Page 17 of Capitol Matters

“Ah, fuck.” I guzzled the rest of my whiskey.

Necromancy was a highly regulated magic. Like healers, most necros were pressed into Capitol employment. The subpar ones ended up in mortician work, but a few elites worked in the Capitol building assisting the investigators by questioning murder victims postmortem. Grimm slotting Vinton in that role ensured the blame for even sloppy kills wouldn’t fall on the gang.

The bald man didn’t appear the least bit surprised. He was typically in the loop of Grimm’s schemes and, since being given the authority to run the gang in Grimm’s absence, even more so. This was likely not news to him.

“It will be my honor, sir.” Vinton gave a stiff salute.

“Lord,” I grunted.

“So, who’s gonna run the gang?” One of the towheaded Everett twins spoke up. Ethan and Ezrah—because the fact that they looked the same wasn’t confusing enough, their names needed to be damn nearidentical, too. It was the shaggy-haired one. Ezrah, maybe? He was an aeromancer and always looked a bit wind tousled.

Grimm’s smile swept across those gathered. “Avery will.”

The conjurer froze. The colorful balls he’d been juggling slipped from his grasp to disappear in simultaneous puffs of smoke. He recovered and flashed a cheesy grin.

Down the bar, Ripley groaned.

I arrived late at realization and was stunned enough to repeat, “Avery?”

“That’s what I said.” Aggravation edged into Grimm’s voice.

“I wouldn’t trust him to keep a houseplant alive,” I said, “much less make sure these rookies stay out of harm’s way.”

The new recruits grumbled, probably at being called rookies since most of them were decades older than me.

Grimm pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting. “Mister Farrow, I believe you have enough on your plate without involving yourself in this.”

“You asked me to stay,” I reminded him.

“But must you give me cause to regret it?” Drawing a deep breath, Grimm turned to Avery. “Mister Hale, we’ll discuss this in depth later. For now,” he spread his arms in a grand gesture to the room, “let’s enjoy the night.”

A soft clunk on the counter drew my attention to a fresh whiskey sour and Nash standing behind it. Lifting the cocktail skewer from the glass’s rim, I pulled thecherry off with my teeth.

“Your buttons are crooked,” I told the bartender mid-chew.

He looked down to where his shirt gapped across his chest. Blush was barely visible through the bristles of his ginger beard. “You couldn’t have said something earlier?” he asked, chagrined.

“Just noticed.” I shrugged.

While Nash corrected his wardrobe malfunction, I watched the gang members abandon Grimm to swarm Avery instead. The conjurer preened, smoothing the sides of his hair and grinning. He was a handsome devil, but a devil, nonetheless.

But what was about to be Grimm’s problem might have been my boon. I’d wondered what small potatoes I could give Holland to encourage her faith in me. I’d hoped to avoid implicating the gang, but I’d negotiated for my brother’s freedom, and there were few sacrifices I wouldn’t make for his sake. If that meant diming out some nameless Hex members that their newly appointed leader Avery would hardly miss, so be it.

I stayed at Bitterslong after the rest of the gang went home, drinking my way through Nash’s inventory while scouring the internet for anything I could learn about my intended kidnapping victims. I took notes, penciling them in alongside coded names—mostly unflattering physical descriptions—then torched Maximus’s original list.

I also looked up the recipe for chloroform and pondered stocking the Porsche’s front trunk with rope and cloth kerchiefs to use as gags. Telekinetically pinning people’s mouths shut was a valid tactic, but not one I wanted to rely on. My brainpower could be put to better use.

I tried not to think about Donovan’s part in all of it. I especially didn’t want to consider what life would be like for eight prisoners locked in hot, shitty storage garages for the next four weeks. No way Grimm sprung for climate-controlled models.

I was still trying not to think about it when Holland found me seated at a desk in the Investigative Department, mixing Red Bull with coffee in a mug I’d found in the office kitchenette.

“Got something else for me to sign?” I asked to her arrival.

Opening the center drawer revealed an assortment of pens left behind by the desk’s previous occupant.

Holland came to a stop beside me. “To assist with the staffing shortages, I’ve picked up a patrol route,” she said. “So, we’re getting out for a while today.”

“Thank God.” I shoved the drawer closed.

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