“Fitch Farrow,” the megaphoned voice from outside squawked. “You are under arrest by order of the Capitol. Surrender or we will use deadly force.”

  How many were there? Fifteen? Twenty men? With enough firepower to capture the whole gang, or to execute us on the spot if given an excuse to do so. We were wanted dead or alive, and dead was always easier.

  I had to make a choice: fight back and die now—gunmen with itchy trigger fingers would be praised for splatter painting this room with my gray matter—or surrender to die later on the Capitol stage, kneeling before a guillotine while a crowd jeered.

  I didn’t want to die now. I wasn’t ready for that. Maybe it wasn’t so difficult to decide.

  Hands up first. Lacing my fingers on the back of my skull helped hold them steady. I started to kneel, but my knees gave out halfway down. I hit the ground with a thud.

  Thick-soled boots stomped in while the men shouted, “Now, now! Go, go!”

  My pulse beat inside my aching ears as the commandos circled. I counted ten of them before one came up behind me and used the nose of his rifle to shove my face down to the floor.

  Gloved hands grabbed my wrists and secured them behind my back with zip cuffs. They hauled me up, my knees still weak, and snapped a cold, metal collar around my neck.

  When electricity zipped down my spine, I bucked back. Fists plunged immediately into my gut, driving the air out in a grunt. I stumbled forward, but whoever held the ring around my throat clung on, pulling against it till pressure swelled in my head.

  The shuffling, staggered journey out of the house became a battle for air. Thoughts wicked away while my brain stretched tight as a balloon. It filled up until I fell down, collapsing unconscious on the dew-damp grass.

  10

  Capitol Importance

  The ride from the suburbs to the city came in flashes. Electric shocks from the collar strained every muscle in my body until I was wound so tight I couldn’t breathe. The carload of commandos got a good laugh out of it, taking turns passing around a remote control while I laid curled and quaking on the floor.

  They must have carried me into the Capitol building because my legs were still locked up when they dumped me on the floor of a tiny room. Judging by the involuntary twitches shortening my breaths, I had enough residual electricity in me to power a lightbulb.

  I sat up slowly and blinked bleary eyes at the fanciest prison cell I’d ever seen. It came complete with an en suite boasting a shower tub and sink. Besides the bed, there was a table with a lamp—bolted down, of course—and a boxy television mounted in the opposite corner. It was only a slight downgrade from the motel the Bloody Hex called home.

  Behind my back, my hands remained zip tied and numb. My wrists weren’t strong enough to snap the tie, but my mind was. I had a bad feeling about the effect of the collar fastened around my neck, but the fading sensation in my fingers was a more pressing concern. A tendril of thought slipped out, testing the air. The metal ring gave a hum, and pain snapped like a rubber band in my temple.

  “Shit,” I hissed.

  Antimagic shock collar? What would they think of next?

  I glared at the door, certain I’d be left to stew till dawn, but equally certain someone in the halls outside could hear me.

  “Somebody in this place has a serious kink!” I shouted. “When I figure out who it is—”

  A mechanical beep made me jump.

  The barred cell door slid aside, allowing entry to a woman in her mid-twenties. She wore a pinstriped skirt suit and round, reflective sunglasses, and was surprisingly put together for nearly midnight. Then again, this was a career-defining moment for her. If you’re going to make history, you might as well look good doing it.

  She looked so good, in fact, that I couldn’t help but continue my statement by saying, “When I figure out who it is, I’d like to have a long chat with them about our shared interests.”

  I bumped the collar with one shoulder. “Did you bring the leash that goes with this, Investigator?”

  She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet.

  “Holland Lyle.” She flipped it open to show me. “Special investigator for—”

  “Spare me.” I rolled my eyes. “Are you really going to carry on like we don’t know each other? I took you to the freshman formal.”

  Yes, we had history. More than even the media knew. Maximus Lyle did his best to bury rumors about our childhood friendship after the Bloody Hex got its claws into me. But the truth remained that long before she became my Capitol counterpart, Holland Lyle was my first love.

  “It’s been a long time, Mister Farrow,” she said. “Or do you prefer Marionette?” The bifold wallet snapped closed, concealing the silver badge and ID card I hadn’t bothered to inspect.

  No surprise she was the one sent to greet me. My arrest was just the feather she needed for her cap if she intended to run the Investigative Department one day.

  “It’s Fitch,” I said. “You know that.”

  She glanced around the cell before returning her attention to me. “Shall we do something about those?” The angle of her eyes implied the zip cuffs securing my arms.

  I shrugged, and she produced a pair of short-bladed scissors, then reached around behind my back. With a pull and a click, the pinching pain in my wrists relented.

  I rolled my stiff shoulders, bringing my hands around to rest in my lap. The hollow sockets of the Bloody Hex skull tattoo stared up at me from the back of my hand.

  “Forgive me if I’m not entirely prepared for this meeting,” Holland said as she tucked the scissors away. “This was not the turn of events any of us expected.”

  It wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my Tuesday, either. Overwhelming didn’t begin to cover my experience of the past few days. From Warren Reeves to Jacoby Thatcher and every bit of bullshit in between, none of it readied me for this.

  “We have much to discuss,” Holland continued, “but first, do you have any questions for me?”

  “So fucking formal.” I frowned. “Are you wearing a wire, or do you always carry on like you’ve got a stick up your ass?”

  Her lips pursed.

  She’d been my first kiss, too. Not that it mattered since she seemed determined to pretend the first fourteen years of our lives never happened. We were living in the now, where I was a criminal, and she was a cop. Cut and dry.

  “Let’s take a walk,” she said.

  I looked past her at the cell door standing open, vacant of security guards or uniformed officers. A moment passed wondering if this was a trap or if she planned to take me somewhere worse than the cushy jail cell.

  “It’s been some time since you visited the Capitol,” she added. “Perhaps you’d like to see how things have changed.”

  A wave of her hand motioned me past her into the hallway outside. I preferred not to turn my back on any investigator, even a pretty one, but the wide-open passage stretching ahead gave a feeling of freedom that put my fears at ease.

  In these wee hours, the building was closed to the public. Even overachieving staffers would have gone home long ago.

  We walked—Holland following my lead—in unnerving quiet down the carpeted path.

  Twenty paces in, she spoke. “I should begin by saying I’m relieved they were able to bring you in alive. We had believed that Hex members would not allow themselves to be taken into custody.”

  Like a suicide pact or something? I would never have agreed to that.

  My lips curved in a smirk. “Who said I was a Hex member?”

  She expelled a long breath. “Regardless, I can’t fault your sense of self-preservation. Better to live and die another day.”

  Plaques and posters lined the walls as we drew closer to the Investigative Department. My knowledge of the building was admittedly out of date, but I knew that area best. A plan was brewing to ditch Holland and make my way to the employee parking garage on the back of the building. To do that, I would need the investigator’s keycard, easily pilfered from her unconscious body.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see Holland walking with her hands in her pockets as though she didn’t have a care in the world. She did have a gun, though, and magical power I’d seen blossom in our youth. She controlled shadows and was able to shift into darkness like Peter Pan’s untethered silhouette. Being naturally sneaky was a skill most useful for stealth situations and reconnaissance, but it had myriad combat applications, as well.

  She came alongside me, taking surefooted steps toward the end of the hall. “That said, you being here alive has opened avenues I’d like to explore,” she said. “I’m sure you know this isn’t a typical arrest, and you are no typical felon.”

  “Alleged felon,” I quipped.

  She gave a sideways look, and I caught a glimpse of her eyes past the frames of her sunglasses. Smoky gray irises swirled around pinpoint pupils.

  “In the course of a usual arrest, you’d be taken for questioning, processing, then jailed to await trial,” Holland began. “Despite finding you at the scene of a crime—or attempted crime—we are more interested in collaborating with you than convicting you.”

  So, they bought Grimm’s Jacoby Thatcher impersonation act. Good news for me.

  I raised a brow. “Collaborating? You mean like a group project, or…?”

  We came to a stop in a two-story, circular room that housed rows of metal tanker desks surrounded by glass-walled offices. While part of my brain retraced steps from here to the parking garage elevator, the other part felt pulled toward the darkened offices, specifically the one that once bore the nameplate of Thierry Farrow.

  I stepped out ahead, giving that room a wide berth as I took the ramp that hugged the outer wall of the room. Holland followed.

  “I want to make myself explicitly clear, Fitch. This is a delicate situation. Many people would like to see you punished for the crimes you’ve committed—”

  “Allegedly,” I called back.

  “But we believe you can be an asset to our cause,” the investigator continued, unfazed. “You possess skills the Capitol could put to good use.”

  “What kind of use?”

  Last I checked, the Capitol didn’t take applications for mercenary work. More than that, I’d seen press conferences where the powers-that-be called my use of telekinesis “a bastardization of magic.” Either Holland was an outlier in her beliefs about my so-called usefulness, or she was lying.

  We arrived on the lower level of the bullpen, then turned. The arching wall now before us boasted something new. A grid of plaques with photos and engraved brass plates spanned from the ceiling to waist level. Pictures of investigators posed in snappy business suits with their names etched above dates.

  “Honoring our Fallen” read the decal above the display. I tensed.

  I’d been old enough at my father’s death to remember places and the people who frequented them. So, I came into Grimm’s care as a walking, talking Rolodex of state intel. Of the framed tributes staring me down, I could account for my involvement in the demise of at least fifteen of them.

  I searched until I found my father’s. His photo showed a confident smile and windswept hair, blond like mine. His skin was tanned from our weekends on his sailboat, and his eyes sparkled with life.

  Tightness gripped my chest, and I turned to face Holland, who met me with an almost sympathetic look.

  “Allow me to put it simply,” she said at last. “You take orders from Grimm. Have you considered taking orders from someone else?”

  “I’m not an attack dog.” I took a step back, but the investigator leaned into it.

  “You’ve been exactly that,” she replied, “for many years.”

  “I’m not a rat, either.”

  Holland looked away, nodding. “You’re loyal to the Hex. I understand that. I respect it. But are you sure they deserve that loyalty?”

  I snorted. “I’m sure they don’t. But neither does the Capitol, so I’ll take my chances with the devils I know.”

  Her brow furrowed. “This discussion is only happening as a favor. I have limited time to persuade you—”

  “To play nice?” I grinned wolfishly. “I’m rarely nice.”

  Holland took another step, coming within arm’s reach of me. “To save yourself from the guillotine. Surely someone who values his life the way you apparently do must appreciate that. And this is a lucrative offer. You could change your life, Fitch. Right your wrongs.”

  Footsteps echoed toward us. Two, maybe three people approached.

  I muttered a curse. Was it too late to bolt for the parking garage? Take Holland down then rifle through her suit coat for the keycard?

  Why had I listened to her? Or responded at all? I must have wasted a dozen opportunities to escape while she gave her sales pitch and my father’s ghost looked on.

  Holland’s face paled. Tugging back her sleeve, she glanced at her watch. “This offer also has an expiration date,” she said, rushing. “As soon as the public finds out you’ve been captured, they won’t rest until they have your head. I need you to make a decision. Now.”

  11

  In Processing

  “Fitch?” Holland prompted while my mind raced.

  Like most criminal outfits, the Bloody Hex had an unspoken cover-your-ass policy. Anyone who fell behind was expected to catch up on their own. In my time with the gang, I hadn’t seen many—any—grand rescue efforts. They may have been able to bust me out of Capitol custody but might be more willing to cut their losses and move on. There was no shortage of lowlifes ready to fill my seat in the Hex hierarchy. Like I’d told my brother: the gang would survive.

  The footsteps were close now. Amazing how loud such a small sound could be in a vacant building.

  I glanced across the bullpen to a metal door on the far side. A wired glass window provided a narrow view of the hallway beyond. The elevator to the parking garage laid past that.

  Before me, Holland’s expression wavered between frustration and irritation. She looked ready to say my name again, but I spoke first.

  “Thanks for the offer, Investigator, but Capitol work isn’t for me. Also, sorry about this.” I lunged forward, grabbing and turning her into my chest. Her spine slammed against me as I looped my arm around her neck.

  She grunted, tucking her chin to keep my elbow from closing around her throat. Basic self-defense training informed her of what I already knew. If I could restrict the blood flow to her brain, she’d fall unconscious in seconds.

  Holland threw an elbow that grazed my ribs. I responded by lifting as much as I was able, driving her onto her tiptoes to try to sink the hold.

  “It was nice seeing you again, Miss Lyle,” I whispered in her ear. “We should do it again sometime. My place, though. Yours sucks.”

  With one forceful squeeze, my arm slid under her jaw. I started a countdown till she would go limp but, three seconds in, instead of rendering the investigator unconscious, I made her disappear.

  Smoke wisped past my nose as my arms tightened around empty air. I stepped back, searching for the vanished woman. By all accounts, I was alone in the bullpen, but the shadows under the big metal desks made me wary.

  Then I spotted her, a silhouette becoming rapidly three-dimensional. In her outstretched hand, I recognized the shock collar remote the commandos had done their best to wear out on the ride here.

  I clenched my fist and reeled back, ready to swing on her, but jolting electricity silenced every thought. My sore muscles contracted, and I hit the ground hard. I curled into a shuddering ball of pain at the investigator’s feet.

  By the time I could relax enough to breathe, even my bones ached.

  I stayed on the floor, panting while glaring up at Holland. Shadow magic was difficult to pull off in direct light, and a disappearing act should have been impossible. It would have been, last I knew. But, like she said, it had been a long time.

  “So, you did have the leash.” My teeth chattered. “Smart girl.”

  Voices rose from behind us in a chorus of shouts as three guards charged in.

  I rolled onto my back and raised my hands.

  Holland pocketed the remote, then folded her arms across her chest. “Get him ready for processing,” she told the guards hauling me to my knees. “I’ll arrange a transport to Thorngate first thing in the morning.”

  “Thorngate?” I repeated.

  The investigator nodded, then straightened her sunglasses.

  Thorngate Correctional Institute was one of two prisons reserved for magical criminals. The other, Angel Heights, housed casual offenders, while Thorngate was equipped for more nefarious sorts. According to the press, it was overcrowded and in bad repair. Apparently, we had more convicts than the Capitol had prepared for.

  “This isn’t how I’d hoped things would progress,” Holland said as the brute squad pulled me to standing. “But I understand that you need time to think.”

  “I’m not gonna change my mind,” I replied, sounding tough but already worrying about what came next: a blank, gray box in a rundown prison with tally marks on walls counting out endless days.

  How long would they leave me there? And how would the gang find me? If they wanted to find me.

  I hoped panic didn’t have as firm a grasp on my face as it did on my heart. But, judging by the way Holland’s slim, dark brows drew together, and the twist of her mouth, she read me clearly.

  “I’ll be in touch, Fitch.”

  Another car ride. Another stretch of time waiting and wondering—no, this time I knew—where I was going next.

  By the time I made the slow, staggered journey from the black SUV into Thorngate’s musty interior, I had decided prisoner transport felt a lot like kinky sex. Trussed up and vulnerable, knowing you were about to get fucked.

  The moment I entered the building, heavy-duty magic dampeners made my head swim. It was crushing, like a weight dropped across my shoulders that threatened to lay me out flat.