11. In Processing
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.
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.