The secretary glanced over her computer monitor and immediately frowned. She wore a frumpy button-up blouse and horn-rimmed glasses, and her gray hair was twisted into a bun. Not the eye candy I would hire if I had Warren Reeves’s resources. She looked like she came with the building. Antiquated. Also possibly a witch. Some of us blended in more easily than others.

  “May I help you?” she asked. Her hand moved toward the phone on her desktop, a visual reminder that security was a call away.

  “I need to speak with Mr. Reeves,” I said.

  It only took a thought and a crook of one finger to unplug the power cord from the back of the phone. If she decided to raise an alarm, that would slow things down.

  Skepticism scrawled across her features. Since her job relied on keeping her boss’s schedule clear of unwanted company, I couldn’t fault her for gatekeeping.

  But the clock ticked.

  Literally, an analog clock hung on the wall beside me, counting down seconds. 8:58 now. I had seconds to spare before—

  “He’s in a meeting,” the woman said. “I can take a memo if you’d like.”

  My stomach flipped.

  I stepped back, straining to see the adjacent corridor that led to more offices and maybe a conference room or two. “I don’t suppose I could catch him in the hall?” I wondered aloud.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Trying again another day or even tonight when Warren was cozied up at home, would have been preferable, but the meeting was the vote, and it couldn’t be undone. If the job didn’t get done now, Warren Reeves would be alive, and I would be as good as dead.

  Something besides disdain flickered across the older woman’s face. She gave me another once-over, and her eyes narrowed. “Though, I’m happy to let him know you came by.”

  She didn’t look happy to do anything. Rather perturbed, suspicious, and fearful as her hand gripped the phone’s receiver.

  “I didn’t catch your name.” She failed to mask the tremor in her voice.

  Had I ever wanted to be famous? Or infamous? There was a big difference.

  I had fans, sure—mostly loony toons who saw me as a champion of Grimm’s political agenda. Fucking me seemed to be on the bucket lists of people with certain fetishes. I was in no position to kink shame, but having some twink stop in the middle of a blowjob to mansplain autassassinophilia was not my idea of a good time.

  Fear, though. That was the reaction I usually got. Dawning realization that they’d seen my face on the news and not for any good reason.

  Reeves’s secretary displayed the growing panic of a cornered prey animal. Her eyes were wide and her saggy cheeks paled as she poised to leap from her swivel chair and run—where? She couldn’t get past me if she tried. Her only option for retreat was into her boss’s adjoining office where only a flimsy wooden door would stand between her and me.

  Lying about my identity or assuring her I’d come for someone else would do little to ease her mind. Instead, I raised my hands in the universal sign of surrender.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I flashed a tight smile. “I’ll reach out to Warren on my own.”

  Her gaze traveled upward to my fingers bedecked in black ink. Both the tell-tale rings on every digit and the Bloody Hex’s cursed mark were now on full display. Any suspicions she’d had about my identity were confirmed.

  The secretary snatched up the phone.

  “Security!” she shouted into the receiver, her voice a strangle. “There’s an intruder in the building!”

  The line was dead, of course, but that wouldn’t keep the prairie dogs in the rooms around us from hearing her cry of alarm.

  I stumbled back, my stream of thought slowed to a trickle. A sweep of my hand sent a wave of force across the room. Computer screens, keyboard, pens, post-it notes, and the phone went flying off the desktop, crashing into potted plants lining the windowed wall beyond.

  “Help!” the secretary screeched, lurching back and nearly falling over her chair. “Someone help!”

  The dam in my brain that had been holding in any good ideas opened, letting loose a barrage of thought.

  Shut her up.

  Snap her neck.

  Kill her.

  Run.

  I took off.

  I dashed out of the office, around the corner, then down the neighboring hall. My heart thumped rabbit-fast and air hung in my lungs, fluttering like moth wings.

  Reeves’s secretary kept shouting. I didn’t need to look back to know that heads were peeking around doorways, calls were being made from phones I didn’t unplug, and security would soon arrive. On top of that, the odds were good someone had tripped a silent alarm.

  The last thing I needed was Capitol investigators flooding the building on the word that Fitch Farrow had been sighted. They would tear this place apart room by room if it meant taking me into custody, and from there…

  From there, my life became a domino chain of consequences I wasn’t prepared to face. I needed to get this over with. Fast.

  I sprinted down the long hallway until the whine of a vacuum cleaner drew my attention. A maid stood ahead of me, her blue shirtdress emblazoned with the logo of Top-Notch Cleaning Co.

  When I rushed up behind her, she jumped and spun. The Dust Buster vacuum swung upright, still running. Thankfully, she didn’t scream. I’d raised enough ruckus without her piling on.

  I tucked my hands quickly out of sight and smiled.

  “Hey! Hi,” I greeted, trying to slow my rapid breathing. “I’m looking for the conference room. Could you point me in the right direction?”

  The maid’s dark eyes softened. She returned my smile purely out of reflex, but I was grateful regardless.

  “There.” She gestured toward a bend in the hallway ahead. “But is busy now.”

  “Appreciate it.” I nodded, then moved forward with renewed speed.

  The hall extended another twenty feet or so, uninterrupted by doors or windows of any kind. At the end, a forced right turn directed me to a long wall of partly-frosted glass. An interior room lay behind it, made apparent by the fluorescent lights mounted in the ceiling and wood paneling framing the exterior windows. The brass plate beside the room’s closed door read Conference 1.

  Drawing up to the glass, I stretched onto tiptoes to see my target seated at the head of a long table, joined in discussion by a dozen men in suits.

  A dozen witnesses, you mean.

  I nipped my pierced lip between my teeth, worrying the steel ring as I stepped back to lean against the opposite wall. I’d been seen by too many people already; been recognized by at least one. And I hadn’t traveled far enough from the threat of the building’s security team. I was still on the same floor, ten stories above the ground exit.

  I scanned the hall for cameras and found one in the corner angled toward me. Keeping my hand at my side, I pressed my thumb to my forefinger and twisted. The camera swiveled, aiming its lens away from the show I was about to put on.

  Creeping forward, I peeked into the conference room again. Coffee cups and a half-empty box of bagels sat on a long table. Men lined both sides in matching swivel chairs, sipping or chewing while chatting.

  The plan wasn’t a plan anymore. I had meant to kill the old man at his desk. Stab him to death with a pair of scissors or twist his head off his shoulders like a soda bottle top. Then I could walk out and leave his corpse for the secretary to find.

  This was a different playing field. There were no weapons in sight; no means of dispatching Warren Reeves quietly or quickly. I could strangle him at this distance, leave him purple with his tongue lolling in front of the gaggle of gawkers. But was that big enough? Attention-grabbing, Grimm had told me. Send a message.

  Another search of the room found only the barest essentials. All the chairs were occupied and everything else was bolted down or wall mounted.

  Windows. There were so many fucking windows in this place. The conference room occupied the building’s corner opposite Reeves’s office, meaning it, too, had glass walls overlooking the city. Ten floors was pretty high off the ground. A hundred feet or so. If Warren took a fall, that would do the trick.

  I skimmed the faces of the men casually conversing over their breakfast. They’d get a message, all right.

  Fifteen feet separated Reeves and me. Far from the limit of my mental range but, with the added ten feet between him and the window, and his significant body mass actively working against me, I’d given myself a difficult task.

  My brain thrummed, an annoyance I shooed away before fixing my attention on Warren Reeves. Such an average fellow to have drawn Grimm’s ire. An easy mark that I had let turn into my white whale.

  I splayed one hand against the glass, ready to live up to my namesake. Marionette, the gang called me—the media, too. I was a puppet master who pulled invisible strings.

  The first step was to pin Reeves’s lips together, easy as a pinch. The old man’s eyes bugged the moment he realized. I imagined a bit of bagel stuck in his craw, half-chewed and ready to choke him.

  Warren cupped both hands to his mouth, then groped his throat. I couldn’t hear well through the wall between us, but he must have been raising a ruckus already. His associates turned toward him one by one.

  It took greater effort to draw Reeves to standing, scraping his belly against the table on the way up and sending his chair rolling backward.

  His feet moved one painstaking step at a time while he clawed at his sealed lips. My fingers pressed tighter. The volume in the room rose. Muffled questions and shouts clamored together as the other men stood.

  Reeves staggered two more steps before I considered the nature of industrial glass. It was made to withstand strong winds, foundational shifts, and birds crashing into it at full tilt. It would take more than the potbellied man’s girth to break through.

  I broke visual contact for a rapid moment, searching.

  Table? Too big.

  Framed pictures on the walls? Of course not.

  Coffee cups?

  I snorted.

  The chair from which Warren had risen completed a lazy turn. Metal framed and sturdy enough to support 300 pounds plus, it may have been tough enough to take on reinforced glass.

  A growl of exertion escaped me as I turned Reeves back around and wrapped his hands over the chair’s padded armrests.

  Hurry up!

  The other men closed in on Warren. One even moved in front of him. But the chair worked as an effective battering ram, clearing a line toward the windows.

  Warren forged a path past his would-be saviors, fighting me for every inch. They always did. But people struggled the wrong way—flexing muscles, straining, stiffening—battling the physical symptoms of mental control. A war of the mind had to be waged there, and no one could beat me on my own turf.

  Sweat slicked my forehead by the time Warren pushed the chair to the exterior wall. Once there, he needed to lift it, a challenge I hadn’t foreseen.

  I could only work with the tools I was given, and Warren’s atrophied biceps were blunt instruments, at best. Heaving the desk chair even to waist height proved a mammoth task. He swayed forward, then back, wobbling in place while my hand curled into a white-knuckled fist.

  My agitation manifested as muttered words.

  “Just pick it up, you lumbering loaf of—”

  Success.

  The glass shattered with a pop, and the other men leaped back as though they thought this was an airplane and they might get sucked out if they got too close.

  From there, the job finished itself.

  Off-kilter from swinging the chair and tightly gripping the armrests I hadn’t dared allow him to release, Warren Reeves fell. His bulbous body pitched forward, then down and out of sight.

  3

  Dirty Thirty

  If the old man screamed, I didn’t hear it. And I didn’t linger to see the aftermath unfold. Warren had been the focus of everyone’s attention till now. With him gone, they would turn my way next.

  An EXIT sign at the end of the hall beckoned. I broke into a sprint, passing vacant conference rooms on my way to the stairs. Another camera winked at me from the fast-approaching corner. Without time or the presence of mind for delicacy, I swiped at it, ripping it from the wall before I entered its field of view.

  I’d heard some telekinetics could fly. That would have made things easier. I could break my own window and take off, free as a lark. If only I had focused more on aerodynamics than assassinations. Wasted potential.

  Within seconds, the executives spilled out after me. Raised voices clamored more clearly, but I didn’t dare look. Another twitch of my outstretched hand turned the exit door’s handle and flung it open. I didn’t slow till I reached the landing beyond, where concrete steps with rubber treads stretched down in a squared spiral.

  A mad dash propelled me forward. The stairs seemed to go on forever, steps and sharp corners around which I slung myself over and over again. Sight became a blur, and my lungs a hollow ache rapidly emptying of oxygen.

  I hit the ground level running, nearly crashing into the wall when I tried to turn toward further descent and found none. Darkness crowded the corners of my vision. If I passed out now, it was all over. I’d be caught for sure, and then… dominoes.

  Overhead, voices echoed. Was it the slew of men in suits fleeing their meeting gone awry? Or were security officers chasing me down with vengeful intent?

  Ahead, the lobby waited. It could have been crawling with investigators by now. Killing Warren Reeves had only taken minutes, but it felt like I’d been here for hours.

  My stomach lurched into my throat, burning with bile I forced myself to swallow. When had I last eaten? And did it matter since I’d probably flushed it down Nash’s toilet last night?

  A gagging cough interrupted my attempts at steady breathing. I gulped at the air before squaring myself with the door to the lobby. Unless I was willing to tamper with every security camera in the soaring atrium, I would have to appear as nonchalant as any innocent bystander. My heart thundered in my chest, still pumping blood and adrenaline that made my whole body shiver.

  I grounded myself by gripping the cold, steel door handle. I clung to it for one quiet moment, an anchor in the midst of my internal storm.

  “Hey, you!” someone shouted from above. “Stop right there!”

  I pushed out into the lobby.

  Sirens wailed nearby. Security officers raced across the slick, tile floor. Some crowded the elevator bay while others flocked near the building’s entrance. I pocketed my hands and made for the edge of the room, far from the center of activity. Ducking my head took almost more courage than I could muster. It limited my sight and potentially my awareness of anyone who might approach.

  Still, I kept looking down and let the sunlight lead me to fresh air and freedom. Outside, the fountain gurgled, and a cool breeze dried the sweat on my brow. I could breathe again, feeling farther from danger than I truly was.

  The sirens were screaming now, closing in. Investigators en masse would soon invade, taking statements, collecting evidence, and reviewing camera footage. They would have Reeves’s death pinned on me before lunch, but I would be long gone.

  Panicked employees flocked around the valet counter, hoping to make a hasty exit. I didn’t understand the rush unless they feared becoming my next victims. They had nothing to worry about. I was as eager to leave this place as they were.

  The valet’s attention darted from one frantic face to the next. Claim tickets wadded in his hands as he struggled to match numbers with keyrings inside the cabinet base of his podium.

  The small crowd grew more aggressive, their mouths snapping like hungry piranhas ready to eat the attendant alive. As soon as I was close enough, I spotted the Porsche’s key fob hanging amongst the others. I slipped one hand into the open and turned it outward, mentally lifting my keys from their hook and calling them toward my waiting grasp.

  A red-faced woman bolted forward, determined to muscle her way into the key box. She collided with the airborne Porsche fob and sent it skittering across the pavement. She didn’t even notice, too busy throwing elbows at the attendant so she could gain access to the cabinet.

  I scowled, then swept my arm upward. Invisible energy rocketed ahead. It struck the podium with the force of a blow and toppled it forward.

  The attendant leaped aside to avoid the onslaught as people piled in, creating a tangle to rival Black Friday madness. Bottom dollar deals on a new television or fleeing from a murderer on the loose? Priorities were an interesting thing.

  As for my keys, they were separated from the herd thanks to the angry woman’s intervention. I scooped them off the sidewalk and continued, not slowing till I reached the valet lot.

  Patrol cars rolled up to the curb behind me as I ducked into the parked Porsche. Once inside, I watched in the rearview mirror as investigators spilled into the street like circus clowns taking center ring. The valet desk chaos required their immediate attention, and I couldn’t help but smirk seeing the Capitol’s finest relegated to pulling civilians out of a dogpile.

  I cranked the engine and turned the A/C on full blast, letting it cool my clammy cheeks. I watched, idling, until only a lone investigator remained out front, scrawling notes on a memo pad while she spoke to the valet attendant. Her powder-white hair and sunglasses made her unmistakable as Capitol darling Holland Lyle. She was the nearest thing I had to an archnemesis if you believed the media hype.

  I wasn’t sure how much consideration Miss Lyle gave to me, but the only times she occupied my thoughts were when she wore something low-cut to a televised interview. Besides her physical assets, she was just another Capitol stooge, toeing the line. And, while I may have been on her hit list, she wasn’t on mine.

  Maybe I was watching Holland too closely, or not watching the valet attendant closely enough, because I didn’t realize he was pointing my way. Only when they both turned, and the investigator aimed a look in my direction did awareness strike. Interrogating witnesses had to pay off occasionally. The valet knew what I looked like. Knew which car I drove. Knew where he parked that car.