Page 31 of Pulling Strings

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?Ifthey 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, itsounded 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.”

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