York mumbled something unintelligible while lying back, holding his face. His jaw hung unhinged below the cover of his hand.

  At last, Ripley Vaughn bustled in with a brown paper fast food bag and a surprised expression.

  “Looks like you lot had a tussle,” he said to the trio on the gurneys. When he spotted me, his eyes narrowed. “And you’re back.”

  He set his food on top of a low cabinet. The smell of a griddled hamburger wafted to my nose, and my stomach twinged in response. The few bites of mac and cheese had barely curbed my appetite, and I was nearly willing to spork out my own eye if it would get me a bite of whatever was in that bag.

  “I didn’t know traitors got takeout,” I told the doctor. “Was that part of your deal? Tell the Capitol everything they want to know about the Hex, and you don’t have to eat the shit they serve in the cafeteria?”

  He wore the black paper mask again, but I didn’t need to see his expression to hear his scorn as he replied, “Wait your turn to speak, or I’ll feed you to this one.” He moved alongside the gurney where Jax writhed. “He eats people, you know.”

  Which explained the bad breath and pointy teeth.

  The lamps hummed overhead as I looked around the cramped room. An antiquated autoclave rested on a rolling cart, a small effort at sanitization in the otherwise grimy space. Locks on the cabinets hoped to keep junkies out, which meant there were better things to be had in this place than nicotine patches. Making nice with the ex-Hex member may have had fringe benefits I hadn’t considered.

  Ripley turned toward his patient for inspection. All I could see of Jax’s face was a thick mask of blood. His wounded eye sunk in the middle of it like a lava pit: red and bubbling. The spork handle barely protruded. Too bad it hadn’t punctured his pea-sized brain.

  “Bloody hell,” Ripley groaned. “What’s happened to you?”

  “That piece of shit blinded me, Rip.” Jax aimed a trembling hand toward where I sat.

  Ripley followed the indication to me. “The same piece of shit you jumped in the showers yesterday?”

  Jax nodded, and the doctor joined in agreement.

  “Then you’ve learned a valuable lesson. Always finish what you start.”

  “I’ll finish it.” Jette tugged again on her restraints. The blood had begun to dry on her face like warpaint paired with her mohawk.

  Did anyone in this prison not want me dead? I was used to having a target on my back—or my hand, in this case—but I was also used to having the gang’s support. I would have had Ripley’s support now if he wasn’t a turncoat coward.

  “Hey, Jax,” I called over. “If you want a Hex mark so bad, you should take the good doctor’s. He’s not using it.”

  Both men glowered at me. Ripley stepped away from the bedside and walked quickly to my seat.

  “Children who can’t behave themselves can wait outside.” He grabbed the back of my chair and dragged it across the linoleum floor.

  “Children?” I retorted. “How old are you? Like fifteen?”

  He could have been as aged as Grimm and the others, but few witches chose to stop time in their teens. Stuck looking like gangly puppies. It was the worst stage of life.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see where we were headed. Besides the entry, I’d seen one other door. Likely a storage closet, and one we rapidly approached now.

  “Hell, no.” I planted my feet, but the flat-soled slip-ons that passed for shoes in this place failed to slow our progress.

  The door opened and Ripley hauled me across the threshold, then spun the chair around and dropped it. The metal legs settled with simultaneous thunks.

  Standing in front of me, he slid the mask down to his chin and spoke. “I have work to do, and patients who need me. You look fine, so you can wait. Nice work, though. A much better showing than last time. I doubt they’ll bother you anymore.”

  I didn’t tell him that no one would bother me where I was going next. I was too distracted by the room I found myself in. Not a closet at all, but rather a modified prison cell. Instead of bars, it had walls. Instead of a creaky bunkbed, a single cot. The same toilet and sink but, where Clyde’s desk occupied one wall of our cell, this space had a kitchenette complete with a hot plate and electric kettle.

  I gave a low whistle. “Nice digs for a rat.”

  He stared at me, deadpan. “You can come off your high horse anytime. I gave up everything to be here.”

  Considering I was currently doing everything I could to get out of this awful place, I couldn’t fathom choosing to live like this.

  “Was it worth it?” I asked. “I’d think not since the gang’s stronger than ever.”

  Was I trying to convince him to rejoin the Hex? Or to hate me more than he already did?

  He didn’t look angry, though. Instead, alarmingly tranquil. “I can sleep at night. Sit in quiet with my own thoughts. Can you?”

  Even the seconds of silence following his question made me itch, which proved answer enough.

  “Sit tight.” He tugged up his mask. “Don’t touch my stuff. I’ll be back.”

  He seemed less interested in murdering me today, a plus, but I hadn’t begun to broach the subject of his return to the gang. And I wasn’t inclined to wait while he patched up Jax and his minions.

  When Ripley stepped past me, I chased him with a question. “I notice you aren’t wearing your necklace. Not your color or something?”

  He stopped beside me. In profile, I saw his mouth twist. “You would do well to stay out of situations you don’t understand.”

  “Then help me understand,” I replied.

  A heavy breath escaped him, leaving his bone-thin frame looking even hollower. He pushed the door closed and moved back, lowering the mask to face me squarely.

  “You know as well as anyone that you take orders from a cruel man. You should also know his brutality is not limited to your experiences. He makes everyone around him suffer at one time or another.”

  His eyes fixed on mine, steady and calm. I almost wished for the return of the scalpel-wielding psycho I’d met yesterday. Crazy was easier to grapple with than the unnerving calm before me now.

  “That necklace belonged to a young woman who suffered unspeakably at Grimm’s hands,” Ripley continued. “For years, I did everything I could to protect her, and my weakness was exploited over and again until it became clear I could not save her.”

  Vinton’s new zombie? Was she the same girl Ripley spoke of now? None of the guys kept women around. Too risky, I’d been told. Was this why?

  “It was because of you that I finally accepted my failure,” Ripley said. “What Grimm did to Maggie and I? That was his plan for you and your brother. History repeats itself.”

  My stomach twinged again, but not from hunger this time. What were Grimm’s plans for Donovan? Throwing him into the gang was like dumping chum into water. Bound to draw sharks.

  I hoped my growing concern didn’t show on my face as I asked, “What happened to her? Maggie?”“She died.” He looked aside, studying the floor. “And I believe that was the kindest fate she could have hoped for.”

  Heaviness settled on me. Like the magic dampeners in the prison had cranked up a few notches, or maybe it was the weight of guilt by association. Did Ripley wonder where I got the necklace? Or how Vinton pilfered it off a dead girl’s corpse?

  “What about your brother?” Ripley asked, stirring me from contemplation. “Donovan, was it? How is he?”

  I paused. “He… he’s dead, too.”

  Something in the doctor’s frown made it clear he knew I was lying. He didn’t call me on it, though. Instead, he grunted and replied, “Better for both of you that way. I’d hate to think you’ve been stuck in the same trap I was, martyring yourself for the sake of someone else’s wellbeing.”

  I wasn’t a martyr, though. It wasn’t as dramatic as that. I was just a concerned older sibling who saw the writing on the wall.

  “Listen, Ripley,” I said quickly. “I think I know something about your girl. Unless there was more than one of those necklaces.”

  He huffed a breath. “It’s a fake, I assure you. Manipulation is a game I’m no longer interested in playing. And, if you’re going to ask me again to rejoin the Bloody Hex, don’t bother. My answer hasn’t changed.”

  A wail from the infirmary commanded his attention and he brushed past me, reaching for the doorknob.

  “Vinton has a zombie,” I blurted.

  His fingers retracted, curling into a fist. “For how long?”

  I shook my head. “Couple days, maybe? I haven’t seen her. Just… heard.”

  There was something too familiar about all of this. Something recognizable in another man’s admission of defeat at Grimm’s hands. It looked like my future—maybe even my present—while I played an integral part in the manipulation game I’d been a victim of more times than I could count.

  Ripley looked down at me. Rage and sorrow were at war in his mismatched eyes. “If you’re lying—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then I have no choice.”

  Relief brought levity I desperately needed. Then I felt guilty for that, too.

  “Tell me where I need to be and when,” Ripley said.

  “I will. As soon as I know.”

  He gave a curt nod, exiting to the infirmary and leaving me sitting in his cell, thinking.

  Maggie the zombie was bait in a trap. Ripley must have known that as well as I did. His return under duress was the furthest thing from what I’d originally thought. I wasn’t being replaced at all. But he wasn’t being welcomed back, either. If anything, I may have been leading him to slaughter.

  The knowledge put a damper on what should have been a celebratory moment. But I could revel in my success later when I told Donovan the good news.

  It wasn’t until the guards returned to escort me to Seg that I had an entirely new revelation. Did prisoners in isolation get visitors?

  19

  Solitary

  Twelve years earlier

  The duct tape fell off my mouth the second time I puked. I’d called for help until the men outside pounded on the door and told me to shut up. It was night and they were trying to sleep. How would I know? It was near black in this cramped, hot closet. The water heater hissed and its blue flame flickered, thickening the air and soaking me with sweat.

  I huddled in the corner, my pajamas crusty with blood and piss. I hadn’t dared to ask to go to the bathroom, just curled up and cried until my eyes burned.

  Behind my back, my wrists were bound with the same tape that pinned my legs and ankles together. I couldn’t have stood if I tried or even wanted to. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  Beyond the heavy, metal door, the men were awake, and arguing—all they did was argue—about me.

  “He oughtn’t be here,” someone said. The British guy, I’d heard him before. Always cranky and speaking in a low voice like he’d rather not talk at all. “It’s no place for children, Grimm. It’s no life for a boy—”

  “He earned his admittance fair and square,” another man, probably Grimm, replied. “You know the rules, Vaughn.”

  My eyelids dragged open and closed like sandpaper. Everything hurt. My arms and shoulders, my feet and legs. My hands were the worst at the beginning—puffy and aching with building pressure. I’d worried my fingers might split open like overcooked hot dogs. Now they didn’t feel anything at all.

  “To hell with the rules. And all this nonsense.” The British guy snorted. “Are you going to leave him to bake in that hot box? It’s been two days. Whatever you’re about to do, get bloody on with it.”

  Two days? It felt like forever. I wanted to go home, but what would I find there? I’d been dragged away kicking and screaming, but I’d seen enough to know that my family was gone. There was no one to go home to.

  Approaching feet scraped the cold, concrete floor. The door opened and light poured in, blurring my vision with black and bright sparks. I pressed against the wall, crushing my dead hands.

  A silhouette appeared in the doorway, standing over me. Before I could make out his face, I saw another man hanging back. Not a man at all. A scrawny high schooler in black clothes, only a few years older than me. He watched with wary eyes, one dark and the other solid white, staring until the shadow before me spoke again.

  “Make yourself scarce, Ripley. I’d like to speak with our newest member alone.”

  I tried to shout, but my voice made no sound as the teen sauntered off.

  I was left with Grimm, whose features gained definition as he crouched before me. Shoulder-length hair framed his bearded face. He smiled.

  “Fitch Farrow, is it?” he asked. “We weren’t introduced.”

  My lips quivered, wordless. I didn’t want to make him angry. Didn’t want the door to close and trap me in the hot, sweaty darkness with dirty clothes and bad memories. So, I nodded.

  Grimm’s smile broadened, flashing teeth. “You’re a killer, you know that? Murdered one of my best men.”

  He leaned in as I cringed away.

  “I don’t blame you.” Grimm chuckled. “I’m not even mad. I’m impressed. And I’d like to see if you can do it again.”

  “What?” The word croaked out. I shook my head, slumping into the wall when dizziness struck with force.

  The man’s chuckle swelled into a laugh as he stood. I stayed on the floor, squinting at his shadowy face.

  “You want me to… kill people?” The whisper clawed up my throat, followed by a cough that stung sharp. I tasted blood and my eyes pulsed with heat.

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” Grimm said in a sing-song voice. “You take a life; I’ll give you one back.”

  I gaped up at him, silent.

  “How would you like to see your brother again?” he asked.

  It could have been a lie. Bad men were known to lie, and I knew for a fact these were bad men. But, if my brother had somehow survived, I would do anything to keep him with me.

  My eyes flew open to the brick wall that now defined my existence. A box made of stone and mortar, six by six feet, steeped in dirt like a coffin. I wasn’t dead, but I was beginning to wish I was.

  The lights never turned off. No one came or went. The only way to measure the passage of time was by the arrival of meal trays, I assumed three times daily. It felt foolish to think food had been my biggest complaint a few days ago. Now, withdrawal was my worst enemy. I hadn’t realized a prison stint would double as forced rehab. I didn’t want to quit drinking or smoking, but patches weren’t offered to isolation inmates, and it was hard to bum a cigarette from the cockroaches that occasionally scurried by. I’d tried.

  I stood, staggered by the nightmare hanging on. I could thank Ripley Vaughn for that. In my younger years, my entry into the Bloody Hex had been the cause of many sleepless nights. I’d outgrown it, or thought I had until the unexpected reunion with the former Hex member brought the past to my present mind.

  I remembered him in very brief flashes. Enough to believe everything he’d told me. Enough to worry about Grimm’s plans for him and Maggie because the line between the fate of Vinton’s new zombie and my kid brother was far too thin.

  But there was nothing I could do about any of that because I’d counted five days’ worth of meal deliveries so far, and all signs indicated they planned to leave me in this hellhole until the trial. No telling Donovan the good news or waiting for the Bloody Hex to raise Cain in this place. Mine was a slow march to the guillotine. Marionette would be put down in his prime, and the press would make bank selling pictures of my decapitated corpse lying bloody on the Capitol’s stage.

  Bile surged in my throat, but I choked it back down. I’d been doing that a lot lately.

  Rubbing a hand across my eyes, I surveyed my too-familiar surroundings. The cell was bare save for a slab of wood hanging from the wall and a toilet I’d considered as an escape route more than once.

  I would have killed for a hamster wheel to run around on or a scratching post where I could stretch out.

  Jokes aside, I would kill for much less.

  My mind circled back to Ripley’s statement about sleeping at night and being at peace with his thoughts. Smug bastard. I had devils on both shoulders and the ghosts of thirty-one murder victims who made a sport of haunting me.

  Vinton did a séance with me years ago. Real necromancer shit, not the scams charlatans sold on daytime TV. I’d only killed about ten people then, but seeing them all, hearing them screaming at me, surrounding me, while Vinton cackled like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen... I didn’t sleep for days.

  Scuffling in the hallway outside drew my notice. The tray from lunch sat untouched beside the steel slab of a door. Peanut butter and jelly on stale bread with a bruised banana as a side.

  They didn’t usually collect dishes until the next meal was delivered—I’d learned nothing in five days if not the schedule of this place—so curiosity lured me closer. I got belly-low on the stone floor, my face inches from the metal plate at the foot of the door that allowed food to pass in and out. I’d caught glimpses of the guards that way. Boots and legs were the nearest thing to human contact in this desolate place.

  Someone approached, walking without stopping, and getting closer with every step.

  Anticipation drummed up my heart’s rhythm. Anything out of the ordinary was enough to hold my attention rapt. Paint drying could have been an Olympic sport these days.

  The unseen someone stopped outside. Metal clanged and clattered, then the door slid open.

  The guard stood before me, looking straight ahead. He must have expected to find me upright or on the bed until my hasty retreat drew his gaze.

  I’d rehearsed this. I had a grand plan. The door would open and, when it did, I would tackle the guard at the knees and take them to the floor. Get my hands on their baton and bash it against their skull until… until…

  In fantasy, my brain supplied images of broken bones, slick pooling blood, and exposed gray matter. In reality, I fell onto my back and raised both hands in cowardly surrender.