Rolling onto my stomach, I stuck my head over the edge of the bunk to peer at Duncan, who seemed to be swishing saliva around in his mouth.

“Did you get one of those sentencing summons?” I asked him.

“Yeah. June fourteenth.”

“Same date as mine.”

He gargled his spit, then swallowed it. “They’re probably scheduling all the serious stuff on the same day, so the Judiciary Council can get through it all in one go.”

All the serious stuff? They were lumping me in with this lunatic? Since when was interning at an unscrupulous law firm equivalent to killing seventeen human beings?

“How many charges do you have?” I asked.

“Seventeen. Obviously. You?”

“Sixty-one.”

“That’s a lot.”

No. Shit. Sherlock.

“Do you have any idea how many years I’m looking at?” Not that I expected a real answer from a guy on the Ed Gein end of the sanity spectrum.

“Hard to say with these people.”

“Well, how many do you think you’ll get?” There’s no way my total sentence would be greater than this water-working psychopath’s.

“Oh, I won’t be serving any time.”

“Bullshit,” I snapped, wondering how he could be that delusional. “You’re getting life, man. No way you aren’t.”

“Are you that thick, kid?” he snorted. “I’m getting the death sentence.”

His matter-of-fact tone dumbfounded me. “What? Are you sure?”

“Well, you can never be sure when it comes to the MPD, but yeah, I’m pretty sure. And they don’t wait around, you know. When you get the death sentence, I think they give you, I dunno … two weeks? Then …” He drew a finger across his neck, adding a lovely sound effect with the gesture.

“Oh … I see.”

I rolled back onto my mattress and stared unblinkingly at the ceiling. Sixty-one charges. Was that enough to earn me a death sentence? It seemed unlikely, especially with Lienna’s tip about an unknown number of those charges being flimsier than cardboard in the rain.

But like Duncan had said, you could never be sure with the MPD.

All things considered, proceeding with my hearing and getting a short sentence was better than a fugitive’s life—as much as a Harrison Ford/Tommy Lee Jones style game of cat and mouse sounded awesome—but if the worst-case scenario was execution, then no thanks. Option B was officially off the table.

Lienna’s quietly pleased smile appeared in my mind’s eye, but I shoved it away and tried to calculate how many hours I had until my sentencing. I gave up when I realized I didn’t know what time it was. The number was less than three hundred, though. Less than three hundred hours to escape.

And if I failed to make a proper getaway, I might find myself following Duncan the Douser into the field out back, where the MPD would put us down like Old Yeller.

Controlling my breathing, I tightened my core. Forearms braced on the floor, my cot’s thin blanket acting as a yoga mat, I held my body nearly vertical, legs in the air and knees bent, my feet curling down toward my head. Sweat ran down my spine to the nape of my neck as I drew in a slow breath, muscles burning.

“What’s this one called?” Duncan asked in a bored tone, reclining on the bunk with his ankles crossed.

“Scorpion pose,” I puffed as I let my spine bend more, coiling my torso in a tight backward arch. All sorts of muscles and joints pulled taut.

“Doesn’t look that hard.”

Yeah, sure. Duncan wouldn’t even be able to hold himself up.

Despite my existential anxiety, I’d slept most of the night—battling telekinetics and escaping alchemical booby traps was exhausting. But I’d woken stiff and achy, and a long, boring morning spent lounging on my hard cot hadn’t helped. My solution? A limb-stretching, muscle-busting yoga routine.

By the way, if anyone ever tells you yoga is just a bunch of sissy stretches for girls, go ahead and call them an idiot.

With a final breath, I uncurled my body back to vertical, then lowered my feet to the floor. Sitting back on my heels, I wiped my hand across my forehead. A trickle of sweat ran down to my jaw.

Duncan’s beady little eyes tracked its journey and I shuddered.

Turning so he wasn’t in my direct line of sight, I adjusted the knot of my jumpsuit’s sleeves, ensuring it wouldn’t impede my next pose. Since the MPD couldn’t be bothered to supply either workout clothes or a spare jumpsuit, I’d pulled the top half down and tied it around my waist so it wouldn’t soak up too much sweat, leaving my torso naked.

As I prepared to assume the eight-angle pose, someone rapped on our cell door. Well, if it wasn’t Superbeard the Woodchopping Agent with the greatest name on the planet.

He jangled a pair of those goddamn magic handcuffs. “The captain wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“Obviously now.”

Torn between annoyance and the near-frantic hope that I was about to experience my next—and if all went well, my last—out-of-prison excursion, I got to my feet.

Duncan tossed a smirk my way. “Gonna go play with the pretty rookie again?”

“Or maybe Blythe has decided to chop me up into tiny pieces to use as vampire bait.”

“I guess you’ll find out.”

Cool. Thanks.

Superbeard unlocked the cell and gestured me out into the hallway. I reached for the knot of fabric around my waist—but my skin was slick with perspiration and I didn’t want to gross up my only garment. With no better option, I walked out as I was.

The agent glowered. “Dress properly.”

“Dude, I was mid-workout. Give me a minute to cool off.”

“Once I cuff you, you won’t be able to put it on.”

I shrugged.

Losing patience, he snapped the cuffs on and led me to the same old interrogation room. A moment later, I was uncomfortably seated on the same old chair, with the same old cuffs chained to the same old table. The door slammed behind my escort.

I leaned against the chair, the metal pressing against my bare back. Yikes, cold.

The door flew open again almost immediately. Lienna breezed in with purpose, spotted me, and lurched to a halt with her jaw hanging open. Marching in the rookie’s wake, Blythe bumped into her back.

“Agent Shen! Would you—” Blythe spotted me. “Morris!”

“Yes?” I inquired innocently.

“Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I was busy when Agent Wood Chipper came calling.”

Lienna’s cheeks flushed. Catching her eye, I arched my eyebrows—and her blush deepened.

“Exercising,” I added as I pulled my hands up, chains clanking, and awkwardly pushed a few strands of damp hair off my forehead. “But if I had any clue when to expect our special dates, I could primp up nice and proper for you ladies.”

Blythe stomped to the table, carrying an armload of files with a side of extra-spicy mean sauce. She dropped the stack on the table with a loud thump, and several folders slid off the pile and onto the floor.

“You dropped a couple of the—” I began helpfully.

“Put your shirt on.”

“It’s not a shirt. It’s a jumpsuit. And sure.” I jangled my cuffs pointedly.