Death is funny, though. It gives you clarity in its finality.
As far as I’m concerned, my sister’s blood is not only on James, but also on the hands of every officer who didn’t listen to us. They valued an abusive man’s life over Anna’s, and that is something I will never forgive.
It’s why I had to do it. Why I killed him, and I’ll never regret that.
I could have run after all was said and done. Maybe I would have gotten far, and no one would have ever discovered it was me who killed James. But that’s the thing. Iwantedpeople to know it was me. That I took care of the problem when no one else would, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat. This didn’t bring Anna back, but revenge helped me feel marginally better.
I don’t remember much after the event. Getting caught at the gas station and arrested, that is. I think I tuned it all out. All I remember were rough hands.Choice, angry words. Handcuffs being slapped around my wrist far too tightly.
It was like I blinked and ended up in this cold cell. You’d think they’d at least give me a fucking blanket to cover up with, but apparently I’m far too dangerous to even have one. I might strangle someone with it. They wouldn’t be too far off-base with that assumption, considering blood is on my hands. They don’t need to worry though; James was my only target.
Soft footfalls from somewhere drag me out of my thoughts. They grow louder and louder until two pristinely polished tactical boots stand outside my cell. My gaze travels up to see an irate-looking officer. He’s bald. I wonder if he lost his hair from the stress of the job. Probably not, since they don’t seem to do a damn thing but imprison women seeking justice or the dangerous jaywalker. You know, priorities.
The officer—I can’t see his name tag—stares at me. I think he’s waiting for me to say something, but I know my rights. I don’t have to say a damn thing, and I haven’t. Mostly because I don’t wish to waste my breath on these people. They didn’t want to listen to me before, and I’d be damned if they’ll listen to me now.
Officer Friendly scowls and reaches for something on his belt. At first, I think he’s reaching for a weapon, but then I catch the unmistakable glint of a key, which he uses to open my cell. “Miss Sinclair, looks like you’ve been released on bail,” he says begrudgingly.
This man doesn’t want me out in public, and honestly, I’m not even certain murderers are allowedbail. Luckily, I literally have a “get out of jail free” card up my sleeve.
Officer Friendly has little to fear. Because if the person who has come to bail me out is who I think it is, I won’t be Grym Hollow’s problem for much longer.
Pushing myself off the cold, hard ground, I stretch my muscles, wondering if I’ll see a certain gray-horned man waiting for me. Before I can even walk out of my cell, Officer Friendly starts walking away. Not wanting to spend another minute in this cold cell, I hurry and jog after him, eager to get the hell out of here.
Chapter 2
Isabelle
Idon’t remember this many twists and turns when I arrived. Each time I think we’re nearing freedom, Officer Friendly turns and pivots when we reach the end of a hall. It’s a labyrinth, but I’m certain the design is on purpose. Wouldn’t want us criminals seeing the light of day. Not that anyone would be able to get out of here if they tried. There are far too many cameras, and even though I’m only with one officer, I sense there are more watching me, just waiting for their chance to raise their guns if I step out of line.
We finally reach a desk with a middle-aged woman sitting behind a computer. She looks up through her wire-rimmed glasses, mouth pressed in a tight line as if she’s just sucked on a particularly sour lemon. “Officer Canto, can I help you?” she asks in a thick Southern accent. You don’t hear that much in Grym Hollow, which means it’s probably fake. Just something to make her stand out amongst the sea of carbon copies that populate this godforsaken town.
“Isabelle Sinclair is being released on bond. We need to process her,” Officer Friendly—or rather, Officer Canto—grunts like the troll he is.
We stand awkwardly as the woman types on her computer. She asks me basic questions they already know the answer to—my name, birth date, and address—but then otherwise ignores me. It’s hard not to feel small and insignificant here. Where my life and freedom aren’t my own, but in the hands of people who don’t give a shit about me or the reason why I did what I did. They see life in black and white with no room for gray areas. You’re either innocent or guilty, and the reasons don’t matter.
Soon the woman stands and beckons us to follow. Officer Canto makes me walk in front of him this time as we follow the woman to a room filled with lockers. She glances down at a sticky note she wrote something on before leaving her station, then walks over to a locker, typing in a code I can’t see.
With a soft click, the locker door opens, and inside is my backpack, the only personal item I had on me when I was arrested.
“This has been thoroughly searched, and anything deemed a weapon was taken.” She hands me the backpack. It’s just as heavy as it was when I packed it, so I’m not sure how “thorough” they actually were. Another shitty job executed by the Grym Hollow PD.
“Let’s go, Miss Sinclair.” Officer Canto grabs my upper arm and leads me down the white hallway to a large black door with a keypad. He swipes his badge, and there’s another audible click before the door opens.
Standing on the other side is my ticket out of jail.
The Guardian.
A tall, inhuman…thing. I can’t call him a man because no man I’ve ever come across looks like they were carved from stone. His gray skin and piercing blue eyes are beautiful but terrifying. Two horns protrude from the top of his head, curling slightly in at the end.
Officer Canto tenses beside me. If he could, I think he’d use me as a shield against The Guardian.
Coward.
The Guardian’s presence isn’t any less intimidating than the first time I encountered him, months ago when I sought him out. I hadn’t yet developed my plan to kill James, but I knew I would need a way out of jail. I had—and still have—no intentions of rotting in prison.
My freedom comes at a price, though. I exchanged one prison for another, but The Guardian’s deal sounded much more appealing. Marry someone who calls himself a demon king and help restore his kingdom. It’s vague and, frankly, unbelievable, but I’d rather live in a supposed mythical land with a man I don’t know than stay here behind bars until I die.
I need out. And it has to be now.
