Breath whooshed out of me to cloud in the crisp air. He must have seen the car, but not well enough to realize I’d come alone in it.

  What was my plan? I hadn’t thought this far ahead. Driving Donovan to the outskirts of town was a half-formed idea borne of last-minute desperation. It hadn’t worked, either. Not really. He’d be there when I returned, no more convinced to cut ties with the Bloody Hex than he had been last night.

  If I marched in there now and broke Jacoby Thatcher in half, it solved nothing. If anything, it made matters worse. Grimm already had a bead on me after last night’s conversation, and directly defying his orders by stonewalling Donovan’s initiation could get us both in hot water.

  “Boys!” the voice from inside bellowed, and I cringed. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I swung a hand toward the storm door, opening it so hard the top hinge popped loose from the frame. It slammed against the house at an angle, then dragged back a foot or so before it stopped. The metal bottom corner stuck in the trench it had dug in the wood decking.

  I cursed and clenched my fist, ratcheting a mental grip on the damaged door. The glass pane broke with a loud pop, and I crumpled the frame like a ball of tinfoil. Shoving it aside, I walked into the darkness of Jacoby Thatcher’s house.

  Judging by the sparse furnishings, drab color scheme, and lack of pictures on the walls, Jacoby lived alone. As I ventured further inside, I decided he barely lived here at all. Everything appeared untouched like a model home meant to be toured and appreciated but not interacted with. I’d seen these types before. Workaholics with empty refrigerators and strictly shirt/suit wardrobes. It made sense for Maximus Lyle’s loyal lapdog. The guy probably ate, drank, and slept Capitol matters. All business, all the time. No wonder he looked so bland every time his face came up on the news.

  Moving toward the dining room found signs of a struggle. A modern art piece hung askew, and a vase had been reduced to a pile of porcelain and flower stems on the ground. Getting warmer.

  This house blurred together with so many others. Kitchens and bedrooms and dogs that barked while children cried. How many times had we done this? Made ourselves into boogeymen who crept in at night, wrecking homes and ending lives?

  I heard the men laughing and talking.

  Down a hallway into the back of the house, I arrived in a sunken room populated by rich, dark furniture, a wall-mounted television, and a fireplace. In the center of the space, Jacoby Thatcher sat gagged and bound with a bright orange extension cord. Grimm, Avery, and Vinton flocked around him.

  Grimm stood aside with his hands in his jacket pockets while Vinton rifled through the built-in cabinets on the fireplace wall. Avery crouched at eye level with the restrained man, dragging the flat side of a knife up Thatcher’s exposed forearm.

  Stepping down into the carpeted area drew the attention of Thatcher. Sweat soaked his thin brown hair and gave a fishy sheen to his sallow skin. He wore striped, button-down pajamas, proof he owned something that didn’t qualify as business professional.

  As I approached, Thatcher’s whimpers became fervent grunts. He bucked back in the chair so hard it almost tipped.

  Avery buried the dagger in the man’s thigh, pinning him to the chair. Thatcher howled through his gag—a sock from his bare foot secured by a strip of duct tape.

  “Do you know how degrading that is?” Avery scowled at me. Another knife appeared in his hand, and he used it to gesture to Thatcher, who wailed. “I’ve been working this schmuck for the past fifteen minutes, then you walk in and make me feel like the opening act.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, thanks for warming up the crowd, Avery. I’ll take it from here.”

  When I moved forward, Grimm sidestepped to block my path. “Fitch.” He looked past me, searching for and finding no one else. “What’s going on?”

  “Just doing what you told me to, boss,” I said.

  Vinton glanced back then, realizing what the others already had. “Where’s Donnie?”

  I didn’t answer, locked in a stare-down with Grimm that neither of us proved willing to yield. “How do you want this done?” I gestured to Thatcher. “Any special requests?”

  The bound man started up again in a cacophony of grunts and wails. He rocked in the chair, scooting it slowly across the low pile carpet.

  “Just get it over with.” Avery crossed his arms over his tweed waistcoat. “It’s no fun anymore.”

  Grimm said my name again. “Where’s your brother?”

  The ceiling fan spun circles overhead, failing to dispel the smell of panic in the room—Thatcher’s and mine, mingling. As my pulse picked up tempo, the electrical cord constricted around Thatcher’s body. It cut deeply into his arms and chest, and the tail end snaked around his neck.

  “Fitch,” Grimm repeated. “What did you do?”

  The bound man’s cries weakened as the air squeezed out. His pitiful whimpers struck every one of my already frazzled nerves.

  “I’m waiting,” Grimm rumbled.

  Thatcher whined a shrill sound that must have taken all his effort to squeak out. I rounded on him with my fist raised.

  “Shut up!” I snapped, and he did, too.

  His head tipped sideways where the spinal cord had separated. Internal decapitation. Immediate silence.

  Avery whistled. “Damn.”

  My jaw clenched as I looked away.

  Grimm echoed my thoughts when he said, “You’re out of control, boy.”

  It was starting to feel that way. Like yesterday’s toilet bowl spiral was still sucking me down. Nothing I could say would stop the sensation of drowning, but words came out anyway.

  “This is stupid,” I said. “So fucking stupid. And it’s not about Donnie at all. It’s about you and your endless power trip. Just saying jump and wanting us all to ask how high.” Everything was hot, swelling up from my gut like a sickness I wanted to puke out.

  “I jumped, damn it,” I continued. “I’m here. And Thatcher’s dead, so congrats. You got what you wanted. Like always.”

  Vinton dropped the books he’d been holding. His muscles rippled as he squared himself with me. “You’d better show some respect, you little cocksucker.”

  Predictable. And brazen to call me names when we all knew he’d lick Grimm’s shoes given the chance.

  “Stay out of this, kiss ass,” I told him. “The men are talking.”

  The burly man growled and lunged forward, across the room but closing fast.

  I swung an arm toward him, rocketing force in a clothesline that struck him center mass. He flew backward into the fireplace, crumpling the mesh screen and upsetting the pile of logs.

  Avery muffled a laugh. “Well, that’s my cue.”

  A two-wheeled dolly materialized in his hands. He slid it under the legs of the chair containing Thatcher’s lifeless body. When the dolly tipped backward, the bound man’s head lolled.

  Vinton lumbered to his feet, so enraged I thought steam might rise from his polished dome.

  “Gimme that,” he snarled at Avery, reaching for the dolly and its corpse cargo.

  I tensed, bracing for retaliation until Grimm spoke again.

  “No.” He stopped Vinton with a shake of his head. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

  Vinton withdrew, sulking.

  “Down, boy,” I sneered at him.

  The necromancer let out a roar. Thatcher’s body forgotten, Vinton charged at me. Full linebacker move, ready to take me to the ground.

  Before he could reach me, I punched up through the air and caught him mid-flight. I struck him in the gut with enough force to launch him into the ceiling. He crashed through the fan and its attached light fixture, reducing the room to darkness with a shower of drywall dust.

  His body needed no assistance from me to plummet to the floor and land with a thud that knocked the air out of him.

  Grimm surged forward, suddenly near my face. He caught hold of my forearm and held it aloft where I’d used it to throw Vinton.

  In the blackened room, it took a moment to discern Grimm’s expression as he loomed over me. His shoulders heaved with scarcely controlled breaths.

  “That’s enough.” His grip on my arm wrenched painfully tight. He was still holding on when someone else joined the conversation.

  “Oh, no,” Donovan groaned—I recognized his voice immediately. “I missed it.”

  9

  Under Arrest

  Grimm released me as everyone turned toward where my brother stood on the landing above the sunken room. I was grateful for the shadows obscuring most of his face because I imagined it showed the same betrayal I heard in his voice.

  “Where have you been, Donnie?” Grimm asked.

  “About ten miles from here,” Donovan answered, stepping gingerly down onto our level. “I got lost.”

  “Yeah, and you should’ve stayed that way,” I grumbled, earning a side eye from Grimm. “How’d you get here, anyway?”

  “I thought you and Fitch were coming together,” Grimm cut in.

  Donovan shook his head. “I was running late. Had to call a cab.”

  My brow creased. Why was he covering for me?

  “A cab?” Grimm repeated.

  I swore under my breath. Of course, he’d called a ride. I’d been so worried about my own phone getting blown up with calls asking where we were that I’d forgotten to take Donovan’s.

  Grimm’s head swiveled from my brother to me, then back. He must have known the story was a lie, but that wasn’t what he questioned when he spoke again.

  “You brought a cab? Here? Did you give them the address?”

  Donovan’s lips parted, but he gave no reply.

  Avery snickered in the background while leaning against the dolly.

  Grimm threw up his hands. “The valet yesterday and a cabbie today?” His eyes squeezed shut as though he were physically pained. “You Farrow boys will be the goddamn death of me.”

  Still giggling, Avery steered the dolly past us. “Sounds like you fellas need a minute.” He bumped his cargo up the step into the hall. “I’ll see you back at the motel.”

  Donovan watched, forlorn, as Avery wheeled Jacoby Thatcher’s limp corpse out of sight.

  Vinton moved next, picking himself out of the rubble on the floor to stand and glower at me. If he wanted a third round, I welcomed the challenge, but Grimm put a stop to that before either of us could make a move.

  “Go with Avery. Take care of Thatcher,” Grimm told the bald man. “I’ll send the boys along shortly.”

  It took a moment to register why we weren’t all leaving: Grimm was replacing Jacoby Thatcher right now. Good news for me because it meant the boss wouldn’t be around to give me hell about the disaster I’d made of tonight.

  The bald man aimed another fleeting glare at me but obeyed Grimm’s command. As he stomped past on his way out of the room, he caught the front of my shirt and pulled me nose to nose with him.

  “You’d better sleep with both eyes open,” he seethed, his breath hot on my face. “I’m in charge, so you’re my bitch now.”

  He shoved me back, then spun away, marching out of the house.

  I jerked my thumb in the direction Vinton had gone. “I don’t take orders from him.”

  Grimm’s eyes narrowed. “You will,” he replied. “While I’m away, I expect you to treat him with the respect he is due.”

  “Only that much?” I snorted. “I may be able to manage, after all.”

  “Enough!” Grimm snapped, his voice a low roar. “Enough of your mouth and enough of your lies.” He aimed that last bit at Donovan, who looked suddenly stricken. “I don’t want another word out of either of you unless it’s an explanation as to why you decided to leave your brother behind tonight, and why you both tried to keep that fact from me.”

  His queries posed were not ones I was willing to answer, so I said nothing.

  Donovan followed suit but couldn’t help but squirm. He was mad enough at me, and loyal enough to Grimm that he would inevitably confess but, when he opened his mouth to speak, a squawk from a bullhorn rang out.

  “Attention! This is the Capitol. We are responding to a distress call from this address. Come out immediately, or we will enter by force.”

  Distress call?

  “The cabbie?” Donovan whispered, his face as pale as a sheet.

  No. There hadn’t been enough time for that.

  I looked at Grimm. “Not all of us have trouble with security, huh?” I said. “Avery got the cameras and doorbell, but did anyone check for a silent alarm?”

  Grimm shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  There were no windows in this room—no way to see how many investigators had arrived or how prepared they were. A welfare check on a tripped silent alarm brought a different level of law enforcement than the riot squad that would turn up anywhere the Bloody Hex was sighted. But twenty plus minutes was a long time to not have a squad car on site. Had they been here earlier? Seen me or my car—parked next to Thatcher’s mailbox so plainly Grimm would have a conniption if he knew?

  I hadn’t seen the back door yet, but there had to be one. Down the hall, possibly. We could go out that way, jump the backyard fence, and run. The Porsche was forfeit, so anything we did would have to be on foot. Then Avery and Vinton could pick us up down the road.

  Beside me, Grimm’s appearance slowly shifted. His body shortened and slimmed, and his hair slicked back into the gel-combed ducktail practically trademarked by Jacoby Thatcher.

  When he spoke, he did so with an imitation of the dead man’s voice. “Time to go, boys.”

  I caught Donovan by the arm and pulled him behind me in a mad dash toward the back of the house. The hall opened to areas previously unexplored, including the dining room and kitchen. Next to whitewashed cabinets, the back door stood open. But the entry—or exit, in our case—was crowded with men in black tactical gear. Donovan and I skidding around the corner started them shouting. Assault rifles rose and cocked in a series of clattering clicks.

  In theory, I could stop bullets. It required anticipation or at least a lucky guess about when the gun would fire. This brute squad was less than fifteen feet away, and with multiple gunmen came a flurry of potential trigger pulls I couldn’t possibly predict.

  “Get on the ground!” one of the masked men bellowed.

  Donovan yanked free of me and dropped to his knees in immediate surrender.

  Still standing, I hissed a breath. The lead commando repeated his order, then followed it with, “Put your hands where we can see them!”

  Great idea, actually.

  I thrust both palms toward the clustered men. The sweeping blow knocked them back into a dogpile. One of the rifles fired into the far wall, flashing muzzle flare and filling the room with the smell of gunpowder.

  Donovan cupped his palms to his ears until I grabbed his elbow and hauled him up.

  “Move!” I shouted.

  My heart pumped as we ran back to the den. Sounds and shouts chased us, creating a tangle of noise.

  Curse words chased every panted breath as we came to a stop in the den where Grimm—now Jacoby Thatcher—watched with wide eyes.

  Donovan looked over at me. His whole body trembled so hard I feared he might fall to pieces.

  I turned a rapid circle, trapped by walls on all sides while investigators poured into the house from every direction.

  No way out.

  Well, maybe one.

  I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the glass marble Nash had given me the night before. Grabbing Donovan’s hand, I pressed the potion into his palm.

  “Break this, or eat it, or something. It’ll take you to Bitters.” I stumbled over the words.

  Donovan gaped at me. “What?” he stammered. “What about you?”

  “Fitch, no.” Grimm shook his head. “You have to leave. If they catch you—”

  “They’ll mount my head on a plaque. I know.”

  But, if they caught Donovan, he would be labeled a criminal. Caught at the scene of a break-in or attempted murder, however they decided to frame it, with the Bloody Hex mark plain as day on his hand, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Side effects,” I continued to my brother. “Nash’ll want to know.”

  I couldn’t stand him staring at me, teary and scared stiff. More than that, I couldn’t risk him stalling this with awkward goodbyes. I grabbed his hand again and squeezed his fingers closed.

  The marble popped, oozing liquid I barely felt before it was gone. Donovan disappeared in a blink, leaving me with my boss wearing Jacoby Thatcher’s face and a look of rage.

  “Damn it!” Grimm shouted. “You better pray you live long enough to regret that.”

  Something metallic bounced then rolled down the hall toward us, spewing smoke. I reached for the collar of my shirt to keep from breathing the fumes, but not before the canister exploded with a burst of light and ear-shredding sound.

  My vision washed white, so bright that even closing my eyes couldn’t block it out. I thought every curse word I knew but couldn’t be sure if I said any of them. I heard nothing but pain—if pain had a sound, and I was suddenly certain it did.

  I staggered back, blinking furiously.

  Magic fizzled out in my fingertips, sucked away with the adrenaline rush that scrambled my thoughts until they made as much sense as alphabet soup.

  Sight returned in blurs of color. I turned a slow circle, trying to orient myself as the room reappeared. Grimm—or rather, Jacoby—hunkered on the floor while black-suited bodies rushed down both hallways, funneling toward the den where I remained profoundly trapped.

  Red lasers swirled with the stars still cluttering my vision. I looked down at the glowing red dots grouped on my chest. I had no doubt there was at least one fixed on my head, as well.

  “Mister Thatcher!” someone shouted. “Are you all right, sir?”

  Another called to his squad mates. “Where’s the other one? There were two of them!”

  “Search the house!” came the reply and, for the first time in several long moments, I could breathe. If it was Donovan they wanted, they’d never find him. A small victory, but an important one.