17. Payback’s a Bitch
17
Payback’s a Bitch
I remembered enough of high school to find the prison cafeteria an accurate representation. Cooks slung gruel behind sneeze guards while inmates shuffled by with melamine trays in hand. People chattered. The pair of women behind me were tongue-deep in each other’s mouths, which would have been a turn-on if I wasn’t sick to death of this whole, damned place.
Six days left.
Don’t worry.
Grimm, via my brother, had made his terms clear. If I wanted out of prison before judgment day, I needed to bring the self-professed saboteur, Ripley Vaughn, with me. Maybe he wasn’t taking my place in the gang, after all. Maybe the welcome back was a sham, and one revenge plot begat another.
Rescue from Thorngate was rapidly becoming a distant hope, so I’d moved on to plotting escape instead. The biggest hurdle became the need for allies, of which I had none. Unless you counted Clyde. And I couldn’t dig through the wall of my cell without the big guy giving me the go-ahead, and cutting through the chain link fence around the yard required a distraction .
Suffice it to say, I was still in the brainstorming phase, and I was about sick of that, too.
The would-be lunch lady wore a hairnet over his full beard. He grunted a wordless offer while holding a ladle of yellow goop above a tray.
I scanned the steaming chafing bowls and found the meal options continuing a downward trend. Dinner tonight consisted of barbecue hot dogs and mac and cheese. Judging by the breadcrumbs in a large dish at the end of the line, they’d already run out of rolls.
“Sure,” I told the cook and shrugged.
My tray slid down the line, getting a scoop of sliced hot dogs and some browning apple slices before being thrust at me. Drink choices were cartons of white milk and cups of iceless water. I grabbed a cup and took it like a shot, then turned toward the room with a sigh.
Everything was beige, from the walls to the floors to our one-piece uniforms. The people were only marginally more interesting. Routine had made everything dull, and I’d grown weary of the bruisers arm-wrestling for cigarettes or extra snacks while the small-time crooks clustered around hedging bets.
Guards lurked near the commotion. Not nearly enough of them. Common areas like this were so crowded that passing through meant brushing shoulders with at least five other inmates. I could only hope none of those were having a bad enough day to take physical contact personally.
I crossed the room, stepping over the legs of those deemed unworthy of seats at the tables. Fellow prisoners watched with wide eyes. I was shorter and slimmer than most, so I could weave through a crowd largely unnoticed. At least, I could have if my mug shot hadn’t been featured on every news broadcast for the past three days. They didn’t just have radios in this place; there were TVs, too. Even if someone managed to come into Thorngate not knowing who I was, they could pick me out at range now.
“Hey, puppeteer, come over here!” someone shouted.
“Fitch Farrow in the flesh!” another hollered. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
I hadn’t been hiding, just employing an age-old security measure called the Buddy System. Clyde, that barn of a man who kept me up every night with his sleep apnea snores, was my self-assigned partner in this place. My emotional support inmate, as it were.
Carrying my tray and empty cup to where my cellmate sat, I dropped onto the bench beside him. He paid me no mind, staring straight ahead while his jaw moved in circles like a cow chewing cud.
The din in the room swelled around us. Voices competing to be heard drove the volume louder and louder. I had plenty to talk about, but nothing I could really say. Just like in the visitation room, there were ears all over this place, and people willing to rat me out to the guards if I breathed a word about rescue attempts, ill-fated or otherwise.
Clyde took another slurping bite. Barbecue sauce dripped down his chin. When he stopped for a long sip of milk, I broke.
“I don’t think I’ve been the best roommate to you, big guy,” I said.
I’d been told before that I could talk the paint off a wall. Maybe not a braggable skill, but it came in handy trying not to go stir crazy cooped up with my nearly mute bunkie.
I continued, “You know an awful lot about me—anatomically, at least—but I don’t know much about you. I don’t even know your full name.”
The plastic utensil looked like a dollhouse miniature in Clyde’s hand as he scooped up slices of hot dog. Unresponsive, per the norm, he left me to suffer in silence, or fill it.
I chose the latter.
“You do magic, right? I mean, don’t we all?” My question and forced laugh didn’t even merit a side-eyed glance.
Blowing out a breath, I turned my attention to the food I’d been pushing around. My stomach grumbled, reminding me the meals would get no better, but I would certainly get hungrier.
I lifted a spork loaded with gluey cheese and stuck it in my mouth. It hung in my throat, thick and gelatinous, until I muscled it down. I’d had enough alcohol in my life to know I’d tasted worse, but I was usually drunk enough not to mind.
“You get a lot of visitors,” Clyde grunted.
Surprise put a smile on my face as I hurried to reply. “Just one. He’s…” I trailed off. It wasn’t wise to throw my brother’s name around. Donovan had been presumed dead for years, and I hoped to keep it that way. Anonymity was critical to him one day achieving that insignificant American dream, as far away from the Bloody Hex as possible.
“He’s worried about me,” I said.
Where did that come from? Too honest. And this was supposed to be a conversation about Clyde, not me.
“Why worried?” the big man asked.
I’d already opened the can of worms and couldn’t stop a few from wriggling out. “He’s afraid I’m not gonna make it out of this alive. Which I won’t if the Capitol has their way about it.”
The spork stood upright when I stabbed it in the mac and cheese. Grimacing, I tried an apple slice instead. Sounds, smells, and tastes mingled—none of them great—while my thoughts wandered.
“Hey, do you know anything about the dick who works in the infirmary?” I asked Clyde. “He has a tattoo. Like mine.” I flashed the Hex mark, as though it wasn’t obvious.
Across the room, Jax, York, and Jette sauntered in.
I groaned and hunkered down, shoveling another sporkful of gummy noodles into my mouth. Forget making it past Friday’s trial. I had more immediate threats on my life to deal with.
Jax approached, flanked by his followers. He came up beside me and bent over the table on my left.
“Fitch Farrow,” he greeted, leaning close. “How are you liking life on the inside? Making lots of friends?”
“It’s the vacation I never knew I needed,” I replied. “Plenty of time to relax, socialize and, I mean, the food…” Shaking the tray sent the hot dog slices sliding. “What can I say?”
Jette snickered, and York crossed his arms. They stood aside, observing our interaction like sentry soldiers.
“It’s good you’re taking a break,” Jax said. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, am I right? And what with all the media attention, you’re more famous than ever, I’d think.”
“Apparently, I’m trending,” I said through a tight smile.
“ Marionette is trending,” Clyde muttered—his first contribution to the conversation.
I twisted to fix him with a bewildered look. “I am Marionette, big fella. You know that, right?”
Clyde’s thick lips pursed as he gave me a sweeping glance. “I don’t see the resemblance.”
Jax threw back his head in a roaring laugh. “You kill me, Big C,” he said, sniggering.
I wanted to stab something. Magically. Sweep my hands and clear the table. Crank Jax’s neck till it snapped, but the absence of power left a vacuum inside. It was a sinking sort of misery that I was, reluctantly, getting used to. The nearest thing I had to a weapon was the plastic spork that would break in half if I looked at it wrong. Like the safety razor that had boasted the efficacy of a cat’s claw, I could do little damage, which was precisely the point.
“You know, I think you’re onto something, Clyde.” Jax stepped around and sat beside me, sidling close. This time, I didn’t just feel his breath, I smelled it. Rank, like carrion, either from a severe case of halitosis or something to do with his magic that I hadn’t quite sorted out yet.
“You’re a bit of a fraud, aren’t you?” Jax asked me.
My ego was still bruised from Clyde’s denial, so I countered, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve heard the story about how you got started,” Jax said. “Snot-nosed investigator’s kid ripped up one of the most dangerous villains in this city. Tore him in half with your brain. That’s a hell of a tall tale.”
“You don’t believe it?”
On my right, Clyde emptied his milk carton with a noisy slurp.
“I think it was an accident,” Jax replied in a low voice. “I don’t think you had what it takes then, and I don’t think you have it now.”
I turned to face him. “An accident?”
If I’d had killer instincts at fourteen years old, they were only that. But it was not a truth I wanted spread around, so I waggled my tattooed fingers.
“Then I guess I must be accident- prone .”
The other man snorted. “Fucking cocky’s what you are. Coasting on your reputation. People like to talk about you, Fitch Farrow, but talk’s real cheap.”
Jette and York pressed against my back, ensuring I couldn’t make a break for the exit. Jax slid his arm around my waist. His fingernails, sharp as a cat’s claws, found the tender skin on the side of my stomach. They pricked like needles despite the thick fabric.
I lifted the spork from my tray.
“Grimm passed over a dozen better options when he let you in that gang,” Jax seethed. “Everybody thought it was a joke because it should have been. Because you’re a fucking joke.” The words came out with such force, they spritzed my cheek with saliva.
“You’d better get out of my face,” I said, wiping the spit away.
Surely, he wouldn’t start something here. In a room full of people, witnesses abounded. Even with Clyde failing to be the deterrent I needed, the guard staff should have been enough to discourage a brawl. Unless this wasn’t another fistfight, and they were here for blood.
“You want me to back off, pup?” Jax asked. “You think I’m scared of you?”
“You should be,” I replied.
With Jax on my left, Clyde completely checked out on my right, and York and Jette crushing against my back, the air felt tight. Any one of them could pull a shiv and bury it in me. There was little, if anything, I could do to prevent it.
Jax shook his head. “You’re all bark. Got no bite. But I do.”
He glanced at York, breathing down my spine. “Grab him,” Jax told him.
York looped an arm around my throat and heaved back, lifting till I caught myself with bent legs under the bench seat.
I tucked my chin and grunted out, “Clyde, a little help?”
York kept pulling until a thick-fingered hand reached over my head. Clyde stood slowly while palming—I looked up to see—York’s face.
The guards who had been monitoring the arm wrestlers took notice of us. With a minefield of tables and inmates littering the floor, it would take them several seconds to intervene.
As Clyde drew his hulking form to full height, York’s grip loosened. I ducked under his elbow and struck my spork against the tabletop. The plastic snapped, leaving the handle with a jagged edge.
Jette shrieked and threw herself at Clyde, who had fully removed York from my proximity. Her absence gave me space to step over the bench and stand. I rounded on Jax, who remained seated, cackling like York wasn’t getting his skull juiced a few feet away.
I dove toward Jax with the spork shiv raised like a spear. I’d learned from the safety razor. A swipe wouldn’t do, so I aimed for the weakest point of entry.
Flimsy plastic protested when it hit the skin of Jax’s eyelid. I piled onto him, using my weight to drive the stick as deeply as possible.
Bellowed shouts from the guards barely registered as the sharpened handle burrowed into Jax’s eye socket. Blood sprayed my hand.
The other man’s garbled howl echoed to the high ceiling as we pitched over onto the sticky linoleum.
Jax curled into himself, his fingers spread around the bloodied plastic jutting out of his eye. I released the spork to punch him instead, trying to drive the shiv deeper but instead breaking it off in his socket. Crimson spritzed the air as his head rocked backward .
“Is this an accident, jackass?” I asked between rushed breaths. “Or is it a joke?”
Shouts and chanting voices clamored as bodies crowded in. Inmates from adjacent tables swarmed into an angry mass.
Something hard and flat struck the side of my face, smearing cooled mac and cheese across my cheek. I glanced over to see Jette clutching a lunch tray. Her chest heaved as she cocked back to swing again.
“Hey! Break it up!” guards bellowed, closing in quick.
Dodging Jette’s attack, I rolled off of Jax and through splattered cheese, blood, and chunks of hot dog. My wounded ribs ground against the floor.
Three guards barreled into the fray, shoving prisoners aside and barking orders.
Jette leaped on top of me. I caught the collar of her coveralls and held her at arm’s length. With one hand holding her and the other swinging forward, I landed a flurry of punches. Her nose crunched, and her lip tore. She screamed, spitting blood while swiping at me and mostly missing.
I barely saw the first guard to break through the mob. He grabbed Jette, but I held onto her for one last punch, spreading red across the lower half of her face.
“Get back!” a guard bellowed.
The crowd began to thin, letting in light and space.
With a prying, pulling sensation, Jette was dragged away. I sucked hasty breaths as I sprawled where I’d been left on the ground.
Clyde and York stood apart. It was impossible to tell how much damage the big man had done with York cupping both hands to his face.
Guards corralled the agitated prisoners, slapping handcuffs on Clyde, York, and Jette .
One of the officers stood over me. “Fucking Fitch Farrow,” he growled.
Red splattered everything from the table to the floor, thickening the closer it got to where Jax lay curled and whimpering. He fumbled uselessly with the fragmented spork handle lodged in his eye.
When I braced my arm on the ground and moved to stand, the guard blocked me. “I knew you’d be trouble. Can’t wait to get rid of you.” He moved around behind me and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his duty belt.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I replied as the cuffs ratcheted down.
Grabbing under one arm, the guard hauled me up. “You’re leaving, all right,” he said. “Just got yourself a one-way ticket to solitary.”
Three strikes, you’re out.
“See you in hell!” Jette shouted. Two guards held her by the elbows, pushing her toward the door.
“And not a minute sooner,” the guard before me said. “You get the extended stay for this kind of behavior.” He paused long enough to glance at Jax crying bloody tears from his ruined eye. The guard shuddered. “Fucking animals.”
I stared, too, riding an endorphin high that left me snickering. It was almost enough to quell my fears about impending isolation. Almost.
“I keep telling you guys, he started it.” I nodded toward Jax.
A kick to the back of my knee buckled it forward. “Get moving, inmate,” the guard barked.
Humans didn’t fare well in isolation. Witches, either. It made people crazy. Drove some to suicide. I wasn’t sure how someone could off themselves in the bare box I imagined solitary confinement to be. Maybe they smuggled in utensils from the cafeteria.
The thought made me smirk, and I called over to Jax. “Hey, asshole! Can I get my spork back?”