“Let me guess.” He sighed. “I oughta see the other guys.”

  I shifted on the gurney. Every move made me wince. “Better if you don’t. Then you might believe me when I say I didn’t get my ass kicked.”

  He arched a brow. “Looks to me you got your face kicked, if anything.”

  He was British, judging by the accent. An intonation with the unique ability to make everything he said sound condescending as hell. He leaned in, poking at my busted nose.

  Pain surged and I recoiled, though there wasn’t far to go with the gurney pressed against my back.

  “Bet that smarts.” The doctor’s eyes crinkled. With contemplation or amusement, I couldn’t be sure.

  “You think?” I snapped.

  Since healers worked exclusively for the Capitol, the Bloody Hex had no access to them. I’d been put back together with sewing thread and super glue more times than I could count, and I was becoming more convinced by the second that I was as qualified to tend to myself as this guy was.

  The doctor turned to one of the wall cabinets and pulled out a lumpy leather bag. He set it on the tray table, then unzipped it and began rummaging through its contents.

  “What are we going to do about you, eh?” he asked. “Notorious villain Fitch Farrow bested by common criminals. Not great for your reputation, mate.”

  My reputation had taken a beating, all right, along with my pride. My gamble to eliminate the threat of Jax and his ilk had yielded less than optimal results. I wouldn’t be here now if I’d left him reeling with that cat scratch on his neck and ran out of the bathroom.

  I frowned. Neither Jax nor his cronies would have dared to challenge me outside of this powerless place. With magic at my disposal, I could crush them like empty soda cans. They knew that as well as I knew they’d make a go at me again. Why not? I’d given them no reason not to.

  “What was it about? Your little dust-up?” the doctor asked, rifling through his bag.

  I raised my tattooed hand. “Everybody wants to be famous.”

  He grunted in agreement. “That’s a constant problem, innit? Worse for you, I imagine, since you make it look so bloody glamorous.”

  My mouth twisted. “So I’ve been told.”

  The doctor produced a small stack of butterfly bandages and white cotton packing to pile on the tray table.

  Eyeing the supplies, I asked, “What’s the prognosis, doc?”

  “You’ll live.” He pulled a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his coveralls and started putting them on.

  Suddenly far more interesting than the conversation, or the specifics of the doctor’s gloomy aesthetic, was the tattoo on the back of his hand: a thorny skull I would have known anywhere.

  “What the fuck is that?” I asked.

  He looked up. It was hard to be sure with the mask obscuring most of his face, but he seemed surprisingly young. Waifish and close to Donovan’s age, if I were to guess. But appearances could be deceiving when magic was involved.

  He stopped with one glove on, and his bicolored eyes dropped to the tattoo now on display. “Well, would you look at that?” he said with mocking awe. “When did that get there?”

  I pushed myself upright on the gurney, unsure if I should prepare for another fight or if I’d finally found one of those friends Clyde mentioned. No, not just a friend. Grimm didn’t dole out Hex marks like hand stamps at the county fair. They were exclusive to gang members only. A very select few.

  “How’d you get that?” I asked the doctor.

  Heaving a breath, he resumed tugging on the gloves. “Same way anybody does.”

  “You’re in the Bloody Hex?” I sputtered. “What’s your name? Why don’t I know you?”

  He loosed the medical mask to swing from one ear, giving me a good look at his face. “Name’s Ripley Vaughn,” he replied. “And you did know me, but it’s been some years since then.”

  My mouth hung open, full of questions but unsure which to ask first. I looked him over again. Teenaged. With hollow cheeks and pale skin. That, combined with the edgy haircut, made him a poster boy for Goth culture. The prison-issued coveralls must have been really cramping his style.

  But wait. Grimm sent his message for this kid? Was he going to replace me with a younger model like I wasn’t still in my prime? And what did this Ripley Vaughn character even do? A healer? Hardly an even swap. Like filling the void left by our resident bloodsucker with my powerless brother. Our so-called fearless leader was making some questionable decisions of late.

  “But you already have the mark.” My thoughts found their way to voice. “So, you’re already in? I thought it was just five of us.”

  “It’s called the Bloody Hex, mate,” Ripley replied. “Hex as in six. You just put that together?” His incredulous look made me scowl, and he huffed a laugh before continuing.

  “I hate to say so, but Grimm was right about you. You turned out every bit the show pony he thought you’d be. Just what the gang needed to save itself from extinction.”

  My confusion must have shown despite my busted face because he explained.

  “The Capitol was hot on our asses back then, closing in. Then there you were. The lynchpin.” His features darkened, suddenly severe. “How’d it feel to save the very thing that should’ve killed you?”

  I shook my head, stirring fresh pain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Or maybe I did. Fallen investigators framed on the wall of the Investigative Department, thirty strings tattooed on my fingers, and that wasn’t counting Jacoby Thatcher. It was Grimm’s agenda, I’d told Donovan. He pointed, and I shot.

  Like an attack dog? The memory of Holland’s accusation stirred resentment anew.

  “Don’t feign ignorance for my sake,” Ripley said, tugging on the second glove. “I killed for him, too.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” I asked. “Because of Grimm?”

  Ripley shook his head. “Not in the way you think. Now, hold still.” He bent forward and placed his hands on my cheeks.

  I fought the urge to jerk back as he situated one thumb on either side of my nose. He pressed in, and pain stabbed into my skull, building to a crunching click.

  Something moved.

  I yelped.

  Both eyes watered, blinding me. I tasted blood and felt it, too, though the flow was staunched by the cotton packing the doctor stuffed hastily into both nostrils.

  He stepped back, peeling off the latex gloves. “Better?”

  “No!” I blinked, teary and beset with heat throbbing between my eyes. “Fuck.”

  He squinted at my face, then nodded. “It’s better.”

  Turning toward the tray and his doctor’s bag, he dug into the pile of medical miscellany. When he rounded on me again, he held a shiny, silver tool.

  A scalpel flashed in the light, deadly sharp. He swung it toward my throat.

  I raised a hand, but no power accompanied the motion. Cold panic washed over me. I would have cursed if I hadn’t been so focused on holding my breath as the scalpel blade hovered too near my skin.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Don’t squirm,” he hissed. “I’ve just mopped.”

  Not a fan of the Hippocratic oath, apparently. But, if he wanted to flay me open, he would have already done it. Scalpels were whisper sharp. I’d have been gurgling blood before I could blink. Those small assurances didn’t convince me to relax or to draw less careful breaths.

  “Why’d you fix my face if you were gonna kill me?” I asked.

  “I’m a doctor,” he replied. “And this way you’ll look pretty in your casket.” He bent in, showing the nearest thing I’d seen to a smile.

  I suddenly understood the welcome back offer. Ripley Vaughn was not like any healer I’d met, but he was exactly the kind Grimm would want around.

  “Whoa, whoa, wait.” Words tumbled out. “Why are you doing this? Was it something I said?”

  “You asked if I’m here because of Grimm. Answer’s no.” He shook his head, unsettling drippy black locks. “I was willing to go down and take the whole bloody gang with me. But that didn’t happen. Not then. With you gone, it might be possible now.”

  My lips curled with disdain. “You turned coat on the Hex? Then why the fuck do they want you back?”

  He sniffed. “Who said they want me back?”

  “I’m the messenger, but it came from the top.”

  If Grimm thought I was reckless, how did he justify extending an olive branch to a self professed traitor? Maybe he thought Ripley had a change of heart during his incarceration, but everything I’d seen pointed to the contrary.

  “Sorry to say they sent you on a fool’s errand. I want no part of the Bloody Hex.” Ripley kept the scalpel aimed at my throat while I pressed back harder against the padded gurney.

  “What about jail?” I asked. “Do you want to get out of jail? They’re going to break me out. You, too.”

  “How are they going to do that?” His eyes narrowed.

  “I’m not sure yet, but—”

  “When?”

  “Soon.” I floundered for a reply. “I’ve got a court date—”

  “I know.”

  “So, before then.”

  Inmates milled outside, and I found myself wishing they would look in here. It might have been too much to hope they would intervene and not start cheering my demise.

  “You’re lying,” Ripley said.

  My head gave the slightest wiggle. “No. No, I’m not.” Not entirely. “Look, they gave me something for you. It’s…” I moved carefully, trying to slide a hand into my pocket without brushing against the unrelenting scalpel. “Hold on,” I muttered. “I swear, I’ve got it.”

  The cameo necklace the guard had passed me seemed a strange self-defense, but I was getting nowhere with my negotiation skills alone.

  My fingers found the ribbon, now wet with shower water, and pulled. I lifted the jewelry like raw meat dangled in front of a hungry animal.

  One glance at it set Ripley upright. He tossed the scalpel into his medical bag, then snatched the necklace from my grasp. I expelled a long-held breath, touching my fingers to my neck in a check for blood.

  Finding none, I sat up and swung my legs off the bed. The movement jostled my injured ribs, making me wince.

  Ripley turned away and stood, staring down at the cameo. Finally, he looked at me with such disgust I thought he might spit venom. “Get out.” He stabbed a finger toward the open door. “Don’t come back.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice.

  16

  Strike Two

  “Real shitty, is how it went.”

  Another twenty-four hours had ticked away. My face ached, and my floating ribs were floating more freely than usual, yet the countdown continued. I’d avoided common areas the rest of last night while considering what I would do when Jax and his tagalongs struck again. If he wanted my Hex mark, then he, too, was pressed for time. If he didn’t kill me, the Capitol would, and he could kiss his ticket into the Bloody Hex goodbye.

  “Was it that bad?” Donovan frowned from the other side of the visitation barrier.

  “Dude pulled a scalpel and threatened to flay me open. It was pretty bad.”

  “Is that what happened to your nose?” Donovan asked.

  My nose was swollen and stained about five shades of red that spread into purple shadows under both eyes. But getting jumped in the showers was a topic I’d passed over in favor of discussing my run-in with Ripley Vaughn.

  “Also, he works in the infirmary, but I don’t think he’s a healer at all.” I rushed ahead, pretending I didn’t hear my brother’s question. “Do you know anything else about him?”

  Donovan shook his head. “Not really, no.”

  “Well, it’s a nonstarter.” I held the phone gingerly against my swollen cheek. “‘A fool’s errand.’ His words. Did I mention he’s British? Pretentious asshole.”

  “Did you give him the necklace?”

  A laugh rattled pain through my chest. “Sure did. Didn’t help a bit. Where’d it come from, anyway?”

  “Vinton,” Donovan replied. “He’s got a new zombie following him around. I’m not supposed to know about it, but I’ve seen her in the halls. I think it’s hers.”

  His face showed a sudden sickly pallor, which I understood. Vinton with a zombie was like one of those creepy kids that tortures animals. Pathological.

  “Weird,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  Time for a change of subject, and apparently Donovan thought the same because he said, “Nash asked about you.”

  “Nosey bastard.” A smile tipped my lips. “Even in prison he wants to be in the middle of my business. Tell him my cellmate’s a fucking colossus, and I’m giving him my body in exchange for protection.”

  Donovan recoiled. “Wait, seriously?”

  “No, but you should tell him that anyway. It’ll be good for a laugh.”

  It might have been funny to me, but my brother remained somber.

  I cleared my throat. “How’s the… Capitol work going? How’s the boss handling having his own boss?”

  Of all the things I’d missed during my incarceration, hearing the details of Grimm’s days spent kissing Maximus Lyle’s ass was the most regrettable.

  Donovan glanced at the guard holding up the wall behind him, then replied in a hushed voice, “He’s gone a lot. I guess it’s good. He says things are on track.”

  “Speaking of things being on track…” I cupped a hand over the receiver. “When might I expect a more productive visit? From everybody? Six days till the trial, you know.”

  Shadows crossed my brother’s face. “Yeah, I know.”

  He looked more composed than he’d been a couple days ago, but only marginally. It occurred to me that, despite his initiation being on hold, other things could be happening outside my notice. Since our parents’ deaths, I’d never been away from my brother this long. When we were kids, I didn’t trust him alone with the other guys. Part of me still didn’t.

  “What’s the matter, Donnie?”

  “Gr—” He caught himself and scowled. “He’s obsessed with the Ripley Vaughn thing. Says there won’t be a ‘visit’ at all unless Vaughn’s on board.”

  Anger prickled down my arms, drawing my hands into fists. “That’s bullshit. Why does he have anything to do with this? I’m the one with my head on the chopping block.”

  Donovan’s features pinched. “I know that, Fitch. I get it, okay?” He looked away, mulling over words before speaking at last. “That’s the deal, though. No Vaughn, no visit.”

  “Did they tell you he’s a fucking rat?” I stabbed a finger against the tabletop. “That’s why he’s in here. He tried to roll over on the gang, and it didn’t pan out.”

  Because of me. The lynchpin. Was that true?

  A heavy breath whooshed through the phone’s earpiece. Donovan slumped in his chair. “No, they didn’t say any of that,” he muttered.

  A hand tapped my shoulder. Guard butting in, always at the worst moment. “Outta time, inmate.”

  I shrugged him away. “Fuck off.”

  Fingers sunk in, tipping my chair onto its back legs so I was looking up at the grizzled guard. “Say that again, and I’ll send your ass back to the infirmary,” he said.

  My tongue snaked across my lips. It was bad enough I had to cower like a kicked dog in this place, worse for my brother to see it.

  The guard shoved the chair upright where it hit the floor with enough force to rock me forward. My ankle chain rattled.

  “Hang it up,” the guard said.

  I couldn’t look at Donovan, too focused on keeping my simmering rage from boiling over. The handset dropped onto the table with a clunk, and I stood.

  When I turned away, a knock on the Plexiglas prompted me to glance back at my brother. He stood, too, holding his phone and pressing the other hand in a fist against the clear barrier. Tears glistened in his dark eyes.

  He was mouthing something inaudible until I snatched up the receiver and put it to my ear.

  “Hey, Fitch?” His voice was thick, fighting back a sob.

  The guard swiped at the phone, but I sidestepped him. The cord pulled taut.

  “You’re gonna be okay, right?” Donovan asked. “You’ll figure this out?”

  My stomach flopped like a dying fish.

  I locked my gaze on his, then gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

  The guard made another grab for the phone, I thought, until he caught a clump of my hair instead. He jerked back, pulling me against his chest and barring his baton across my throat. The phone fell away, swinging near the floor.

  More pounding on the glass. I squeezed my eyes closed.

  “Talk dirty to me, Daddy,” I growled at the guard.

  The baton cracked into my jaw.

  Swearing, I raised my hands. Keeping my feet under me proved a struggle with the chair legs tangling in my ankle chain. Not such a problem since the guard was determined to haul me out of there, even if that meant carrying me by the nightstick hooked under my chin.

  He waited till we got to the hall outside to let me drop onto the slick, linoleum floor.

  I hacked a breath and rolled over to see him standing over me with his baton at the ready. Waiting for an excuse to use it as more than a choke chain.

  My teeth clenched. “Real boss energy here. Definitely doesn’t feel like you’re compensating for something.” Angling my eyes toward his crotch, I bounced my brows.

  “That’s a strike, inmate,” he replied. “Makes two for you.”

  I huffed a breath and worked my way to standing—a challenging task with only a dozen inches of chain linking my ankles.

  “What happens on strike three?” I asked once I was upright. “Do I get to go back to the dugout?”

  The guard grunted. “Sure. You can warm the bench in solitary, smartass.”