  Damn. I’d absorbed more of Grimm’s propaganda than I realized.

  I shook my head, stirring the buzzing pest of a migraine that seemed determined to cling on. It was along for the ride, apparently, since Nash’s hangover cure had fully kicked in by now.

  How long did I have to wait for the goddamned elevator?

  I was ready to search for a staircase when the steel door slid aside with a ding. I stepped inside, faced with a wall of mirrors which I turned rapidly away from. I needed no reminders of my disheveled state, though it may have been my saving grace if anyone on the building’s security team was watching the feed. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize me.

  The car rose smoothly to deposit me on the tenth floor. I exited into a large room arranged with cubicles and a central path leading to proper offices. Warren Reeves would be in the back. People in power tended to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their underlings.

  Cameras were mounted in the corners of the open area, not to mention webcams on every computer I passed on my way up the aisle. Workers swiveled to watch, prompting me to tuck both hands into my ripped jeans. My tattoos were a topic of conversation to even the most naïve, but the skull inked on the back of my left hand—a hallmark reserved for members of the Bloody Hex—gave away more than I could risk.

  Most of my jobs weren’t this public. I favored suburban residences and solitary corners of the city. But I’d missed my chance to reason with Warren in the privacy of his home, instead spending last night tangled up with Nash and some nameless brunette. Now Reeves’ murder and, by default, his murderer, would be on display.

  Grimm’s orders were always clear, but these were explicit. Send a message. A warning to those in favor of opening the borders. Not a hint some might fail to decipher. A big, bloody sign.

  Across the beehive of cubicles, the room funneled into a hall. Wooden doors with glass windowpanes let in light from outside and allowed passersby a slim view of each room. Names on brass plates identified the offices. My eyes flicked over them in turn, failing to find the one I sought until I turned the corner.

  The corridor formed an L-shape with a doorway on the left and a secondary hall on the right. The open doorway had the same sliver of a window and nameplate as the others, but this one belonged to Warren G. Reeves.

  So far, none of the suits had stirred from their offices, unbothered by my intrusion. Avoiding the notice of Reeves’s secretary wouldn’t be as simple. She manned a desk beyond the entry, preoccupied with the contents of her computer screen.

  Sucking a breath, I entered the small room. A bay of windows comprised the side wall, lined with houseplants. That meant Reeves’s inner sanctum was ahead, behind the door situated in the back corner. He must have had a nice view of the city from there. A third of the length of the building, if I were to guess.