Page 32 of Pulling Strings

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, paintedcinderblock. 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 moredifficult.

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.

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 titleInmate 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, whereI 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.

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