12. Behavioral Correction
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?”
He paused mid-scrawl and turned, holding up his notebook. “New art for my fan site. I upload every Wednesday. Library day.” This most current work featured two people in a compromising position. One was the same floppy-haired, tatted guy from the other drawings, and the other looked a lot—too much—like Avery.
“Fan site, huh?” I sat up on the bunk, rubbing the back of my neck. “For who?”
“Marionette,” Clyde murmured.
“Marionette?” My nose scrunched. “As in… me?”
Clyde gazed at the notebook with the nearest thing to love in his eyes. “He is my muse.”
“Oh.” I paused. “Marionette is more of a media thing. Sensational journalism and shit. Most everybody else just calls me Fitch…” The longer I stared at the drawings, the more cringeworthy they became. It was a shrine, after all. A gay smut shrine.
“I like girls, too, you know,” I said at last.
The big man shrugged.
“Hey, Clyde!” A curly-haired woman poked her head between the cell bars, making me jump. She flashed a gap-toothed smile as she announced, “Turn on your radio. AM 785. Marionette’s on the news.” She caught me with a passing glance, then waved. “Hey, new guy. ”
Before I could respond, she disappeared.
Holland’s warning about the public learning of my arrest resurfaced in my mind. On its heels came the vivid image of my head mounted on a plaque. Maybe they’d hang it in the Investigative Department, stuffed and fitted with dead glass eyes like a prized buck.
Static crackled as Clyde turned the dials on a tiny clock radio. Notes of passing songs blipped by before he found the right station. It wasn’t a news broadcast at all, rather a local talk show with a shock jock DJ whose whiny voice rubbed my nerves like a cheese grater.
“Big news from the Capitol this morning, ladies and gents,” the DJ said. “Call him Fitch Farrow, call him Marionette, I don’t care as long as they call him convicted. That’s right, the Bloody Hex’s string-pulling assassin has been captured.”
Canned applause rattled through the speaker.
“Reports indicate he was taken into custody late last night and is currently sweating it out at Thorngate until trial,” the DJ continued. “Now, I don’t know about you all, but I hope they throw the book at this kid. Our justice system needs a win against these creeps, and nothing sounds better than ordering the execution of one of the most prolific murderers in modern history.”
The swish-thwack sound effect of a guillotine blade cut sharply through the air. Witches were long-lived creatures with an appreciation for tradition. While the modern world moved on to the lethal injection, we rolled heads like French Revolutionaries. It was a gruesome way to die, but it drew a crowd.
The DJ blathered on. “The question of the hour, though, is who gets the bounty? The puppeteer playboy was worth a cool 60k, dead, alive, or otherwise. So, who’s cashing in?”
A drumroll played .
“That payday is going to none other than Maximus Lyle’s right-hand man, Jacoby Thatcher, who was able to signal the authorities when Marionette broke into his home. I think we can agree Mr. Thatcher’s survival is a reward in and of itself, but the sixty grand is nice, too.”
“Hell, yeah, it’s nice,” I muttered. Jacoby Thatcher wouldn’t be collecting any bounty from beyond the grave, but I had no doubt Grimm would eagerly accept the payout. “And he’d better not spend it all before I get out of here.”
Clyde shushed me, then cranked the volume on the radio.
With a grumble, I rolled to lay flat on my back, nudging the shower tote and extra clothes against the bed’s side rail. Antimagic draped over me like a weighted blanket, pinning me in place.
I grabbed the sides of the thin pillow and pressed them against my ears, muffling the DJ’s voice as he concluded, “The trial is set for next Friday, folks. It’s gonna be big and I, for one, am not gonna miss it. Bring your signs, wear your shirts, and let’s show the world how we feel about putting this scumbag down for good.”
When the show cut to a commercial, Clyde turned the radio off. Silence filled the air, punctuated by my own slow, steady breaths.
Today was Wednesday, which put only nine days between me and a court date. To my knowledge, no members of the Bloody Hex had ever been arrested, which made this a precedent. It also made me a suitable scapegoat for any and every bad thing the gang had ever done.
“One of the most prolific murderers in modern history,” though. I hoped Grimm heard that bit because I wasn’t going to let him forget it. Made me sound like a pretty valuable asset, too valuable to leave rotting in a prison cell or at the Capitol’s mercy.
The gang would get me out of here in nine days or less. Heads were going to roll, all right, but they wouldn’t be mine.