This better work. I am dry, as is Kiko. If I push again, I’ll overdraw my reserves, and for a fae, being overdrawn is deadly. Luck is a force. It’s limited, like energy. A marathon runner can pour on the adrenaline and force themselves to use more than they actually have, but just like Pheidippides, who died when he reached his destination, fairies who overspend their luck welcome disaster. My father used to say, “An empty bucket can be filled with anything, Sophia. Never completely empty your bucket.” It’s one of the few ways fae can be seriously injured or killed.
I huddle, perched on the toilet, sure I’ve lost him, until the screams of the bachelorette party fill the bathroom.
“Get out,” Fidget orders, his voice laced with malice. A few of the girls curse and threaten to call security, but their voices fade as they rush out the door. I hold perfectly still, taking slow, steady breaths.
Fidget slams the door of the first stall open.
I shiver. Out of the corner of my eye, my blond hair changes back to dark brown. My illusion fizzles like a burnt-out match. I’m out of luck. Closer, he bangs another door and then another. Only two more to go to get to mine. I have to act.
Crashing through the door, I bolt, slip past his grabbing hands, and dash back into the casino. I don’t make it. He tackles me from behind, and my face slaps the floor. His boot stomps on my back before I even have a chance to register the pain.
“Stay down,” he orders. Like I have a choice. He twists my arms behind my back. Blue-iron cuffs snap onto my wrists. Then Fidget pokes a needle into my arm and through a dangerous smile says, “Nighty night.”
ChapterTwo
Life, like poker, has an element of risk. It shouldn’t be avoided. It should be faced. —Edward Norton
The moment I become conscious again, it’s clear I’m in a world of shit. I’m naked, strapped facedown on a cold metal table in what looks like a surgical suite. Machines beep. A tray of needles rests near my head. Blue-iron cuffs clamped on my wrists and ankles keep me drained of all luck, leaving my head throbbing and my stomach nauseated.
Every part of me wants to panic. Anyone would in this situation. My heart races, and my palms sweat. But I know that how I handle the next several minutes could mean the difference between deportation and freedom. The stakes are too high for me to fuck this up, and the surest way to do that is by going on tilt—that’s the poker term for when emotions cause a player to act illogically. It’s something I’m practiced at avoiding, and I call on that skill now.
I don’t struggle or scream. Neither will do any good anyway. Steadying my breath, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. A human would suffer the effects of anesthesia far longer than a fae, and my only hope right now is to introduce a sliver of doubt that I am anything but human.
“Might as well open your eyes,” Fidget says. “I can tell by your heartbeat you’re awake.”
Fuck!I open my eyes.
“Name?” he commands.
“Soho Lane,” I say immediately. “All my papers are in my purse. I am an American citizen.”
He casts his gaze to the side as if my answer deeply disappoints him. “Let’s try this again. I’m Agent Andrew Donovan of the Fairy Immigration and Rehabilitation Enforcement agency. You are an undocumented fae whom I’ve caught defrauding unsuspecting humans under the guise of being a human poker player, alias Soho Lane. We both know Soho Lane isn’t real.”
“It’s the only name I have,” I insist, and the lie comes so easily that in the moment I believe it.
“Tell me your real name now and admit what you are, or I’ll have Dr. Pain prove it the hard way. Just so you know, Dr. Pain isn’t his real name either, but he’s earned the right to the pseudonym.”
I almost wet myself when a masked man in scrubs steps into view. I’ve never been inside a rehabilitation facility before, but I’ve heard stories. Despite the name, no rehabilitation happens here. This is a place where the government uses fairies for their own ends. This is a place where fae like me disappear.
I lick my parched lips. Whatever Dr. Pain is going to do to me, nothing I’m willing to say is going to change it. Donovan is a bully, and bullies feed off getting under your skin. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. I decide then that if I’m going down, I’m going down swinging.
I reach for the only weapon at my disposal, my words. “What’syournickname, Agent Donovan? Does it start with tiny and end with prick? I know it’s not your real name, butyou’ve earned it.”
A low chuckle comes from somewhere in the room but is muffled quickly. Donovan’s eyes narrow into slits. “Tell me your name,” he demands again.
“What type of man has to chain a woman to a table to get what he wants?” I grind out.
Donovan’s expression rearranges into a sinister tableau, and he comes closer, crouching down until our faces are level. His cold and empty eyes remind me of a crocodile’s. “The type of man I am…,” he mumbles, then gives a breathy laugh. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’m the type of man who wants to see a woman chained naked to a steel table. I’m the type of man who gets off on hearing her scream. Really does it for me.”
I can’t help it. He rattles me. I blink twice. I can’t keep my voice from trembling as I say, “I am an American citizen. It’s against the law for you to hold me here.”
A brittle laugh hits me in the face. “Time’s up. Looks like we’re doing this the fun way.” Those reptilian eyes flick up to Dr. Pain. “Do it.”
Icy metal touches my bottom rib and scrapes across the skin of my back. I realize too late what he plans to do. A metal hook jabs under my wing flap. How does he even know it’s there? Wings retracted, I look exactly like a human! “No… no, no, no!” I scream.
Anatomically, I am in the wrong position to spread my wings. Terror grips me in its razor-sharp claws as I realize this is intentional. The table is designed to arch my back and force my scapulae together, a position that makes it impossible to naturally spread my wings. This isn’t about Donovan proving I’m a pixie. This is about torture. It’s about forcing the truth from me in the most humiliating and painful way possible.
I scream myself hoarse while Dr. Pain forces my upper left wing out from under my wing flap with his metal hook. Agony sears along my spine, causing my stomach to lurch. I force the contents back down. My scream cuts off, more because I’m out of breath than anything else. Blood splatters the stainless steel beside my face, shiny silver that I notice is already stained with someone else’s blood. He unhooks his implement, and shredded gossamer droops limply over my shoulder. I’m just relieved that the wing is still attached to my body.
