Page 25 of Capitol Matters (Marionette #2)

Ten minutes later, I’d faked my way through so much laughter my cheeks hurt. That was all these people did: laugh and smile. Which made me certain they despised each other.

The empty chair between Holland and me was labeled with Preston’s name. Jacoby Thatcher occupied the seat on my other side, making these the worst seating arrangements they could have conceived. Thankfully, Thatcher had kept mum since his earlier outburst, making even less of an effort to engage in conversation than I did.

I’d expected the talk to be mostly political since Holland informed me that was the purpose of this gala, but I found it to be quite the opposite.

Daddy Longlegs was on his third deep-sea fishing story when I leaned over to Holland and asked, “Have these things always been this boring?”

She smiled without looking up from the stack of index cards she’d been flipping through. “That’s why we used to sneak out,” she whispered.

“Any chance of that now?” I waggled my glass, all but licked clean. “I could use a refill.”

“Speech.” Holland flapped the cue cards emphatically.

“Right.”

I didn’t know what I would have done if she’d said yes. I couldn’t leave while my target sat across the table, throwing back shrimp skewers between long-winded descriptions of his sailboat, the Aqua-holic . I could only hope his sense of humor would survive the next week of storage unit hell.

As long as I was stuck in this holding pattern, so were my aspirations of nabbing the additional victim. My ambitious evening of dual abductions had been reduced to a one-off. It was like I got dressed up for nothing.

Suddenly, Maximus stood. Right in the middle of Daddy Longlegs’s graphic retelling of being gored by a swordfish. This part of the story had some promise, so of course it would be what got interrupted.

“Holl?” Maximus prompted his daughter, who’d been too engrossed in her cram session to notice him rising.

She sprung up, clutching the notecards in one hand while smoothing her dress with the other. As she bent, several cards slipped from her grasp, fluttering through the air like falling leaves. She flushed and swore, and the sound of her cursing almost broke my concentration as I telekinetically caught and gathered the cue cards, then tucked them back into her stack. Her smile in response was weary but genuine.

Her father offered his arm and she took it, letting him whisk her away toward the stage. The crowd picked up on the cue before the Lyles climbed the steps onto the raised platform. People hurried to their seats and fell into respectful silence as Maximus crossed the stage and stepped behind the microphone.

He wore a black and white tuxedo like all the other men, a color scheme that carried through in his salt and pepper hair. His stern demeanor commanded attention, but not nearly as well as his magic. Waves of empathic power washed over the audience—myself included—like a not-so-subtle endorsement for the words coming out of his mouth.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the past few weeks have been rife with uncertainty and fear,” he began. “We have been faced with unprecedented challenges and risen above them. I, for one, am proud of our resilience as a city, as a society, and as a species.”

Applause answered him.

“In honor of that tenacity, and of the one-hundredth anniversary of the Capitol’s founding, I can think of no better time to consider the expansion of our borders,” he continued. “Most of you are familiar with Preston Adler, the human ambassador who has lived among us for the past four years. He was unable to make it tonight but prepared a speech addressing the reintegration of magic into modern society.

“To deliver that speech in Mister Adler’s stead, I introduce my daughter, Miss Holland Lyle.”

Another round of applause swelled then petered out as Holland approached centerstage.

Watching Maximus usher her toward the podium was the realization of a childhood dream. From the time we were old enough to be aware of our parents’ aspirations for us, Holland and I had the same goals: to rise through the ranks of the Investigative Department and to make our fathers proud. Maximus’s steady smile and the twinkle in his eyes proved that Holland had accomplished what she set out to do.

I couldn’t stop my gaze from sliding aside to where Jacoby Thatcher sat, impassive. Grimm made a sad substitute for my father but, through the years, I had come to crave his approval. Long before tonight, he’d made clear how often I fell short of his expectations. I got the occasional pat on the back for a murder well done, but those accolades were for Marionette, who always felt separate from me.

Across the table, Daddy Longlegs stood and offered apologies for an untimely exit.

Holland had barely begun to speak but, considering Longlegs’s political leanings, that may have been the reason for his retreat. I understood. I didn’t want to hear the Capitol rhetoric, either.

When I slid my chair back, Thatcher clamped his hand onto my wrist. I looked over at him, trying to imagine Grimm’s face behind the beady eyes and ducktail hair.

“Try to do one thing right tonight,” he grumbled. “Surprise me.”

Drawing a steeling breath, I jerked loose of his grip. Before I stood, I checked Holland and found her straightening her notecards. She was nervous, but not for long. Maximus waited in the wings with magical stress relief. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was sending some her way this very moment.

I rose and trailed several paces behind Daddy Longlegs as he headed for the exit.

Once he was out of the room, I picked up the pace. I couldn’t risk losing him in the maze of the halls outside. Between his stature and pinstriped suit, it was a wonder I hadn’t spotted him before he joined our table. As I took soft steps along the marble floor, I hoped he was up to something nefarious. Not only would it put me in good company, it would make interrupting him that much more interesting.

Signs jutted out of the wall indicating the bathroom doors. When Longlegs turned off into the men’s room, I heaved a sigh. If I had to wait while this guy took a shit…

Stopping outside, I leaned against the wall. This required a plan. The Bronco was parked in the front lot—some distance from here. Too far to puppet-walk Daddy Longlegs while hoping not to run into anyone nosey enough to wonder why we weren’t listening to Holland’s speech. Also, it would provide too many chances for people to note me as the last man seen with a soon-to-be missing person.

Scanning the hallway for passersby who might interrupt my scheming, I noticed the blinking red light of a security camera.

I muttered a curse and shoved away from the wall. Maximus might have been in the know about my “extracurricular activities,” but I couldn’t guarantee the night guard assigned to monitoring the feed would be as understanding.

I squinted at the closed door through which Daddy Longlegs had disappeared. He’d been in there longer than a quick piss, which meant the abundance of shrimp skewers must have run right through him.

It was just as well since I could guarantee no cameras oversaw the goings on inside the restroom’s bland stalls. My victim had incidentally given me the exact cover I needed.

Barging into the bathroom, I almost pumped my fist at what I found on the far wall. A window; the kind high schools had for the seemingly sole purpose of helping delinquents hide their cigarette habit. On top of that, we were on the side of the building closest to the parking lot. For once, fortune smiled on me.

The bathroom, like the atrium—and Maximus’s home, now that I thought of it—was a study in opulence. Marble floors and counters with gold-framed mirrors over sinks with gilded swan faucets. There were no urinals and five stalls, the doors of which were open save for the one at the end of the line, reserved for the handicapped.

A quick stoop found Daddy Longlegs’s striped pants piled around his ankles. Tighty whities, too. To avoid suspicion, I needed to get back to the table before Holland finished her speech. Unless Preston had written a whopper of a monologue, fitting this escapade into that time frame seemed unlikely.

I thanked my lucky stars for good ventilation as Daddy Longlegs ripped one; the grand finale to his performance. When the toilet flushed, I moved over to the bay of sinks and turned toward the mirror, checking a spot on my chin I’d nicked while shaving. The reflection provided a view of the stalls behind me, and the door that opened as Daddy Longlegs stepped out.

He tugged up his zipper, then fiddled with his belt while heading for the exit.

Before he reached for the handle, I snagged him with a thought like a rope around his torso and turned him back my way.

“Not gonna wash your hands?” I asked.

His eyes stretched wide, and his jaw fell slack as he found my face in the mirror.

“Oh, M-Marionette,” he stammered. “Didn’t see you there.”

We’d been introduced. I hadn’t bothered to remember his name, and he didn’t need a new one for me with my media moniker so firmly in his mind.

I tipped my head toward the sink beside me. “Wash up,” I told him. “For my sake.”

While he lathered the soap, I thought to ask about his swordfish encounter. I was halfway invested in the story, and he must have had a gnarly scar to show for it but, instead, I spun and braced back against the marble counter.

My gaze angled toward the window. “Say, you’re a tall fella. You see that window up there?”

He looked at it, frowning. “Yeah, why?”

I focused mental energy on the mechanism holding the glass shut and twisted it. The latch flipped, and I pushed the pane out. It hinged open upward, but not much. Barely enough for my narrow ass to shimmy through. I wasn’t as sure about Daddy Longlegs’s gangly frame.

My thoughts found voice. “Can you fit through there?”

“No,” he replied. A real quitter’s attitude. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I want you to.” I shrugged.

I considered logistics while he gaped at me and the faucet ran full blast. If he climbed onto the counter, he could slide out on his belly and likely land face-first on the ground outside. From there, he would doubtless scramble and run while I figured out how to vault through the same opening.

This was not the first time I found myself wishing I could fly like a comic book hero, but time was wasting, and I would manage.

Daddy Longlegs chuckled nervously. “I don’t think it works that way, uh,” he looked me over, “buddy.”

I pushed away from the sinks, mentally turning the water off as I approached him.

“Don’t back down now,” I said in a low voice. “You know who I am, and I’m not your buddy. So, say it.”

The other man did retreat, nearer to the back wall and the window, which was right where I wanted him.

“Say what?” His eyes darted in a futile search for help as I closed in .

He’d started this. Reminded me of my role in this place. Capitol Fitch was a trick I’d played on myself because what Maximus really wanted was his very own puppet. He’d made that clear from the start. Even Holland changed her tune when she saw what I could do. Marionette was ruthless, skilled, and useful. He had what it took to do this job, and the more I tried to separate myself from him, the more I suffered. It had always been that way.

“Say my name,” I growled.

“Marionette?”

“That’s right.” I nodded. “And, if you know that, then you know I’m not bluffing when I tell you I will break you bit by bit. All your fingers, one by one. Toes next. So, would you like a demonstration, or are you gonna get your ass out that window?”

I slid back into my seat at the large, round table as applause swelled from the crowd. The lengthy speech had, indeed, given me enough time to bully Daddy Longlegs out of the bathroom, and feel like a spider myself as I scaled the wall after him. Currently, he dozed in the Bronco’s hatch since I’d come prepared for tonight with chloroform and restraints I hadn’t pilfered from a sex dungeon.

As it turned out, the kidnapper’s favorite sedative was not as fast-acting as film and television led me to believe. What I’d thought would be a quick swipe of the rag under the other man’s nose had turned into a full-blown alligator wrestling match in the cargo area. I’d hit my head twice on the roof of the camper shell and torn the sleeve of my suit jacket. A real shame because I looked fine as hell in it, and it was a rental.

It was suspicious of me to return—slightly sweaty and definitely underdressed—but more so to vanish without warning, so I risked it.

Thatcher gave me a lingering onceover, then sighed noisily before guzzling most of a glass of red wine.

Maximus escorted Holland back to her seat. She looked overwhelmed, as if her father’s emotional suppression was wearing off and the full realization of what she’d said was dawning all at once. What had she said?

“Good job,” I told her and hoped that would be the end of it.

Maximus lowered himself into the chair across from mine. He met my eyes, then glanced aside at Daddy Longlegs’s empty seat. He seemed to want some kind of confirmation, so I gave a scarce nod.

Reaching for my Old Fashioned found it still empty, and I grumbled a curse.

“You ready for that drink now?” I asked Holland.

I was halfway to standing before she answered, “Oh my God, look!”

I tracked her gaze and pointed finger to where a woman stooped over on the dance floor, mid-retch. Vomit splattered the ground, causing the crowd to lurch backward.

She wasn’t the only one.

Near the buffet line, a man toppled over as though knocked unconscious. A ripple effect swept across the room. A half dozen people caused an uproar with noisy puking or slumping over onto their respective tables.

The plague had similar symptoms, manifesting as a stomach virus that kept people bound to their beds or toilets for days. But it was not this fast-acting.

Holland joined me in standing and staring across the room while chaos erupted. Shrieks and shouts preceded a stampede for the exits. Maximus leaped up, as well, bellowing commands from a few feet away.

Mass panic ensued.

Holland grabbed my arm and pointed at someone nearby. Tobin, who had changed into a clean suit he must have kept in his desk, crumpled amid a group of retreating guests. Those around him didn’t stop, stumbling and stepping over his fallen form.

I climbed onto my chair, then the table to clear a line of sight to the collapsed investigator.

Like cattle running blindly, no one took notice of the human impediment underfoot. I’d heard of people killed that way: stomped into pulp as a casualty of survival instincts gone wild.

A sweep of both arms parted the mass of bodies, directing them to either side of where Tobin lay huddled.

Holland raced around the table and into the horde, and I opened a path for her, too. The scurrying guests got the idea and redirected on their own, leaving me to dodge drink glasses and place cards as I walked across the table and leaped off to charge after Holland.

Arriving beside Tobin found him worse for wear. He was bruised and his clothes torn, but the most concerning thing was the foamy bile bubbling along his lips. I glanced back at the table where Jacoby Thatcher remained unmoved, finishing his wine.

“Well, fuck,” I muttered.