Page 27 of Looking Grimm (Marionette #4)

The double doors of the Capitol building flew open ahead of me. I ran through, winded and battered from fighting my way through the fleeing crowd. The grippy socks stuck on the polished marble floors as I stalled in the entry. My eyes panned across the fixtures populating the massive room, from the potted plants soaking up afternoon sunshine to the fountain quietly trickling down one wall. The reception desk sat to one side, predictably unoccupied.

Curses slipped past my lips. With staircases, and elevators, and branching hallways, Grimm could have gone anywhere. At least there weren’t any dead bodies in here. Neither were there any living ones since the citizens had been summoned to the execution stage. The absence made the atrium feel cavernous, like a vacuum sucked out of reality. It was so silent even my rapid breaths seemed to echo.

The gun remained my foremost concern. I could stop a bullet, but only if I saw it coming. After the last two days of living hell, I was hungry, weak, and devastatingly tired. And the adrenaline boost I’d gotten from avoiding my own beheading was rapidly waning.

This was a trap, and I’d allowed myself to be led into it. But the alternative was watching Grimm make his getaway only to return and ruin more lives. This needed to end.

But where exactly was he leading me? Judging from the ample weaponry toted by the recruits outside, they had raided the armory, and there would be little left for Grimm to equip as reinforcement. Riot shields and bulletproof vests wouldn’t protect him from bone-shattering telekinesis. That left his best option to bunker down and, for that, I imagined he would occupy the space with which he was most familiar: Maximus Lyle’s office.

Filling my lungs, I ran again. My bruised heels hit the hard floor and the handcuffs swung around my wrist, rubbing my skin raw. I was almost to the base of the grand staircase when a scuffling sound from behind me shattered the oppressive quiet.

A gunshot rang out.

The bullet whizzed past, close enough to ruffle my hair.

I skidded to a stop, then wheeled around toward the entry to see if I’d been followed. No silhouettes darkened the glass door panes. Instead, a trim young man rose from behind the reception desk with a pistol gripped in both hands.

A second shot made my ears ring. I could have sworn I felt the bullet’s heat as it passed my neck.

The stranger—doubtless Grimm’s latest illusion—sputtered a curse. Another bullet was chambered and ready. If he was smart, he wouldn’t stop shooting until he emptied the clip, but he wouldn’t fire at all if I got to him first .

Mentally, I grabbed the gun and wrested it from his grip. With a flick of my unfettered wrist, I sent it soaring. It hit the ground and slid all the way to the far wall.

Grimm staggered back and collided with the desk he’d been hiding behind. He was trapped. Caught in the snare meant for me.

Seeing him laid bare with his eyes wide and searching for an impossible escape brought a sense of elation like I’d never known. My lips curved in a vicious grin.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of little old me?” I marched forward, daring him to retreat. “I’m just a puppet. Marionette is your toy, after all. You pull the strings. Why be afraid of something you control?”

Because he didn’t anymore.

“Fitch.” Grimm’s voice quivered. “Fitch, you don’t want to do this.”

The young man’s visage changed into something familiar, someone he’d posed as before. My father, Thierry Farrow, rose before me. His swoop of blond hair and hazel eyes matched mine, and the soft wrinkles around his mouth and temples were like a glimpse of my future self.

I cocked my head, studying the man whose image I might have forgotten if not for Grimm’s frequent, manipulative reminders.

He looked like my dad, but his voice remained purely Grimm’s. It resonated off the domed ceiling, pitched high in the grips of his fear. “No one knows you like I do, son,” he said. “They won’t accept you or forgive you. Not ever.”

As he spoke, he slid slowly along the edge of the desk, inching toward the exit. It was a futile effort. He was in my range and in my sights. There was no stopping me now .

“I’m not your son,” I snarled, baring my teeth as I bit off the words.

I couldn’t argue with the rest.

When his disguise failed to sway me, Grimm changed back to himself. His hair was mussed from his race up the hill, and his cheeks were sickly pale. His chest fluttered with rapid breaths while he stood, leaning backward over the desk and gripping onto it with white-knuckled fingers.

“You’re nothing but a killer to them. They gave up on you long ago,” he said quickly. “Remember? Who was there for you when no one came? Who saved you when they were ready to put you away for good?”

I shook my head as I closed the last bit of distance between us. The empty desk chair was sent rolling aside with a snap, and the sound made Grimm shudder so hard I thought he might collapse.

“You won’t kill me,” he stammered. “You can’t.”

As he shrunk away, I towered over him. “I thought I was nothing but a killer,” I said.

“To them !” Grimm exclaimed. “Not to me! To me, you’re—”

“A traitor?” I cut in. “A disappointment? A mistake?”

This was it. A moment twelve years in the making. Nothing and no one stood in my way. Grimm would die the way he always should have: groveling and begging for the mercy he never gave me.

“Fitch…”

Usually, I hated the way he said my name, but this was different. It had none of the usual disdain, none of the sharpness.

He shifted again, starting from his feet and moving upward. His hair shortened, and the signs of aging left his face until he looked younger than me. More than that, he looked like me. We had the same sharp nose and hollow cheeks, but his hair was dark and his eyes were doe brown and pleading as they fixed on me.

Donovan.

I should have been furious, but the sight of my little brother tugged at my heart.

My shoulders slumped through a long exhale.

“Hey, Donnie,” I said quietly.

Of course, it wasn’t him, but damn it if I didn’t want it to be.

He relaxed, too, taking on that slouch he’d picked up during his teen years. When he smiled, it was so nearly right that I couldn’t help myself.

I stepped forward and threw my arms around him, pulling him in close. My chin rested on his shoulder, and I let my eyes flutter closed. I didn’t hug him enough when he was alive. We used to all the time when he was a kid, but things changed. We changed.

After a few seconds, I gave him a squeeze.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “For letting me see him again.”

I slid my left hand up to palm the back of his head, pinning him against me. For this, I didn’t need my own magic. Grimm had given me a power I could use against him; the same power Donovan had employed to earn his way into the gang.

The Bloody Hex was meant to be a curse bestowed on our enemies, but I knew it was a curse on us, as well.

Tingling heat raced down my arm to thread between my fingers. Grimm struggled in my grip as I bound him up with mental ropes, feeling his hair grow to the usual shoulder-length locks. His beard filled in against my cheek, and I held him tighter still.

My tattoo pulsed as it pushed energy through my skin.

Grimm garbled an indistinct sound, then went rigid as warm blood began to flow out of him.

When I released him, he sagged against the desk, leaking bright red from his eyes and ears. His eyes rolled to white as he slumped forward and crumpled to the floor in a thrashing convulsion. I moved aside, dodging his flailing limbs and a growing puddle of blood.

I retreated all the way to the displaced rolling chair. I dropped into it and tucked up with my knees beneath my chin and my arms hugged around my shins. There, I sat and watched the man who raised me—the monster who made me—breathe his last on the slick marble floor.