Sucking a breath brought a wave of unwelcome smells. Sweat, piss, and grime mixed into a sour aroma, seemingly embodied by the lumpy lady guard standing before me.

  The duty belt cinched around her waist spilled over with girth on top and bottom. Perspiration plastered her dark hair to her face. She frowned, looking from me to the clipboard in her hands while a member of the transport crew removed my restraints. The shock collar went last, unnecessary since the sheer density of the air in this place kept my thoughts sluggish.

  It took all my focus to blink and breathe while someone waved a metal detection wand from my chest to my shins.

  They’d emptied my pockets last night after Holland left, so I got a clean read. Good thing because if they asked me to take my belt off now, I wasn’t sure I could make my fingers cooperate.

  When the clipboard-toting woman spoke, it sounded more like a grunt than words. I shook myself, rendering her voice clearly on the second attempt.

  “Mister Farrow, follow me, please.”

  I glanced back at the door through which we’d entered. The bland, gray metal coordinated with the rest of the room. The walls were made of painted cinderblock, with flecked linoleum tile underfoot. A few guards milled around, but none took notice of me. None except Clipboard Bitch, who looked pissed to be here.

  “Mister Farrow, do you require assistance?” she asked.

  “I got it,” I muttered, pressing my palms to my eyes. “Right behind you.”

  Make that several paces behind as she bustled across the room toward a tall partition wall. Stopping beside it, she motioned me ahead into a narrow space with relative privacy. A metal chair sat to one side with a folded pile of fabric in the seat.

  “Remove your clothing, please,” she said.

  I almost laughed. “I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

  “We got people in here who’ll wear out a smart mouth,” a deep and definitely male voice chimed.

  I turned to find a tall, burly guard standing by.

  “And I’ve been told I give great head,” I replied. “Guess that means I’ll have lots of friends.”

  The guard reached to his duty belt, unholstering his baton. “Undress,” he grumbled. “Now.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it.” I flapped a hand at him.

  Bending forward to tug off my shoes nearly toppled me, and I straightened with a deep breath.

  “Can someone turn down the fucking interference?” I rubbed my face.

  The guard grunted. “You’ll get used to it.”

  I wasted a scowl on the ground, then noticed the chair again. With the invisible pressure driving me downward, it would be a relief to sit. Making my way to it, I swept the folded garments to the floor and dropped onto the seat. Shoes came off, were stuffed with socks, then discarded in a tumbling toss.

  The shirt came next, and I had half a mind to twirl it around my finger before throwing it toward the grouchy guard. Give him the old razzle-dazzle. But instead, I slid my Henley tee down one arm and piled it on the ground.

  Jeans and boxers went at the same time, shoved past my hips and bent knees to bunch around my ankles. I stood, bare-bodied, from the folding chair, and stepped out of the wadded denim.

  Sweat had begun to bead on me—either from exertion or the oppressive stuffiness of the room—and, with my damp skin now exposed, it became suddenly chilling. I shivered as the guard walked forward. He was well over six feet tall to be able to scowl down at me as he raised a gloved hand toward my face.

  “Open,” he said.

  My jaw clenched in a fleeting protest, and I swallowed before opening my mouth for the other man’s probing fingers.

  He hooked his thumb beneath my chin and his fingertips over my teeth. He stooped, peering into my mouth and pushing at my cheeks and tongue till I gagged.

  He huffed a breath, maybe disappointed I didn’t have a shiv between my molars, before grabbing my shoulder and spinning me around.

  “Face the wall,” he ordered.

  Another push propelled me into the slick, painted cinderblock. My hands splayed on either side of my head while my cheek and bare chest pressed against the cool surface.

  The guard swept his hands down my legs, around my waist, and under my arms. Every pat, slide, and grab jarred me, ending with another brusque command.

  “Now gimme a squat and cough.”

  Heat flushed my face. I looked back at the big man, wishing he was joking while knowing he wasn’t.

  It struck me suddenly that neither he nor Clipboard Bitch gave a shit who I was, despite knowing me by name. It must have been a next level power trip getting to boss around neutered witches. In fact, the staff here could well have been humans getting their kicks seeing us stripped bare, physically and magically.

  With a shaky breath, I did as instructed, then stood and faced the guard with my arms spread wide. “Anything else?”

  He nodded at the outfit I’d removed from the chair. “Get dressed.”

  The clothes I’d changed out of were already gone, ferried away without my notice. Damn magic dampeners were like blinders on a horse.

  I bent to retrieve the outfit and shook it into the shape of a pair of beige canvas coveralls. A patch on the breast pocket was embroidered with a seven-digit number: my inmate ID. White cotton briefs and socks had been folded inside and now laid atop a pair of canvas slip-on shoes.

  As much as I wanted to be clothed, I didn’t want to be controlled. Prison uniforms and numbers that replaced my name were symptoms of a bigger problem. Entering Thorngate surrendered my freedoms, both large and small. It also made any rescue attempt the Bloody Hex may have mounted exponentially more difficult.

  Niggling doubt taunted me with memories of the past forty-eight hours. What if Grimm was mad at me for the mess I’d made at the East Side Tower? For walking out on Donovan’s tattoo? Or for ruining Jacoby Thatcher’s murder? His final words before my arrest had been full of rage. Was this a punishment he thought I deserved?

  I donned the coveralls and shoes, then looked down at the identifying patch now on my chest: 5832471. Not Fitch Farrow. Not Marionette. Not even a good number. No 69s or 420s to be seen.

  Better me here than my brother. He’d been safely whisked away to the Bitters’ End, assuming Nash’s potion didn’t vaporize him in transit. I’d done the right thing by keeping his hands clean of Thatcher’s death. But now, more than ever, it seemed my efforts were in vain. With me out of the picture, Grimm could welcome his newest acolyte with open arms. Maybe they were both relieved I was gone.

  12

  Behavioral Correction

  I would have dozed during orientation if I hadn’t been the only inmate in attendance. Neither teachers nor correction officers took kindly to students napping through lectures, so I stayed awake for the full rundown of what to expect inside Thorngate’s walls.

  From wake time, to mealtime, to yard time, to sleep time, prison life ran by the clock. I was expected to get up, dress, and make my bed for inspection every morning or risk punishment. The kind of punishment was surprisingly vague considering the specificity of everything else.

  At the end, Clipboard Bitch handed me a spare pair of coveralls and a tote containing rubber sandals, a towel, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a black plastic comb. On top of all that laid a staple-bound booklet printed with Thorngate’s logo and the title Inmate Admission and Orientation Handbook.

  “Make sure you read this.” The lady guard tapped a bitten-down nail to the pink paper cover. “Good information.”

  I nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”

  We exited the processing area through a metal door. The long hallway to the prison was another slog, where I kept falling behind or stopping to scrub at my scalp. I’d heard they used the same magic dampeners in the city walls as in the prisons. That sent a strong message. Our human visitors even commented that the air crackled on the way through the gate, like a static charge in the atmosphere.

  But I felt absence. Dead space surrounded me, heavy, thick, and hard to breathe.

  Stopping before yet another door, Clipboard Bitch rounded on me. “You do head magic, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I adjusted my armload of supplies.

  “I figured. It’s worse for those types.” She waved a hand in the air. “They get dizzy. Sometimes sick. But if you throw up, you clean it up.”

  Pain twinged in my already unsettled stomach. After subsisting on alcohol and potato chips for the past two days, I didn’t have much in the tank.

  I nodded, nonetheless. “Got it.”

  She hit the door’s crash bar, swinging it out. I paused behind her, looking up and down the multistory atrium of Thorngate Correctional Institute. Cells lined curved walls ringing a large, open area going down at least four floors. Inmates milled around, passing in groups of two or three.

  Unlike the guard staff, they showed marked interest in me. Whispers chased me as I moved down the walkway.

  “Fresh meat!” someone hollered, prompting a callback of shrill whistles.

  I looked for the source of the voice, dizzy as predicted, but it was impossible to know who spoke in the blur of bland canvas clothes and too-attentive eyes.

  Clipboard Bitch was several paces ahead, and I hurried to catch up to her as she came to a stop in front of a drab cell similar to all the others.

  “Here we are,” she said.

  A bunkbed occupied one half of the room and a small table and chair took up the other. My cellmate hunched over the desk, doodling in a composition notebook. I could only see the back of him, broad, buzz-cut, and unbothered by my arrival.

  The wall above him was papered with pencil sketches in a haphazard collection a few candles short of a shrine. Serial killer vibes; I would know.

  Clipboard Bitch nodded toward him. “Clyde here will help you get settled in.”

  Clyde didn’t respond, too busy scratching his pencil against the pages of his notebook.

  The faint smell of food wafted in, mingling with less pleasant odors of sweat and despair. Pain stabbed again at my gut.

  “When’s lunch?” I asked Clipboard Bitch, catching her in mid-retreat.

  “You just missed it,” she said. “Dinner’s at five, so… four more hours.”

  I groaned.

  She surveyed the two of us once more, me swaying on my feet and Clyde doing his best to wear out that pencil. “You boys play nice,” she said, then took her leave.

  I entered the cell and turned toward the bunkbed. White sheets and thin pillows occupied both mattresses, and I already knew it all stunk of bleach. Needing somewhere to offload my necessaries, but not wanting to crowd my new roomie, I gestured to the beds.

  “Am I top or bottom, big fella?”

  Clyde gave no response, predictable at this point, so I scrutinized the bunks. Both looked freshly made, but the lower bed had an unmistakable trench down the middle left by a large body. It made sense that a man with Clyde’s proportions wouldn’t want to climb a ladder into bed every night.

  “You know,” I began, “I’m usually on bottom but, for you, I’ll make an exception.”

  I slung the basket of supplies onto the upper bunk but didn’t have it in me to follow them. Instead, I stepped back against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor, waiting till the room stopped spinning to speak again.

  “Please tell me you’ve got an escape tunnel behind that.” I gestured to the collage above Clyde’s head.

  “Knock, knock,” came a voice from outside the cell.

  “Door’s open,” I said reflexively.

  A man with sallow skin and stringy black hair entered. “Hey, Big C,” he greeted.

  Clyde responded with a grunt.

  Two others filed in behind the new arrival: a tall, dark-skinned man with an impressive pompadour and a woman with purple hair braided into a mohawk. She wore full makeup and had cut and tied her jumpsuit so she looked more like a pinup model than a prisoner. Being jailed in a coed prison was the only good thing that had happened all day.

  The first man led the charge, scanning the room to find me seated on the floor. When he smiled, he flashed a row of pointed teeth.

  “New guy,” he said, moving toward me.

  In the small space, it didn’t take more than a couple of steps to make me feel pressed. I stood, looking from him to his followers and back again.

  He extended his hand for a shake. “Heard Clyde got a new bunkie, and we wanted to make sure you got the Thorngate welcome.”

  I forced a tight smile. “How kind.”

  He looked down at his waiting hand. With a sigh, I took it and shook.

  “Name’s Jaxon Rhodes. Call me Jax,” he said. “And you are…?” His fingers tightened around my palm then twisted, turning my hand tattoo side up.

  His cronies leaned over both of his shoulders. I tried to pull back, but Jax hung on.

  “Fitch Farrow,” he cooed. “I didn’t believe it.”

  I jerked free of his grasp and staggered back into the wall. If not for the antimagic making me unsteady and stupid, I would have seen that move a mile away.

  “Clyde, you dog.” Jax moved over to my distracted cellmate and thumped him on the back. “You shoulda told us we were in the presence of greatness.”

  The pinup model perched on the lower bunk while Mister Pompadour took up a post in the open doorway. I could have taken Jax’s words as a compliment but, coming from a man with fanglike teeth and yellow eyes that looked decidedly feral, they felt far from flattering.

  Jax looked me over. “You know, it’s not a great idea to sport gang tags in prison. You should see about getting something to cover that up.”

  I snorted, remembering similar thoughts while I strolled oh so casually between the cubicles in the East Side Tower. “Even if I did, I still have this face.” I gestured to myself. “If it looks like a duck, right?”

  “A duck.” He laughed. “You’re funny, Fitch Farrow. That’s a hell of a name, ain’t it? Rolls right off the tongue.”

  “Jaxy,” the woman said in a husky voice. She rose from Clyde’s bunk. “You gonna introduce us or what?”

  Jax frowned. “Didn’t I?”

  She shook her head.

  “Ah, sorry.” He waved toward her, providing me an opportunity to give her a more lingering appraisal. Her jumpsuit top was unbuttoned down to her navel, showcasing a lacy black bra that was definitely not prison issued. She also wore a nose ring and a respectable amount of ink.

  “This is miss Jette Black.” When Jax said her name, she flicked her forked tongue at me. An effective come-on if I’d ever seen one.

  “And that’s York Tompkins.” He motioned to the man blocking the doorway.

  Slim-bodied and handsome, York stood tall enough that his coiffed hair touched the top of the doorframe. His eyes swirled deep blue as he stared at me, and his brown skin had a fishy sheen. Aquamancer, if I were a betting man, though those weren’t usually criminal types. Jette’s power remained a mystery—not that it mattered in this magicless place—while Jax had a feral vibe that, combined with his slitted eyes, spoke of some kind of animal shifter.“Now that we’re all familiar,” Jax continued. “How about you let us show you around the place?”

  Only then did York move aside, clearing a path to the cell block where a minor altercation had spilled into the walkway. Gawkers flocked around, obscuring the action as they cheered and jeered.

  The Bloody Hex had enemies both in and out of prison, but they had allies, too. I didn’t recognize Jax or his followers, so I was unsure where to slot them. I was even less certain whether or not to trust them.

  I glanced at Clyde, who had abandoned his notebook in favor of observing the proceedings. When he caught my eyes, his head gave a slow shake.

  “I’ll pass,” I told Jax. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Aw, come on, Fitch Farrow,” he argued. “Don’t wanna miss a guaranteed good time. We’re the best tour guides around.”

  “Pretty sure I can figure it out. It’s a circle, right?” I tipped my head toward the cell block outside. “I may not have graduated high school, but I know my shapes.”

  “Oh, you are funny,” Jax said, but his tone was far from amused.

  Clyde’s chair scooted back, and he stood, towering over our visitors. He must have been seven feet tall and half as broad. No need to seek out the biggest guy in the yard to propel my way to the top of the prison food chain. He was right in front of me.

  “Time to go,” Clyde told Jax.

  “Relax, Big C.” The weaselly man held up his hands. “We aren’t gonna break your new toy.”

  Clyde didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

  Jax worked his jaw a moment before huffing a breath. “Maybe next time.” He winked a yellow eye at me. His turn toward the exit signaled the other two, and they all filed out.

  Clyde pulled the cell door shut in their wake. I stayed against the wall, watching as he shuffled back to the desk chair and sat.

  “They’re bad news,” he said of our now absent guests. “And he lied about your tattoo. Don’t hide it. That’s how your friends will find you.”

  I nodded while a pertinent question remained unasked: Are you my friend, Clyde?

  I hoped so because ours were close quarters, and his fists were the size of my head. Clyde could probably bench-press Vinton, and that was saying something.

  Turning toward the bunkbed ladder, I gripped the metal rungs.

  “I’m gonna lay down,” I said. “Not feeling so hot.”

  Clyde grunted. “You’ll get used to it.”

  So I’d been told.

  I made it up the ladder and crawled across the mattress. Collapsing onto it, I immediately felt every slat underneath. My stomach grumbled. I was hungry, tired, and already done with today.

  Rolling over, I peered at the drawings taped to the wall above Clyde’s desk. All people, it appeared, most of the same person. I’d seen enough police sketch artist renderings of myself to recognize the hallmarks: hollow cheeks, shaggy undercut, lip ring…

  “Clyde?” I cleared my throat. “Whatcha working on?”