3. Dirty Thirty
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.
Time to go.
“Hey!” The voice and ensuing jab to my shoulder stirred me from sleep.
Smells of disinfectant soap and latex permeated the air. My arm slid away from my face, allowing a view of the brown-skinned goddess standing beside me with a tattoo gun in her hand.
Isha Kapoor scowled as her dark eyes met mine. “You didn’t tell me where you want it,” she said.
I’d wasted no time. From the valet lot at the East Side Tower, it was a ten-minute drive to the Blooming Orchid, a tattoo parlor with fringe benefits for those in the know. The shop didn’t open till noon, and the Porsche’s dashboard clock read 9:30 AM when I arrived. But Isha never turned me away for business calls… or personal ones.
The padded chair was comfier than last night’s bathroom floor, making this as good a time as any to catch up on my beauty sleep. Judging by Isha’s toe-tapping impatience, she disagreed.
I flipped her my middle finger, an answer and a statement; one she understood, judging by her sigh. She sat, then rolled forward on a padded stool, situating herself between me and a stainless tray table set up with paper towels, a pot of black ink, and a spray bottle.
The tattoo gun’s tiny motor hummed alive as Isha took my hand and pressed it flat against the chair’s armrest. My attention roamed to her breasts spilling over the neckline of her corset top. Soft black lines of flowers and skulls decorated her chest and vined down her bare arms. She looked as much the owner of this place as part of its décor.
“You’re a class act, Fitch Farrow.” Isha’s crimson lips bent in a frown. “Stumbling in here, looking like a bum, and reeking of booze…”
When the needle dug in again, I hissed a breath. My eyelids fluttered in protest of the light above. Nash’s anti-hangover potion was wearing off faster than I’d hoped.
“Tell me you didn’t work like this,” Isha continued, barely audible over the tattoo gun. “You’re a mess.”
When she lifted the needle, I took the chance to waggle my middle finger once again.
“This,” I said, sitting up straighter, “is number thirty.”
“Happy murderversary,” Isha huffed. “Now, hold still.” She bent to the task again, raven hair draping over her shoulder in waves.
The beginning of the slim, black line looked stark on my hand. I would soon have three on every digit, one for each life I’d taken in my career as a criminal. They were Isha’s idea in the first place: strings for the Marionette to pull.
“You think Grimm got me a cake?” I mused. “It’s the least he could do.”
A damp paper towel swiped across the bend of my finger like a cool kiss on burning skin. I should have been used to it, having been Isha’s doodle pad for the past decade, but the strings hurt worse than most. Bones and tendons too near the surface prevented a comfortable experience.
“Speaking of cakes,” Isha said while the tattoo gun buzzed, “maybe you should get your brother one. It’s his birthday, isn’t it?”
“Fuck.” My groan stretched the word into several syllables.
“Did you forget?”
“No.” But I’d sure tried to last night. Drinking was my preferred method of coping with problems I didn’t know how to solve.
“It’s a big one this year.” Isha dabbed my knuckle with the paper towel. “Grimm says he’s going to let Donovan join the gang. I bet he’s excited.”
“Oh, he’s tickled pink,” I grumbled.
“And you aren’t?” Isha arched a brow.
My brother’s initiation had been all the talk for days. Weeks, even. The Reeves job had been my only respite from having to hear about the upcoming party and the activities that would follow. Joining a gang like the Bloody Hex wasn’t as simple as accepting an invitation. We had criteria and conditions that weren’t waived even for someone who’d grown up in our midst.
Disdain must have been plain on my face because Isha paused her work to stare at me.
“You aren’t,” she said.
I sighed.
Six years my junior at freshly twenty, Donovan currently filled the role of errand boy for our criminal outfit. He had no record, no kill count, and no appreciation for having made it to adulthood without Grimm tagging him with the gang’s mark as proof of ownership.
He might have been welcomed into the fold years ago—they hadn’t waited for my coming of age to absorb me into their ranks—but Donovan lacked the thing Grimm valued most in his acolytes: magical power.
Most of our city’s residents descended from centuries-old bloodlines, and my brother and I were no exception. Pursuant to the Capitol’s push on intermarriage, even our human mother was a sign of our father’s fealty to his government. So, Donovan wasn’t strange in his humanity. There were plenty like him in our world. But not in the gang. It welcomed unnecessary risk.
“You know he just wants to be like you,” Isha said. “Who wouldn’t?” She leaned in to dab at the blood beading on my knuckle.
“ I don’t even want to be like me,” I said, squirming. “It’s exhausting.” Not to mention the moral complications that came with murder. I may have squashed my Jiminy Cricket conscience years ago, but Donovan still had innocence worth protecting.
Isha reached to the tray table and came back with a glob of jelly on her gloved finger. “It’s also glamorous. From the outside, at least. All the fame and glory, the women…” A coy smile pulled at the corner of her lips. She smeared the antibiotic around my ring of fresh ink before adding a strip of gauze and a bandage.
Grimm hadn’t divulged his intentions for my brother, but the only reason he kept any of us around was to keep his own hands pristine clean. Grimm was the face of the gang; the brain that told the body where to go and what to do. In that way, he was a better puppeteer than I’d ever been.
Imagining Donovan as another dog on Grimm’s leash sickened me to the point I sat upright. “He’s about to get run over by a fucking bus and he doesn’ t even see it coming.”
Isha’s eyes met mine again, searching.
I was rarely so candid, but I’d known Isha long enough—and intimately enough—that every conversation was like pillow talk.
“Am I supposed to watch him die, Ish?” The hitch in my voice slipped out unchecked.
“Literally or figuratively?” she asked.
“Maybe both.” I swung my legs over the side of the chair and stood, seized by a sudden headrush that reminded me I had yet to find food.
Isha fished into her hip pocket for a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter. She dumped two cigs into her hand, then tucked them between her lips, lighting both before handing one to me.
I took the cig for a greedy drag. My lungs swelled with warm smoke, chased by the feeling of settling calm. That would keep the hunger pangs at bay for another hour or so.
Isha puffed smoke rings into the air. They stretched wide and thin, dissipating into the cloud of incense she’d had burning since before I arrived.
“Have you talked to Donovan about this? Told him your concerns?” Isha asked.
So had begun last night’s descent into today’s disaster. I’d always had reservations about my brother’s involvement in the Bloody Hex but kept them to myself. Rumors reached the top quickly in a group as small as ours. Any one of us questioning Grimm’s infinite wisdom was the nearest thing to treason. But, with Donovan’s initiation looming, I couldn’t sit by in silence.
My brother had been there at the beginning of the night, when I was still of the mind to pretend that we were having the same private celebration we enjoyed every year on the eve of his birthday. I meant to tell him, but I never got a word in. He was too busy going on about what life would be like now that Grimm and the others would see him as an equal.
The gang hadn’t always been hospitable to the two kids Grimm dumped unceremoniously into their midst. They were more likely to joke about killing us or using us as bait to entice the Capitol. At some point that changed, and they welcomed us into the fold. Rather, they welcomed me . Donovan had always been a hanger-on, so I understood what Isha meant about him wanting more. I’d seen a hunger growing in him for years. He had wants and desires he’d enumerated last night. Had I been so dramatic when I was nineteen?
But no, my concerns never came up. Instead, we drank and laughed and recounted memories until he left, believing all was well. Then I kept drinking, long after midnight, and confessing to Nash as though he were my priest and the Bitters’ End my church.
“Yeah, I talked to him,” I lied. “He thinks it’s my fault it’s taken him this long to get in. Said I’ve been holding him back because I’m afraid he’ll be better than me.” I sucked sharply on the cigarette, and the ash end flared.
Donovan may not have told me those things last night, but he’d made his feelings clear in the past. Another reason I hesitated to broach the subject now.
“For God’s sake, that’s all I want for him,” I muttered. “ Be better than me, but not a better criminal.”
Isha folded her arms under cleavage already threatening to spill over. “You don’t have to agree with your brother’s choices, but you should respect them. He’s spent a long time in your shadow. That can’t be easy.”
I laid back in the chair. Her eyes were too full of truth for my liking, so I looked everywhere else. My attention drifted from the brocade wallpaper gleaming black and gold to the crystal chandelier swagged overhead.
“You know what he should do?” I said at length.
“Hmm?”
“Get the hell out of Dodge. Leave this shitty place behind and all these shitty people, too.”
Isha’s expression soured. “Oh thanks, Fitch. I think you’re great, too.”
“Donovan’s human,” I continued. “He could live a normal, human life. Nine-to-five job, white picket fence, the goddamn American dream.” As I ticked the pros off on my fingers, my bandaged middle one throbbed in protest.
“Sounds terribly boring.” Isha took another drag. “Would you be happy like that? Spending your days as an unremarkable man with an unremarkable life?”
It sounded like bliss sometimes. Running off to somewhere sunny and, honestly, nostalgic. Donovan and I grew up in the suburbs, fifteen minutes from here. We lived in the same world then that surrounded us now, but we had been insulated. So well-protected that even the horrors of our father’s job never managed to touch us.
“You’ve never been unremarkable, Fitch,” Isha concluded. “You can’t even fathom it.” She slipped a hand around my thigh and gave a squeeze. “But try to.”
Her next draw on the cigarette reminded me of the one burning down between my fingers. I dropped ash onto the tray table.
“While you’re at it, try to imagine a world in which you could walk out of this city and no one would stop you.” She met my gaze, her long lashes blending into winged liner. “It may sound like freedom, but it’s also a kind of insignificance I don’t think you could bear. And I don’t think Donovan can, either.”
Silence filled the space between us. Her manicured hand rested on my leg until she moved it to cup my chin instead. She tipped my head up to see her smile.
“Do you know what you should do, Mister Farrow?” she said softly. “Go home and get some rest. You’re dead on your feet by the looks of it.”
Her fingers fell away, but I chased them, sitting up close enough to brush against her chest. Aromas of jasmine and patchouli wafted to my nose, the same smells present in her bedroom.
“It’s early,” I murmured. “I need to get something to eat, and maybe…” My mind roamed ahead, thinking of myself in the very near future with a full belly and a warm body in bed beside me. “Do you mind if I hang around here awhile?”
Her lips pursed, and her eyes glittered with mirth. “Only if you shower first. You really do smell like you crawled out of a bottle.”