The tattoo artist stood at the base of the stairs. She’d been silent while she worked, and the men talked, and I struggled uselessly. She was silent now, too, her arms folded and her eyes fixed on me.

  “Keep him here till he cools off, will you?”

  That’s what they’d asked her, and she agreed.

  Leave me in the dark with my thoughts and pain until everything went numb. It had happened before.

  Almost six months in the custody of the Bloody Hex had taught me one profound lesson: they could outlast me. They could wait far longer than I could go without, be it food, water, or even a kind word. That proved to be their most effective tactic: put me away until I had no choice but to do what they wanted. For survival’s sake, if nothing else.

  This was another waiting game. They would return, eventually, to see if I had accepted my fate. To see if I would “behave.” That was the word the leader used most often, like I was a much younger child, and he was my disapproving father.

  Though I hadn’t looked at her, I knew the woman watched. Her voice sounded sad when she spoke at last.

  “Are you all right?”

  I worked my way to sitting, my knees updrawn and disfigured hand tucked to my chest. Raw skin brushed against my shirt, and the pain sparked anger in me.

  “I don’t want it,” I said, scowling at the tattoo that glistened in the dim light.

  “I know,” she said.

  She moved away from the stairs, flowing in a sheer lace saree the same black as her hair. Approaching, she sat opposite me, cross-legged so our shins almost touched.

  “It’s better this way,” she said. “Do you understand?”

  I shook my head, warring with the tears that stung my eyes.

  Her hand on my leg was a welcome warmth. “They’ll protect you now. You’re one of them. Like family.”

  “I had a family.” And I still had Donovan, though I was glad he wasn’t here to see me this way.

  “Yes,” she nodded, “but they’re gone. You would be alone—”

  “Can I, please? Be alone?” I fixed her with a glare. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  She swayed back, then sighed. “I can go. If that’s what you want.”

  As she stood, I tucked further into myself, hugging my knees to my chest until they drove all the air out.

  Her retreating footsteps were gradually muted by my pulse beginning to pound. If she went away, when would she come back? Hours later? Tomorrow morning? Or not until the men decided I had “cooled off?”

  They were never in a hurry. I could languish in this dark place for days.

  “Wait!” I called after her.

  She paused with one foot on the lowest step.

  When she glanced back, I could think of nothing else to say. I only knew I didn’t want to be left behind or forgotten.

  The silence stretched until she nodded. “You can come upstairs, but you have to promise not to run away or make trouble for my customers.”I responded with a nod of my own, then stood on shaky legs. “I’ll behave.”

  The Porsche’s RPMs dipped as I shifted into fourth gear. It was dark at almost eleven, the night after Donovan’s birthday party at the Bitters’ End. Wind whipped in through the open window, carrying away smoke from the third cigarette in a chain I’d started when we got in the car. Not the best way to make a pack last, but I needed something to do with my hands—more than steering and shifting and checking the rearview for headlights creeping up from behind.

  Donovan sat in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield as though there were far more interesting things to see than trees and fields blurring by. He hadn’t said a word, even when I asked if he wanted to ride with me to Jacoby Thatcher’s house. Grimm seemed pleased about it, saying it would give us time to go over the plan. My brother and I hadn’t done that, though. We hadn’t even made eye contact in the twenty-four hours since I’d left him with Isha doodling damnation on the back of his hand.

  I wouldn’t be the first to speak. I was doing my best to follow the old adage, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all.”

  Donovan might have felt the same but, fifteen minutes into our drive, he could contain himself no longer. “It was real shitty of you to bail on me last night,” he blurted.

  “We were at a bar. I wanted a drink. So, I got one.”

  He sunk lower in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “You always want a drink,” he muttered.

  “Tell it to my sponsor.”

  Several moments passed. Yellow lines ticked down the highway until Donovan sat up and turned to face me.

  “Come on, Fitch, why’d you leave? Really? And why didn’t you come back?”

  I sighed. “The tattoo process isn’t exactly riveting, Donnie. Like watching paint dry. I had better things to do.”

  He frowned but gave no reply.

  Quiet filled the air.

  A road sign enumerated miles to go to our destination. I let off the gas pedal then stepped on the clutch, shifting into fifth. Another glance in the rearview assured me Grimm and the others were far behind us now.

  “I wanted you to be there.” Donovan’s voice was soft, and I could tell he was hurt.

  My hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  “Last night was important to me,” he continued. “This,” he flashed the Hex mark so fresh it looked wet, “is important to me.

  I cringed. “Get that out of my face.”

  He withdrew but stayed swiveled toward me, glaring such daggers I thought he might pin me to my seat.

  “What’s your problem?” he asked, getting louder with every word. “Are you jealous I’m getting attention for a change, or are you just this big of an asshole?”

  “Just an asshole, I guess.” I ashed my cigarette into the center console.

  Donovan blew out a puff of air. “Because of course you wouldn’t be jealous,” he grumbled.

  My head snapped toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He recrossed his arms, settling into the bucket seat and glaring at the road ahead. After a moment’s pause, he said, “I know I’m not there yet, all right? But at least now I have a chance. I can be like you.”

  “No, you can’t.” I shook my head. I couldn’t condone this. Couldn’t sit idly by while my kid brother followed in my footsteps. He was filling a mold I made, but I didn’t make it for him.

  “Maybe I can’t do it the way you can,” he argued, “but anybody can kill people.”

  “No,” I repeated more forcefully. “You can’t.”

  He turned toward the window where the reflection of his face blended into a passing stand of trees. “This guy must live in the middle of nowhere,” he said. “Are we almost there, or what?”

  “Almost.” My eyes flicked up to check the rearview again. No other cars ventured this far from town. Not at this hour, which was what I’d counted on.

  I shoved the gearshift into neutral and tapped the brakes, steering the Porsche on a slow turn toward the shoulder of the road. Donovan looked around as the speedometer steadily dropped.

  “Fitch, where are we?”

  Far from Jacoby Thatcher’s house, that was for damn sure. But only about half a mile from the city gate, which was exactly where I wanted my brother to be.

  The Porsche slowed to a stop, and I set the emergency brake. I pulled the keys out of the ignition, holding them in one hand while I finished off the cigarette in my other.

  “Fitch, what the fuck?” Donovan asked.

  I kicked my door open and ground the spent butt under my heel as I stepped out.

  “Get out of the car,” I said.

  Donovan stayed put, visually tracking me while I walked around the hood of the Porsche.

  “No way!” he shouted as I approached. His breath fogged the glass. When I made it to his side, he rushed to set the manual lock.

  “Jesus,” I groaned. A twist of my hand moved the inner mechanism, unlocking the door and swinging it wide.

  Exposed, he gaped at me, startled, then angry. “Where are we?” he asked.

  I stabbed a finger toward the darkness ahead, where the wall around the city remained unseen. “You’re going that way, and I’m going back. When you run into the border guards, tell them who you are. Tell them the Bloody Hex has held you prisoner for the past twelve years. Tell them you’re seeking asylum.”

  Donovan’s gaze flicked over me from head to toe like he was seeing me for the first time. His forehead scrunched in a deep frown.

  “You’ve lost your mind,” he said.

  “Get. Out.” I caught him with mental hooks and dragged him, staggering, from the Porsche.

  A shove sent him tumbling into the grass past the edge of the pavement. I swung the car door shut and locked it, for good measure.

  Donovan scrambled to standing, then almost fell again as he backed farther away.

  “Don’t use that shit on me,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m not one of your puppets, Marionette.”

  He never called me that.

  I swore and kicked the scrubby grass. The motion started me pacing, cutting a line between Donovan and the parked car. I didn’t have time to argue. Grimm and the others would be at Jacoby Thatcher’s house soon, if they hadn’t made it already. First, they’d be suspicious, then my phone would start ringing. Then I’d have to come up with a lie that would cover my ass while giving Donovan enough time to get out of town.

  If I could convince him to go.

  “You know what?” I rounded on him. “Fuck you, all right? You’re a shit witch, Donnie. Hell, you’re not a witch at all, and that’s a good thing. You don’t have to be like me—like them. You shouldn’t be.”

  “I am like you.” He flapped his tattooed hand like a flag.

  I swiped through the air, knocking his arm aside with a wave of force. “I said cut that out. It’s not something to be proud of.”

  “It’s no different from you bragging about kill number thirty yesterday. Aren’t you proud?” His voice strained. Pissed off as I’d ever seen him. Scared, too.

  “Fuck, no.” I laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “What’s there to be proud of? I marched some poor sap out a window. He couldn’t even fight back.” Words came as fast as I could spit them out. “He was just a powerless old man who found his way onto Grimm’s shit list. Why should I be proud of killing him? I couldn’t give a damn whether he lived or died. Same with the rest of them.”

  I stopped moving long enough to stare down at my hands. The black lines ringing my fingers seemed darker somehow.

  “This is Grimm’s agenda,” I said. “Not mine.”

  “But you get all the credit,” Donovan muttered.

  “You want to know something?” I asked. “Some of these people—most of them if we’re being honest—were investigators. Like Dad.”

  My stomach formed a hard knot. Grimm didn’t tolerate talk of our lives before the gang. It was something I’d learned to keep private, a secret only Donovan and I shared.

  “Some of them were his friends,” I continued. “And, when I showed up to kill them, they recognized me. Not as Marionette. As Thierry Farrow’s son.”

  I’d resumed pacing at some point, but my brother’s puzzled expression stopped me. Over the years, we’d talked less about the past and more about the future. I should have taken it as a sign.

  “I knew these people, Donnie.” I raised my hands again. “We knew them. We had dinner at their houses. We were friends with their kids. And I killed them because that’s the kind of loyalty Grimm expects. That’s the kind of sacrifice he’ll want you to make.” When I stabbed a finger at Donovan, he stepped back, but I closed the gap. “He will destroy you then replace you with someone you don’t recognize. Someone you hate. That’s what would make you like me. And that’s why you can’t be like me. I won’t let you.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, standing with his fists balled until he finally said, “You just don’t get it.”

  “That’s your takeaway?” I swayed back, stunned. “Did you even hear what I said?”

  “I don’t remember any of them, so why should I care?”

  “The investigators?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “What about Dad? Do you remember Dad?”

  “I mean sort of, but—”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Donovan!” I said his name sternly enough I hoped it would be the verbal equivalent of shaking him so hard his brain rattled. “You don’t have to be a murderer. Why would you want to be?”

  No answer.

  We stood squared off on the side of the rural highway. Judging from his posture, and his still-curled fists, he wanted to take a swing at me. I invited the challenge, but we both knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. Sparring or scrapping with my brother was a dramatically one-sided event unless I took a fall and let him win. The real world wasn’t so kind or considerate of a person’s pride, and that was my whole point.

  It wasn’t safe for Donovan here, in a world where he was grossly outmatched by most of the population. The Bloody Hex had plenty of enemies: Capitol investigators, do-gooder vigilantes, and a whole slew of criminals who wanted the street credit that came with the gang tattoo my brother currently sported. A human in the midst of that mess was like chum in the water. They’d eat him alive.

  After a long moment, Donovan expelled a breath. “You’re gonna leave me here, aren’t you?”

  I pulled the pack of Lucky Strikes out of my hip pocket, dumping a cig and the lighter I’d stored beside them into my hand. Without replying, I lit it and took a drag. The cigarette tip glowed faintly in the darkness.

  He watched me with his mouth pressed into a line. Finally, he grunted. “And you’re going to kill Thatcher.”

  Smoke curled from my nostrils as I looked down the road once more.

  “Why?” Donovan asked. The word sounded like a sob.

  I chewed my lip ring, clutching my keys in one hand and the cigarette in the other.

  “Do you really think I’d run to the border and rat on all of you? Leave you behind? What kind of advice is that?” Tears dampened his cheeks.

  “My advice is to do whatever it takes,” I replied. “The gang will survive. Or not. It doesn’t matter—”

  “Doesn’t matter?” Donovan reeled back, his nostrils flaring. “Have you got a death wish? If the Capitol gets ahold of you, they’ll mount your head on a plaque.”

  The mental image gave me pause. “I’ll be fine,” I told him, though I wasn’t sure which of us needed the assurance more.

  Donovan dropped down to sit in the grass. “Go on, then.” His expression was solemn. “Leave. I can’t stop you.”

  My fingers tightened around the key fob, jagged edges digging in. I’d come back after Jacoby Thatcher was dead. We could talk more. Maybe I could persuade him. For now, we both needed time.

  Time to cool off?

  I cringed.

  “Goodbye, Donnie.” I skirted around the Porsche and got in before I could change my mind.

  The car door slammed shut, and I sat. One more glance in the rearview found darkness all around. I looked out the passenger window where Donovan sat hunkered with his head down. The knot in my gut twisted painfully tight.

  He’d be fine until I returned. Or maybe he’d see reason and march on up to the city gate, after all. No time to worry about it now, though. I had work to do.

  8

  Initiation

  Just past 11:00 PM, I arrived in the sleepy suburban neighborhood. Lamplit streets wove between houses with boxed hedges and deep green lawns. It smelled like home here, the home I was born in, far removed from the grime and grit of downtown. My destination sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, painted navy and white in a typically coastal style.

  I parked the Porsche and rocked back in my seat. My phone had yet to ring, so I wasn’t too late. Grimm must have assumed that my brother and I were having a pep talk about losing his murder virginity. The real shit family bonded over.

  The memory of Donovan sitting, defeated, in the grass stuck with me. I scrubbed my hands along the shaved sides of my head, wishing I was an Etch a Sketch and could shake my mental slate clean. Magic required concentration, and explaining to my boss why I’d turned up to this job alone demanded a level of composure I lacked.

  Another cigarette wouldn’t help, and the bottles of Jameson in the backseat floorboard were empty—I’d checked. So, I’d be doing this sober. Nothing would take the razor edge off my nerves or ease my apprehension that four members of the Bloody Hex marching into Jacoby Thatcher’s house with intent to kill was easier said than done.

  But they were inside, with security presumably disabled. They set this up for Donovan, like Crime for Dummies. I didn’t need such allowances. I was a professional, a mercenary, a gun for hire. And this was a cakewalk.

  I made it onto the porch, flanked by pampas grass that swished in the wind. When my boots crunched on broken glass, I looked up to find the overhead light shattered. The doorbell, one of the video camera kinds, had been ripped from the wall, leaving bare wires exposed.

  Very subtle, Avery. I frowned.

  Only a storm door separated me from the carnage I imagined waited inside: Jacoby Thatcher bound and gagged, no doubt bloodied from the struggle that had already transpired. Things would be broken, tables overturned, and the floor littered with all manner of debris.

  The Bloody Hex had outgrown quick, merciful kills long before I met them. Simple murder lost its luster after years of repetition. Repeat offenders either burned out or found a kink to keep things interesting. Avery liked toying with people. Torture was always on the menu when he was involved. Vinton got most of his jollies in postmortem. When we didn’t need to leave a body at the scene, he usually carted it home to play Dr. Frankenstein until the whole building reeked of decay. Grimm preyed off fear. He was the least violent of us all, but he had more than a few common phobias on illusion tap, and he loved watching people squirm.

  “Donnie! Fitch!” A deep, gravelly voice came from inside the house. Grimm. “Get your asses in here, boys. We got work to do!”