Page 67 of Pulling Strings

On Trial

Transport to the Capitol felt different this time. I had my own seat, for one thing, squeezed between two guards in the backend of a nondescript black SUV. And, while the shock collar was fastened around my neck, no one touched the corresponding remote for the duration of the drive.

When the car turned down the road toward the Capitol building, I peeked out the window. Sunlight poured over a mob gathered on the sprawling marble steps. The crowd spread across the lawn, interspersed with tents that implied they’d been camped out for days.

Signs held aloft or stuck to poles in the grass became legible as we drew nearer.

“OFF WITH HIS HEAD” one proclaimed in bold, black print.

Another had a crude drawing of a wooden doll hanging from strings. It read, “PEOPLE AREN’T PUPPETS.”

Finally, a banner flapped in the breeze, declaring, “MARIONETTE = MURDERER.”

“Fuck,” I groaned and sank into my seat.

My hopes of being brought in through the side entrance were dashed as the SUV rolled to a stop. Noisefrom outside—chanting with scattered shouts—increased in volume and proximity. When a camera bulb flashed beyond the glass behind my head, I jumped.

“Time to move, inmate.” One of the guards grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door as it swung open.

I scrambled after him, determined not to stumble or fall and be crushed by the surging horde.

Reporters pressed in, accompanied by cameramen with boom mics that lowered from overhead. Jeers and taunts filled any space between rapid-fire questions as my name was shouted over and over again.

The guard clung to me with a painful grip, forging a path ahead. More than once, someone tried to wedge into the arm’s length gap between him and me. They were shoved aside or jostled, then displaced. We slowed for nothing.

Handheld recorders thrust toward my face; one even hit me in the cheek as I squeezed past. Thoughts of magic niggled in, tempting me to part the sea of bodies with a sweep of my hands. People would topple like dominoes until I could finally breathe. But I quashed that compulsion because I could do nothing with the shock collar locked around my neck.

Climbing toward the entrance, the mob grew in size and ferocity. Fingers clawed at me; a few clutched papers and markers for autographs. Cameras flashed, blinding, and I finally tripped. When the guard hauled me back up, I was almost grateful, determined as I was to reach the open air.

Investigators flanked the gilded doors, ushering us inside. Whatever they said to our arrival was drowned in the thunder of my pulse in my ears.

The lobby was cool and calm. People clustered ingroups of two or three, mostly investigators who eyed me warily, and a select few reporters currently interviewing what I assumed were the opposing legal teams.

Ahead, water cascaded down a ribbed metal wall. The trickling sound was so deeply ingrained in me that I could never forget it. Three glass elevators occupied the center of the room, adjacent to a grand staircase. White and gold bedecked the space, with a soaring ceiling at least three stories tall. This had been my childhood playground.

Donnie and I used to dart in and out of the elevators, bolting past office staff and investigators alike as we scurried up the stairs or splashed in the fountain. We spent as much time here as at home, doing schoolwork at random desks in the Investigative Department and eating family dinners in the cafeteria.

Little had changed in the past decade. Witches had no concept of retirement, so even the staff remained largely the same. A few faces were recognizable already, most notably Willem Briggs, the head of the Investigative Department, and my dad’s old partner.

When he looked my way, I paused midstride. Briggs peered down his hawkish nose at me with contempt like I’d never seen. He had been a constant fixture in my young life, my father’s best friend both on and off-duty. I remembered him as an affable if occasionally hot-tempered man, always kind to me, so it shook me to see such spite on his face now.

Beside him, Holland Lyle chatted with a journalist. She, too, had gotten dolled up for court. Her platinum hair spilled from a half updo, and she wore a black suit over a sheer top showcasing a bandeau bra. I would have lingered longer on that if Briggs hadn’t persisted in staring me down, wordlessly urging me to be on myway.

As if sharing the same thought, the guard tugged on my arm, turning me toward the cluster of reporters who currently questioned a dark-skinned man in a green suit.

Talbot Collier—hopefully him this time and not Grimm in disguise—saw me coming and broke away from the media sharks. He closed the gap to us while beaming a broad smile. “Mister Farrow, I see you managed to weather the storm outside.”

I expelled a breath as the guard relinquished his bone-bruising grasp.

Talbot looked me over with a nod. “You clean up shiny as a penny. Glad the clothes fit.” When his attention hung on the steel ring around my throat, all signs of approval fled his face.

Turning to my escort, he said, “You’ll be taking that off of him now, I hope?”

“No, sir.” The guard shook his head. “Liability concerns.”

Talbot’s scowl deepened, but it melted away when he returned his focus to me. He held up his hands, reaching forward. “May I?”

I nodded without knowing what I’d agreed to.

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