Page 11 of Looking Grimm (Marionette #4)

Since I’d been spending my nights on Ripley and Maggie’s cramped loveseat, I was remiss to turn down the opportunity to sleep in a bed. Even if that bed was in the same room as a pair of kidnapping victims who roused from unconsciousness at about three in the morning.

“Shut the fuck up,” I mumbled into my pillow, then dragged the covers over my head. It didn’t block out the sounds of grunting, shuffling, and muffled shouts that grew louder until I worried the racket would be heard by unwitting hotel guests. Flinging back the blankets, I sat upright, wearing nothing but my boxers and a scowl.

The Everett twins sat on the floor. Electrical cords bound their wrists and ankles and tied them to each other. The towels stuffed in their mouths were soggy with spit, and their identical blue eyes were full of rage as they glared at me.

I ticked a finger at them. “Most people in your situation would be grateful for a reprieve from ceaseless torture. Or, more specifically, a prelude to torture. Because it’s coming.”

Crossing my arms over my bare chest, I chuckled. “I have nowhere to go and nothing to do but spend time with you fellas. And if you’re wondering what I’m gonna do to you, let me give you an idea. I can break bones. With my brain.” I knocked my fist against my skull and managed to find one of the many sore spots from the thrashing I’d received at the warehouse earlier.

Shaking off an involuntary wince, I focused on the twins again. “Do you know how many bones there are in the human body?” I gave a wide grin. “Don’t tell me. We’ll find out together.”

Of course, my captives weren’t telling me anything. They sat through my monologue with only minor squirming and, while I imagined they had questions—the usual “What do you want?” and “Why are we here?”—I was too busy fighting a yawn to indulge them.

“But not now. It’s the middle of the night.” I flopped back on the mattress. Tugging the covers around my chin, I concluded, “So, unless you’re eager to get started, shut your yaps and let me get some sleep.”

Surprisingly, Ezrah and Ethan took my advice to pass the rest of the night in quiet. I was secretly relieved because, while I had ample skills for effective torture and a wealth of experience from my time in the gang, I didn’t enjoy it. Our previously tight-knit group believed in the division of labor. Grimm was the idea man, Vinton handled body disposal, Avery specialized in advanced interrogation techniques, and I killed people.

I wasn’t sure how they handled things before I came along, but assigning the job of a hitman to a reluctant and unskilled teenager seemed to be a risky play. It made me wonder if Grimm’s courtroom testimony as Jacoby Thatcher had more truth to it than I wanted to admit. Maybe they sent me to do their most dangerous work because I was the player they didn’t mind losing. Maybe they always hated me. No, I knew they did.

Despite the relatively peaceful conditions and the thermostat turned down from the balmy 75 degrees in Ripley’s room, I slept fitfully. I woke after dawn to my grumbling stomach, a reminder that I had skipped dinner last night. Sitting up and swinging my legs off the side of the mattress found the twins unmoved and dozing. Their heads were leaned against each other to create an almost endearing image. Happy to put off dealing with them for a while longer, I stepped through the door into the adjoining room where Ripley and Maggie were cozied up in the same bed for a change.

It felt like an intrusion as I paused to watch them. The zombie girl curled up with her head tucked under Ripley’s chin and one pale arm thrown across his chest. Ripley’s hand rested on her back, and what little I could see of his face beneath the curtain of black hair looked serene. This wasn’t the first time their relationship, strange as it was, had sparked envy in me.

I hugged my arms around my waist, regretting not having taken Nash up on his offer to return to the Bitters’ End. Even under the dark cloud of the weeks since Donovan’s death, I was happier with Nash than I’d ever been anywhere else. Not to mention I might not have survived the greatest loss of my life without him.

Passing the beds, I went to the sitting area and sunk into the chair in front of my Chinese leftovers from the night before. The food was barely room temp, but I’d learned early on in my stay here that the teen dream team didn’t keep much around to eat or drink besides tea, of which there was an endless supply. Ripley proved to be firmly in touch with his roots, keeping British stereotypes alive one cup of Earl Grey at a time.

So, unless I wanted saltine crackers topped with one of the many options in the designated sauce drawer for breakfast, tepid sweet and sour chicken was the only thing on the menu.

Grabbing the paper-wrapped chopsticks, I opened the flap top of the carton and then scooped the TV remote off the low table. Watery blood left from Maggie’s fingers made the buttons sticky, and I grimaced before carrying it to the kitchenette sink for a quick rinse. After washing my hands and drying everything with a towel, I returned to my seat and meal.

I clicked on the television at a low volume, more wanting background noise than something to watch. Predictably, it opened to the guide channel, showing a blue grid with listings of shows scheduled for the next few hours. In the top corner, a smaller box showed an infomercial for the HydroRug, which was some kind of carpet for the shower. The bucktoothed salesman was busily dumping dirt and red wine on the white mat to illustrate its stain-resistant qualities when the broadcast changed to a special report from the local news.

I’d been avoiding media footage since the investigator frame job, and I reached for the remote to turn it off.

Before I could click one of the channel options from the scrolling menu, the image of the anchor behind her desk cut to black-and-white footage from a security feed. It showed the blur of a man racing through the halls of the Capitol building, lugging a canister about the size and shape of a fire extinguisher.

“Tragedy struck today as the Capitol was attacked by an unknown assailant,” the anchor announced.

The feed cut from one camera angle to another, chasing the suspect through the halls until he reached the Investigative Department and the bullpen. The place was packed since the plague had been eradicated, and every desk was occupied. When he came to a stop, I could get a better look at the intruder’s face, though with the picture in picture size of the image, I had to stand and creep closer to the television to be sure.

He looked like me.

Exactly like me.

He had the same blond undercut, though more styled than I’d been wearing it lately, the same clothes as some I used to own, and the same tattoos on his hands, hands that cranked open a valve on the canister he’d brought, then flung it into the midst of the grid of metal tanker desks. It hit the ground and rolled, spewing a thick plume of smoke.

Investigators scattered in a clamor, crashing into furniture and each other as the imposter made his escape.

“Numerous investigators were poisoned, some fatally, by a deadly gas,” the anchor continued. “It is believed this crime may be linked to the murder on the Capitol steps earlier this week.”

EIGHT DEAD, the banner across the bottom of the screen declared. That was all I saw before my legs went out from under me. I dropped to the floor and sat, dazed as if I’d been hit with a haymaker punch.

Either I had an evil twin I was just finding out about, or Grimm’s illusion magic had entered the game. It was a hell of a play to start with forging my autograph and escalate to this. I wanted to argue with the news anchor that I hadn’t even killed the people at the warehouse, so I shouldn’t be saddled with the blame for this but, somehow, it all came back to me. I recruited Ripley. I decided to go looking for trouble last night. I found it. And this was the result.

Without my cell phone, I wouldn’t have to endure another call from Holland Lyle, yet I felt her scorn. Briggs’s, too. What must he think of me now? It was too much to hope anyone at the Capitol believed in my innocence with proof to the contrary. I stayed on the ground, lightheaded and reeling while the anchor carried on.

“Two additional investigators were reported missing from the scene: Vesper Ashcroft and Felix Wilde. They are presumed endangered, and officials are intensifying efforts to ensure their safe return.”

Holland’s teammates. I’d moved higher up the pecking order by abducting Ethan and Ezrah, and Grimm had responded accordingly. Tit for tat.

I sputtered a curse and dropped my head into my hands, pressing in at my temples as though I could corral my thoughts.

The anchor continued, “We have Miss Holland Lyle in the newsroom to address the Capitol’s planned response to this attack.”

“Fuck. No.” I pushed up onto my knees, fumbling for the television’s power button until the camera flashed to Holland seated behind the desk. She wore a white suit jacket, and her hair was twisted in a tight bun. It made her severe expression seem even more so, and I shrunk back from the screen.

“Good morning,” Holland began. Without her sunglasses obscuring her eyes, I could see the strain in them along with a bit of redness the makeup crew hadn’t been able to mask. “As you’ve just heard, earlier today, eight dedicated investigators lost their lives due to a poison gas attack. Our thoughts are with their families during this difficult time, and our top priority is identifying and apprehending the person responsible for this heinous act.”

The anchorwoman nodded, her slick black hair reflecting the studio lights. “Are there any leads on the suspect’s identity?”

I barked a laugh. Who needed leads when they had photographic evidence? All they lacked was a signed confession. If they asked for that, I imagined they would get it. Someone on the Hex side had already perfected my autograph.

Holland paused, and I thought she might play this one close to the chest. But what was worse: pretending they didn’t recognize my infamous face or admitting the criminal they’d exonerated a few months ago was up to his old antics?

New antics, I supposed. I’d never resorted to poisoning people or leaving bodies lying around like calling cards. Well, except poor Charlie.

“We’re actively pursuing all leads,” Holland replied, “but we feel confident enough to name former Bloody Hex member Fitch Patrick Farrow as our primary suspect. We urge the public to come forward with any information that may assist in his capture. ”

The anchorwoman didn’t even bother to look surprised as the broadcast cut to a picture of my shitty mugshot.

I flipped my middle finger at the TV, but not before pausing to consider that I looked about as put together these days as I had in prison. Grimm had been kind with his illusioned version of me. Fake Fitch looked like he’d put more time into his self-care routine than I had in months.

The tip line phone number scrolled across the screen as the anchorwoman came back into view. “What about the missing investigators?” she asked.

The camera must have cut to Holland before she was ready because she looked suddenly stricken. I remembered how distraught she’d been when Tobin was dying and her fears about having to tell his family the bad news. Now, she faced that reality again for both Vesper and Felix.

Her throat bobbed through a swallow. “We are deeply concerned about the investigators who are currently missing. Specialized search and rescue operations are underway, and we will keep the public informed as the situation develops. We advise everyone to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity. As always we remain committed to ensuring the safety of our community. Thank you.”

Reaching around the back of the television, I managed to turn it off, then sat on my knees and stared at my reflection in the black screen.

A grunt from behind me announced another figure stepping into the picture.

“That’s unfortunate,” Ripley said.

I whipped around to pin him with a glare. “You think?” I snapped.

Maggie leaned against his side. Her pink hair was twisted into a long braid, and her eyes were smudged with black liner. Her wave and sleepy smile managed to reduce my anger to a manageable level, and I sighed before standing.

“I don’t suppose you got an early start this morning?” Ripley mused as I walked back to the chair and sank into it. The sweet and sour chicken would go wanting through another mealtime. My appetite was gone.

“On mass murder?” I scowled at him again. “No. I was next door. All night.”

He made another grumbled sound. “Thought so.”

I slumped forward in my seat with my elbows on my knees and my face pressed into my hands. “What am I supposed to do?” I mumbled. “Vesper and Felix are missing. We have two of theirs; the Hex has two of ours.”

“Not ours ,” Ripley corrected. He sounded distant, then closer before a ball of fabric draped over my shoulder. “Not even yours, really.”

Peering out, I found a shirt and pants hung across my bare back and Ripley standing before me. He looked pointedly at my boxers, then at Maggie spinning circles behind the loveseat.

I took the hint and stood long enough to pull on the clothes before collapsing in the chair once more. “It’s my fault,” I said, “and if I kill them…” My gaze angled toward the wall separating us from the Everett twins.

“You mean when .” Ripley picked up the bloody steak plate and takeout boxes, ferrying them to the kitchenette. Maggie bounded along behind him, looking ready to jump on his back the moment he gave her the chance.

“I mean if , Rip,” I replied. “ If I kill them, I’ll be killing Vesper and Felix, too. ”

The sink turned on, and he set about scrubbing the dish while Maggie stood with her arms looped around his waist. He could barely budge with her latched on, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Lifting the towel from the countertop, he turned carefully toward me. “Were you very close to them?” He gave the plate a few swipes, then set it and the towel aside.

Of the three, I was least attached to Tobin, though he and I had made some progress after Holland’s birthday party. I didn’t take particular issue with any of them, but we weren’t close.

“Not especially,” I admitted.

“Then be grateful. Every war has casualties,” Ripley said. He clasped his hands atop Maggie’s on his stomach.

I frowned. “Why does everyone keep talking about war?”

“You drew first blood,” Ripley replied. “You took prisoners. Future casualties. War’s what it is, mate.”

My gaze drifted again to the wall separating us from the Oliver twins. “I’m not gonna kill them, Rip. I can’t.”

Maggie leaned forward to kiss Ripley’s cheek. Despite her affection, he looked somber as he spoke. “If you don’t, Grimm will. And he’ll kill your investigators, too.”

Charlie said it first: Grimm was preparing for a fight. I’d laughed it off, and I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to be in a war but, apparently, I had started one.