The guard stared only a moment before grunting a gruff command. “Get up.”

  My mind raced. Were they sending me back to gen pop? Or was a courtroom in my immediate future?

  I stood, so wracked with nerves that my whole body shivered, while the guard produced a length of chain. He looped it around my waist and attached a pair of handcuffs, then clapped those onto my wrists. Leg cuffs completed the ensemble, and the guard waved for me to follow as he exited the cell.

  Going somewhere new, or maybe this was standard fare for problematic inmates. I tagged along, overeager, and giddily grateful to see anything beyond the isolation box.

  My eyes swam around the space, taking everything in as it passed. Cell doors lined both sides of the walkway, all closed tight. Without windows or signs on the walls, I wondered how they knew who occupied each room, or if they cared.

  The hallway stretched sixty feet or more. My pulse kept a rapid tempo, bringing breaths just as quickly until I caught sight of a dark puddle leaking from under a dented cell door. Cooled, coagulating blood.

  The guard kept walking. I thought he didn’t notice the liquid pooling into our path, but then he sidestepped so purposefully it was obvious he saw and chose to ignore it.

  He didn’t pause or even glance back, trusting me to follow. Which I did.

  When we neared the end of the passage, I found my voice at last. “Where are we going?”

  “You have a visitor,” he replied.

  Donnie?

  I didn’t dare hope.

  We rounded the corner and approached an open doorway, the first I’d seen that didn’t lead to a jail cell. Inside was an interrogation room identical to the one I’d seen when Holland Lyle last graced me with her presence. And there she stood now, her forehead creased and arms crossed in a rigid pose.

  “Oh fuck, it’s you,” I groaned.

  Holland managed a tight smile. “Hello again, Fitch.”

  The guard indicated the chair on my side of the wide metal table. The rail across its middle proved superfluous with my hands already shackled to my waist. When I sat, though, the guard grabbed the cuffs attached to the table and clipped them onto my belly chain.

  I pitched back to frown up at him. “Who do you think I am? Fucking Houdini?” I rattled the restraints in protest.

  True to form, the guard didn’t reply. He slipped silently out the door to leave me alone with Holland.

  Still standing, the investigator appeared pensive. I envied the sunglasses giving her the ability to discreetly stare, but she wasn’t very sneaky about it now. I hadn’t been let out to shower since the cafeteria fight, and I could tell she was inspecting me from my cheese sauce-ratted hair to my bloodstained coveralls.

  At last, she sat. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a few times before asking, “How are you holding up? You look—”

  “Like I’ve been sleeping on a wood board for the past five days?” I interjected. “Trapped under a nonstop spotlight like a lab specimen? Surviving on the shit they sweep off the cafeteria floor?”

  Heat singed my face. Anger. At her, at Grimm, mostly at myself. I’d passed the denial stage of grieving while staring at the walls in the isolation cell. After this came bargaining, which may have been what Holland counted on. I’d get there soon enough. I’d experienced enough loss in my life to know how to power through a step program.

  “I was going to say tired,” she said.

  Breath left me like a teakettle’s whistle. “What do you want, Investigator?” I asked.

  There were no snacks this time. No pretense. This meeting was as bare bones as the room that housed it.

  “I want to give you one last chance to consider the trajectory of your life,” she replied. “And your ability to change it.”

  Was I worth all this effort? According to Ripley, he’d taken this bait over a decade ago and the Capitol gained little, if anything, from it. He didn’t come out of it looking like much of a winner, either.

  But they had me against a wall. Cooperate or die. I’d faced that decision when the commandoes surrounded me with guns in Jacoby Thatcher’s den. I’d gone along then and, while I had some cause to regret it, I was awfully young to die.

  The door opened, and a briefcase-toting man burst in. Not a guard, judging by his green velvet suit with a black shirt and tie underneath. A lime-colored orchid boutonniere adorned his jacket lapel. He beamed a smile at me and Holland, who rose quickly from her seat.

  “Now, Miss Lyle,” he said, “I hope you aren’t conferring with my client in the absence of his legal counsel.”

  20

  Legally Speaking

  I recognized Talbot Collier from local television ads touting him as the premier attorney for those accused of magical crimes. He was a floramancer, made obvious by his Poison Ivy color palette, and from the way his commercials were crowded with leafy plants and twisting vines.

  Botanical skills contributed nothing to legal prowess, so I had to wonder at the truth in his advertisements, and why he referred to me as his client when I’d never spoken to him in my life.

  Holland was equally confused, judging by the scrunch of her brow. She fished her phone out of her pocket and began flipping through it.

  “I was under the impression Mister Farrow had been assigned a public defender,” she said, rapidly tapping the cell’s screen.

  Talbot’s smile turned saccharine sweet. “The prosecution would like that very much, I’m sure.”

  The lawyer completed his approach, looking like a peacock and acting like one, too, as he slid into the seat Holland had vacated. He slung his briefcase onto the table then opened it, lifting out folders and paperwork.

  “But no,” he continued while unpacking. “My client is a well-connected fellow. Of course he can afford more than a bumbling, barrel-bottom lawyer.”

  He paused to give a wink that was more puzzling than anything. I’d been so consumed with avoiding trial that I’d made no preparations for the event it actually happened. I hadn’t hired a lawyer or even tried to call one. Not that I’d ever been offered a phone call.

  Silence and the shuffling of Talbot’s papers filled the room.

  Holland gave up clicking through her phone and switched to looking back and forth between the well-heeled lawyer and me.

  Talbot glanced up. “Well, carry on,” he said. “I’m here now. What was it you wanted to speak to my client about?”

  Holland floundered for a moment before regaining her mental footing. “Mister Collier, I believe it’s in Fitch’s best interest to consider a plea deal.”

  I sighed and slumped in my chair. I was tired, Holland had been right about that. Exhausted, frankly, with people making decisions over my head and asking for my cooperation in things I didn’t want any part of. Maybe I could sneak in a nap while these two duked it out.

  “Normally, that sort of thing would be presented by the Capitol’s legal team,” Talbot told her. “Are you authorized to negotiate on their behalf?”

  “I am.” Holland nodded.

  The lawyer beamed another sugary smile. “What don’t you do, Miss Lyle? Investigator, public relations specialist, and now legal consultant? You’re quite the Renaissance woman.”

  The investigator moved to the far edge of the table, forming a corner in our triangle. There wasn’t a third chair, so she remained on her feet.

  “Would you like to hear our terms?” she asked Talbot.

  He opened a hand in reference to me. “Would we?”

  I shrugged.

  “Go ahead then,” Talbot told her. “Impress us.”

  The subtle twitches on Holland’s face betrayed growing irritation. She’d lost her chance to speak to me without the legal bouncer running interference. I wasn’t sure why she thought this talk would be any more successful than the last two but, if she didn’t want Talbot here, I did.

  She began again. “If Fitch goes to trial tomorrow—”

  Talbot held up a hand. “That’s so very informal, don’t you think? What say you refer to him as Mister Farrow from here on out?”

  The investigator’s cheeks flushed. Cute when she was angry. Any emotion beyond the polished Capitol mask was refreshing. I remembered her better without it.

  “This is a high-profile case,” she said. “The world is watching, and they want restitution for the Bloody Hex’s myriad of crimes. If left to the mercy of the court, Mister Farrow is a likely scapegoat.”

  Talbot had taken a legal pad and pen from his case and was jotting rapid notes. “Careful, Miss Lyle, it almost sounds like you don’t want to see him convicted.”

  “I don’t.”

  Talbot’s smug look shifted into surprise. “Then we have something in common,” he said. “Continue.”

  Holland bent over to grip the edge of the table. “The Capitol wants justice served to those who deserve it, but we feel Mister Farrow could more effectively further that cause alive than dead.”

  “Is that a fancy way of saying it takes a criminal to catch a criminal?” Talbot asked.

  “I suppose so,” Holland replied.

  The lawyer looked across the table at me. “Has she mentioned this to you before?”

  I nodded.

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I’m not interested.”

  Talbot laughed, a melodious sound.

  “Bold man,” he said. “Brave man. But, before we dismiss the investigator’s kind offer, answer me this.” He turned back to Holland. “Miss Lyle, I can see quite plainly what you stand to gain by employing my client’s aid. What’s in it for him?”

  Holland stood straight and crossed her arms. “He would live, for one thing.”

  Talbot chuckled. “A boon, to be sure. What else?”

  “Life in prison.”

  The lawyer sucked a breath through his teeth.

  When Holland stopped for his protest, he waved a hand. “Go on.”

  “We could arrange private housing.” A question hung in the investigator’s voice like she was making things up as she went. “Limited contact with other inmates—”

  “My client is a young man, Miss Lyle.” Talbot, in contrast, sounded like he was holding back a laugh. “You expect him to agree to spend the rest of his many years in prison? Surely you have something more enticing than that.”

  Another pause. Holland reached under her sunglasses to rub her eyes.

  Talbot clicked his pen.

  “Someday,” she said slowly, “in the future… I’d like to see Mister Farrow on the investigative team.”

  “Bullshit.” The word burst out of my mouth.

  Both Holland and Talbot looked at me.

  “That would never happen.” I pinned the investigator with narrow eyes. “They wouldn’t even put me in a room with you without ten kinds of handcuff and chain fuckery. You think they’d trust me to work with you? Power on and all?” I huffed a laugh. “Not in this lifetime.”

  Her jaw tightened. She resituated her glasses on the bridge of her nose, trying to restore the composure that had flagged since Talbot Collier arrived.

  Rounding the table, she came close to me and bent in to speak in a low, stern voice. “Your father was one of the greatest investigators the Capitol has ever seen. You could carry on his legacy. You used to want to.”

  I bristled. “You’re either desperate for staff, or recruitment standards have fallen dramatically in recent years. What’s the matter?” I sneered. “Does nobody want to work hard and die young anymore?”

  She bit back a reply, shaking her head.

  “Don’t condescend to me, Investigator,” I told her. “I know you think we criminals are a dumb bunch, but I assure you there are exceptions.”

  Holland straightened, looking almost wounded. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Fitch—”

  “Well, Miss Lyle.” Talbot cleared his throat. “As fortuitous as it was to meet you here, I came to speak with my client privately. I should thank you, though, for giving us so much to talk about. And I’m eager to get started. So, if you don’t mind, there’s the door.” He gestured to the exit with a smile firmly fixed on his face.

  The investigator’s head swiveled from the lawyer to me. “About the plea deal—”

  “We’ll be in touch.” Talbot gave a cheeky wave, causing Holland’s posture to go stiff-backed and rigid as she stormed out.

  When the door slammed shut, the lawyer turned his attention to the piles of paperwork on the table. He arranged and straightened them for several seconds before I spoke.

  “Just between you and me, man, I don’t think the pimp daddy vibe is best for your business model. Nobody wants to go to trial thinking they’re about to get fucked.”

  Talbot’s eyes went wide with surprise. I thought I may have offended him, but then he rocked back in his chair with a resounding belly laugh.

  “Oh, Fitch,” he said between chuckles. “I’ve missed you.”

  The lawyer changed from his Batman villain outfit to casual jeans and a cowl neck sweater. Wavy brown hair fell to his shoulders, and he traded warm yellow eyes for cold blue ones.

  “Grimm?” I yelped. “How?”

  I aimed a thought at his briefcase, trying to mentally shove it off the table. The effort echoed in my brain, hollow, and the case remained unmoved. Still no magic for me, yet the other man had managed to waltz in here in full illusion.

  Grimm reached into the bag I’d failed to unsettle and pulled out a laminated card. It looked mundane, so it stunned me when he explained: “Visitor pass. And I happened to grab a spare.” Fanning the card revealed an identical second, white with Thorngate’s logo printed on it.

  He slapped one card on the metal table and slid it over to me. I lunged forward, straining against the cuffs that secured my wrists. I barely reached it, pinching between my fingertips and pulling it to my waist. Such an innocuous thing but, as soon as I had it in my grasp, I felt weightless, like I’d been perched at the top of a roller coaster hill and was sent plummeting down.

  Power sparked alive, and I gasped.

  Grimm continued speaking, oblivious to my euphoria.

  “I didn’t bring any handcuff keys, but I trust you can manage a few simple locks.”

  “Yeah,” I breathed the word, riding a head rush that would have staggered me had I been standing.

  I shook myself, trying to organize my thoughts before directing them to my restraints. Lockpicking was a trick I’d learned even before I met the Bloody Hex. My father had a few pairs of handcuffs and let me practice, touting it as basic self-defense.

  It was harder than it should have been, shaky as I was, and beset with a migraine out of nowhere.

  “Is this it?” I asked as Grimm repocketed his own pass. “We’re leaving?”

  Fighting our way out of the prison, perhaps? Or maybe he’d disguise himself as a guard and walk me out with no questions asked.

  Rather than answer, he posed a question of his own. “Did you speak with Ripley Vaughn?”

  I nodded. “He’s in. But I’m not sure it’s a great idea… You think we can trust him?”

  “Not in the slightest.” Grimm smirked. “But who needs trust when you have leverage?”

  My brow furrowed. “You mean the zombie girl?”

  “You heard about that?”

  I nodded again, then sent another probing thought into the handcuff lock. It gave way with a click, freeing one wrist. I moved on to the next.

  “Then you shouldn’t worry,” Grimm said. “I’ve known Ripley for decades. I’m more than capable of keeping him in line.”

  It didn’t sound that way to me. Ripley’s betrayal and attempted sabotage of the gang was as far out of line as someone could get. I didn’t want to linger and debate it, though. The second handcuff hinged open, letting the shackles clatter against the edge of the table. I shoved back and stretched my arms.

  Grimm watched me with growing satisfaction on his face. “That’s my boy. How’s it feel?”

  “Fucking orgasmic.” I leaned back in the chair and picked up my feet to hook my heels on the edge of the seat. Once the leg irons were gone, I would be practically unfettered.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I asked. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

  His head bobbed. “I’m sure you are. And you will. But breaking out of prison would only exacerbate things. You’re already a wanted man, already on the run from the Capitol…”

  As soon as he said “but,” I stopped cold. Every word spoken after that felt like building toward a letdown.

  Suspicion must have shown on my face because Grimm clarified, “We’re going to save you, Fitch, but it may look different than what you’ve envisioned.”

  “What does that mean?”

  And why weren’t we running already? This room was private, without cameras or windows through which someone could peek, but guards milled the hall outside and could enter at any moment. Pressed as I felt, Grimm was annoyingly composed.

  “Holland Lyle,” he said. “What did you think of her offer?”

  The leg cuffs fell away, coiling on the floor.

  “I said I’m not interested,” I repeated for what must have been the third time. “Grimm, I want out of this place like yesterday. What are we waiting for?” Desperation edged into my voice as I stood.

  Grimm raised his hand. “I need you to trust me.”

  “Who needs trust when you have leverage?”

  But I didn’t have any leverage, so I asked, “What’s your plan?”

  “The investigator was more honest than she meant to be. And she seems to have a soft spot for you.”

  I slipped the visitor pass into my breast pocket and moved on to the lock on the belly chain. “I don’t see what that has to do with—”

  “I want you to accept her offer,” Grimm said.

  My head snapped up, pinning him with incredulity. “Life in prison?”

  I could make a run for it. Kill anyone who got in the way, not stop until I was safely beyond the walls of this place. Grimm would be pissed, but his anger was rarely enough to deter me.

  “The other offer,” he replied.

  “What other offer?”