Also by Scott Westerfeld The first book in the trilogy ... - Webgarden

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Also by Scott Westerfeld 

The first book in the trilogy: 

Leviathan 

And the books in the Uglies series: 

Uglies 

Pretties 

Specials 

Extras 

Bogus to Bubbly: 

An Insider’s Guide to the World of Uglies 

“Barking bloody princes,” she muttered, pulling Tazza along the airship’s corridors. 

She’d hardly slept a wink last night, what with looking after Newkirk, and the thylacine needed to go for 

a walk soon. On top of which, Deryn still had to check on Dr. Barlow’s precious eggs. But instead of 

attending to her duties, here she was delivering secret messages for the Clankers. 

Aiding the enemy in wartime. How was that for mutiny? 

As she drew closer to the cabin, Deryn began to formulate excuses and explanations—“I was just 

asking our count friend if he needed anything.” “I was on a secret mission from the captain.” 

“Someone had to keep an eye on those mutinous Clankers, and this was the best way!”—all of 

them barking pathetic. 

She knew the real reason she’d said yes to Alek. He’d looked so helpless lying there, pale and 

bandaged, not knowing if they were going to hang him tomorrow at dawn. It had only made the way she 

felt harder to ignore. 

Deryn took a deep breath, and rapped on the stateroom door. 

After a long moment it opened to reveal a tall man in a formal uniform. He stared down his sharp nose at 

her and Tazza, not saying a word. Deryn wondered if she should bow, because he was a count and all. 

But Alek was a prince, which sounded more important, and no one ever bowed to him. 

“What is it?” the man finally asked. 

“Pleased to meet you, Mr.…, um, Count Volger. I’m Midshipman Dylan Sharp.” 

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“I know who you are.” 

“Right. Because Alek and I, we’ve been fencing and that. We’re friends.” 

“You’re that idiot boy who put a knife to Alek’s throat.” 

Deryn swallowed, willing her tongue to untangle. She’d only been pretending when she’d taken Alek 

hostage back in the Alps, to force the Clankers to negotiate instead of blowing up the airship. 

But under the man’s imperious gaze, the explanation wouldn’t come. 

“Aye, that was me,” she managed. “But it was only to get your attention.” 

“You succeeded.” 

“And I used the dull edge of that knife, just to be safe!” She looked both ways down the corridor. “Do 

you suppose I could come in?” 

“Why?” 

“I’ve got a message from Alek. A secret one.” 

With those words Count Volger’s stony countenance shifted a squick. His left eyebrow arched, then 

finally he stepped back. A moment later she and Tazza were inside the room, the thylacine sniffing at the 

man’s boots. 

“What is this creature?” he asked, taking another step backward. 

“Oh, that’s just Tazza. He’s harmless,” Deryn said, then remembered the damage he’d done to the lady 

boffin’s cabin. “Well, unless you’re a set of curtains, which, um, you’re clearly not.” 

She cleared her throat, feeling like a ninny. The man’s cold, haughty manner had started her babbling. 

“Will it repeat our words?” 

“What, Tazza,talk ?” Deryn stifled a laugh. “He’s no message lizard. He’s a natural beastie, a thylacine 

from Tasmania. Dr. Barlow has him as a traveling companion, though, as you can see, he’s mostlymy 

responsibility. Anyway, I’ve got a message from—” 

Volger silenced her with an upheld hand, then glanced up at the message tubes in the cabin. A lizard was 

poking its head from one, and the count clapped his hands once to scare it off. 

“Those godless things are everywhere,” he muttered. “Always listening.” 

Deryn rolled her eyes. The other Clankers were even more twitchy about beasties than Alek. They 

seemed to think that everything living aboard the airship was out to get them. 

“Aye, sir. But lizards only carry messages. They don’t eavesdrop.” 

“And how can you be sure of that?” 

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Now, that was a daft question. Message lizards might repeat snatches of conversation by accident now 

and then, especially when they’d been recently dazzled by a Tesla cannon. But that wasn’t the same as 

eavesdropping, was it? 

Then she remembered how Count Volger had pretended not to speak English when he’d come aboard, 

in hopes of overhearing secrets. And how Dr. Barlow had pulled the same trick on the Clankers, 

pretending not to know any German. No wonder those two were always suspicious of everyone—they 

were both sneaky-beaks themselves. 

“Those lizards have got brains no bigger than walnuts,” she said. “I don’t reckon they’d make very good 

spies.” 

“Perhaps not.” The count sat down at his desk, which was covered with maps and scrawled notes, a 

sheathed sword serving as a paperweight. “And what aboutyour brains, Mr. Sharp? You’re clever 

enough to be a spy, aren’t you?” 

“What, me? I told you, Alek sent me here!” 

“And how do Iknow that? Last night I was informed that Alek was hurt in the battle, but I haven’t been 

allowed to see him or Master Klopp. And now I receive this ‘secret’ message from Alek, courtesy of a 

boy who held him hostage?” 

“But he …,” Deryn began, then groaned with frustration. This was what she got for doing favors for 

Clankers. “He’s my friend.He trusts me, even if you don’t.” 

“Prove it.” 

“Well, of course he does! He told me his little secret, didn’t he?” 

Count Volger’s eyes narrowed at her a moment, then he stared down at the sword on the table. “His 

secret?” 

“Aye, he told me who he …,” Deryn began, but a slow realization was creeping over her. What if Alek 

had never mentioned to Volger that he’d spilled the beans to her? Finding out now might give the man a 

wee startle. “You know, hisbig secret?” 

The air hissed as Volger whirled around, sunlight flashing on steel, the chair spinning across the floor and 

sending Tazza leaping to his feet. The sword suddenly stretched from Volger’s hand, its cold, naked tip 

at Deryn’s throat. 

“Tell me what secret,” the wildcount demanded.“Now.” 

“A-about his parents!” she sputtered. “His father and mother were assassinated, which is what started 

this barking war! And he’s a prince or something!” 

“Who else knows this?” 

“Just me!” she squeaked, but the metal prodded her. “Um, and Dr. Barlow. But no one else, I swear!” 

He glared at her for an endless moment, his eyes prying their way into hers. Tazza let out a low growl. 

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Finally the wildcount pulled the saber a few inches back. “Why haven’t you informed your captain?” 

“Because Alek made us promise.” Deryn stared at the sword point. “I thought you knew he’d told us!” 

Count Volger lowered the sword. “Obviously I did not.” 

“Well, that’s notmy fault!” Deryn cried. “Maybe it’syou he doesn’t trust!” 

The man looked at the floor. “Perhaps.” 

“And you didn’t have to cut my barking head off!” 

Volger gave her a thin smile as he righted the overturned chair. “It was only to get your attention. And I 

used a dull edge. Surely you know a fencing saber when you see one?” 

Deryn reached out and grabbed the weapon’s blade. She swore—it was the very saber she’d practiced 

with yesterday, no sharper than a butter knife. 

Count Volger sat heavily, shaking his head as he cleaned the sword with a pocket handkerchief and then 

sheathed it again. “That boy will be the death of me.” 

“At least Alek trusts someone!” Deryn said. “The rest of youDummkopf s, you’re all as mad as a box 

of frogs! Lying and sneaking and … scared ofmessage lizards . With all your scheming it’s no wonder 

the world’s in a barking great war!” 

Tazza growled again, then made his strange little yelp, hopping on his hind legs. Deryn knelt to calm him 

down, and to hide her burning eyes from Count Volger. 

“Is Alek really hurt?” the man asked. 

“Aye. But it’s only a bruised rib.” 

“Why won’t they let me see him or Klopp?” 

“Because of what Master Klopp did during the battle,” Deryn said, stroking Tazza’s flank. “He turned 

the ship around just before the Tesla cannon fired. Without orders.” 

Volger snorted. “Sothis is why your captain has summoned me? To discuss the chain of command?” 

She glared up at him. “He might reckon it was mutiny—a hanging offense!” 

“An absurd notion, unless he wants his ship to drift forever.” 

Deryn took a slow, deep breath and petted Tazza again. It was true—theLeviathan still needed the 

Clankers and their engines. More so than ever, with the airbeast acting up. 

“I suppose the captain just wants to make a point,” she said. “But that’s not what I’m here about.” 

“Ah, yes. Your secret message.” 

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Deryn gave the man a hard look. “Well, maybe you don’t care one way or the other. But Alek thinks 

those two ironclads are headed for Constantinople, just like us!” 

Volger raised an eyebrow at that, then pointed to the fallen chair. 

“Sit down, boy, and tell me everything.” 

“Hear that?” Corporal Bauer asked. 

Alek wiped his hands on an oily rag, listening. The air trembled with the distant clamor of an engine 

coming to life, sputtering at first, then settling into a low and steady roar. 

He stared at the tangle of gears before him and said to his men, “Three against one, and Klopp has his 

engine working first!” 

“Hate to say so, sir.” Bauer spread his grease-blackened hands. “But you and I aren’t much help.” 

Master Hoffman clapped the gunner on his back and laughed. “I’ll make an engineer of you one day, 

Bauer. It’s that one who’s hopeless.” He glanced at Mr. Hirst, who was watching them glumly from the 

engine pod strut, his hands perfectly clean. 

“What’s this about?” the man asked. 

Alek switched to English. “Nothing, Mr. Hirst. Just that it sounds as though Klopp has beaten us.” 

“So it would seem,” the man said, and fell back into silence. 

It was late afternoon, less than forty-eight hours after the unlucky encounter with theBreslau and the 

Goeben . Alek, his men Hoffman and Bauer, and Hirst had been assigned to the starboard pod, while 

Master Klopp was over on the port side, under armed guard, with Count Volger translating for him. 

Since the incident with the air pistol, it had been decided that Klopp and Mr. Hirst would no longer 

share the same engine pod. Alek was not under guard, but he suspected that was only because of the 

bandages wrapped around his injured rib. Every time he lifted a wrench, he winced in pain. 

But no one was locked in the brig, at least. True to her word, Dr. Barlow had convinced the captain to 

accept reality—without Klopp’s help, the airship would drift on the winds. Or worse, the great airbeast 

might take them on a journey of its own choosing. 

The captain’s goodwill had come with certain conditions, however. The five Austrians were to stay 

aboard theLeviathan until the Darwinists understood their new engines fully, however long that took. 

Alek suspected they wouldn’t be getting off in Constantinople. 

Half an hour later, the starboard engine finally sparked to life. As smoke poured from the exhaust pipes, 

Master Hoffman engaged the gears, and the propeller began to spin. 

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Alek closed his eyes, reveling in the steady thrum of pistons. Freedom might not be any closer, but at 

least the airship was whole again. 

“Feeling all right, sir?” Bauer asked. 

Alek took a deep breath of sea air. “Just happy to be under way.” 

“Feels good to have an engine rumbling underfoot again, doesn’t it?” Hoffman nodded at Mr. Hirst. 

“And maybe our sulky friend here has finally picked up a few tricks.” 

“Let’s hope so,” Alek said, smiling. Since the battle, Bauer and Hoffman had taken a dislike to the 

Leviathan ’s chief engineer. After all, the two had been at Alek’s side since the awful night his parents 

had died, and had given up their careers to protect him. They hadn’t taken kindly to Mr. Hirst shooting at 

him and Master Klopp, mutiny or not. 

Soon both engines were working in tandem, and theLeviathan set a northward course again. The 

water’s surface slid by beneath them faster and faster, until the airship had left behind its escort of hungry 

seagulls and curious dolphins. 

Moving air tasted better, Alek decided. The airbeast had let itself drift most of the day, matching the 

speed and direction of the wind, wrapping everything in a dead calm. But now that they were under 

power, the salt air was sharp and alive against his face, driving away the feeling of being imprisoned. 

“One of those talking things,” Bauer said, frowning. 

Alek turned to see a message lizard making its way across the airship’s skin, and sighed. It was 

probably Dr. Barlow putting him on egg duty again. 

But when the lizard opened its mouth, it spoke with the master coxswain’s voice. “The captain wishes 

the pleasure of your company on the bridge, at your earliest convenience.” 

Bauer and Hoffman looked at Alek, recognizing the English word “captain.” 

“Wants to see me at my earliest convenience,” he translated, and Bauer gave a snort. There wasn’t 

much convenient about climbing down to the gondola with a bruised rib. 

But Alek found himself smiling as he wiped engine grease from his hands. This was the first time any of 

them had been invited to the bridge. Since coming aboard, he’d wondered how the officers controlled 

the airship’s interwoven complements of men, fabricated animals, and machines. Was it like a German 

land dreadnought, with the bridge crew directly controlling the engines and cannon? Or an oceangoing 

ship, with orders dispatched to the boiler rooms and weapon stations? 

Alek turned to Mr. Hirst. “I leave you to it, sir.” 

The man nodded a bit stiffly. He’d never apologized for shooting Alek, and none of the officers had ever 

admitted that Klopp had saved the ship. But as they’d started work that morning, Hirst had quietly turned 

out his pockets, showing that he wasn’t carrying a pistol anymore. 

That was something, at least. 

Page 6


Alek found Volger waiting for him on the gondola’s main staircase. 

It was strange to see the wildcount’s riding clothes spotted with oil, his hair tangled by propeller wash. In 

fact, Alek hadn’t seen Volger since the battle. They’d both been working on the engines every waking 

moment since Alek’s release. 

“Ah, Your Highness,” the wildcount said, offering a halfhearted bow. “I was wondering if you’d been 

summoned too.” 

“I go where the lizards tell me.” 

Volger didn’t smile, just turned and started down the stairs. “Beastly creatures. The captain must have 

important news, to let us see the bridge at last.” 

“Perhaps he wants to thank us.” 

“I suspect it’s something less agreeable,” Volger said. “Something he didn’t want us to know untilafter 

we got his engines working again.” 

Alek frowned. As usual the wildcount was making sense, if only in a suspicious way. Living among the 

godless creatures of theLeviathan hadn’t improved his disposition. 

“You don’t trust the Darwinists much, do you?” Alek said. 

“Nor should you.” Volger came to a halt, looking up and down the corridors. He waited until a pair of 

crewmen had passed, then pulled Alek farther down the stairway. A moment later they were on the 

lowest deck of the gondola, in a dark corridor lit only by the ship’s glowworms. 

“The ship’s storerooms are almost empty,” Volger said quietly. “They don’t even guard them anymore.” 

Alek smiled. “You’ve been sneaking about, haven’t you?” 

“When I’m not adjusting gears like a common mechanik. But we must speak quickly. They’ve caught 

me here once already.” 

“So, what did you think of my message?” Alek asked. “Those ironclads are headed for Constantinople, 

aren’t they?” 

“You told them who you were,” Count Volger said. 

Alek froze for a moment as the words sank in. Then he blinked and turned away, his eyes stinging with 

shame and frustration. It felt like being a boy again, when Volger had landed hits with his saber at will. 

He cleared his throat, reminding himself that the wildcount was no longer his tutor. “Dr. Barlow told you, 

didn’t she? To show that she has something over us.” 

“Not a bad guess. But it was simpler than that—Dylan let it slip.” 

“Dylan?” Alek shook his head. 

“He didn’t realize you kept secrets from me.” 

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“I don’t keep any …,” Alek began, but it was pointless arguing. 

“Have you gone mad?” Volger whispered. “You’re the heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary. Why 

would youtell our enemies that ?” 

“Dylan and Dr. Barlow aren’t enemies,” Alek said firmly, looking Count Volger full in the eye. “And they 

don’t know I’m the legal heir to the throne. Nobody knows about the pope’s letter but you and me.” 

“Well, thank heaven for that.” 

“And Ididn’t tell them, not really. Dr. Barlow guessed who my parents were, quite on her own.” Alek 

looked away again. “But I’m sorry. I should have told you they knew.” 

“No. You should have never admitted anything, whatever they’d guessed! That boy Dylan is completely 

guileless—incapable of keeping a secret. You may think he’s your friend, but he’s just a peasant. And 

you’ve put your future in his hands!” 

Alek shook his head. Dylan might be a commoner, but hewas a friend. He’d already risked his life to 

keep Alek’s identity a secret. 

“Think for a moment, Volger. Dylan let it slip toyou , not to one of the ship’s officers. We can trust him.” 

The man stepped closer in the darkness, his voice hardly above a whisper. “I hope you’re right, Alek. 

Otherwise the captain is about to tell us that his new engines will be taking us back to Britain, where 

they’ll have a cage waiting for you. Do you think being the Darwinists’ pet monarch will be agreeable?” 

Alek didn’t answer for a moment, replaying all of Dylan’s earnest promises in his mind. Then he turned 

away and started up the stairs. 

“He hasn’t betrayed us. You’ll see.” 

The bridge was much larger than Alek had imagined. 

It took up the entire width of the gondola, curving with the gentle half circle of the airship’s prow. The 

afternoon sun streamed through windows that stretched almost to the ceiling. Alek stepped closer to 

one—the glass leaned gently outward, allowing him to peer straight down at the dazzling water slipping 

past. 

Reflected in the window, a dozen message lizard tubes coiled along the ceiling; others sprouted from the 

floor like shiny brass mushrooms. Levers and control panels lined the walls, and carrier birds fluttered in 

the cages hanging in one corner. Alek closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the buzz and chatter of 

men and animals. 

Volger gently pulled his arm. “We’re here to parley, not to gawk.” 

Setting a serious expression on his face, Alek followed Volger. But still he watched and listened to 

everything around him. No matter what the captain’s news turned out to be, he wanted to soak in every 

detail of this place. 

Page 8


At the front of the bridge was the master wheel, like an old sailing ship’s, carved in the Darwinists’ 

sinuous style. Captain Hobbes turned from it to greet them, a smile on his face. 

“Ah, gentlemen. Thank you for coming.” 

Alek followed Volger’s lead and offered the captain a shallow bow, one suited for a minor nobleman of 

uncertain importance. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Volger asked. 

“We’re under way again,” Captain Hobbes said. “I wanted to thank you personally for that.” 

“We’re glad to help,” Alek said, hoping that for once Count Volger’s suspicions had proven overblown. 

“But I also have bad news,” the captain continued. “I’ve just received word that Britain and 

Austria-Hungary are officially at war.” He cleared his throat. “Most regrettable.” 

Alek drew in a slow breath, wondering how long the captain had known. Had he waited until the engines 

were fixed to tell them? Then Alek realized that he and Volger were smeared with grease, dressed like 

tradesmen, while Captain Hobbes preened in his crisp blue uniform. Suddenly he hated the man. 

“This changes nothing,” Volger said. “We’re not soldiers, after all.” 

“Really?” The captain frowned. “But judging by their uniforms, your men are members of the Hapsburg 

Guard, are they not?” 

“Not since we left Austria,” Alek said. “As I told you, we had to flee for political reasons.” 

The captain shrugged. “Deserters are still soldiers.” 

Alek bridled. “My men are hardly—” 

“Are you saying we’re prisoners of war?” Volger interrupted. “If so, we shall collect our men from the 

engine pods and retire to the brig.” 

“Don’t be hasty, gentlemen.” Captain Hobbes raised his hands. “I merely wanted to give you the bad 

news, and to beg your indulgence. This puts me in an awkward situation, you must understand.” 

“We find it …awkward too.” 

“Of course,” the captain said, ignoring Alek’s tone. “I would prefer to reach some arrangement. But try 

to understand my position. You’ve never told me exactly who you are. Now that our countries are at 

war, that makes your status rather complicated.” 

The man waited expectantly, and Alek looked at Volger. 

“I suppose it does,” the wildcount said. “But we still prefer not to identify ourselves.” 

Captain Hobbes sighed. “Then I shall have to turn to the Admiralty for orders.” 

“Do let us know what they say,” Count Volger said simply. 

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“Of course.” The captain touched his hat and turned back to the wheel. “Good day, gentlemen.” 

While Volger bowed again, Alek turned stiffly about and walked away, still angry at the man’s 

impertinence. But as he headed back toward the hatchway, he found himself slowing a little, just to listen 

for a few more seconds to the thrum of the airship at its heart. 

There were worse prisons in the world than this. 

“You know what his orders from the Admiralty will be,” Volger muttered out in the corridor. 

“To lock us up,” Alek said. “As soon as he can do without our help.” 

“Exactly. It’s time to start planning our escape.” 

That night in the machine room, Alek stared at the eggs, his mind drifting. 

They were such insignificant-looking objects, but this giant, marvelous airship had fought its way across 

Europe to bring them here. What was inside them? What sort of godless creature could keep the 

Ottomans from joining the war? 

The heaters packed around the eggs glimmered softly, and in the ship’s quiet, Alek felt sleep creeping up 

on him. He stood and shook himself awake. 

It was just after three a.m., time to get started. 

As he pulled off his boots, a twinge crept down his side. But the pain in his rib cage was only a dull ache. 

Nothing that would trouble him tonight. 

It had taken an hour of arguing to make Count Volger see the logic of this plan. Klopp was still under 

guard, Bauer and Hoffman were busy with the engines, and Volger had already been caught skulking 

below. It was up to Alek to find their avenue of escape. 

He pressed an ear against the machine room door, holding his breath. 

Nothing. 

He turned the latch and pushed it slowly open. The electrikal lamps were dark. Only the glimmer of 

glowworms lit the corridors, a green radiance as faint as starlight. Alek stepped into the hall, dead silent 

in his stocking feet, and eased the door shut behind him. 

He waited for a moment to let his eyes adjust, then started for the stairs. There had to be an escape 

hatch somewhere, a way for the crew to abandon ship by rope or parachute. The lowest deck of the 

gondola was the logical place to look for it. 

Though, where they would find five parachutes—or a few hundred meters of rope—was beyond Alek. 

They would have to escape when the ship was grounded in Constantinople, then buy their way to safety 

Page 10


with the last bar of his father’s gold. 

The stairs made no complaints beneath his weight. The Darwinists’ wood came from fabricated trees, 

and was lighter than natural wood and stronger than steel. The airship didn’t groan and creak like a 

sailing ship, but felt as still as a stone castle. The distant, rumbling engines were reduced to the barest 

trembling under his feet. 

Alek slipped past the central deck of the gondola quickly. At night a guard stood at the door to the 

bridge, two more were stationed at the armory, and the ship’s cooks were always in the galley before 

dawn. But after the ship’s five days on the glacier, the lower cargo holds and storerooms lay empty and 

unguarded. 

Halfway down the last flight of stairs, a sound froze Alek in his tracks. 

Was it a crewman walking past on the upper deck? Or someone behind him? 

He turned and looked back up the stairs—nothing. 

Alek wondered if airships had rats. Even metal land dreadnoughts could be infested. Or did the 

six-legged sniffer dogs hunt for pests as well as leaks? 

He shuddered and kept moving. 

At the bottom of the stairs, the deck was chill beneath Alek’s feet. The night air was coursing past just 

below, thin and close to freezing at this altitude. 

The corridors were wider down here, with two rails set in the floor for cargo trolleys. On either side lay 

open storerooms. They were shrouded in darkness, the glowworms reduced to a few green squiggles on 

the walls. 

The sound came again—the scrape of boots on wood. Therewas someone behind him! 

His heart racing, Alek walked faster toward the bow. A few half-empty feed sacks sat in the shadows, 

but there was no good place to hide. 

The corridor ended at a closed doorway. Alek turned and saw a silhouette moving behind him. For a 

split second he considered giving himself up and pretending he’d gotten lost. But Volger had already 

been caught down here … 

Alek pushed his way through the door and shut it behind himself. 

The room was pitch-black, and a heavy smell hung in the air, like old straw. He stood there in the 

darkness, breathing hard. It felt small and crowded in here, but the click of the closing door seemed to 

echo for a moment. 

Alek thought he heard mutterings. Was this a bunk room full of sleeping airmen? 

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the blackness, willing his heart to stop pounding in his ears.… 

Someone, or something, was breathing in here. 

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For an awful moment Alek wondered if there were creatures aboard theLeviathan that Dylan hadn’t 

told him about. Monsters, perhaps. He remembered his military toys, and the Darwinist fighting creatures 

fabricated from the life threads of extinct and giant reptiles. 

“Um, hello?” he whispered. 

“Hello?” someone answered. 

Alek swallowed. “Oh, I seem to have gotten lost. I’m sorry.” 

“Gotten lost?” came the reply. The words sounded hesitant, and there was something eerily familiar 

about the voice. 

“Yes. I’ll just be going.” Alek turned back to the doorway and felt blindly for the knob. The metal 

squeaked a little as he turned it, and he froze. 

Suddenly the room was full of tiny screeches and complaints. 

“I’m sorry,” a voice said. Then another whispered, “Hello?” 

The murmurs increased, building in intensity. The room felt no bigger than a closet, but it sounded as 

though a dozen men were waking up around him. They muttered half-formed words, in a nervous and 

agitated babble. 

Was this the airship’smadhouse ? 

Yanking open the door, Alek banged it into his bare foot. He yelped with pain, and a symphony of angry 

voices answered. More cries filled the darkness, as though a brawl were breaking out! 

Through the half-open door a green face stared back at him. 

“Barking spiders! What are youdoing ?” the intruder said. 

“Spiders! Barking spiders!” came a dozen cries from every direction. 

Alek opened his mouth to scream, but then a low whistling sound floated through the room. The 

cacophony instantly went silent. 

A glowworm lantern lifted in front of Alek’s face. In its green light he made out Dylan squinting back at 

him, a command whistle in one hand. 

“I reckoned it was you,” the boy whispered. 

“But … but who are these—” 

“Shush, you ninny. Don’t get the beasties started again.” Dylan pushed him backward and slipped into 

the room, closing the door behind them. “We’ll be lucky if the navigators haven’t heard this ruckus 

already.” 

Alek blinked, and in the light of the wormlamp finally saw the stacks of cages climbing the walls. They 

Page 12


were full of message lizards, crowded together like puppies in a pet store. 

“What is this place?” he breathed. 

“It’s the barking lizard room, isn’t it?” Dylan whispered. “It’s where Dr. Erasmus takes care of the 

beasties.” 

Alek swallowed, his eyes falling on a table where a dissected lizard lay pinned. Then he saw that the 

ceiling was covered with the gaping mouths of message tubes, tangled like railroad tracks at a station. 

“And it’s a sort of junction, too, isn’t it?” 

“Aye. Dr. Erasmus is in charge of all that palaver—origin and destination tags, emergency alerts, clearing 

up traffic jams.” 

Alek stared at the dozens of tiny eyes peering at him, all glowing with wormlight. “I had no idea it was so 

… complicated.” 

“How did you think the beasties always found you? By magic?” Dylan snorted. “It’s a tricky job, even 

for a boffin, especially with half the lizards still dizzy from that Clanker lightning. Look at the poor things, 

and here’s you riling them up!” 

A few of the lizards started to murmur, repeating Dylan’s words. But when he blew another soft, low 

note on his command whistle, they settled again. 

Alek looked at Dylan. “You didn’t just happen along, did you?” 

“No. I couldn’t sleep. And you know how Dr. Barlow doesn’t want us bothering each other on egg 

duty? Well, I thought if I dropped by now, she wouldn’t be about.” 

“But I wasn’t there,” Alek said. 

Dylan nodded. “Andthat was a wee bit odd. So I thought I’d sniff around and see what you were up 

to.” 

“Didn’t take you long to find me, did it?” 

“The beasties’ ruckus helped, but I reckoned you’d be down here in the storerooms.” Dylan leaned 

closer. “You’re looking for a way to escape, aren’t you?” 

Alek felt his jaw clench. “Am I that obvious?” 

“No. I’m just dead clever,” the boy said. “Have you not noticed?” 

Alek took a moment to think about this, then smiled. “I have.” 

“Good.” Dylan took a step past him and knelt at a small hatch on the opposite side of the room. “Come 

through here, then, before we start the beasties yammering again.” 

Page 13


Dylan went first through the hatchway, climbing down a few rungs mounted on the slanted wall. 

Alek passed the wormlamp down, spilling light into the small spherical chamber. He’d seen this place 

from outside the airship: a round bulge in the gondola’s underbelly. The space was crowded by what 

looked like a mismatched pair of telescopes pointed down at the sea. 

“Is that a weapon?” he asked. 

“No. The fat one is a reconnaissance camera,” Dylan said. “And the wee one’s a sight for aerial bombs 

and navigation. But they’re useless at night, so it’ll be private enough.” 

“If not luxurious,” Alek said. He climbed down and wedged himself onto a corner, half squatting on a 

giant gear attached to the camera’s side. “But aren’t we right below the bridge?” 

Dylan glanced up. “That’s the navigation room over us, and the bridge is above that. But it’s safer here 

than in the lizard room. You’re lucky you didn’t send out an alert to the whole barking ship!” 

“That might have been awkward,” Alek said, imagining an army of lizards scampering through the 

airship’s message tubes, shouting in his voice to the sleeping crew. “I’m a pretty useless spy, I suppose.” 

“At least you were clever enough to be caught by me,” Dylan said. “And not someone who might have 

objected to you skulking about.” 

“Not so much skulking as bumbling,” Alek said. “But thank you for not reporting me.” 

The boy shrugged. “I reckon it’s a prisoner’s duty to escape. After all, you Clankers keep saving the 

ship—that’sthree times now—and the captain’s treating you like enemies! And just because Britain 

declared war on your granduncle. I think it’s dead rotten.” 

Alek found himself smiling. On the subject of Dylan’s loyalty, at least, Volger’s suspicions were 

completely wrong. 

“So that’s why you were looking for me,” Alek said. “To talk about how we can escape.” 

“Well, I’m not keen tohelp you. That might be a squick too treasonous, even for me. It was only …” 

Dylan’s voice faded. 

“What?” 

“We’ll be in Constantinople by noon tomorrow, so I reckoned you might be slipping away soon, and 

this might be our last chance to talk.” The boy wrapped his arms around himself. “And I’ve hardly slept 

anyway.” 

Alek squinted through the darkness. Dylan’s fine features looked drawn, even in the soft light of the 

glowworms. His usual smile was missing. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“It was what happened to Newkirk. It’s left me dead shattered.” 

Page 14


“Shattered?” Alek frowned. Dylan’s strange way with the English language was playing tricks again. 

“Newkirk is the midshipman whose Huxley burned, right?” 

“Aye, it was so much like … what happened when my da died. It’s given me nightmares.” 

Alek nodded. The boy had never said much about his father’s death. Only that he’d been lost in an 

accident, and that Dylan hadn’t spoken for a whole month afterward. 

“You’ve never told anyone about it, have you?” 

The boy shook his head, then fell still. 

Alek waited, remembering how hard it had been to tell Dylan about his own parents. In the silence he 

could hear the wind sweeping around the prow of the airship, testing its joints and seams. A draft swirled 

up from where the camera thrust out into the night sky, snatches of cold air coiling around their feet. 

“I mean, since you’re leaving the ship anyway,” Dylan said, “I reckoned it wouldn’t burden you too 

much to hear it.” 

“Of course you can tell me, Dylan. You know plenty of my secrets, after all.” 

The boy nodded, but fell silent again, his arms still wrapped tight around himself. Alek took a slow 

breath. He’d never seen Dylan afraid to speak his mind. The boy had never seemed afraid of anything 

before, much less a memory. 

Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to see him this way, looking weak and … shattered. 

Alek slipped off his jacket and laid it over the wormlamp. Darkness wrapped around them both. 

“Tell me,” he said gently. 

A moment later Dylan began to speak. 

“Da flew hot-air balloons, you see, even after the hydrogen breathers got so big. I always went up with 

him, so I was there when it happened. We were still on the ground, the burners firing to warm up the air 

in the envelope. Then suddenly there was this great blast of heat, like opening a boiler door. One of the 

kerosene tanks …” 

Dylan’s voice had gradually gone softer, almost like a girl’s, and now it faded away altogether. Alek slid 

closer, putting his arm around the boy until he spoke again. 

“It was just like with Newkirk. The fire shot straight up until the whole balloon was burning overhead, 

the heat pulling us skyward. The tethers held, even though they must have been on fire too. And my da 

pushed me out of the basket.” 

“So he saved you.” 

“Aye, butthat’s what killed him . With my weight gone, the ropes broke, all at once, like knuckles 

cracking. And Da’s balloon went roaring away.” 

Alek’s breath caught. He remembered again the German zeppelin in the Alps, falling right in front of him, 

Page 15


its hydrogen ignited by machine-gun fire. He could still hear the snow beneath the wreck hissing as it 

turned to steam, and the thin screams from inside the gondola. 

“Everyone saw how he’d saved me,” Dylan said, reaching into his pocket. “They gave him a medal for 

it.” 

He pulled out a small decoration, a rounded silver cross that dangled from a sky blue ribbon. In the 

darkness Alek could just make out the face of Charles Darwin engraved upon its center. 

“It’s called the Air Gallantry Cross, the highest honor they can give a civilian for deeds in the air.” 

“You must be proud,” Alek said. 

“Back in that first year, when I couldn’t sleep, I used to stare at it at night. But I thought the nightmares 

were over and done with, until what happened to Newkirk.” Dylan looked at him. “Maybe you 

understand a wee bit, how it comes back? Because of your ma and da?” 

Alek nodded, staring at the medal and wondering what to say. He still had dreams, of course, but his 

own parents’ death had happened in far-off Sarajevo, not in front of his eyes. Even his nightmares 

couldn’t compare with what Dylan had described. 

But then he remembered the moment when the Tesla cannon had fired, his horror that theLeviathan 

would be engulfed in flame. 

“I think you’re very brave, serving on this ship.” 

“Aye, or mad.” The boy’s eyes glistened in the glimmers of wormlight from beneath Alek’s jacket. 

“Don’t you think it’s daft? Like I’m trying to burn to death, same as he did?” 

“Don’t be absurd,” Alek said. “You’re honoring your father. Of course you’d want to be on this ship. If 

I weren’t …” He paused. “I mean, if things were different, I’d want to stay here too.” 

“You would?” 

“Well, maybe it’s silly. But the last few days, it’s like something’s changing inside me. Everything I ever 

knew is upside down. Sometimes it’s almost as if I’m … in love …” 

Dylan’s body tightened beside Alek. 

“I know it sounds silly,” Alek said quickly. “It’s quite obviously ridiculous.” 

“But are you saying that … ? I mean, what if thingswere different than you thought? If I were … or have 

you guessed already?” Dylan let out a groan. “Just what are yousaying ?” 

Alek shook his head. “Perhaps I’m putting this stupidly. But it’s almost as though … I’m in love with 

your ship.” 

“You’re in love,” Dylan said slowly, “with theLeviathan ?” 

“It feelsright here.” Alek shrugged. “As if this is where I’m meant to be.” 

Page 16


Dylan let out a strange, choked laugh as he put the medal back into his pocket. 

“You Clankers,” he muttered. “You’re all cracked in the head.” 

Alek pulled his arm from the boy’s shoulders, frowning. Dylan was always explaining how the airship’s 

interwoven species sustained one another, how every beast was part of the whole. Surely he could 

understand. 

“Dylan, you know I’ve always been alone. I never had schoolmates, just tutors.” 

“Aye, because you’re a barking prince.” 

“But I’m hardly even that, because of my mother’s blood. I never mixed with commoners, and the rest 

of my family has always wanted me to disappear. But here on this ship …” Alek laced his fingers 

together, searching for the right words. 

“This is one place where you fit,” Dylan said flatly. “Where you feel real.” 

Alek smiled. “Yes. I knew you’d understand.” 

“Aye, of course.” Dylan shrugged. “I just thought you might be saying something else, that’s all. I feel the 

same way as you … about the ship.” 

“But you’re not an enemy here, or hiding what you are,” Alek said, sighing. “It’s much simpler for you.” 

The boy gave a sad laugh. “Not quite as simple as you’d think.” 

“I didn’t sayyou were simple, Dylan. It’s just that you’ve got no secrets hanging over you. No one’s 

trying to throw you off this ship and put you in chains!” 

Dylan shook his head. “Tell that to my ma.” 

“Oh, right.” Alek recalled that Dylan’s mother hadn’t wanted him to join the military. “Women can be 

quite mad sometimes.” 

“In my family they’re a squick madder than most.” Dylan pulled Alek’s jacket from the wormlamp. “Full 

of stupid ideas. Mad like you wouldn’t believe.” 

In the sudden wash of green light, Dylan’s face was no longer sad. His eyes had their usual spark, but 

there was an angry gleam in them. He tossed the jacket to Alek. 

“We both know you can’t stay aboard this ship,” Dylan said quietly. 

Alek held his gaze a moment, then nodded. He would never be allowed to serve on theLeviathan , not 

once the Darwinists understood their new engines. They would take him and the others back to Britain 

for safekeeping, whether or not they learned exactly who he was. 

He had to escape. 

“I should get back to my skulking, I suppose.” 

Page 17


“Aye, you should,” Dylan said. “I’ll go up and watch the eggs for you. Come back before dawn, though, 

or the lady boffin will have both our heads.” 

“Thank you,” Alek said. 

“We can only stay in Constantinople twenty-four hours. You’ll have to find whatever you’re looking for 

tonight.” 

Alek nodded, his heart beating a little faster. He reached out a hand. “In case we don’t talk again, I 

hope we’ll stay friends, whatever happens. Wars don’t last forever.” 

Dylan stared at the offered hand, then nodded. 

“Aye, friends.” He stood up. “Keep that lamp. I can find my way in the dark.” 

He turned and climbed up into the blackness without another word. 

Alek looked down at his hand, wondering for a moment what had happened, why Dylan had turned 

suddenly cold. Perhaps the boy had let more of his feelings show than he’d meant to. Or maybe Alek 

had said the wrong thing somehow. 

He sighed. There wasn’t time to think about it—he had skulking to do. Once theLeviathan started back 

for Britain, there wouldn’t be another chance to escape. He had to be off this ship in less than two days. 

Alek picked up the wormlamp and started for the hatch. 

Deryn had never seen a Clanker city before. 

Constantinople rolled past below, the hills filled to bursting with humanity. Pale stone palaces and domed 

mosques squashed against modern buildings, some rising up six stories tall. Two narrow arms of 

sparkling water carved the city into three parts, and a placid sea stretched away to the south, peppered 

with countless merchant ships under steam and sail, flying a dozen different flags. 

A pall of smoke hung over everything, coughed up from countless engines and factories, veiling the 

walkers striding the narrow streets. The muddled air was empty of messenger birds; only a few biplanes 

and gyrothopters skimmed the rooftops, skirting stone spires and bristling wireless aerials. 

It was odd to imagine Alek being from a place just like this, full of machines and metal, hardly alive 

except for human beings and their bedbugs. Of course, it was strange to think of Alek at all right now. 

She’d made such aDummkopf of herself last night, blethering on about Da’s accident, then mistaking 

Alek’s confidences for something more than they were. 

How completely daft, imagining for a moment that a barking prince would think of herthat way. Alek 

didn’t even know her real first name. And if he learned somehow that she was a girl in boy’s clothes? 

He’d run a mile. 

Page 18


Thankfully, Alek was planning to run in any case. Sometime tonight he and his Clanker friends would slip 

away into that smoky mass of city, and be gone for good. Then she’d be done with acting like some 

village girl, her fists twisting in her skirts whenever a certain boy walked by. 

Not that pathetic unsoldierly fate for Deryn Sharp. 

TheLeviathan swept in low over the water, and Newkirk leaned closer to the big window of the 

middies’ mess, staring down, wide eyed. No doubt he was searching the forest of masts and 

smokestacks below for the deadly spindle of theGoeben ’s Tesla cannon. 

“See any German ships?” he asked nervously. 

Deryn shook her head. “Just a few merchants and a coaler. I told you those ironclads would be long 

gone.” 

But Newkirk, his dress uniform cap pulled down tight over his singed hair, didn’t look entirely reassured. 

The sea below them stretched all the way back to the Dardanelles, with plenty of nooks and crannies to 

hide a dreadnought in. TheLeviathan had come to Constantinople over land, after all, not wanting to risk 

the ironclads’ Clanker lightning again. 

“Midshipmen Sharp and Newkirk!” came a voice from the doorway. “I must say you’re both looking 

handsome.” 

Deryn turned and bowed a squick to the lady boffin, feeling awkward in her full-dress uniform. She’d 

worn it only once before, at her swearing-in ceremony. The tailor who’d made it for her in Paris had 

probably wondered why some daft girl was going to so much fuss for a costume ball. 

Now, a month later, the fancy jacket stretched tight over the new muscles in her shoulders, and the shirt 

felt as stiff as a vicar’s collar. 

“Frankly, ma’am, I feel a bit like a penguin,” Newkirk said, adjusting his silk bow tie. 

“That may be,” Dr. Barlow said, “but we must look respectable for Ambassador Mallet.” 

Deryn turned back to the window with a sigh. The storerooms were empty, and they had only 

twenty-four hours to resupply the whole ship. It seemed daft to bring diplomats along to the Grand 

Bazaar, especially if it meant dressing up. Dr. Barlow was all in riding clothes, like a duchess on a fox 

hunt. 

“Do you reckon we’ll find corned beef in Constantinople?” Newkirk asked hopefully. 

“Is-tan-bul,” Dr. Barlow said, tapping her riding crop against her boot once for each syllable. “That’s 

what we must remember to call this city. Otherwise we shall annoy the locals.” 

“Istanbul?” Newkirk frowned. “But it’s ‘Constantinople’ on all the maps.” 

“Onour maps it is,” the lady boffin said. “We use that name to honor Constantine, the Christian emperor 

who founded the city. But the residents have called it Istanbul since 1453.” 

“They changed the name four hundred-oddyears ago?” Deryn turned back to the window. “Maybe it’s 

Page 19


time to fix our barking maps.” 

“Wise words, Mr. Sharp,” Dr. Barlow said, then added quietly, “I wonder if the Germans have already 

fixed theirs.” 

TheLeviathan came down on a dusty, mile-wide airfield on the western edge of the city. 

A mooring mast stood at the center of the field, like a lighthouse in a sea of grass. It looked no different 

from the mast back at Wormwood Scrubs. Deryn supposed that whether Darwinist or Clanker, an 

airship had to be secured from the fancies of the wind in pretty much the same way. The dozens of 

ground men certainly looked sharp as they corralled the landing ropes, their fezzes bright red against the 

grass. 

“Mr. Rigby says they get plenty of practice on German airships,” Newkirk said. “Says we should study 

their technique.” 

“We could, if we were closer,” Deryn said. She itched to be down there helping, or at least working 

with the riggers topside. But Dr. Barlow had warned the two middies not to muss their dress uniforms. 

The engines were pulsing overhead, turning the ship into the wind. Even Alek and his Clanker friends 

had honest work to do. 

Ten minutes later theLeviathan was secured by a dozen ropes, each held by ten men, and the airbeast’s 

nose was pressed against the mooring mast, its great eyes covered with blinders. 

Deryn frowned. “They’ve lashed us a bit high. We’re still fifty feet off the ground!” 

“All according to plan, Mr. Sharp,” said Dr. Barlow, pointing her riding crop into the distance. 

Deryn looked up and saw what was coming out of the trees—her jaw dropped open. 

“I didn’t know Clanker countries had elephantines!” Newkirk cried. 

“That’s no beastie,” Deryn said. “It’s a barkingwalker .” 

The machine lumbered forward on huge legs, its tusks swaying back and forth as it moved. Four pilots in 

blue uniforms sat on saddles that stuck out from its haunches, one pilot working the controls for each leg. 

A mechanical trunk, divided into a dozen metal segments, swept slowly back and forth, like a sleeping 

cat’s tail. 

“It must be fifty feet tall,” Newkirk said. “Even bigger than a real elephantine!” 

Sunlight struck the walker as it left the trees, and its polished steel skin glittered like mirrors. The 

platform on its back was covered by a parasol shaped like a strafing hawk’s cowl. A handful of men in 

dress uniform stood on the platform, while a fifth pilot perched in the front, working the trunk. The 

elephant’s large metal ears flapped slowly, stirring the brilliant tapestries that hung down its sides. 

“As you can see,” Dr. Barlow said, “the ambassador travels in style.” 

“I know we can’t use beasties here in Clanker-land,” Deryn said, “but why make a walker look like an 

animal?” 

Page 20


“Diplomacy is all about symbols,” Dr. Barlow said. “Elephants signify royalty and power; according to 

legend an elephant divined the prophet Mohammed’s birth. The sultan’s own war machines are made in 

this same shape.” 

“Do all the walkers here look like beasties?” Newkirk asked. 

“Most of them, yes,” the lady boffin said. “Our Ottoman friends may be Clankers, but they haven’t 

forgotten the web of life around us. That is why I have hope for them.” 

Deryn frowned, thinking for a moment of the mysterious eggs in the machine room. What did the 

creatures inside them signify? 

But there wasn’t much time to wonder. Soon the metal elephant was beside the airship’s gondola, with a 

gangway level between them. 

“Look smart, gentlemen,” Dr. Barlow said. “We have an elephant to catch.” 

The howdah, as the ambassador had called theDauntless ’s platform, felt a bit like a small boat at sea. It 

rocked from side to side with the elephant’s gait, but the motion was steady and predictable. Not enough 

to make Deryn seasick. 

Newkirk, of course, was another matter. 

“I can’t see why we should have to ride in this contraption,” he said, his face growing paler with every 

step. “We joined theAir Service, not the barking Elephant Service!” 

“And not the diplomatic corps either,” Deryn muttered. 

Since being introduced the ambassador and his assistants had ignored the two middies. They were 

prattling away to Dr. Barlow in French, which was daft, as they were all English, but that was diplomacy 

for you. And, as far as Deryn could tell, no one was saying anything about transporting supplies. 

She wondered how theDauntless would carry all the provisions the airship needed. There wasn’t much 

room in the howdah, which was all silk and tassels in any case, too fancy for stacks of crates. The 

machine could pull a sledge or wagon like a real elephantine, she supposed, but there was none in sight. 

Maybe when they got to the Grand Bazaar … 

“Mind if I ask you boys some questions?” 

Deryn turned. The man who’d interrupted her thoughts wasn’t dressed like the diplomats. In fact, his 

slops were a dog’s breakfast. His jacket was patched at the elbows, his hat a shapeless mass on his 

head. An unwieldy camera hung around his neck, and some sort of frog perched on his shoulder. 

The ambassador had introduced him as a reporter for a newspaper in New York, so Deryn supposed 

that his strange accent must be American. 

Page 21


“You’d best ask the lady boffin, sir,” Newkirk said. “Midshipmen aren’t allowed to have opinions.” 

The man laughed, then leaned forward and said quietly, “Off the record, then. Any particular reason why 

your airship is here in Istanbul?” 

“Just a friendly visit.” Deryn nodded at the ambassador. “Diplomacy and all that.” 

“Oh,” the man said, and shrugged. “And here I was thinking it might be because of all the Germans 

pouring in.” 

Deryn raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the bullfrog. It had the big-brained look of a memory frog, the 

sort of beast that recorded court proceedings and sessions of parliament. She decided to watch her 

words carefully. 

“Engineers, mostly,” the reporter continued. “They’re building all sorts of things. Just finished a new 

palace for the sultan.” 

“Aye, the lady boffin’s headed there tomorrow,” Newkirk said. 

Deryn silenced him with an elbow between the ribs, then turned to the reporter. “What’s your name 

again, sir?” 

“Eddie Malone, of theNew York World . And please don’t call me ‘sir.’” He offered his hand, smiling 

again. “I won’t ask your name, of course, since this is all off the record.” 

Deryn shook the man’s hand, wondering if he was full of yackum. When the ambassador had introduced 

them, she’d seen the reporter scribbling all their names into his battered notebook. He’d taken pictures, 

too, the battered old camera blazing with light from a fabricated firefly living in its flash apparatus. 

Americans were an odd bunch—neither Clanker nor Darwinist. They dabbled with both ways, mixing 

technologies as they saw fit. Everyone reckoned they would stay out of the war, unless somebody was 

daft enough to drag them in. 

“There are German officers here too.” Malone pointed at the guards standing at attention beside the 

approaching airfield gates. Instead of red fezzes they wore pointy helmets that looked a bit like Alek’s 

piloting hat. 

“Those are Germans?” Newkirk said with alarm. 

“No, Ottoman soldiers,” the reporter said. “But just look at them. They used to have more colorful 

uniforms, until the field marshal dressed them up in gray, like proper Clankers.” 

“Who’s that?” Deryn asked. 

“Field Marshal Liman von Sanders. German fellow—a good friend of the kaiser’s. The Ottomans made 

him head of the army here in Istanbul. Your diplomat friends kicked up a fuss, of course, and he bowed 

out.” Malone strutted across the howdah with a comically high step. “But not before he got them 

marching like Germans!” 

Page 22


Deryn glanced at Newkirk. The man was clearly cracked. “The Ottomans put a German in charge of 

their own barking army?” 

Malone shrugged. “Maybe they’re getting tired of being pushed around. The French and the British used 

to run things here, but not anymore. I suppose you’ve heard about theOsman ?” 

Deryn nodded slowly. “Aye, the ship that Lord Churchill borrowed.” 

“‘Borrowed’?” Malone chuckled, scribbling in his notebook. “Now,that I can use.” 

Deryn muttered under her breath, cursing herself for aDummkopf . “So that must be news here.” 

“News? It’s the biggest story in Istanbul! The sultan is half broke, you see, so that dreadnought was 

bought with money raised by the people. Grannies sold their jewelry and handed over the money. Kids 

coughed up pennies, and bought shadow puppets of its companion creature. Everyone in the empire 

owns a piece of that ship! Or at least they did, till your Lord Churchill went and pinched it.” The man’s 

smile was maniacal, the bullfrog on his shoulder poised to memorize whatever she said. 

Deryn cleared her throat. “I suppose they’re a wee bit angry now?” 

Malone nodded at the airfield gates parting before them, then licked the tip of his pen. “You’ll see soon 

enough.” 

Through the gates a broad avenue stretched toward the city. As the walker plodded ahead, the streets 

grew busier, the buildings rising up as tall as the howdah. People and pushcarts bustled past windows full 

of carpets and dishes, everything decorated with mad checkerboard patterns that dazzled Deryn’s eyes. 

The footpaths were crowded with stalls selling stacks of nuts and dried fruit, or meat roasting on rotating 

skewers. Powdered spices lay in rust red and dusty yellow piles, or spilled bright green from sacks as 

large as feed bags. Rich and unfamiliar scents cut through the smell of engines, so heavy she could taste 

them in her mouth, like the air inside a fabrication greenhouse. 

Deryn saw now what the walker’s trunk was for. As the machine lumbered through the crowd, its trunk 

swept gracefully from side to side, nudging pedestrians out of the way. The howdah pilot’s fingers moved 

nimbly on the controls; he pushed carts aside, and even rescued a child’s fallen toy from being crushed 

by the walker’s giant feet. 

Other walkers pulled wagons through the streets. Most looked like camels or donkeys, and one took 

the form of a horned creature that Eddie Malone explained was a water buffalo. A metal scarab beetle as 

big as an omnibus carried passengers through the crowds. 

Down a narrow side street Deryn saw a pair of walkers constructed almost in the shape of men. They 

stood almost as tall as theDauntless , with squat legs, long arms, and featureless faces. They were 

decorated with striped cloths and strange symbols, and carried no weapons in their giant clawed hands. 

“Army walkers of some kind?” Deryn asked the reporter. 

“No, they’re iron golems. They guard the Jewish neighborhoods.” Malone waved his hand across the 

crowd. “Most of the Ottomans are Turks, but Istanbul is a melting pot. Not only Jews, but Greeks, 

Armenians, Venetians, Arabs, Kurds, and Vlachs all live here.” 

Page 23


“Blisters,” Newkirk said. “I never heard of half of those.” 

The man smiled and scribbled in his notebook. “And all of them have their own combat walkers, just to 

keep the peace.” 

“Sounds like a flimsy sort of peace,” Deryn muttered, watching the streets below. The people were 

dressed in a dozen different ways—in tasseled fezzes, desert robes, women under veils, and men wearing 

jackets like any in London. Everyone seemed to be getting along, though, at least under the impassive 

stares of the iron golems. 

“What’s that?” Newkirk asked, and pointed ahead. 

A quarter mile in front of the elephant, the street seemed to be churning, a mass of crimson trickling 

through the crowd—moving closer. 

Eddie Malone licked his pen. “That would be your welcoming committee.” 

Deryn stepped to the front of the howdah and shielded her eyes against the sun. She made out a group 

of men wearing red fezzes, their fists waving in the air. Behind her the diplomat’s French prattle faded 

suddenly away. 

“Oh, dear,” Ambassador Mallet said. “Those chaps again.” 

Deryn turned to the howdah pilot. “Who are they?” 

“A bunch called the Young Turks, sir, I think,” the man said. “This town is full of secret societies and 

revolutionaries. Can hardly keep track of them all, myself.” 

There was a burst of light as Eddie Malone took a photograph. 

The ambassador began to clean his eyeglasses. “The Young Turks tried to depose the sultan six years 

ago, but the Germans put them down. Now they hate all foreigners. I suppose this was to be expected. 

From what my sources tell me, the newspapers have been riling them up about theOsman .” 

“Yoursources tell you?” Dr. Barlow asked. 

“Well, I don’t speak Turkish, of course, and none of my staff does either. But I have excellent sources, I 

assure you.” 

The lady boffin raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me, Ambassador, that none of you can read the 

local newspapers?” 

The ambassador cleared his throat, and his assistants stared off into space. 

“Not much point,” Eddie Malone said, feeding the firefly in his camera’s flashbulb a sugar cube. “From 

what I’ve heard, the Germans own half of them anyway.” 

Dr. Barlow stared at the ambassador with fresh alarm. 

“The Germans only ownone of the newspapers,” he protested, still cleaning his glasses. “Though it 

seems quite influential. Very clever of them, spreading their lies here in Constantinople.” 

Page 24


“It’s calledIstanbul ,” Dr. Barlow said quietly, her fingers clenched around her riding crop. 

Deryn shook her head and turned back toward the crowd. 

The men were surging closer, chanting, their fists pumping in unison. They rushed through the bustle of 

people and carts, their fezzes like crimson water flowing past pebbles in a stream. They soon surrounded 

the walker, yelling up at the pilots on their saddles, waving newspapers. Deryn squinted—every front 

page showed a picture of a ship under a huge headline. 

The crowd was chanting “Osman!Osman !” But there was another word in all the 

hubbub—“behemoth”—that Deryn didn’t recognize at all. 

“Well,” Dr. Barlow said, “thisis a discouraging start.” 

The ambassador drew himself up, patting the railing at the howdah’s edge. “There is no reason to worry, 

madam. We’ve ridden out far worse on theDauntless .” 

Deryn had to admit that they were safe enough up here, fifty feet above the mob. No one was throwing 

anything, or trying to climb the elephant’s huge legs. The howdah pilot was deftly nudging the protesters 

aside with the trunk, so the walker’s progress was hardly slowed. 

But Dr. Barlow wore an icy expression. “It’s not a question of ‘riding it out,’ Ambassador. My objective 

is to keep this country friendly.” 

“Well, talk to Lord Churchill, then!” the man cried. “It’s hardly the Foreign Office’s fault when he goes 

and snatches a …” 

His words faded as a metal groan filled the air, the world tilting beneath them. Deryn’s dress boots 

skidded sideways on the silk carpet, and everyone went stumbling toward the howdah’s starboard side. 

The railing caught Deryn at stomach level, and her body pitched halfway over before she righted herself. 

She stared down—the foreleg pilot below had toppled from his perch, and lay sprawled in a circle of 

protesters. They looked as surprised as the pilot did, and were bending down to offer help. 

Why had the man fallen from his saddle? 

As the machine stumbled to a halt, something flickered in the corner of Deryn’s vision. A lasso flew up 

from the crowd and landed around the shoulders of the rear-leg pilot, then he, too, was yanked from his 

seat. A man in a blue uniform was scrambling up the front leg. 

“We’re being boarded!” Deryn cried, running to the port side of the howdah. TheDauntless was under 

attack there too. The man driving the rear leg had already been yanked from his perch, and the foreleg 

pilot was pulling against a rope around his waist. 

Deryn watched as another man in blue uniform—aBritish uniform—took the place of the rear-leg pilot 

and grasped the controls. 

Suddenly the machine lurched back into motion, taking a massive stride into the crowd. Someone 

screamed as a huge foot bore down to shatter cobblestones into dust, and the protesters in red fezzes 

began to scatter. 

Page 25


“Do something, Mr. Sharp,” cried Dr. Barlow above the din. “We appear to have been captured!” 

“Aye, ma’am, I noticed!” Deryn reached for her rigging knife, but of course her full-dress uniform had 

no pockets to speak of. She’d have to use bare fists. 

“How do I get down to the saddles?” she asked the howdah pilot. 

“You can’t from here, sir,” he said, his knuckles white on the trunk’s controls. He was pushing people to 

safety as the machine stumbled through the panicking crowd. “The leg pilots climb on from the ground, 

while the elephant’s kneeling.” 

“Blisters! Do you have any rope aboard?” 

“Afraid not, sir,” the man said. “This isn’t a sailing ship.” 

Deryn groaned in frustration—how could any ship not haverope ? The machine stumbled again, and she 

grabbed the railing to keep her footing. 

Making her way around the edge of the howdah, Deryn saw that three of the pilots had been replaced 

by impostors in blue uniforms. Only the foreleg pilot on the port side remained in his seat. But the rope 

was still around him, stretching down into the crowd. He’d be pulled off soon enough. 

In the meantime three of the walker’s legs were scraping and stamping, trying to get the contraption 

moving again. As she watched, the huge right forefoot stamped down on a vendor’s cart, scattering 

peeled chestnuts like hailstones across the street. 

“Barking stupid machines!” Deryn muttered. A real beastie would know who its proper masters were. 

Suddenly the trunk swung to the port side. It reached among the protesters and found the man trying to 

drag the foreleg pilot off his seat. The man shrieked, letting go of the rope as he was flicked aside. 

“Good work!” Deryn said to the howdah pilot. “Can you yank the impostors off?” 

The man shook his head. “Can’t reach the rear saddles at all. But maybe …” 

He twisted at the controls, and the trunk whipped about to the starboard side. It curled back, reaching 

for the pilot on the foreleg, but stopped a yard short, metal segments grinding. 

“It’s no use, sir,” the man said. “She’s not as flexible as a real beastie.” 

However inflexible, the machine was barking powerful. It was lurching down the street now, scattering 

people and vehicles in all directions. One of its huge feet stamped down on a wagon and smashed it into 

splinters. The remaining British pilot struggled to bring the machine to a halt, but there was only so much 

that one leg could do against three. 

“Can you grab something to use as a weapon?” Deryn asked the howdah pilot. “You only need another 

Page 26


few feet of length!” 

“This is a Clanker contraption, sir! It’s hardly as nimble as that.” 

“Blisters,” Deryn swore. “Then I suppose it’ll have to be me!” 

The man took his eyes from the controls for a second. “Pardon me, sir?” 

“Bend that trunk up this way. And make it fast, man!” she ordered, pulling off her fancy jacket. She 

turned to toss it back at Newkirk, then climbed out of the howdah and onto the elephant’s head. 

“What in blazes are you doing?” Newkirk cried. 

“Something barking daft!” she called as the tip of the metal-jointed trunk reared up before her. She 

readied herself on the rocking surface of the elephant’s head. 

And jumped … 

Her arms wrapped around the shining steel. The segments rasped and clanked as the trunk flexed, 

carrying her high above the crowd. Her feet swung out from the centrifugal force, as if she were riding the 

end of a huge whip whistling through the air. 

The blur of passing shapes resolved around her—she was swinging toward the starboard foreleg. The 

impostor pilot stared, wide eyed, as she aimed both feet at him. 

But he ducked at the last second, her dress boots whistling over his head. As she swung past, Deryn’s 

palms skidded on the shiny metal trunk, her grip sliding. 

The man scowled at her and drew a knife. 

There was something about his face—he was paler than most of the protesters in the street. 

“Dummkopf!”she shouted at him. 

“Sie gleichen die!”he yelled back. Clanker-talk! 

Deryn narrowed her eyes—this was no Turk, or Vlach, or Kurd, or whatever else they had here in 

Istanbul. The man was a German, as certain as anything. 

The trouble was, how to getrid of him? She didn’t fancy her dress boots in a fight against that knife. 

She glanced up at the howdah. Dr. Barlow was shouting something at the howdah pilot, and Deryn 

hoped whatever the boffin was cooking up would work quickly. With every lurching step the elephant 

took, her grip on the polished steel loosened a squick. 

The trunk began to flex again, swinging Deryn low over the street, a blur of paving stones passing below. 

She wondered what sort of boffin-inspired strategy she was expected to figure out while hurtling through 

the air. 

Then the trunk came to a shuddering halt, the pilot keeping her steady as the machine lurched along. 

Deryn glanced down. She was hanging just above a table piled with spices. 

Page 27


“What in blazes?” she muttered. Did Dr. Barlow expect her to tempt the German off his perch with a 

home-cooked meal? 

But after a moment of hanging there, a tickle started in the back of Deryn’s throat, and her eyes began to 

burn. Even an arm’s length away, the spices were fiery enough to notice. 

“Not bad, Dr. Barlow,” she muttered, then sneezed. 

Deryn reached down, snatching up the reddest and meanest-looking bag of spices. 

The trunk swung back into action, whipping her back toward the German driving the starboard foreleg. 

She could see the cold look on the man’s face as she zoomed toward him, the knife flashing in his hand. 

“Try this for dinner, bum-rag!” she shouted, and flung the entire bag straight at him. 

The momentum of the speeding trunk redoubled the force of her throw, and the sack hit the German like 

a cannonball. It exploded against his chest, enveloping him in a dark red cloud. Spice billowed in all 

directions, swirling back at Deryn. 

Red-hot fingers clamped shut her eyes. She gasped for breath, and liquid fire spilled down her lungs. 

Her chest felt stuffed full of embers of coal, and her grip was slipping.… 

But she landed softly—the howdah pilot had set her down. She lay there coughing and sputtering, her 

body trying to expel the spices from her lungs. 

Finally Deryn forced open her burning eyes. 

The metal elephant stood motionless. Both its front legs were bent, as if the huge machine were bowing 

down to her. The back legs alone had not been enough to keep it moving. 

Deryn saw flashes of blue slipping through the crowd, the two other impostors running away. But the 

German she’d blasted with spice lay in a pile of red dust, still coughing and sputtering. 

As she rose to her feet, Deryn looked down at herself. 

“Barking spiders!” she cried, then sneezed. Her uniform was ruined. 

But the loss of one middy’s dress slops was nothing compared to the trail of destruction that stretched 

down the street—overturned carts and wagons, a donkey-shaped walker squashed as flat as a metal 

bug. The gathering crowd was quiet, still in shock at what the rampaging elephant had done. 

A gangway descended from the walker’s belly. Two of the ambassador’s assistants grabbed the 

spice-addled German, while Newkirk and Eddie Malone ran through the crowd to her. 

“Are you all right, Mr. Sharp?” Newkirk cried. 

“I think so,” Deryn said as Malone’s camera flashed with apop , blinding her again. 

“Then, we’d better get back aboard,” Newkirk said. “These chaps could get unruly again.” 

Page 28


“But someone might be hurt.” Deryn blinked away spots, looking down the street. Were there bodies 

anywhere among the splintered wood and broken windows? 

“Aye, that’s why we’re in a hurry. We need to find our pilots and get moving again, before things get 

ugly!” 

“Things already look ugly to me,” Eddie Malone said, feeding a handful of sugar cubes to his firefly. He 

aimed his camera down the devastated street. 

Still blinking away red spice, Deryn followed Newkirk back toward theDauntless . She wondered how 

many people had seen the impostor pilots coming aboard a hundred yards back. Would anyone realize 

that the elephant’s British crew hadn’t caused this disaster? 

Even if the crowd had seen what had happened, the newspapers wouldn’t report it that way. Not the 

ones the Germans owned. 

“You saw, right?” she said to Eddie Malone. “It was impostors driving! Not our men.” 

“Don’t you worry. I saw them,” the reporter said. “And we only print the truth in theNew York World .” 

“Aye, in New York,” Deryn sighed as she climbed the gangway. The crowd was already stirring around 

them as the shock of the rampage faded away. 

The question was, would anyone believe them here in Istanbul? 

Alek waited in the machine room, wondering when the signal would come. 

He loosened another button on his jacket. Dr. Barlow had made the room as hot as an oven tonight. She 

always seemed to add more heaters when Alek watched the eggs, just to annoy him. 

At least he wouldn’t have to suffer much longer. He could already hear the distant rumble of glow plugs 

firing in the starboard pod. Klopp, Hoffman, and Bauer were up there, pretending to work on the engine. 

And being noisy about it, so no one would be surprised to see Alek heading up to help. 

After the disastrous start of Dr. Barlow’s mission today, the escape plan had changed. Alek had 

watched the elephant-shaped walker’s hasty return, carrying no supplies, its side spattered with some 

sort of red dust. Rumors had spread through the ship that the walker had been attacked, an incident in 

which dozens of civilians had been injured. 

Within an hour angry crowds had arrived at the airfield’s gate, threatening to attack theLeviathan . 

Guards were posted at all of the airship’s hatches now, and a ring of Ottoman soldiers surrounded the 

gondola. There would be no sneaking out through the cargo deck tonight. 

From his station up in the engine pod, however, Klopp had reported that no one was guarding the 

mooring tower. It was connected to the airbeast’s head by a single cable that hung eighty meters in the 

air. If the five of them could climb across and down, perhaps they could escape across the darkened 

airfield. 

Page 29


Alek listened to the engine misfiring, waiting for the signal. Now that the captain considered him a 

prisoner of war, he was happy to leave the airship behind. He’d been a fool to let himself grow so 

attached. Volger was right—pretending that this flying abomination was his home had lead only to misery. 

Dylan might have been a good friend in some other world, but not this one. 

There it was—five sharp coughs from the glow plugs. The signal meant that Bauer and Hoffman had 

subdued the Darwinist crewmen in the pod. Volger would be headed up from his stateroom. 

They were really leaving. Tonight. 

Alek adjusted the eggs one last time. He picked up a fresh heater and shook it to life, then tucked it into 

the hay. As hot as the machine room was, Dr. Barlow’s mysterious cargo would most likely be fine until 

dawn. In any case, it wasn’t his concern anymore. 

Alek noticed an old smear of grease on the egg box and rubbed a finger across it. Then he drew a stripe 

across his cheeks, as if he’d been working up in the engine pod. If anyone saw him, they would assume 

that Dylan was down here with the eggs and that Alek was fetching parts for the engineers. 

He stood and hefted his toolbox. It was stuffed with spare clothes and the wireless set from the 

Stormwalker. The set was heavy, but once he and his men were hidden in the wilds, radio might be their 

only means of contact with the outside world. 

Alek sighed. Here aboard theLeviathan he’d almost forgotten how lonely it was to run and hide. 

The door opened with a soft squeak, and he stared out into the hall, listening to the murmurs of the ship. 

A small tapping noise reached his ears. Was someone headed this way? 

He swore softly. It was probably Dylan, coming to talk one last time. Seeing the boy again would only 

make this harder, and Alek needed to start toward the engine pod. 

But the noise was coming frombehind him.… 

He turned around—one of the eggs was moving. 

In the rosy light of the heaters, he could see a tiny hole forming at the top of the egg. Little chips were 

breaking free and sliding down the smooth white surface. Fleck by fleck the hole grew larger. 

Alek stood there, his hand on the doorknob. He should be heading up, leaving these godless creatures 

behind. But he’d spent seven long nights watching the eggs and wondering what would emerge from 

them. In another few moments he would finally see. 

Alek pulled the door softly closed. 

The odd thing was, it was the middle egg hatching—the one Dr. Barlow had said was sick. 

Something was poking its way out of the hole now. It looked like a claw—or was it apaw ? There was 

pale fur on it, not feathers. 

A small black nose poked its way out, sniffing the air. 

Page 30


Alek wondered if the creature was dangerous. Of course, it was only a baby, and he had a rigging knife 

sheathed on his belt. But Alek stayed close to the door, just in case. 

The beast emerged slowly, reaching out to grip the edge of the box with tiny four-fingered hands. Its fur 

was damp, and its huge eyes blinked in the glow of the heaters. It looked about attentively, twitching as it 

pulled itself farther from the broken egg. 

God’s wounds, but the thing washomely . Its skin seemed too large for its body, drooping like an old 

man’s. It reminded Alek of his aunt’s hairless cat, bred for its bizarre looks. 

The beast stared at him and made a soft, plaintive noise. 

“You must be hungry,” Alek said softly. But he hadn’t the first idea what it ate. 

At least it was clear enough that the creaturedidn’t eat humans. It was far too small for that, and too … 

appealing, even with its strange excess of skin. Somehow the large eyes seemed wise and sad. Alek 

found himself wanting to pick the animal up and comfort it. 

The creature extended a tiny hand. 

Alek put down the tool kit and took a step closer. When he reached out a hand, the animal touched his 

fingertips, squeezing them one by one. Then it leaned forward, letting itself slide from the edge of the egg 

box. 

Alek caught it just in time. Even in the sweltering machine room, the creature’s body felt warm, its short 

fur as soft as the chinchilla coat his mother had always worn in winter. When Alek held it closer, the 

beast made a cooing noise. 

The huge eyes blinked slowly, staring straight into his. Thin arms wrapped around Alek’s wrist. 

It was strange, how the creature didn’t give him the same uneasy feeling as other Darwinist creations. It 

was too small and sleepy-looking, and gave off an air of preternatural calm. 

The engine sputtered again, and Alek realized that he was behind schedule. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but I have to go.” 

He placed the creature back in the box amid the warm glow of the heaters. But as his hands pulled 

away, the animal made a high-pitched mewling noise. 

“Shush,” Alek breathed softly. “Someone will be along soon.” 

He wondered if that were true. Dylan would be here at dawn, but that was hours away. 

He took a step backward, kneeling to pick up the tool kit. The creature’s eyes grew wider, and it let out 

another cry that ended in a high, sweeping note, as pure as a flute. 

Alek frowned—that last sound was oddly like the whistles the crew used to command their beasts. And 

it was loud enough to wake someone up. 

Page 31


He reached out again, shushing the creature. The instant his hand touched it, the animal went silent. 

Alek knelt there for a moment, stroking the soft fur. Finally the large eyes closed and Alek dared to pull 

away. 

The beast instantly sprang awake and began to mewl again. Alek swore. This was absurd, being held 

hostage by this newborn. He turned away and crossed the room. 

But as the door opened, the screams shifted into a burst of whistling noises. The glowworms in the 

machine room reacted, green light spilling from the walls. Alek imagined the whole airship waking up, 

message lizards scampering from all directions in response to the creature’s cries. 

“Quiet!” he whispered, but the beast didn’t stop until he went back and picked it up again. 

As Alek stood there stroking its pale fur, he came to a horrible realization. 

To have any hope of escaping, he had to take the newborn animal with him. He could hardly leave it 

sitting here, bawling its tiny misshapen head off for the whole ship to hear. 

He had no idea what to feed the creature or how to take care of it, or even what itwas . And what 

would Count Volger say when he showed up with this abomination in his arms? 

But Alek didn’t have much choice. 

When he lifted the animal up from the hay, it scampered up his arm and clung to his shoulder like a cat, 

the tiny claws stuck fast in the wool of his mechanik’s suit. 

It looked at him expectantly. 

“We’re going for a walk now,” he said softly, hefting the tool kit again. “You’re going to stay quiet, 

right?” 

The creature blinked at him, a look of smug satisfaction on its face. 

Alek sighed, and went to the door. He opened it again, looking up and down the corridor. No one was 

coming to investigate the strange noises—not yet, anyway. 

He loosened his jacket, ready to shove the creature inside if he encountered anyone. But for the moment 

the animal seemed happy on his shoulder—and quiet. It felt as light as a bird there, as if designed to 

travel this way. 

Designed,Alek thought. This animal was fabricated, not born of nature. It had some purpose in the 

Darwinists’ plans, a role in Dr. Barlow’s schemes to keep the Ottomans out of the war. 

And he had no idea what that purpose was. 

Alek shuddered once, then strode into the darkened hall. 

Page 32


“There you are!” Count Volger called softly from the support strut of the engine pod. “We’d almost given 

up on you.” 

Alek made his way along the ratlines, feeling the creature move inside his jacket. It was flexing its claws 

again, like tiny needles piercing his flesh. 

“I had a small … problem.” 

“Did someone see you?” 

Alek shrugged. “A few crewmen on the way. But they didn’t ask where I was headed. You play a very 

convincing broken engine, Maestro Klopp.” 

From down in the pod the master of mechaniks saluted, a broad smile on his face. Beside him was a 

very angry-looking Mr. Hirst, gagged and bound fast to the control panel. 

“Then it’s time to get moving,” Volger said. “I trust you’re all ready for a fight, if it comes to that.” 

Bauer and Hoffman brandished tools in their hands, and Volger was wearing his saber. But Alek could 

hardly wield a knife with the creature hiding under his coat. The time to tell them was now, not in the 

middle of the escape. 

“There’s still my small problem.” 

Volger frowned. “What are you talking about? What happened?” 

“Just as I was leaving, one of Dr. Barlow’s eggs hatched. Some sort of beast came out. Quite a loud 

one. When I tried to leave, it began to howl, like a newborn baby crying, I suppose. I thought it would 

wake the whole ship up!” 

Volger nodded. “So you had to strangle it. Most unpleasant, I’m sure. But they won’t find its body till 

morning, and by then we’ll be long gone.” 

Alek blinked. 

“You did get rid of it, didn’t you, Alek?” 

“In fact, that strategy didn’t cross my mind.” Inside his jacket the creature moved, and Alek winced. 

Volger put a hand on his sword hilt and hissed, “What in blazes is under your coat?” 

“I assure you, I have no idea.” Alek cleared his throat. “But it’s perfectly well behaved, as long as one 

doesn’t try to abandon it.” 

“You brought it with you?” Volger leaned closer. “In case it has escaped your notice, Your Highness, 

we are currently trying to escape the Darwinists. If you have one of their abominations with you, kindly 

fling it over the side !” 

Alek tightened his grip on the ratlines. “I certainly will not, Count. For one thing, the beast would make 

Page 33


considerable noise on the way down.” 

Volger groaned softly, his fists unclenching. “Very well, then. I suppose if it comes to a fight, we could 

use it as a hostage.” 

Alek nodded, unbuttoning his jacket. The creature poked its head out. 

Volger turned away with a shudder. “Just keep it quiet, or I shall silence it myself. After you, Your 

Highness.” 

Alek began to make his way toward the bow, the others following in silence. They climbed along the 

ratlines just above the airship’s waist, the ropes sagging under the weight of the five men and their heavy 

bags. It was slow going, and poor old Klopp wore a look of terror on his face, but at least no one on the 

spine could see them. 

When the newborn beast began to squirm, Alek opened his jacket the rest of the way. It crawled out 

and climbed onto his shoulder, its huge eyes narrowing in the breeze. 

“Just be careful,” he whispered. “And stay quiet.” 

The creature turned to him with a bored expression, as if Alek were saying something terribly obvious. 

Soon the awful flechette bats were everywhere. 

The bow of the airship was covered with them, a seething mass of small black shapes all softly clucking. 

Dylan had once explained to Alek that the clicks made echoes, which the creatures used to “see” in the 

dark. They had eyes as well—a thousand beady pairs were following Alek expectantly. No matter how 

carefully he moved, the bats fluttered about him. It was like trying to sneak through a flock of pigeons on 

a footpath. 

“Why are they watching us so keenly?” Klopp whispered. 

“They think we’re here to feed them,” Alek said. “Dylan always feeds the bats at night.” 

“You mean they’rehungry ?” Klopp asked, his face shiny with sweat in the moonlight. 

“Not to worry. They eat figs,” Alek said, leaving out the part about metal spikes. 

“I’m glad to hear—,” Klopp began, but suddenly a bat fluttered up in front of him. As it shot past his 

face, his boots slipped from the ratlines. 

Klopp jerked to a halt a moment later, his hands white-knuckled on the ropes, but his large body swung 

into the side of the airship’s membrane, sending it billowing out in all directions. Around them bats 

launched into the air, their clicking noises changing into shrieks and calls. 

Alek grabbed for Klopp’s wrist as the man struggled to get his feet back on the ropes. A moment later 

he was safe, but the disturbance was spreading, bats fluttering outward like ripples in a dark pond. 

We’re done for now,Alek thought. 

The creature on his shoulder perked up, its claws sinking painfully into Alek’s shoulder. A soft clucking 

Page 34


noise came from its mouth—the sound the bats had been making a moment before. 

“Keep that beast—,” Volger hissed, but Alek waved him silent. 

All around them the bats were growing quieter. The screeches faded out, the carpet of black shapes 

settling back onto the airship’s skin. 

The creature went silent and turned its big-eyed gaze upon Alek again. 

He stared back at it. Had the thing, whatever it was, just silenced the flechette bats? 

Perhaps … by accident. It was some kind of mimic, like the message lizards. And yet the creature had 

required no training, no mothering at all. Perhaps that was the way with all newborn Darwinist beasts. 

“Keep moving,” Volger whispered, and Alek did. 

The mooring tower stretched into the air before them, but Alek found himself staring downward. In the 

foggy darkness the ground seemed to be a thousand kilometers below. 

“Does that rope look strong enough?” he asked Hoffman. 

The man knelt to feel the slender cable that stretched across to the tower, perhaps thirty meters away. It 

seemed too thin to hold a man’s weight, though the Darwinist’s fabricated materials were always stronger 

than they looked. 

“From what I’ve seen, sir, the heavy cables are all attached to the gondola below. But this must be here 

for some reason. Pretty useless, if it can’t hold a man’s weight.” 

“I suppose,” Alek said. He could think of other creatures that could use the cable. It might be for 

message lizards to dart across, or for strafing hawks to roost on. 

Hoffman shrugged a loop of rope from his shoulder. “This line will hold any two of us, along with our 

gear. We should send someone over carrying one end of it.” 

“I’ll go,” Alek said. 

“Not with your injury, young master,” Klopp said. 

“I’m the lightest of us.” Alek held out his hand. “Give me the rope.” 

Klopp looked at Volger, who nodded and said, “Tie that around his waist, so he doesn’t kill himself.” 

Alek raised an eyebrow, a little surprised that Volger was letting him go first. 

The wildcount read his expression and smiled. “If that cable breaks, we’llall be stuck here, so it hardly 

matters who goes first. And you are the lightest, after all.” 

“So my foolhardiness has produced the correct strategy, Count?” 

“Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.” 

Page 35


Alek didn’t answer, but the creature bristled on his shoulder, as if sensing his annoyance. 

Klopp let out a chuckle as he knelt and tied the heavier rope around Alek’s waist. Soon it was secure, 

the other end gripped by Bauer, Hoffman, and Klopp in a tug-of-war line. 

“Quickly now,” Volger said. 

Alek nodded and turned away, walking down the slope of the airbeast’s head. The others let the rope 

out slowly, a gentle pull at his waist. It reminded Alek of when he was ten and his father would let him 

lean out from castle parapets, keeping a firm hand on his belt. Of course, back then he’d felt much safer. 

The slender cable stretched out ahead, disappearing among the dark struts of the mooring tower. Alek 

grasped the cable in both hands. 

“I hope you’re not afraid of heights, beastie.” 

The newborn creature just looked at him and blinked. 

“Right, then,” Alek said, and stepped off into the void. He dangled for a moment from his hands, then 

swung his legs up to wrap them around the cable. Though its claws sank deep into his shoulder, the 

beastie didn’t make a sound. 

There was one good thing about hanging faceup like this—Alek couldn’t see the dark ground below, 

only his own hands clenching the rope and the stars above. He pulled himself away from the airship hand 

over hand, the cable cutting into the backs of his knees as he inched along. 

Halfway across, Alek was breathing hard. His injured rib had begun to throb, and his hands were losing 

feeling. The night air turned the sweat on his forehead cold. As he inched away from the airship, the rope 

hanging from his waist grew longer and heavier. 

He imagined the cable snapping, or his fingers slipping. He would fall for an awful moment, but the rope 

around his waist would swing him back toward the airship, smashing him into its nose—maybe hard 

enough for the whale itself to awaken and protest.… 

The mooring tower grew closer, but the cable in his aching hands sloped gently upward now, and was 

harder than ever to climb. The creature began to moan softly, mimicking the wind in the struts of the 

tower. 

Alek gritted his teeth and pulled himself the last few meters, ignoring his burning muscles. For once he 

was thankful for the years of Volger’s cruel fencing lessons. 

Finally a metal strut came within reach, and Alek wrapped an arm around it. He hung there for a 

moment, panting, then hauled himself up onto the cold steel of the tower. 

With shaking fingers he untied the thick rope from around his waist and knotted it to the strut. Now that 

it stretched all the way back to the airship’s head, the rope seemed to weigh a ton. How had he carried it 

so far? 

Alek lay on his back and watched as the others prepared to cross, dividing up the satchels of tools and 

weapons. It was odd to see theLeviathan from this head-on perspective. It made Alek feel insignificant, 

like some minuscule creature about to be swallowed by a whale. 

Page 36


But the darkness beyond the airship was vaster still. It was dotted with the fires of the protesters at the 

airfield gate, and past those, the lights of the city. 

“Constantinople,” he said softly. 

“Mmm, Constantinople,” the creature said. 

Climbing down the tower was simple. A set of metal stairs spiraled through its center, and the five of 

them descended quickly. 

Or was itsix of them now? Suddenly Alek could feel the weight of the fabricated beast riding on his 

shoulder. The single word it had spoken made the animal heavier somehow, as if its uncanniness were 

something solid. 

Alek hadn’t told the others, of course. Volger was terrified enough of message lizards. Why provide him 

with another excuse to get rid of the newborn creature? 

At least it seemed to know when to stay quiet. Since speaking that one word, it hadn’t uttered another 

sound. 

As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Alek found himself level with the airship’s bridge. Light from 

worm-lamps shone through the windows, silhouetting two officers on duty inside. But the faint green glow 

didn’t reach the shadows within the tower. 

TheLeviathan ’s guards stood at attention in the airship’s hatches. Ground men in red fezzes faced 

them, the two groups watching each other warily. The rest of the Ottomans were at the airfield gates, 

keeping an eye on the protesters. 

No one was guarding the base of the mooring tower. 

The moon was climbing, a fat crescent in the sky, and the tower cast a long shadow pointing west, away 

from the city and the crowds. Volger lead the others along that slender finger of darkness, heading for an 

empty stretch of fence at the airfield’s edge. 

Alek wondered what would happen if they were spotted now. TheLeviathan ’s crew had no authority 

here on Ottoman soil. But he doubted that the Darwinists would let their only engineers slip away without 

a fight. For that matter, the Ottomans mightn’t take kindly to foreigners trespassing on their airfield. 

All in all, it seemed better to remain unseen. 

Suddenly the newborn creature stood up on its hind legs, its ears twisting back toward the ship. Alek 

came to a halt and listened. The distant shriek of a command whistle reached his ears. 

“Volger, I think they’ve—” 

A hydrogen sniffer’s howl pierced the night. The sound came from near the engine pod—someone had 

Page 37


found the bound and gagged Mr. Hirst. 

“Keep moving,” Volger whispered. “We’re half a kilometer from the fence. They’ll search the ship 

before they think to look out here.” 

Alek broke into a run, shuddering to think what beasts the Darwinists would send after them. The 

six-legged sniffer dogs? The awful flechette bats? Or were there even worse creatures aboard the ship? 

The alarm spread along the long, dark silhouette behind them, the gondola lights flickering from soft 

green to brilliant white. On Alek’s shoulder the creature softly imitated the sounds of the alert, the barks 

and cries of the hounds, the shouts and whistles of command. 

“I’m not sure that’s helpful,” he muttered to it. 

“Helpful,” the creature repeated softly. 

A minute later a blinding searchlight lanced out from the ship’s spine. At first it pointed at the airfield 

gate, but slowly it began to turn, like a lighthouse on a dark ocean. 

So much for the Darwinists letting them slip away. 

“You four go ahead,” Klopp said, his face bright red. “I can’t keep running like this!” 

Alek slowed his pace, taking the man’s heavy tool kit from him. “Nonsense, Klopp. Spreading out just 

makes it easier for them to spot us.” 

“He’s right,” Volger said. “Stick close together.” 

Alek glanced over his shoulder. The light was swinging toward them, rippling across the grass like a 

luminous wave. 

“Get down!” he whispered, and the five of them dropped flat to the ground. 

The blinding light flashed past, but didn’t stop on them—it had been aimed too high. The spotlight crew 

were searching the airfield from the outside in, checking the boundaries first. But Alek doubted Klopp 

could make it to the fence before the light swung round again. 

The newborn creature’s claws tightened on his shoulder, and it made a new noise in his ear … a sound 

like fluttering wings. 

Alek glanced back at the ship, his eyes widening. A dark cloud was boiling up from beneath the 

gondola, thousands of black forms spilling into the air. The tempest of wings climbed through the 

searchlight’s beam, glittering with the flash of steel talons. 

“Strafing hawks,” Alek breathed. Back on the glacier, he’d seen the hawks in action against German 

soldiers. And just yesterday he’d seen a crewman sharpening the steel talons they wore, like a razor on a 

leather strap. 

The birds spread out from the ship, and soon the air above was full of fluttering shapes. 

Alek looked ahead—the fence was only a hundred meters away. 

Page 38


But a moment later the hawks had begun to circle, a whirlwind of wings and glinting steel forming 

overhead. Alek stooped his shoulders, waiting for an attack. 

“Just keep running!” Volger cried. “We’re no good to them dead.” 

Alek ran, hoping the man was right. 

As the spinning mass grew larger and larger, the spotlight altered course, heading toward the towering 

whirlwind of birds. It arrived in seconds, pinning Alek like the stare of a great, blinding eye. 

The howl of hydrogen sniffers reached Alek’s ears again, closer than before. The beast on his shoulder 

imitated the sound. 

“They’re coming on foot,” Alek said. 

“Go on, Bauer,” Volger shouted. “You’ve got the cutters!” 

Alek followed as the man spurted ahead. The airfield’s edge wasn’t far now; the spotlight streaming past 

them glinted on the coils of barbed wire. 

When Bauer and Alek reached the fence, Bauer pulled out the bolt cutters and set to work. He snipped 

at the mesh of wire, slowly opening a way through. But the cries of the beasts behind them were growing 

louder every second. 

Bauer was halfway done when the others caught up. 

“The forest is heavy this way,” Volger said, pointing at the blackness past the fence. “Run due west until 

you drop, then find a place to hide.” 

“What about you?” Alek asked. 

“Hoffman and I will hold the breach for as long as we can.” 

“Hold the breach?” Alek said. “With wrenches and a fencing saber? You can’t fight off those beasts!” 

“No, but we can slow them down. And once the Darwinists realize they have an engineer and a 

translator in hand, they may decide it’s not worth chasing the rest of you. Especially across Ottoman 

territory.” 

“We’ve thought this out, young master,” Klopp said, panting. “It’s all in the plan!” 

“Whatplan?” Alek cried, but no one answered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“My apologies, Your Highness.” Volger drew his sword. “But you’ve been a bit loose with our secrets 

lately.” 

“God’s wounds, Volger! Are you playing the martyr?” 

“If they weren’t right behind us, I’d be going with you. But someone has to hold them here. And 

between the two of us, Hoffman and I offer them a chance to keep their ship flying, as long as they don’t 

Page 39


treat us too roughly.” 

“But I can’t …” Alek swallowed. 

“It’s done, sir,” Bauer said. 

“Go, then,” Volger said, handing his bag to Klopp, who scrambled through the breach. The shadows of 

hydrogen sniffers and men loomed, made huge by the searchlight. 

“But, Volger.” Alek clenched his fists. “I can’t do this without you! Not any of it!” 

“I’m afraid you must.” Volger saluted with his saber. “Good-bye, Alek. Make your father proud.” 

But my father is dead … and you’re not. 

“Come, sir.” Bauer grabbed his arm. Alek tried to pull away, but the man was bigger and stronger. Alek 

found himself dragged through the opening in the fence, his jacket nipped at by the wire’s barbs, the 

creature on his shoulder ducking low and howling like a hydrogen sniffer on the hunt. 

A moment later they were among dark trees, Klopp’s panting ahead of them. Corporal Bauer still pulled 

him along, apologizing under his breath. The forest soon smothered the battle’s sounds, the searchlight 

barely glimmering through the leaves. The sniffers’ howls were muted, the strafing hawks forced higher by 

heavy branches. 

The three of them thrashed deeper into the trees, until everything was swallowed up by blackness. All 

Alek could see were spots burned into his vision by the searchlight. Behind them the sounds faded 

abruptly. 

Volger would be negotiating now, offering Hoffman and himself in exchange for the others’ freedom. The 

Darwinists would have little choice. If they fought their way through the fence, they’d risk killing their last 

engineer and translator. 

Alek found himself slowing. Count Volger’s plan had worked to perfection. 

Bauer tightened his grip. “Please, sir. We can’t go back.” 

“Of course not.” Alek shook himself free and came to a halt. “But there’s no need to rush, unless we 

want to give poor old Klopp a heart attack.” 

Klopp didn’t argue. He stood, stooped and panting, his hands on his knees. Alek looked back the way 

they’d come, listening for sounds of pursuit—nothing. Not even a bird in the sky. 

He was finally free, but he’d never felt more alone. 

Prince Aleksandar knew what his father would have said. It was time for him to take command. 

“Did we drop anything?” 

Bauer quickly counted the bags. “The wireless set, the tools, the gold bar—we’ve got it all, sir.” 

Page 40


“The gold …,” Alek said, wondering how much the last of his father’s fortune had slowed them down. 

He would’ve traded all of it for the extra minutes that Volger’s sacrifice had bought them. 

But this was no time for self-pity, or for wishing that things were different. 

“And there’s this,” Klopp added, pulling a leather scroll case from his jacket. It was marked with the 

crossed keys of the papal seal. “He said you should carry it from now on.” 

Alek stared at the object. It was a letter from the pope stating that Alek was heir to his father’s titles and 

estates, despite the wishes of his granduncle, the emperor. One could argue that it made Alek the heir to 

the throne of Austria-Hungary as well. It was why the Germans were hunting him—he might one day 

have the power to end this war. 

As Alek’s fingers closed around the case, he realized that he’d always relied on Volger to keep the letter 

safe. But now he had to carry his own destiny. 

He slid the case into a pocket and buttoned it shut. “Very good, Klopp. Shall I take Volger’s bag for 

you?” 

“No, young master,” the man panted. “I’ll be fine.” 

Alek held out his hand. “I’m afraid I must insist. You’re slowing us down.” 

Klopp paused. This was the moment when he would normally have glanced at the wildcount for 

approval, but no longer. He handed the bag over, and Alek grunted as the weight hit him. 

Volger, of course, had been carrying the gold. 

The creature mimicked the grunt, and Alek sighed. Less than an hour old, and already it was becoming 

tiresome. 

“I hope you learn some new tricks soon,” he muttered, to which the creature blinked its eyes. 

Bauer hoisted the other two bags. “Which way, sir?” 

“You mean Count Volger didn’t provide you with any more secret plans?” 

Bauer looked at Klopp, who shrugged. 

Alek took a slow breath. It was all up to him now. 

To the west lay Europe, descending into madness and war. To the east was the Ottoman Empire, 

stretching, vast and alien, into the heart of Asia. And spanning the two continents was the ancient city of 

Constantinople. 

“We stay in the capital, for now. We’ll need to buy clothes … and perhaps horses.” Alek paused, 

realizing that with the gold bar they could buy their own walker if they wanted. The possibilities were 

endless. “At least in the city some of the storekeepers will understand German.” 

“Very sensible,” Klopp said. “But wheretonight , young master?” 

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Bauer nodded, staring back the way they’d come. The woods were silent, but the searchlight still 

glimmered on the horizon. 

“We head west for an hour,” Alek said. “Then circle back toward the city. Perhaps we’ll find a friendly 

inn.” 

“An inn, sir? But won’t the Ottomans be looking for us?” Bauer asked. 

Alek thought for a moment, then shook his head. “They won’t know who to look for, unless the 

Darwinists tell them. And I don’t think they will.” 

Klopp frowned. “Why not?” 

“Don’t you see, the Darwinists don’twant us to be caught.” As Alek spoke the words, his own thoughts 

became clearer. “We know too much about theLeviathan —how its engines work, the nature of its 

mission. It won’t help them to have us in Ottoman hands.” 

Klopp nodded slowly. “They could say it was only Volger and Hoffman who tried to escape, and 

they’ve caught them. So there’s no one else to look for!” 

“Exactly,” Alek said. “And as a warship, theLeviathan has to leave neutral territory by tomorrow. Once 

they’re gone, no one will know we’re here.” 

“What about the Germans, sir?” Bauer said quietly. “They saw the Stormwalker in the Alps, with its 

Hapsburg crest, and saw theLeviathan mounted with our engines. They must know we were aboard, 

and they’ll guess who was trying to escape tonight, even if the Ottomans don’t.” 

Alek swore. German agents were everywhere in Constantinople, and tonight’s ruckus hadn’t been 

subtle. 

“You’re right, Bauer. But I doubt there are any Germans in these woods. I still say we sleep in an inn 

tonight—a quiet, comfortable one that will take gold shavings in payment. Tomorrow we’ll disguise 

ourselves properly.” 

He walked into the darkness, setting his course by the last glimmer of searchlights behind them. The 

other two hoisted their bags and followed. No arguments, no debate. 

As simple as that, Alek was in command. 

Deryn carried the tray carefully, barely trusting herself to walk straight. 

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The Clankers’ escape had kept her awake all night—scrambling to the rookery to release the strafing 

hawks, being dragged about by a pack of excited sniffers, then two hours with the officers as they 

explained it all to the Ottoman authorities, who thought it a squick rude for theLeviathan ’s crew to be 

gallivanting across their airfield without permission. 

When Deryn had finally found a moment to check the machine room, Dr. Barlow was already there. 

One of the eggs had hatched in the night, and the newborn beastie was missing! 

The odd thing was, the lady boffin had hardly seemed upset. She’d ordered Deryn to take a good look 

around the ship, but had only smiled when Deryn had come back empty-handed. 

That was boffins for you. 

By the time Deryn had stumbled to her own cabin, it had been dawn—time to go back on duty. To add 

insult to injury, her first orders had been to deliver breakfast to the man who’d caused the whole palaver. 

A guard stood in front of Count Volger’s stateroom. He looked as tired as Deryn felt, and stared 

hungrily at her tray full of toast, boiled eggs, and tea. 

“Shall I knock for you, sir?” he asked. 

“Aye, feel free to wake his countship up,” Deryn said. “Seeing as how he keptus up all night.” 

The man nodded and gave the door a good piece of his boot. 

Volger opened it a moment later, looking as though he hadn’t been to bed yet either. His hair stuck out 

at all angles, and his riding breeches were still spattered with mud from the airfield. 

He gave the tray a hungry look and stepped aside. Deryn pushed past him and set it down on the desk. 

She noted that Volger’s saber was gone, along with most of his papers. The officers must have 

ransacked the room after the escape. 

“Breakfast for a condemned man?” Volger asked, closing the door. 

“I doubt they’ll hang you, sir. Not today, anyhow.” 

The man smiled, pouring himself tea. “You Darwinists are so forgiving.” 

Deryn rolled her eyes at that. Volger knew he was indispensable. The lady boffin might speak Clanker, 

but she didn’t know the fiddly words for mechanical parts. And she certainly wasn’t going to spend her 

days up in an engine pod. Volger would be treated well as long as Hoffman was needed to keep the 

engines running. 

“I’d hardly say you’re forgiven,” Deryn said. “There’ll be a guard on your door day and night.” 

“Well, then, Mr. Sharp, I am your prisoner.” Volger pulled out the desk chair and sat down, then 

gestured at an empty cup on the windowsill. “Tea?” 

Deryn raised an eyebrow. His countship was offeringher , a lowly middy, a cup of tea? The floral smell 

rising from the pot had already set her mouth watering. Between the ruckus last night and resupplying the 

ship before they left today, it might be hours before she sat down to her own breakfast. 

Page 43


Better a quick cup of tea and milk than nothing. 

“Thank you, sir. I believe I will.” Deryn picked up the cup. It was fine porcelain, as light as a 

hummingbird, with Alek’s mechanical eagle crest inlaid in gold. “Did you bring this fancy china all the way 

from Austria?” 

“One advantage to traveling in a Stormwalker, there’s plenty of room for luggage.” Volger sighed. 

“Though I’m afraid you hold our last surviving piece. It is two centuries old. Pray, don’t drop it.” 

Deryn’s eyes widened as the wildcount poured. “I’ll try not to.” 

“Milk?” 

She nodded dumbly and sat down, wondering at the transformation that had come over Count Volger. 

He’d always been a dark presence on the ship, skulking through the corridors and glaring at the beasties. 

But this morning the man seemed almost …pleasant . 

Deryn took a sip of tea, letting its warmth spread through her. 

“You seem in good spirits,” she said. “Considering.” 

“Considering that my escape was foiled?” Volger stared out the window. “Odd, isn’t it? I feel somewhat 

light-hearted this morning, as if all my cares had lifted.” 

Deryn frowned. “You mean because Alek’s got away, and you haven’t?” 

The man stirred his tea. “Yes, I suppose that’s it.” 

“Well, that’s a bit hard, isn’t it?” Deryn said. “Poor Alek’s out there on the run, while you’re sipping tea 

out of a fancy cup, safe and sound.” 

Volger raised his cup, which had theLeviathan ’s silhouette and nautilus spirals stamped on its side in 

black. “That would be you, boy. Mine is quite plain.” 

“To blazes with your barking teacup!” Deryn cried, annoyance rising in her. “You’rehappy that Alek’s 

gone, aren’t you?” 

“Happy that he’s off this ship?” The wildcount salted his boiled eggs and took a bite of one. “That he’s 

no longer destined to spend the war in chains?” 

“Aye, but the poor boy’s all on his own. And here you are having breakfast, smug as a box of cats! I 

think it’s dead rotten of you!” 

Volger paused, a forkful of potatoes now halfway to his mouth. He looked her up and down. 

Deryn swallowed her next words, realizing she’d let exhaustion get the better of her. Her voice had gone 

all high and squeaky, and she was gripping the antique teacup so hard it was a wonder it hadn’t 

shattered. 

During the alert there’d been so much commotion, it had been easy to forget that Alek was out there 

Page 44


running for his life. But sitting here watching Volger salt his eggs with a self-satisfied expression, the 

enormity of it all had finally struck home. 

Alek was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. 

Deryn set the teacup carefully on the desk. Careful to use her boy’s voice, she said, “You seem dead 

pleased with yourself, is all. And I reckon it’s because Alek isn’t your problem anymore.” 

“My problem?” Volger asked. “Isthat what you think he was?” 

“Aye. You’re glad to see the backside of him, just because he had a mind of his own sometimes.” 

Volger’s face fell back into its usual stony expression, as if Deryn were a bug crawling across his 

breakfast. “Listen, boy. You have no idea what I’ve given up for Alek—my title, my future, my family’s 

name. I’ll never see my home again, no matter who wins this war. I’m a traitor in the eyes of my people, 

and all of it to keep Alek safe.” 

Deryn held his stare. “Aye, but you’re not the only one who’s had to go against his own country. I kept 

Alek’s secrets and looked the other way when you lot were planning to escape. So don’t go getting all 

high and mighty onme .” 

Volger glared at her another moment, then let out a tired laugh. He finally took his bite of potatoes, and 

chewed them thoughtfully. 

“You’re as worried about him as I am, aren’t you?” 

“Of course I am,” Deryn said. 

“It’s quite touching, really.” Volger poured more tea for them both. “I’m glad Alek had you as a friend, 

Dylan, even if you are a commoner.” 

Deryn rolled her eyes. Aristocrats were so barking stuck up. 

“But Alek has trained for this moment his whole life,” Volger went on. “His father and I always knew 

that one day he would be alone, with the whole world against him. And Alek has made it amply clear that 

he was ready to go on without me.” 

Deryn shook her head. “But you’ve got it all wrong, Count. Alek didn’t want to go it alone; he wanted 

more allies, not less. He even said he wanted to …” 

She remembered the last time they’d spoken, two nights before. Alek had wished that there were a way 

for him to stay aboard theLeviathan , because the airship felt like the only place he’d ever belonged. 

And she’d been a bum-rag about the whole thing, just because he hadn’t been declaring his undying love 

forher . 

Suddenly her throat was too tight to speak. 

Volger leaned forward and regarded her. “You’re a very sensitive boy, Dylan.” 

Deryn glared back at him. It didn’t mean she was barking “sensitive,” just because she knew when 

thingsmattered . 

Page 45


“I just hope he’s all right,” she said after a good swallow of tea. 

“As do I. Perhaps we can still help Alek, you and I together.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“He has a bigger part to play in this war than you understand, Dylan,” the count said. “His granduncle 

the emperor is a very old man.” 

“Aye, but the throne doesn’t mean anything to Alek, because his mum isn’t royal enough. Right?” 

“Ah, I see he told you everything,” Volger said, giving her an odd smile. “But in politics there are always 

exceptions. When the right time comes, Alek could tip the balance of this war.” 

Deryn frowned. What the count was saying didn’t quite square up with Alek’s story, about how his 

family had always looked down on him and his mother. But back in the Alps, of course, the Germans had 

sent a massive fleet of airships to capture him. They, at least, seemed to think he was important. 

“But what can we do to help him?” 

“At the moment, not much. But one never knows what opportunities might present themselves. The 

problem is that I no longer have a wireless set.” 

Deryn frowned. “You had a wireless? Did the officers know about that?” 

“They didn’t ask.” Count Volger waved a hand at his breakfast. “And I see you haven’t thought to bring 

me the morning newspapers. So if you could keep me apprised of events, I would appreciate it.” 

“What? Spy for you?” Deryn cried. “Not barking likely!” 

“I could make it worth your while.” 

“With what? Cups oftea ?” 

The wildcount smiled. “Perhaps I can do better than that. For example, you must be wondering about a 

certain missing creature.” 

“The beastie that hatched last night? You know where it is?” The man didn’t answer, but Deryn’s mind 

was already spinning. “Then it must have hatchedbefore Alek left the machine room! He’s got it with him, 

hasn’t he?” 

“Perhaps. Or perhaps we strangled it to keep it quiet.” Volger took his last bite of toast and dabbed his 

mouth with a napkin. “Do you think your Dr. Barlow would be interested in the details?” 

Deryn narrowed her eyes. The way the lady boffin was acting, she already had a good idea where the 

newborn creature had gone. Suddenly it all made sense. Deryn would’ve seen it herself if she hadn’t been 

so exhausted. 

Now that she thought about it, quite a few peculiarities surrounding the eggs were beginning to make 

sense. 

Page 46


“Aye,” Deryn said. “She might be interested.” 

“Then, I’ll tell you exactly how your creature fared last night, as long as you keep me informed over the 

next few days.” The count looked out the window. “The Ottomans will soon make their decision about 

entering this war. Alek’s next step will depend greatly on that choice.” 

Deryn followed his gaze out the window. The spires of Istanbul were just visible in the distance, the haze 

of engine smoke already rising over the city. “Well, I could tell you what the newspapers say.That’s not 

spying, I suppose.” 

“Excellent.” Count Volger stood, offering his hand. “I think you and I may be allies after all.” 

Deryn stared at his hand a moment, then sighed and shook it. “Thank you for the tea, sir. And by the 

way, next time you try to escape, I’d be much obliged if you did it more quietly. Or at least in the middle 

of the day.” 

“Of course.” Volger bowed gracefully, then said, “And if you ever want to learn to fenceproperly , Mr. 

Sharp, do let me know.” 

Halfway back to the bosun’s cabin, a message lizard stopped on the ceiling overhead and fixed her with 

its beady eyes. 

“Mr. Sharp,” it squawked in the lady boffin’s voice, “I shall need you in full dress today. We’ll be visiting 

the sultan.” 

Deryn stared up at the beastie, wondering if she’d heard right.The sultan? The man who ruled over the 

whole barking Ottoman Empire? 

“I have told Mr. Rigby to relieve you of other duties,” the lizard continued. “Meet me out on the airfield 

at noon, and make sure you look sharp.” 

Deryn swallowed. “Aye, ma’am. I’ll be there. End message.” 

As the beastie scuttled away, she closed her eyes and softly swore. She didn’t even have a dress 

uniform to wear, not since yesterday. Deryn had taken off her jacket before she’d jumped onto the 

Dauntless ’s trunk, but her only fancy shirt was still bright red from the spice bomb. Even after two 

washings, one whiff of the shirt was strong enough to make a dead horse sneeze. She’d have to borrow 

one of Newkirk’s, and that meant making adjustments with her sewing kit.… 

She groaned, then headed toward her cabin at a run. 

As Deryn descended the gangway hours later, the rumble of Clanker engines sprang to life around her. 

In the airship’s shadow Newkirk, the bosun, and a dozen riggers were loading themselves onto a 

squadron of walkers in the shapes of donkeys and water buffaloes. They were headed to the markets for 

supplies, and looked to be in a hurry. If theLeviathan didn’t leave the city by late afternoon today, the 

Page 47


Ottomans would have every right to impound it. 

The officers hadn’t let on where the ship was going next. But wherever they were bound, Deryn doubted 

she would be seeing Istanbul or Alek again, not until the war was over. 

She watched Newkirk for a moment, envious of his disguise. The whole party was dressed in Arab 

robes to keep the Young Turks from spotting them and starting up another protest. If only she could be 

doing proper ship’s work instead of diplomacy … or whatever Dr. Barlow was up to. 

The lady boffin waited a hundred yards from theLeviathan , on a stretch of empty airfield past the 

mooring tower. She was dressed in her finest traveling coat, twirling a parasol and standing beside a small 

hay-filled box. One of the last two eggs sat inside it, shining like a huge pearl in the sun. So Dr. Barlow’s 

secret cargo would at last be delivered to the sultan. 

But why take a spare middy along? 

As Deryn drew near, Dr. Barlow turned and said, “You’re a bit late, Mr. Sharp, and looking positively 

unkempt.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” Deryn said, adjusting her collar. Her shirt fitted all wrong despite a mad hour of sewing. 

Worse, it still smelled of Newkirk—the bum-rag hadn’t bothered to wash it since yesterday. “I had to 

borrow this shirt. Mine was still a bit spicy.” 

“You possess only one dress uniform?” Dr. Barlow clicked her tongue. “We shall have to remedy that, if 

you’re going to continue assisting me.” 

Deryn frowned. “Assisting you, ma’am? Frankly, I never fancied myself much of a diplomat.” 

“Perhaps not. But this is what comes of making your self useful, Mr. Sharp. You were invaluable during 

the battle of theDauntless , while the ambassador and his lackeys were quite hopeless.” Dr. Barlow 

sighed. “Soon I shall be afraid to leave the airship without your protection.” 

Deryn rolled her eyes. Even when dispensing compliments, the lady boffin always managed a mocking 

tone. “I hope you’re not expecting to be attacked again today, ma’am.” 

“One never knows. We are not as welcome here as I might have liked.” 

“That’s right enough,” Deryn said, still hearing the anger in the protesters’ voices. “But I’ve been 

meaning to ask you, ma’am. What’s a behemoth?” 

Dr. Barlow looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Wherever did you hear that word, Mr. Sharp?” 

“It was just something they were shouting yesterday. The Young Turks, I mean.” 

“Hmm, of course. That is the name of theOsman ’s companion creature, and thus part of Lord 

Churchill’s unfortunate appropriation.” 

Deryn frowned. “But krakens don’t have names. No beastie does, unless it’s a whole ship.” 

“‘Behemoth’ is not a proper name, young man, but a species. You see, this creature is not a kraken at 

all but something altogether new. And a military secret, so perhaps we should drop the subject.” Dr. 

Page 48


Barlow tipped back her parasol to look into the sky. “I believe this is our airship.” 

Deryn shielded her eyes against the high sun, and saw a peculiar craft coming into view. “It’s quite … 

conspicuous, isn’t it, ma’am?” 

“Of course. Guests of the sultan are expected to arrive in style.” 

The Clanker airship was less than a quarter of theLeviathan ’s length, but was as fancy as a wedding 

cake. A fringe of tassels fluttered from its airbag, and canopies of billowing silk covered the gondola, as if 

some Ottoman prince had decided to go soaring on his four-poster bed. 

The craft was held aloft by a long cylindrical balloon with several funnels leading up into its belly, each 

fed with hot air by a blazing smokestack in the shape of a monstrous head. Propellers thrust out on long 

and jointed arms, some pointing up, some down, the two largest pushing the craft forward. The prow 

was carved in the shape of a falcon’s hooked beak, and wings unfolding like straight razors were carved 

into the gondola’s sides. 

The craft’s propellers turned and twisted, until it had settled gently on the scrub grass of the airfield. 

As a short gangway unfolded from its gondola, Dr. Barlow closed her parasol and pointed it at the egg 

box. “If you please, Mr. Sharp.” 

“Invaluable, that’s me,” Deryn said, lifting the box with a grunt. 

She followed the lady boffin up the gangway to an open platform surrounded by a low railing, like the 

top deck of a sailing ship. The propeller wash swirled about them, ruffling the veil tucked into Dr. 

Barlow’s bowler. 

The crew were all dark-skinned men, but they weren’t wearing desert robes, like the Africans that 

Deryn had seen from the elephant’s howdah the day before. Instead they wore silk uniforms and tall 

turbans of brilliant red and orange. Two of them took the egg box from Deryn, lashing it fast to metal 

cleats on the deck. 

One of the men wore a tall conical hat, his eyes protected by piloting goggles. Some sort of mechanical 

beastie perched on his shoulder, like an owl with big eyes and a wide-open mouth. A tiny cylinder sat on 

the machine’s chest, a metal stylus scratching against its spinning surface. 

The man stepped forward and bowed to Dr. Barlow. 

“Peace be upon you, madam. I am the Kizlar Agha. Welcome aboard.” 

The lady boffin replied in a language Deryn didn’t recognize, one made of softer sounds than German. 

The man smiled, repeating the same phrase as he bowed to Deryn. 

“Midshipman Dylan Sharp,” she said, bowing in return. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Agha.” 

Dr. Barlow laughed. “Kizlar Agha is a title, Mr. Sharp, not a name. He is the head of the palace guard 

and of the treasury. The most important man in the empire, after the sultan and grand vizier. A carrier of 

important messages.” 

Page 49


“And important visitors as well,” the man said, raising a hand. The smokestacks belched fire, sending 

ripples of heat through the air. 

Deryn’s nose caught the sweet smell of burning propane. She shuddered and clenched her jaw, turning 

to grip the rail as the airship lifted into the sky. 

“Are you unwell, Mr. Sharp?” the Kizlar Agha said, leaning closer to her. “Airsickness seems a strange 

malady for an airman.” 

“I’m quite all right, sir,” Deryn said stiffly. “It’s just that hot-air balloons make me a wee bit nervous.” 

The man crossed his arms. “I assure you, the Imperial AiryachtStamboul is as safe as any airbeast.” 

“I’m sure it is, sir,” Deryn said, but her hands still gripped the railing. The smokestacks belched fire 

again, roaring like an angry tigeresque. 

“We had something of a battle yesterday,” Dr. Barlow said, putting a cool hand against Deryn’s cheek. 

“And alarms and excursions again last night. Mr. Sharp has been quite busy, I’m afraid.” 

“Ah, yes. I heard of the Young Turks pestering you,” the Kizlar Agha said. “Revolutionaries are 

everywhere now. But they will not trouble us at the palace, nor in the sky.” 

The craft had cleared the airfield fence now, and the protesters at the gate looked as small as ants 

below. 

While Dr. Barlow and the Kizlar Agha talked, Deryn stared down at the city, trying to ignore the air 

wrinkling with heat around her. The tangled streets of Istanbul were soon beneath theStamboul , the 

metal flash of walkers glinting through the veil of smoke. Gyrothopters flittered past, looking as delicate 

as butterflies. 

Alek was down there somewhere, she supposed. Unless he’d already headed into the wilds of the 

empire, where the Air Service maps showed only mountains and dusty plains on the way to the Far East. 

When the Kizlar Agha returned to his duties, Dr. Barlow joined Deryn at the railing. “Are you quite sure 

you weren’t bumped on the head last night, Mr. Sharp? You look unwell.” 

“No, I’m feeling brilliant,” Deryn said, gripping the handrail tighter. She wasn’t going to spout off about 

her father’s accident again. Best to change the subject. “It’s just that I had an odd chat with Count 

Volger over breakfast … about our missing beastie.” 

“Really? How enterprising of you.” 

“He said he saw it last night. The beastie must’ve hatched before Alek left, and the daft boy took it with 

him.” Deryn turned to Dr. Barlow and narrowed her eyes. “But you already knew that, didn’t you, 

ma’am?” 

“The possibility had crossed my mind.” The lady boffin shrugged. “It seemed the only logical explanation 

for the creature’s disappearance.” 

“Aye, but it wasn’t just logic, was it? You knew Alek would try to escape before we left Istanbul, so 

Page 50


you put him on egg duty last night.” 

A smile appeared behind Dr. Barlow’s veil. “Why, Mr. Sharp, are you accusing me ofscheming ?” 

“Call it what you like, ma’am, but Alek was always complaining that you rearranged the heaters when he 

was watching the eggs. Made it hotter for him than for me.” As Deryn spoke her suspicions aloud, more 

pieces fell into place. “And you never wanted me to visit while he was on egg duty. So that when the 

beastie hatched, it would be just him in the machine room, all alone!” 

Dr. Barlow looked away and said sternly. “Are youcertain you weren’t bumped on the head last night, 

Mr. Sharp? I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m talking about the beasties inside those eggs,” Deryn said, staring at the cargo box. “Whatare they, 

anyway?” 

“They are a military secret, young man.” 

“Aye, and now we’re taking one to this sultan fellow. A Clanker aristocrat, just like Alek!” 

Deryn stared straight at Dr. Barlow, waiting for a reply. It was the rudest she’d ever dared be with the 

lady boffin, but between the sleepless night and this morning’s realizations, anger had taken control of her 

tongue. 

It was all starting to make sense. Why Dr. Barlow had been willing to keep Alek’s secret from the 

officers, and why she’d put him on egg duty almost from the start. She’dwanted one of the eggs to hatch 

while Alek was alone in that room. 

But what on earth was the beastie’s purpose? And why hadn’t Alek simply left the barking thing behind? 

After a moment of cold stares between them, Dr. Barlow broke the silence. “Did Count Volger say 

anythingspecific about the creature?” 

“Not really.” Deryn shrugged. “He may have mentioned something about strangling it to keep it quiet.” 

Dr. Barlow’s eyebrows shot up, and Deryn smiled. Two could play at this game of keeping secrets. 

“But I think he was just trying to be clever.” 

“Indeed,” Dr. Barlow said coldly. “There appears to be a lot of that going about.” 

Deryn held the woman’s gaze. “I’m not trying to be clever, ma’am. I just want to know … Is Alek in 

danger from that beastie?” 

“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Sharp.” Dr. Barlow leaned closer, lowering her voice. “The perspicacious loris, 

as it is known, is quite harmless. I would never put Alek in danger.” 

“Then youdid try to make an egg hatch while he was in there with them!” 

Dr. Barlow looked away. “Yes, the loris was designed with a high degree of nascent fixation. Like a 

baby duck, it bonds with the first person it sees.” 

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“And you made it bond with Alek!” 

“A necessary improvisation. After we crashed in the Alps, it seemed that we wouldn’t reach Istanbul in 

time. I didn’t want to see all my years of work wasted.” She shrugged. “Besides, I’m quite fond of Alek, 

and wish him every advantage in his travels. To those who listen carefully, the perspicacious loris can be 

quite helpful.” 

“Helpful?” Deryn asked. “How, exactly?” 

“By being perspicacious, of course.” 

Deryn furrowed her eyebrows, puzzling over what “perspicacious” might mean. She wondered if she 

could trust the lady boffin’s words at all. Dr. Barlow always seemed to have a larger plan than whatever 

she let on. 

“But it wasn’t just to help him,” Deryn said. “Alek’s an important Clanker, just like the sultan, and that’s 

why you wanted him to have this loris beastie.” 

“It is as I said yesterday.” Dr. Barlow gestured at the beaklike prow before them, at monstrous heads 

belching fire. “Unlike the other Clanker powers, the Ottomans have not forgotten the web of life. And I 

think that in his short time with us, Alek may have become amenable to reason as well.” 

“Reason?” Deryn swallowed. “But what does some newborn beastie have to do withreason ?” 

“Nothing, of course, as per my grandfather’s law: ‘No fabricated creature shall show human reason.’” 

The lady boffin waved her hand. “Take it as a figure of speech, Mr. Sharp. But one thing is certain—this 

war will make a mess of Europe’s royal houses. So it’s possible that young Alek may one day be as 

important as any sultan, proper royalty or not.” 

“Aye, that’s what Count Volger was saying too.” 

“Was he?” Dr. Barlow drummed her fingers on the railing. “How interesting.” 

Just ahead, the strait was shining in the noon sun. Almost directly below were two huge buildings of 

marble and stone—mosques, of course, their domed roofs like giant shields arrayed against the sky, their 

minarets thrusting up like spears around them. The plaza between the buildings was crowded with 

people, their faces turning upward as theStamboul ’s shadow slid across them. 

The Kizlar Agha shouted orders, and the propellers shifted on their long, spindly arms. The aircraft 

began to descend toward what looked like a park surrounded by high walls. Inside it were dozens of low 

buildings, all stitched together with paths and covered walkways, and one great cluster of still more 

domes and minarets, almost another city within the palace walls. 

“Perhaps we should keep an eye on Count Volger, then,” Dr. Barlow said. 

Deryn nodded, remembering the wildcount’s offer to tell her more about the beastie if she brought him 

news from outside. He was certainly open to an exchange of information. 

“Well, ma’am, he did say he’d give me fencing lessons.” 

The lady boffin smiled. “Then, dear boy, you shall have to learn to fence.” 

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TheStamboul descended just inside the palace walls, in an overgrown garden the size of a cricket field. 

The Kizlar Agha stood at the airship’s prow, shouting directions to the propeller men, making 

adjustments all the way down. Deryn soon saw why—there was barely room to land an airship. But the 

craft settled precisely at a spot where five paths crossed, as soft as a kiss, like a gaudy pavilion 

completing the garden’s design. The fronds of palm trees around them shivered in the wash from the 

airship’s propellers. 

The gangway dropped, and the Kizlar Agha led Deryn, Dr. Barlow, and the two crewmen with the egg 

box down into the sultan’s garden. 

A hundred windows looked down upon them, but all were covered with metal lattices that shimmered 

gold in the sunlight. Deryn wondered if there were people watching them through the narrow slats, 

courtiers and advisers, or the sultan’s famous harem of countless wives. 

This was nothing like Buckingham Palace, where Deryn had watched the changing of the Royal 

Lionesque Guard her first day in London. That was four stories tall and as square as a cake. But here the 

buildings were low and surrounded by colonnades, their arches decorated with checkerboards of black 

and white marble, as shiny as piano keys. Steam pipes wound across the mosaicked walls like message 

lizard tubes, sweating and huffing with the energies inside them. Guards stood at every door, Africans in 

bright silk uniforms armed with halberds and scimitars. 

Deryn wondered what it would be like to live among all this spectacle and pomp, all of it designed to 

dazzle the eye. Had poor Alek grown up in a place this fancy? It would be enough to drive you mad, 

having a million servants watching your every move. 

The guards all made elaborate bows to the Kizlar Agha, murmuring the same greeting that Dr. Barlow 

had used. 

“Is that Turkish for ‘hello’?” Deryn whispered, wondering if she should learn the phrase. 

“Arabic. Many languages are spoken here in the palace.” Dr. Barlow glanced up at the steam pipes. 

“Let us hope that German is not one.” 

Soon they were led to a large marble building that stood apart from the rest of the palace. Three blazing 

smokestacks thrust skyward from its roof, and the sound of grinding gears rumbled within. 

The Kizlar Agha stopped before an archway sealed by two stone doors. “We enter the throne room of 

Sultan Mehmed V, Lord of the Horizons.” 

He clapped his hands three times, and the doors opened with a hiss of steam. A smell rolled 

out—burning coal and engine grease covered over with incense. 

The throne room was dark after the brilliant sunlight outside, and Deryn could hardly see at first. But 

before her rose what seemed to be a giant sitting cross-legged, as large as the iron golems in the street 

the day before. It was a metal statue dressed in countless yards of black silk, a sash of silver cloth spread 

Page 53


across its medaled chest, and a crimson fez the size of a bathtub on its strange horned head. 

As her eyes adjusted, Deryn noticed a man beneath the statue. He was dressed in exactly the same 

clothes, and sat on his silk divan in the same position, cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. 

“Welcome, Dr. Barlow,” he said, his right hand turning over to show an empty palm. 

Behind him the statue stirred, mimicking his movements. It was an automaton—the whole throne room 

one huge mechanism! But the rumble of engines and gears was muffled to a whisper by thick tapestries 

and stone walls, so the huge statue seemed almost alive. 

In the corner of Deryn’s vision the lady boffin was curtsying smoothly, as if she met giant statues every 

day. Deryn recovered from her surprise and bowed from the waist, the way Alek always had when 

addressing theLeviathan ’s officers. She realized she had no idea how to behave around a barking 

emperor, and wished the lady boffin had spared a moment to tell her. 

“My Lord Sultan,” Dr. Barlow said. “I bring you greetings from His Majesty, King George.” 

“Peace be upon him,” the sultan said, bowing his head a little. Behind him the giant automaton followed 

in kind. 

“I bring you a gift as well.” Dr. Barlow gestured at the egg box. 

The sultan’s eyebrows rose. Deryn found herself relieved that the automaton didn’t make facial 

expressions. The giant machine was uncanny enough as it was. 

“An odd shape for a dreadnought,” the sultan said. “And a bit small for a behemoth.” 

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the lady boffin cleared her throat. “Our little gift is not, of 

course, a replacement for theOsman or its companion creature. Though His Majesty regrets that 

unfortunate affair.” 

“Does he?” 

“Profusely,” Dr. Barlow said. “We have only borrowed theOsman because our need is greater. Britain 

is at war, and your empire is—and hopefully shall stay—at peace.” 

“Peace has its burdens too.” The sultan crossed his arms, and the statue followed suit. 

Watching more closely now, Deryn noticed that the machine’s movements were a bit stiff, like a sailor 

caught with too much rum under his belt and trying to act sober. Perhaps to aid the illusion, the sultan 

moved slowly and carefully, like an actor in a pantomime show. Deryn wondered if he controlled the 

automaton himself, or whether there were engineers watching from some hidden cubbyhole, their hands 

scurrying across levers and dials. 

Somehow, wondering about its inner workings made the huge contraption less unsettling. 

“I am sure your cares are great, My Lord Sultan.” Dr. Barlow looked toward the egg box. “And we 

hope that this fabricated creature, humble though it is, will prove a welcome distraction from them.” 

“The Germans give us railroads, airships, and wireless towers,” the sultan replied. “All the glories of the 

Page 54


mekanzimat . They train our armies and service our machines. They rebuilt this palace and helped us 

crush the revolution six years ago. And all your king can offer is adistraction ?” 

The sultan gestured at the egg box, and the automaton’s hand stretched out across the room, stirring the 

air as it passed over Deryn’s head. She hunched her shoulders, wondering how powerful those giant 

fingers were. 

Dr. Barlow didn’t seem ruffled at all. “Perhaps it is only a start,” she said, bowing her head a little more. 

“But we offer this gift with hope for a happier future.” 

“A gift? After so many humiliations?” The sultan looked at the egg again. “Perhaps we have been 

distracted long enough by your gifts.” 

Suddenly the giant fingers wrapped around the box, closing into a fist. The crackle of splintering wood 

echoed from the stone walls, and pieces skittered like matchsticks across the floor. The egg burst with a 

sickening crack, and translucent strands oozed between the metal fingers. As they pooled together on the 

stone floor, the reek of sulfur joined coal smoke and incense. 

A gasp of horror escaped the lady boffin’s mouth, and Deryn stared, wide eyed, at the closed fist, then 

at the sultan. Oddly, the man seemed surprised himself, as if he hadn’t realized what he was doing. Of 

course,he hadn’t done anything—the automaton had. 

Deryn looked at the sultan’s outstretched hand. His fingers were still open, simply gesturing at the egg 

box, not curled into a fist.… 

Her eyes darted around the room. The Kizlar Agha and the crewmen who had carried the egg box wore 

astonished expressions, and there was no one else in the room. But then she spotted an upper gallery 

behind the statue’s head. It was covered over with latticed windows, and for a moment Deryn thought 

she saw eyes peering down between the slats. 

She glanced at Dr. Barlow, trying to get her to notice the sultan’s open hand. But the lady boffin’s face 

was pale and frozen, her poise shattered along with the egg. 

“I see, Lord Sultan, that I have come too late.” Despite her devastated expression, there was steel in her 

voice. 

The sultan must have heard it too. He cleared his throat softly before speaking. 

“Perhaps not, Dr. Barlow.” He brought his palms together, but the automaton stayed motionless, its giant 

hand frozen around the shattered, leaking egg. “In a way the scales have already been balanced.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Just today we have been able to replace the dreadnought you ‘borrowed’ from us, with two ships 

instead of one.” The sultan smiled. “May I present to you the new commander of the Ottoman navy, 

Admiral Wilhelm Souchon.” 

A man strode from the shadows, and Deryn’s jaw dropped. He wore a crisp blue German naval 

uniform, except for the crimson fez on his head. He clicked his heels and bowed to the sultan, then turned 

to salute Dr. Barlow. 

Page 55


“Madam, I welcome you to Istanbul.” 

Deryn swallowed. So that was how the two German ironclads had disappeared—the Ottomans had 

hidden them, for the price of owning them! And they hadn’t just taken the ships, they’d put the master of 

theGoeben in charge of their whole barking navy. 

The lady boffin simply stared, dumbstruck for the first time Deryn had ever seen. The silence stretched 

out awkwardly, the only sound the last innards of the egg dripping onto the stone floor. 

Finally Deryn cleared her throat and returned the German’s salute. 

“As ranking officer present, I extend the thanks of the British Air Service. For all your, um, hospitality.” 

Admiral Souchon looked coolly at her. “I don’t believe we are acquainted, sir.” 

“Midshipman Dylan Sharp, at your service.” 

“A midshipman. I see.” He turned back to Dr. Barlow and offered his hand. “Forgive me, madam, for 

the military formalities. I almost forgot you were a civilian. It is a pleasure to meet you. And how lucky 

that, thanks to my recent appointment, we do not meet as enemies.” 

The lady boffin extended her hand and let the admiral kiss it. 

“Charmed, I’m sure.” She slowly gathered herself, turning back to the sultan. “Two ironclads is indeed a 

most impressive gift. In fact, I am so moved by this German generosity that I must offer another gift on 

behalf of the British government.” 

“Really?” The sultan leaned forward. “And what would that be?” 

“TheLeviathan , Lord Sultan.” 

The room went silent again, and Deryn blinked. Had the lady boffin gonecompletely barking mad? 

“It is the most famous of the great hydrogen breathers,” Dr. Barlow continued. “As valuable as the 

Osman and its companion put together, and a creation that your German friends could never match.” 

The sultan looked quite pleased, and Deryn noticed that Admiral Souchon’s smile had frozen on his 

face. She herself was dizzy, unable to believe what the lady boffin was saying. 

“Dr. Barlow,” she spoke up. “It is, of course, customary to check with the captain before, um … giving 

away his ship.” 

“Ah, of course.” Dr. Barlow waved her hand. “Thank you for reminding me, Mr. Sharp. We shall 

require a few days to communicate with the Admiralty, Lord Sultan, before effecting this transfer.” 

“That is unfortunate, Dr. Barlow,” Admiral Souchon said, putting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “The 

limit for harboring a combatant ship in wartime is twenty-four hours. International law is very strict on this 

matter.” 

“May I remind you, Admiral,” the sultan said mildly, “that your own grace period was extended while 

negotiations took place?” 

Page 56


The German opened his mouth, then closed it and bowed, low. “Of course, My Lord Sultan. I am at 

your command.” 

Leaning back on his divan, the sultan smiled and folded his hands. Without the automaton mimicking him, 

Deryn noticed that he moved more fluidly. Or perhaps he was simply enjoying pitting two great powers 

against each other. 

“Then we are all agreed,” he said. “Dr. Barlow, you have four days to get me theLeviathan .” 

Thirty minutes later theStamboul rose into the air again. As it passed over the shimmering strait in a slow 

turn back toward the airfield, the Kizlar Agha joined Deryn and Dr. Barlow at the railing, his face pale. 

“I do not know what to say, madam. My Lord Sultan was not himself today.” 

“He seemed firm enough in his convictions,” Dr. Barlow said, her voice still quavering from shock. 

“Indeed. But he has not been the same since moving back into the palace. The Germans have changed 

so much there. Not all of us approve.” 

Deryn frowned, wanting to mention what she’d noticed about the automaton. But she couldn’t in front of 

the sultan’s closest adviser. 

The mechanical owl still perched on the Kizlar Agha’s shoulder, but she noticed that the cylinder on its 

chest was no longer spinning. Perhaps it was some sort of recording machine, and the man had switched 

it off to keep his words a secret. 

“Are you saying that he may change his mind about the kaiser’s gifts?” Dr. Barlow asked carefully. 

The Kizlar Agha spread his hands. “That, I do not know, madam. But our empire has fought two wars in 

the last ten years, and a bloody revolution as well. Not all of us want to join this madness in Europe.” 

Dr. Barlow nodded. “Pray, then, make yourselves heard.” 

“We shall try. Peace be upon you, and upon us all,” he said, then bowed and returned to the prow of the 

airship. 

“How interesting,” the lady boffin said as he walked away. “Perhaps there is still hope for this country.” 

“What did he mean exactly?” Deryn asked. 

“Perhaps he plans to give his emperor good advice.” She shrugged. “Or perhaps something more. 

Sultans have been replaced before.” 

Deryn turned back to the railing, and suddenly there they were below—theGoeben and theBreslau 

harbored in the Golden Horn. 

“The admiral wasn’t lying,” she said, seeing crimson Ottoman flags fluttering from the ironclads’ 

mainmasts. “They must have been hiding up in the Black Sea yesterday.” 

“I should have known,” Dr. Barlow said. “Those ships were trapped, worthless to the Germans. So why 

Page 57


not offer them as bribes?” 

“Aye, and speaking of bribes …” Deryn swallowed, almost afraid to ask. “What was that about giving 

theLeviathan away? You haven’t gone barking mad, have you?” 

Dr. Barlow gave her a sidelong glance. “Don’t be tiresome, Mr. Sharp. That was merely a ploy to 

extend our time here. Which of course you knew, as you played your part to perfection. Another four 

days may prove quite useful.” 

Deryn frowned. Played her part? She’d only said the first thing that had come into her head. “But if 

we’re not going to give the Ottomans the ship, what’s the point of staying?” 

“Really, Mr. Sharp,” the lady boffin said, the steel returning to her voice. “Do you suppose I would 

journey across Europe without an alternate plan?” 

“Andthis is your plan, ma’am? Making false promises to the sultan to make him even angrier?” 

“Hardly.” The lady boffin sighed. “I doubt the sultan’s anger will make much difference, one way or the 

other. The Ottoman Empire is already in the Germans’ hands.” 

“Aye, that’s true enough,” Deryn said. “And speaking of hands, I’m not sure that the sultan really meant 

to crush that egg.” 

Dr. Barlow turned a cold gaze on Deryn. “Are you saying that my life’s work was destroyedby accident 

?” 

“Not by accident, ma’am. But the sultan didn’t make a fist. He was just pointing at the egg, and then the 

automaton went and squashed your poor beastie, all on its own!” 

Dr. Barlow was silent for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Of course. I’m an idiot! That throne room 

was built by German engineers, sothey were in control, not the sultan. They forced his hand, so to 

speak.” 

“Aye.” Deryn stared back at the water. TheStamboul had completed its turn, and theGoeben was 

receding into the distance. But she could still see the forbidding shape of the Tesla cannon, its struts 

covered with fluttering seabirds. “Makes you wonder how they’ll force the sultan’s hand next, doesn’t 

it?” 

“Indeed, Mr. Sharp.” 

Deryn looked at the water stretching into the distance. The Royal Navy’s Mediterranean fleet was 

stationed just south of the strait, still waiting for theGoeben andBreslau to emerge. And in the opposite 

direction, the Russian navy sat in its Black Sea ports, not yet aware that their old enemy the sultan had 

two new ironclads. 

All it would take was a quick sortie by Admiral Souchon in either direction, and the Ottomans would be 

dragged into war. 

Page 58


“It’s probably foolish, leaving the hotel with so many Germans about.” 

There was no reply as Alek buttoned the jacket of his new suit. 

“But the Germans don’t know what I look like,” he continued. “And the Ottomans don’t even know 

we’re here.” 

Alek put on the fez and stared at himself in the mirror, waiting. But again no reply came. 

“Anyone would think I was a proper Turk in these clothes.” Alek flicked at the fez’s tassel. Was it 

meant to hang on the left or the right? “And if I have to speak German, at least I’ve been practicing my 

common accent, so I don’t sound like such a prince anymore.” 

“Such a prince,” the creature finally said. 

“Well, that’s your opinion,” Alek said, then sighed. How had he gotten into this habit of talking to the 

beast? The animal was probably memorizing all his secrets. 

It was better than sharing his doubts with the men, he supposed. And there was something about the 

creature’s wise, contented expression that made Alek feel as if it really were listening, not just repeating 

words at random. 

Alek checked himself in the mirror one last time, then turned toward the door. 

“Be a good little beastie, and Master Klopp will come and feed you. No whining. I’ll be back soon.” 

The creature gave him a long, hard look, then seemed to nod. 

“Be back soon,” it said. 

Corporal Bauer was dressed in his new civilian clothes and was waiting in the room he shared with 

Klopp. The master of mechaniks himself couldn’t leave the hotel. He was too well known among the 

Clanker technical class, and Constantinople was full of German engineers. 

On their way into the city the night before, Alek had counted a dozen construction projects flying a black 

eagle on a yellow pennant, the kaiser’s flag of friendship. The ancient walls of the city bristled with shiny 

new smokestacks, steam pipes, and wireless antennae. Alek remembered his father talking about 

Germany sponsoring this policy ofmekanzimat , the reformation of Ottoman society around the machine. 

“I still say this is a bad idea, young master,” Klopp said, turning away from the wireless and a pad full of 

dots and dashes. 

“No one will recognize me,” Alek said. “My father was very careful to not let me sit for portraits or 

photographs. Hardly anyone outside my family knows what I look like.” 

“But remember what happened in Lienz!” 

Alek drew a slow breath, remembering the first time he’d been in disguise among commoners. “Yes, 

Klopp, I acted exactly like a little prince. But I think my common touch has improved since then, don’t 

you?” 

Page 59


Klopp only shrugged. 

“And if we’re going to hide in the Ottoman Empire,” Alek continued, “we need to know what the great 

powers are up to here. I’m the only one of us who can speak anything besides German.” 

The old man held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “I can’t argue with your logic, young 

master. I just wish it weren’tyou going.” 

“I wish Volger were here too,” Alek said softly. “But I’ll be taken good care of. Right, Bauer?” 

“At your service, sir,” Bauer said. 

“Indeed,” Alek said. “But that reminds me, nosirs while we’re outside this room.” 

“Yes, sir. That is, um … What should I call you, sir?” 

Alek smiled. “Well, no one who hears us talking will think we’re Turkish, so let’s pick a good German 

name. How about Hans?” 

“But that’smy name, sir.” 

“Ah, yes, of course.” Alek cleared his throat, wondering if he’d ever known Corporal Bauer’s first 

name. Perhaps he should have asked before now. “I’ll be Fritz, then.” 

“Yes, sir. I mean—yes, Fritz,” Bauer said, and Alek saw that Klopp was slowly shaking his head. 

So much for the common touch. 

The hotel was near the Grand Bazaar, the largest market in Constantinople, and the streets were full 

tonight. Alek and Bauer followed the crowds, looking for a place where German workers might 

congregate and gossip. 

Soon they were inside the bazaar, a gaslit labyrinth of shops under high arched ceilings. The owners 

cried their wares—lamps, linens, carpets, silks, jewelry, tooled leather, and machine parts—in half a 

dozen languages. Mechanikal donkeys pushed their way through the crowds, chestnuts and skewers of 

meat roasting on their steaming engine blocks. Veiled women rode on sedan chairs with silent clockwork 

legs, wary servants walking on either side. 

Alek remembered his first time disguised as a commoner, in the market at Lienz, when the press of 

bodies and smells had sickened him. But the Grand Bazaar was almost otherworldly, the scents of cumin, 

paprika, and rose water mixing with the bitter pall of tobacco coiling up from burbling water pipes. 

Jugglers jostled for space with fortune-tellers and musicians, while tiny clockwork walkers danced on a 

blanket spread out before a cross-legged man, the crowd clapping with appreciation. 

The man at the hotel desk had said this was a holy month, and that the Muslims of the city would be 

fasting while the sun was up. They seemed to be making up for it now that night had fallen. 

“Not many Germans about,” Bauer said. “Do you suppose they have a beer hall in this city?” 

“I don’t know if the Ottomans have a love for beer.” Alek gestured to a boy carrying a small tray with 

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empty glass cups. “But coffee is another matter.” 

He stopped the boy and pointed at the tray. The boy nodded and waved for them to follow, skipping 

deftly through the crowds, waiting impatiently for Bauer and Alek to catch up. 

The boy soon brought them to a large public room on the edge of the market. The smell of 

chocolate-tinged coffee and black tea spilled out of its doors, and tobacco smoke hung in a pall across 

the ceiling. 

As Alek tipped the boy for his trouble, Bauer said, “Looks like we’ve found the right place, sir.” 

Alek looked up. A row of the kaiser’s friendship flags fluttered along the awning, and a German drinking 

song was rumbling along inside. 

“That boy spotted us as Clankers right off.” Alek sighed. “Watch your step, and no moresirs . 

Remember, Hans?” 

“Sorry … Fritz.” 

Alek hesitated at the door, the sound of so many German accents sending a shiver through him. Of 

course, the kaiser’s airships had found him even hidden on a mountain peak in the Alps. Perhaps it was 

safer to keep one’s enemies in sight. 

He squared his shoulders and strode in. 

Most of the men inside appeared to be German engineers. Some still wore their mechaniks’ coveralls, 

shiny with grease from the day’s work. Alek felt out of place in his new Turkish clothes. 

He and Bauer found an empty table, then ordered coffee from a young turbaned boy who spoke 

excellent German. 

As the boy darted away, Alek shook his head. “Whether the Ottomans join the war or not, the Germans 

are already running this country.” 

“And you can see why.” Bauer pointed to the wall behind them. 

Alek turned to see a large poster tacked to the wall, the sort of crude propaganda his father had always 

hated. At the bottom was a cartoon city labeled Istanbul, festooned with steam pipes and train tracks. 

The city sat astride The Straits, with the Russian bear looming over the Black Sea and the British navy 

threatening from the Mediterranean. 

Dominating the poster was a giant chimera striding over the horizon, a Darwinist beast fabricated from 

half a dozen creatures. It wore a misshapen bowler hat, and carried a dreadnought in one clawed hand 

and a sack of money in the other. A tiny fat man labeled Winston Churchill rode on its shoulder, watching 

as the obscene beast menaced the tiny spires and domes below. 

“Who will protect us from these monsters?” read the legend across the top. 

“That must be theOsman ,” Bauer said, gesturing at the dreadnought. 

Alek nodded. “It’s odd to think, but if it weren’t for Lord Churchill stealing that ship, theLeviathan 

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would never have headed across Europe. We’d still be in that castle in the Alps.” 

“We might be a bit safer there,” said Bauer. Then he smiled. “But a lot colder, too, and no one would be 

bringing us good Turkish coffee.” 

“So you think I made the right choice, Hans? Leaving safety behind?” 

“You didn’t have much of a choice, sir—I mean, Fritz.” Bauer shrugged. “You had to face what was in 

front of you, whatever your father’s plans. Every man arrives at that point, sooner or later.” 

Alek swallowed, grateful for the words. He’d never asked Bauer’s opinion before, but now that he was 

in command, it was good to know that the man didn’t think he was a complete idiot. 

“What about your father, Hans? He must think you’re a deserter.” 

“My parents sent me off a long time ago.” The man shook his head. “Too many mouths to feed at home. 

It was the same with Hoffman, I think. Your father only chose men without families to help you.” 

“That was kind of him, I suppose,” Alek said, struck by the thought that he and his men were, in a way, 

all orphans together. “But once this war is over, Hans, I swear you’ll never go hungry again.” 

“No need, Fritz. This is duty. And besides, one could hardly go hungry in this city.” 

The coffee arrived, smelling of chocolate and as thick as black honey. It certainly tasted better than 

anything that could have been cooked up over a fire in the freezing Alps. 

Alek took a long drink, letting the rich flavors sweep away his dark thoughts. He eavesdropped on the 

surrounding tables, hearing complaints of delayed shipments of parts, and censored letters from home. 

The conquest of Belgium was almost complete, and the engineers were celebrating. France would fall 

soon after. Then would come a quick campaign against Darwinist Russia and the island fortress of 

Britain. Or it might be a long war, some argued, but Germany would prevail eventually—fabricated 

beasts were no match for Clanker bravery and steel. 

It didn’t sound as though anyone cared if the Ottomans joined the war or not. The Germans were 

confident in themselves and their Austrian allies. 

Of course, the high command might have a different view. 

Suddenly Alek’s ears caught the sound of English. He turned and saw a man moving slowly among the 

tables, asking questions that drew only shrugs and uncomprehending stares. The man was scruffily 

dressed in a traveling coat and a shapeless hat, with a folding camera strapped around his neck. Some 

sort of fabricated beast rode on his shoulder—a frog, perhaps, its beady eyes peering out from beneath 

the man’s jacket collar. 

A Darwinist, here, in what was practically German territory? 

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said when he reached Alek’s table. “But do either of you speak any 

English?” 

Alek hesitated. The man’s accent was unfamiliar, and he didn’t look British. His camera seemed to be a 

Clanker design. 

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“I do, a little,” Alek said. 

The man’s face broke into a broad smile as he thrust out his hand. “Excellent! I’m Eddie Malone, 

reporter for theNew York World . Do you mind if I ask some questions?” 

The man sat down without waiting for an answer, snapping for a waiter and ordering coffee. 

“Did he sayreporter ?” Bauer muttered in German. “Is this wise, Fritz?” 

Alek nodded—this was the perfect opportunity. The job of a foreign reporter, after all, was to 

understand the politics around him, the maneuverings of the great powers here in the Ottoman Empire. 

And talking to Malone was much safer than trying to extract gossip from a German, who might notice 

Alek’s aristocratic accent. 

A few men at the other tables had glanced at the reporter as he’d sat down, but no one was staring now. 

The streets of Constantinople were full of stranger sights than a fabricated frog. 

“I don’t know how much we can help you,” Alek said. “We haven’t been here very long.” 

“Don’t worry. My questions won’t be too tricky.” The reporter pulled out a battered notebook. “I’m 

just curious about what they call themekanzimat —all the new buildings the Germans are putting up in 

Istanbul. Are you here to work on something?” 

Alek cleared his throat. The man had assumed they were Germans, of course. He probably couldn’t tell 

an Austrian accent from the croak of his own bullfrog. But there was no point in correcting him. “We 

aren’t in construction, Mr. Malone. At the moment we’re just traveling. Seeing the sights.” 

Malone’s eyes scanned Alek up and down, coming to a halt on the fez on the chair beside him. “I can 

see you’ve been shopping already. Funny thing, though. Men of military age, on a vacation in wartime!” 

Alek swore silently. He’d always been hopeless at any sort of lying, but pretending to be a tourist was 

absurd when every man in Europe was reporting for duty. Malone probably thought they were deserters, 

or spies. 

Of course, a certain amount of mystery might be useful. 

“Let’s just say you needn’t know our names.” Alek gestured at the camera. “And no photographs, if you 

please.” 

“No problem. Istanbul is full of anonymous people.” The man reached up to scratch his bullfrog’s chin. 

“I suppose you came in on the Express?” 

Alek nodded. The Orient-Express ran straight from Munich to Constantinople, and he could hardly 

admit they’d arrived by airship. 

“Must’ve been crowded, with all the new workers coming in.” 

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“The train might have been crowded, but we had our own cabin.” As the words came out, Alek cursed 

himself again. Why did he always find ways to make it obvious that he was wealthy? 

“So you didn’t talk to any of the folks working on that wireless tower, did you?” 

“Wireless tower?” Alek asked. 

“Yep. The one you Germans are building on the cliffs out to the west. A special project for the sultan, 

they say. It’s huge—has its own power station!” 

Alek glanced at Bauer, wondering how much the man was following with the English he’d picked up 

aboard theLeviathan . A large wireless tower might need its own power station, but so would a Tesla 

cannon. 

“I’m afraid we don’t know anything about that,” Alek said. “We’ve only been in Constantinople for two 

days.” 

Malone looked at him closely for a moment, a gleam in his eye, as if Alek had just told a subtle but 

clever joke. “Not long enough to start calling it Istanbul, I see.” 

Alek remembered Dr. Barlow saying that the locals used another name for their city, but the staff at his 

hotel hadn’t seemed to mind. “Whatever the city’s called, we haven’t seen much of it.” 

“So you haven’t been down to the docks yet to see the sultan’s new warships?” 

“New warships?” 

“Two ironclads, just handed to the Ottomans by the Germans.” Malone’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t 

seen them? They’re pretty hard to miss.” 

Alek managed to shake his head. “No, we haven’t been to the harbor at all.” 

“Haven’t been to theharbor ? This is a peninsula, you know. And doesn’t the Orient-Express come in 

right along the water?” 

“I suppose,” Alek said stiffly. “But we were quite tired when we arrived, and it was a dark night.” 

The man looked amused again—this was hopeless. Next, Malone would tell him that the moon was full, 

or that the Orient-Express never arrived at night. 

But what did it matter? He didn’t believe a word Alek was saying anyway. Perhaps it was time to 

change the subject. 

“It’s odd, seeing that creature here,” Alek said, pointing at the bullfrog. “I didn’t know the Ottomans 

allowed Darwinist abominations in their country.” 

“Oh, you just have to know who to bribe.” The man laughed. “And I wouldn’t go anywhere without 

Rusty. He’s got a much better memory than me.” 

Alek’s eyes widened. “He … remembers things?” 

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“Sure. Ever seen one of those message lizards?” 

“I’ve heard of them.” 

“Well, Rusty is a close relation. Except he’s all brain and no hop.” The man patted the bullfrog on its 

head, and the beady eyes blinked. “He can listen to an hour’s worth of conversation and repeat it back 

to you, word for word.” 

Alek frowned, wondering if the newborn creature back at the hotel was some sort of recording beast. 

“Is this animal memorizing what we’re saying right now?” 

The reporter shrugged. “In as much as you’re saying anything at all.” 

“As I said, we’ve just arrived.” 

“Well, at least your English is easy on the ears.” The man laughed again. “It’s like you’ve been practicing 

up, just for me.” 

“You’re too kind,” Alek said. For the past two weeks, of course, he’d spoken more English than 

German. “And you have a sharp ear. Do you mind if I askyou some questions?” 

“Sure. Why not?” The reporter licked his pen. 

“Do you think the Ottomans will join the Clankers in this war?” 

Malone shrugged again. “I doubt the Germans care, one way or the other. They’re here for the long 

term. Defeat the Darwinists in Europe, then expand across the whole world. They’re already extending 

the Express to Baghdad.” 

Alek had heard his father say the same, that the Orient-Express had been built to spread Clanker 

influence into the Middle East, and then deeper into the heart of Asia. 

Malone gestured up at the propaganda poster behind Alek. “All they want now is for the Ottomans to 

close the Dardanelles, so the Russians can’t ship food in from the south.” 

“It’s easier to starve a man than to fight him,” Alek said. “But can the Ottomans hold the strait against 

the British navy?” 

“Surface ships can’t make it past the mines and the cannon, and they have nets to keep the krakens out. 

That’s everything but airships, and the Ottomans may get one of those soon.” 

“Pardon me?” 

Malone’s face brightened. “That’s a sight you’ll definitely want to see. TheLeviathan , one of the great 

hydrogen breathers, is here in Istanbul.” 

“It’s still … I mean, there’s a British airship here? Isn’t that a bit odd, with a war going on?” 

“I’ll say it is. And what’s odder still, the British are thinking ofgiving it to the sultan!” Malone shook his 

head. “Seems the Germans donated a pair of ironclads to the Ottomans, and the British want to up the 

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ante. The sultan himself will be taking a joyride tomorrow, along with some of us reporters.” 

Alek was almost too stunned to speak. That theLeviathan might be handed over to a Clanker power 

was absurd. But if the airship hadn’t left yet, then Count Volger was still in Istanbul. 

“Are you going on this … joyride?” 

Malone beamed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’ve got hydrogen breathers in the U.S., but nothing 

half that big. Just watch the skies tomorrow, and you’ll see what I mean!” 

Alek stared hard at the man. If he was right about theLeviathan , then Volger might have another 

chance to escape. Of course, Volger thought that Alek and the others had already disappeared into the 

wilds. 

It was madness to trust this strange American, but Alek had to take the chance. “Perhaps you could do 

something for me,” he said quietly. “There’s a message I want delivered to that ship.” 

Malone’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds interesting.” 

“But you can’t put any of this in your newspaper.” 

“I can’t promise that. But remember, my paper’s way off in New York City, and I use messenger terns 

to file my stories. Anything I write will take four days to get back to New York, and it’ll take another day 

or so for the news to find its way back here. See what I mean?” 

Alek nodded. If Volger really could escape, five days would be plenty of time for them to disappear. 

“All right, then.” Alek took a slow breath. “There’s a man aboard theLeviathan , a prisoner.” 

Malone’s scribbling pen came to a halt. “A German fellow, I presume?” 

“No. Austrian. His name is …” 

Alek’s voice faded—the gaslights were suddenly sputtering around them, the room plunging into 

darkness. 

“What’s happening?” Bauer hissed. 

Malone held up a hand. “Don’t worry. It’s just a shadow play.” 

The coffeehouse went silent, and soon the back wall was flickering to life. Alek realized that it wasn’t a 

wall at all but a thin screen of paper with powerful gaslights burning behind it. 

Dark forms came into focus on the paper screen, shadows in the shapes of monsters and men. 

Alek’s eyes widened. One of his aunts in Prague had collected shadow puppets from Indonesia, leather 

creations with moving arms and legs, like marionettes with sticks instead of strings. But the shadows here 

danced in perfect clockwork patterns. They were Clanker puppets, moved not by hand but by machines 

concealed behind the wall. 

The hidden actors spoke in what sounded like Turkish, but the story was easy enough to understand. 

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Across the bottom of the screen, waves rose and fell, and a sea creature bounded among them, a 

Darwinist monster with flailing tentacles and huge teeth. It approached a ship where two men stood on 

deck talking, unaware of the kraken coming for them. Alek caught the name Churchill among the 

unfamiliar words. 

Then suddenly the creature leapt from the waves, snatching one of the men and dragging him into the 

water. Oddly, the other man only laughed.… 

Alek jumped as someone squeezed his arm. It was Bauer, who nodded at a pair of German soldiers 

making their way through the coffeehouse. The two were going from table to table, checking faces 

against a photograph in their hands. 

“We should go, Fritz,” Bauer whispered. 

“They’re here for someone else,” Alek said firmly. No photograph of him had ever been taken. 

Malone had noticed their nervous glances, and turned to look at the German soldiers. He leaned 

forward to whisper, “If you two are busy, perhaps we should meet tomorrow. Noon, at the gateway to 

the Blue Mosque?” 

Alek began to explain that there was no need to leave, but then one of the soldiers stiffened. He glanced 

down at the photograph in his hands, then up at Alek. 

“Impossible,” Alek breathed. Then he realized that the soldier wasn’t looking at him after all. 

He was looking at Bauer. 

“I’m a fool,” Alek whispered to himself. 

The Germans had, of course, investigated the other men who’d disappeared the night he’d run away. 

Bauer, Hoffman, and Klopp were all Hapsburg House Guards, with photographs in their military files. 

But somehow Alek had forgotten that commoners could be hunted too. 

He looked frantically around the room. Two more German soldiers stood at the door, and the 

coffeehouse had no other exits. The soldiers who’d noticed Bauer were talking to each other intently, one 

glancing at their table. 

Malone leaned back in his chair and casually said, “There’s a door to the alley in the back.” 

Alek looked—the back wall was entirely covered by the glowing screen, but it was made of paper. 

“Hans, do you have a knife?” Alek asked softly. 

Bauer nodded, reaching into his jacket. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll keep them busy while you run.” 

“No, Hans. We’re escaping together. Give the knife to me, then follow.” 

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Bauer frowned, but handed over the weapon. The two German soldiers were signaling to their 

compatriots at the door. It was time to move. 

“Noon tomorrow at the Blue Mosque,” Alek said, reaching for his fez … 

He leapt to his feet and ran through the tables toward the glowing screen. 

The bright expanse of paper parted with a swift stroke of the knife, revealing whirling gears and gaslights 

behind. Half blinded, Alek crashed through silhouettes of ocean waves, stumbling against a large, 

humming contraption. His hand banged against one of the hissing gaslights, which burned like a branding 

iron against his hand. The light crashed to the ground, spilling naked flames and shards of glass across the 

floor. 

Shouts exploded from behind them, the crowd panicking at the smell of burning gas and paper. Alek 

heard one of the soldiers yelling at the customers to let him through. 

“The door, sir!” Bauer cried. Alek could see nothing but the spots burned into his vision, but Bauer 

dragged him along, their boots skidding on machinery and broken glass. 

The door crashed open onto darkness, the night air blessedly cool on Alek’s burned palm. He followed 

Bauer, trying to blink away spots as he ran. 

The alley was like a miniature version of the Grand Bazaar, lined with market stalls the size of closets, 

and crowded with small tables piled with pistachios, walnuts, and fruit. Surprised faces looked up at Alek 

and Bauer as they ran past. 

Alek heard the slam of the door bursting open behind them. Then a gunshot boomed through the alley, 

and dust sprayed from the ancient stones beside his head. 

“This way, sir!” Bauer cried, dragging him around a corner. People were scattering now, the alley turning 

into a tumult of men and overturned tables. Shutters flew open overhead, and cries in a dozen languages 

echoed from the walls. 

Another shot shook the air around them, and Alek followed Bauer into a side passageway between two 

buildings. It was narrow and empty, and their boots slapped through a runnel of drainage that ran down 

its middle. They had to duck beneath low stone arches as they ran. 

The alley didn’t lead back to the Grand Bazaar, or to an open street—it seemed to wind around itself, 

following the hissing spirals of steam pipes and wiring conduits. Only the barest hint of moonlight made its 

way down to the paving stones, and soon Alek had lost all sense of direction. 

The walls here were chalked with a tangle of words and symbols—Alek saw the Arabic, Greek, and 

Hebrew alphabets mixed together, along with signs he didn’t recognize. It felt as though he and Bauer 

had stumbled into an older city hidden inside the first, Istanbul before the Germans had widened its 

boulevards and filled them with polished steel machines. 

As they turned a corner, Bauer pulled Alek to a halt. 

Above them loomed a walker, six stories high. Its body was long and sinuous, like a snake rearing up, a 

pair of arms jutting out from its sides. The front of the pilot’s cabin looked like a woman’s face, which 

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seemed to be staring down at them, absolutely still. 

“Volger told us about these,” Alek whispered. “Iron golems. They keep the peace among the different 

ghettos.” 

“It looks empty,” Bauer said nervously. “And the engines aren’t running.” 

“Perhaps it’s only for show. It doesn’t even have guns.” 

There was something magnificent about the walker, though, as if they were staring up at a statue of some 

ancient pagan goddess. The expression of the giant face seemed to hint at a smile. 

Shouts came from the distance, and Alek tore his eyes from the machine. 

“We could break in somewhere and hide,” Bauer said, pointing at a low doorway in the alley wall, an 

iron-grilled window at its center. 

Alek hesitated. Crashing into a strange house would only stir up more trouble, especially if the owners of 

the motionless walker were about. 

The shriek of whistles echoed around them, as if pursuers were closing in from every direction.… 

Almost every direction. 

Alek looked up at the steam pipes climbing the stone walls. They sweated and trembled with heat, but 

he dashed down the alley, testing them until he found an old tangle of pipes that was cold to the touch. 

He thrust the knife into his belt. “Let’s try for the rooftops.” 

Bauer gave the pipes a shake, and brick dust floated down from the rusty bolts. “I’ll go first, sir, in case 

it breaks off.” 

“If that happens, Hans, I suspect we’ll both be in trouble, but be my guest.” 

Bauer took a firm grip and pulled himself up. 

Alek followed. His boots found steady purchase on the rough stone wall, and the rusty pipes were good 

handholds. But halfway up his burned palm began to complain, throbbing as though a splinter of flame 

were trapped beneath the skin. He let go with that hand and shook it, trying to put out the fire coursing 

through his nerves. 

“Not much farther, sir,” Bauer said. “There’s a rain gutter just above me.” 

“I hope there’s some rain in it,” Alek muttered, still waving his hand. “I’d kill for a bucket of cold water.” 

His right boot skidded a few centimeters, and Alek grabbed the pipes with both hands again. Better a 

little agony than a long fall onto paving stones. 

Soon Bauer had hauled himself over the edge and out of sight. But as Alek reached up for the gutter, 

shouts came from below. 

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He pulled himself closer to the wall, and froze. 

A group of soldiers was running down the alley, wearing German gray. One called out, and they came to 

a ragged halt directly beneath Alek. The man who’d shouted knelt, lifting something from the ground. 

Alek softly swore. Bauer’s knife had fallen from his belt. 

It was Hapsburg Guard issue, the hilt marked with Alek’s family crest. If the Germans had been 

wondering whether he was here in Istanbul or not, this would remove all doubt. 

The men stood there talking, but none of them paid any notice to the steam pipes climbing the wall 

beside them. The officer was pointing in all directions, splitting up his men. 

Go away!Alek pleaded silently. Hanging there motionless was a hundred times harder than climbing. His 

burned hand was cramping, and the week-old injury in his ribs was pulsing with his heartbeat. 

Finally the last man had passed out of sight, and Alek reached out and grabbed the rain gutter. But as he 

hauled himself up, metal groaned, and the gutter pulled itself from the stone with a series ofpop s. 

Alek felt a sickening lurch downward, the rusted bolts spitting out into his face. The gutter held for 

another moment, but he could feel it twisting in his hands. 

“Sir!” Bauer reached out from the rooftop, trying to grab Alek’s wrists, but the gutter had pulled too far 

away from the wall. 

Alek kicked out, trying to swing himself closer, but the movement only tore more bolts from the wall. 

“The walker!” Bauer cried. 

Alek realized that a huge shadow was moving beneath him, steam huffing from its joints into the cool 

night air. One of the great claws was reaching out.… 

He fell, dropping into the giant metal hand. The impact knocked the breath from him, sending pain 

shooting through his sore ribs. He skidded for a moment, the buttons of his tunic snapping against steel, 

but the claw closed into a huge bowl around him. 

He looked up—the arm was still moving, carrying him closer to the walker. Its face was splitting open, 

like a viewport cranking wider and wider. A moment later the pilot’s cabin was exposed. 

There were three men inside. Two stood leaning over the edge, peering down at the alley, pistols 

gripped tightly in their hands. The third sat at the walker’s controls, a curious look on his face. 

Clouds of steam swirled around them, puffing from the joints of the machine. Alek realized that its 

engines were still silent; it had used stored pneumatic pressure to spring to life. 

“You speak German,” the man at the controls said. “And yet the Germans are chasing you. How 

interesting.” 

“We’re not Germans,” Alek answered. “We’re Austrian.” 

The man frowned. “But still Clankers. Are you deserters?” 

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Alek shook his head. His allegiances might have been tangled lately, but he was no deserter. “May I ask 

whoyou are, sir?” 

The man smiled and worked at the controls. “I’m the fellow who just saved you from falling to your 

death.” 

“Sir, should I …,” came Bauer’s voice from the rooftop, but Alek waved him silent. 

The giant hand drew closer to the walker’s head, and opened flat. As Alek rose to his feet, one of the 

other two men said something in a language he didn’t recognize. It sounded more like Italian than the 

Turkish he’d heard on the streets today. It also sounded unfriendly. 

The first man laughed. “My friend wants to throw you back, because he thinks you’re Germans. Perhaps 

we should pick another language.” 

Alek raised an eyebrow. “By all means. Do you speak English?” 

“Exceedingly well.” The man switched effortlessly. “I studied at Oxford, you know.” 

“Well, then. My name is Aleksandar.” Alek bowed a little, then pointed up at the rooftop, where Bauer 

was staring down, wide eyed. “And this is Hans, but I’m afraid he has no English.” 

“I am Zaven.” The man waved a hand dismissively at the others. “These two barbarians speak nothing 

by Romanian and Turkish. Ignore them. But I can see you are an educated gentleman.” 

“Thank you for saving me, sir. And for not … throwing me back.” 

“Well, you can’t be all bad, if the Germans are chasing you.” Zaven’s eyes twinkled. “Did you do 

something to annoy them?” 

“I suppose so.” Alek took a slow breath, choosing his words carefully. “They’ve been hunting me since 

before the war started. They had issues with my father.” 

“Aha! A second-generation rebel, as am I!” 

Alek looked at the others. “So that’s what you three are? Revolutionaries?” 

“We are more than three, sir. There are thousands of us!” Zaven snapped upright in his piloting chair and 

saluted. “We are the Committee for Union and Progress.” 

Alek nodded. He remembered the name from six years before, when the rebellion had demanded a 

return to elected government. But the Germans had stepped in to crush them, keeping the sultan in 

charge. 

“So you were part of the Young Turks’ rebellion?” 

“Young Turks? Fah!” Zaven spat into the alley below. “We split off from those cretins years ago. They 

think that only Turks are true Ottomans. But as you can see, the Committee takes in all kinds.” He 

gestured at the other two men. “My friends are Vlachs, I am Armenian, and we have Kurds, Arabs, and 

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Jews among us. And plenty of Turks, of course!” He laughed. 

Alek nodded slowly, remembering the chalk scratchings in the passageways below, some sort of code 

assembled from the empire’s jumble of tongues. 

And all of them fighting the Germans—together. 

For a moment Alek felt unsteady on the giant metal hand. Perhaps it was just an echo of his near fall, but 

his heart was racing again. 

These men were allies. At last, here was a chance to do more than simply run and hide, a way to strike 

back at the powers that had murdered his parents. 

“Mr. Zaven,” Alek said, “I think you and I are going to be friends.” 

“Get out, you barking horrible spice!” Deryn yelled, then sneezed for the hundredth time that day. The 

sultan and his entourage would be aboard in an hour, and the whole crew was due in full-dress uniform in 

half that time. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, the red stain in her shirt wouldn’t budge. 

She was well and truly stuffed. 

A yip came from the door of her cabin, and Deryn turned to see Tazza bouncing happily on his hind legs, 

a fresh bone in his mouth. That was one benefit of Dr. Barlow’s mad scheme of pretending to give the 

Leviathan away—the beasties were eating better. Over the last two days the crew had made more trips 

to the markets and smithies of Istanbul, trading the airship’s ambergris for food and parts. Except for 

Deryn’s uniform, the ship was fit to receive a foreign emperor, which it shortly would. 

The lady boffin appeared, right behind her thylacine. She’d managed to dig another dazzling dress out of 

her luggage, and a hat with abundant ostrich feathers that matched her long white gloves. Even Tazza was 

wearing a fancy collar, a band of diamonds glittering around his neck. 

“Mr. Sharp,” she said, and tutted. “Once more I find you in a state of disrepair.” 

Deryn held up her dress shirt. “Sorry, ma’am. But this is ruined, and I haven’t got another!” 

“Well, it’s lucky you won’t be serving the sultan this evening. Mr. Newkirk will be stepping in for you.” 

“But the whole crew is meant to be in full dress!” 

“Not those with more important matters to contend with.” Dr. Barlow handed over the thylacine’s leash. 

“After you walk Tazza, please join me and the captain in the navigation room. I think you’ll find our 

conversation interesting.” 

Tazza tried to pull her out the door, but Deryn stood firm. “Pardon me, ma’am. The barkingcaptain 

wants to see me? Is this about your alternate plan for the Ottomans?” 

The lady boffin smiled coolly. “Partly. But it also concerns your recent behavior. If I were you, I 

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wouldn’t dawdle on your way there.” 

The navigation room was at the bow of the ship, just below the bridge. It was a small, quiet cabin where 

the captain sometimes retreated to think, or to have an awkward conversation with a wayward crewman. 

Deryn felt her stomach tighten as she drew near. What if the officers had noticed her fencing lessons with 

Count Volger? Whenever Deryn brought him a meal, she stayed for twenty minutes or so, practicing 

swordplay with mop handles. 

But the captain himself wouldn’t issue a reprimand for mere dawdling, would he? Unless he also knew 

that she’d been supplying Volger with newspapers, and had even told him about Admiral Souchon and 

theGoeben . Or how she’d looked the other way while the Clankers had been planning to escape! 

But when the lady boffin had announced this meeting, she’d beensmiling .… 

The late afternoon sun was slanting in through the windows that curved around the navigation room. Dr. 

Barlow and the captain were already there, along with the bosun and Dr. Busk, the officers all in 

resplendent dress uniforms for the sultan’s visit. 

Deryn frowned. If she was about to receive a reprimand, why in blazes was the ship’s head boffin here? 

When she clicked her heels, the four of them clammed up quickly, like children caught telling secrets. 

“Ah, Mr. Sharp, glad you could join us,” Captain Hobbes said. “We need to discuss your recent 

exploits.” 

“Um … my exploits, sir?” 

The captain raised a dispatch. “I have communicated with the Admiralty about the matter, and they 

concur with my recommendations.” 

“The Admiralty, sir?” Deryn managed. If the Admiralty was involved, this had to be a hanging offense! 

She looked at Dr. Barlow, racking her brain for what had given her treason away. 

“Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Sharp,” the bosun said. “Even in all the recent ruckus, your rescue of Mr. 

Newkirk has not been forgotten.” 

The rest of them broke into broad smiles, but Deryn’s brain ground to a halt. 

“Pardon me, sir?” 

“I wish we had time to do this properly,” Captain Hobbes said, “but other duties await.” 

He lifted a velvet jewelry case from the map table, opened it, and produced a rounded silver cross that 

dangled from a sky blue ribbon. The face of Charles Darwin was engraved upon its center, the Air 

Service wings at its top. 

Deryn stared at it, wondering what the captain was doing with her father’s medal, and how it had got so 

shiny and new.… 

“Midshipman Dylan Sharp,” the captain began, “I hereby award you the Air Gallantry Cross for your 

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brave and selfless actions of August 10, wherein you saved the life of a fellow crewman at great risk to 

your own. Congratulations.” 

As he pinned the medal to Deryn’s chest, Dr. Barlow applauded softly with gloved hands. The captain 

stepped back, and the officers saluted as one. 

A realization meandered its slow way through Deryn’s brain—this wasn’t her father’s medal … 

It was hers. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said at last, barely remembering to return the officers’ salutes. Instead of charging 

her with treason, they’d gone anddecorated her? 

“Now, then,” Captain Hobbes said, turning back to the map table. “We have other matters to discuss.” 

“Well done, Mr. Sharp,” the lady boffin whispered, patting Deryn on the shoulder. “If only you were 

properly dressed!” 

Deryn nodded dumbly, trying to gather her thoughts. She was a decorated officer now, pinned with the 

same medal her father had won. And unlike him, she was still alive. She could still hear her own heart 

beating, sure enough, like a drummer marching her off to war. 

Part of her wanted to weep, to let all the nightmares of the last week spill out of her. And another part 

wanted to shout aloud that this was madness. She was a traitor, a spy—agirl , for heaven’s sake. But 

somehow she managed to hold the jumble of feelings inside by staring down at the table as hard as she 

could. 

On it was a map of the Dardanelles, with mines and fortifications drawn by hand in red. As Deryn took 

slow breaths, her brain gradually focused on the matter at hand. 

The Dardanelles strait was the heart of the Ottoman defenses. It squeezed all ships headed for Istanbul 

into a channel less than a mile wide, which was stuffed with sea mines and lined with forts and cannon on 

high cliffs. 

Whatever the lady boffin’s alternate plan was, Deryn had a feeling it didn’t involve more diplomacy. 

“We’re forbidden to fly down the strait,” Captain Hobbes was saying. “The Ottomans don’t want us 

spying on their fortifications during the sultan’s joyride. But they’ve given us permission to travel down 

the ocean side—so the sultan can watch the sunset, we’ve told them.” 

The bosun chuckled as the captain’s finger traveled down the western edge of Gallipoli, the rocky 

peninsula that separated the strait from the Aegean Sea. 

“Just here is a ridge known as the Sphinx, a natural landmark. We can find our way back to it easily, day 

or night. So can your landing party, Mr. Sharp.” 

“Landing party, sir?” 

“That’s what I said. You’ll have to keelhaul drop from cruising altitude.” 

Deryn raised her eyebrows. A keelhaul drop meant sliding down a cable to the ground. But according to 

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theManual of Aeronautics , drops were only for abandoning ship. 

The bosun saw her expression, and smiled. “A bit lively, eh, Mr. Sharp? Especially for your first 

command.” 

“I’ll bein command , sir?” 

The captain nodded. “Can’t have a full officer in charge, in case you’re captured. Better a middy, so it’s 

less of an incident.” 

“Oh.” Deryn cleared her throat, realizing why they’d been in such a rush to give her the barking medal. 

In case she didn’t make it back. “I mean, yes, sir.” 

The captain’s finger slid across Gallipoli. “From the Sphinx your landing party will cross the peninsula to 

Kilye Niman—a bit more than two miles away.” He pointed at a narrow passage at a bend in the strait, 

which was marked with a dotted red line. “That’s where the Ottomans have their heavy kraken nets, 

according to our best dolphinesques.” 

“Pardon me, sir,” Deryn said, “but if the dolphins have already scouted them, what am I going for? To 

take photographs?” 

“Photographs?” The captain chuckled. “This isn’t a sightseeing trip, Mr. Sharp. Your job is to bring 

those nets down.” 

Deryn frowned. Heavy kraken nets were strong enough to stop even the largest beasties from getting 

through. How was her landing party meant to cut them up? With a pair of clippers? 

“Allow me to explain,” Dr. Barlow said, gesturing to two jars on the map table. They were crowded 

with tiny beasties, a honeycomb of white shells clinging to the interior of the glass. She twisted off the top 

of one, and the smell of salt water filled the room. “Did you know, Mr. Sharp, that my grandfather was 

an expert in the field of barnacles?” 

“Barnacles, ma’am?” 

“Amazing creatures. They spend their humble lives clinging to ships, to whales, to rocks and driftwood, 

and yet they are implacable. Enough of them can foul even the largest dreadnought’s engines.” She pulled 

on heavy gloves and lifted a pair of tongs from the table, then fished out a single beastie from the jar. “Of 

course, these are no ordinary barnacles. They’re a species of my own devising, prepared in case the 

Ottomans proved troublesome. You shall have to be careful with them.” 

“Don’t worry, ma’am. I won’t hurt your beasties.” 

“Hurtthem , Mr. Sharp?” the lady boffin asked, and Dr. Busk laughed. 

Suddenly Deryn smelled something besides seawater. It was a dark scent, like smoke from a smithy. 

Then she realized that the tongs were slowly drooping in Dr. Barlow’s hand. 

The metal itself was …melting . 

Dr. Barlow maneuvered the tongs carefully, so that they dropped the barnacle back into the jar of brine 

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before disintegrating altogether. “I call them vitriolic barnacles.” 

“Of course, Midshipman Sharp, you must keep this mission secret from the rest of the crew,” the captain 

said. “Even the men in your landing party won’t know the entire plan. Is that clear?” 

Deryn swallowed. “Perfectly clear, sir.” 

Dr. Barlow carefully screwed the top back onto the jar. “Once the vitriolic barnacles are on the kraken 

nets, they’ll begin to multiply, interbreeding with the natural barnacles already there. In a few weeks the 

colony will be overcrowded, like these in the jar. Then they shall begin to struggle, trying to dislodge each 

other’s relentless grip. Their vitriolic ooze will tear away at the nets, turning the cables into a stringy paste 

of metal at the bottom of the sea.” 

“We’ll return a month from now,” the captain said. “In the dark of the new moon, theLeviathan will 

guide a creature down the strait by searchlight. The Ottoman coastal artillery won’t be able to hit us in the 

air, and the beastie will swim deep underwater, unharmed by magnetic sea mines.” 

“But won’t the Ottoman navy have plenty of warning, sir?” Deryn asked—the strait was almost a 

hundred miles from Istanbul. 

“Indeed,” Dr. Busk said. “But Admiral Souchon won’t guess what sort of creature theLeviathan is 

bringing. It’s a new species, more formidable than any of our navy krakens.” 

Deryn nodded, remembering what Dr. Barlow had told her on the sultan’s airship. 

“It’s called a behemoth,” the head boffin said. 

By the time she left the navigation room, Deryn felt unsteady on her feet. 

First a decoration for gallantry, when she’d half expected to be hanged for treason. Then her first 

command, a secret attack against an empire that Britain was at peace with. That didn’t seem right at all. 

It was more like being a spy than a soldier! 

And the final shock was the drawing of the behemoth that Dr. Busk had shown them. It was a huge 

creature, with tentacles like a kraken and a maw big enough to swallow one of the kaiser’s submarines. 

The body was nearly as big as theLeviathan , but made of muscle and sinew instead of hydrogen and 

fragile membranes. 

No wonder Lord Churchill hadn’t wanted to hand it over! 

As Deryn neared the central stairs, she frowned—a civilian was lurking about in the corridor ahead of 

her. She recognized the shapeless hat and the bullfrog on his shoulder. It was Eddie Malone, the reporter 

she’d met aboard theDauntless , no doubt here to cover the sultan’s joyride. 

But what was he doing so close to the bow? 

“Excuse me, Mr. Malone,” she said. “Are you lost?” 

The man spun around on one heel, a guilty expression on his face. Then he frowned and took a closer 

look. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Sharp. How lucky!” 

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“Indeed you are, sir. You’re wandering about in a restricted area.” She pointed back toward the stairs. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to rejoin the other reporters in the mess hall.” 

“Well, of course,” Malone said, but he made no move to turn around, just stood there watching a 

message lizard scuttling past overhead. “I just wanted a better look at your magnificent ship.” 

Deryn sighed. She had only a few hours to learn how to use a diving apparatus, how to keelhaul drop 

onto solid stone, and how to handle acid-spitting barnacles! She wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. 

“You’re very kind, sir.” She pointed down the corridor again. “But if youplease .” 

Malone leaned closer and spoke quietly. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Sharp. I’m checking out a story. One 

that might make your ship look bad, if reported in a certain way. Perhaps you could clear things up for 

me.” 

“Clear what up, Mr. Malone?” 

“I have it on good authority that you’re holding a prisoner here. He should be a prisoner of war, but 

you’re not treating him properly.” 

Deryn took a long moment to speak. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about.” 

“I think you are! A man named Volger is aboard this ship. You’re making him work on those Clanker 

engines of yours, even though he’s a real-life count!” 

Deryn’s hand went to her command whistle, ready to call for the guards. But then she realized how 

Malone must have learned about Volger …from Alek . 

With a quick look in both directions, she pulled Malone out of the main corridor and into the officers’ 

baths. 

“Where did you hear this?” she whispered. 

“I met an odd fellow,” he said softly, scratching the chin of his bullfrog. “I thought he was a bit 

suspicious, and suddenly the Germans were chasing him. That didn’t seem right, as he was Austrian, a 

fellow Clanker!” 

“Germans?” Deryn’s eyes widened. “Is he all right?” 

“He gave them the slip, and I saw him again today at lunch.” The man smiled. “He knew a lot about your 

ship, which was also odd. Do you think I could meet this Volger fellow? I have a message to deliver.” 

Deryn groaned, her stomach winding into the same tight coils it always did when she was contemplating 

treason. But Alek was still here in Istanbul, and the Germans were after him! Maybe Count Volger could 

help. 

She held out her hand. “All right. I’ll take the message to him.” 

“It won’t work that way, I’m afraid.” Malone pointed at his bullfrog. “Rusty here has the message in his 

head, and you don’t know how to make him speak.” 

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Deryn stared at the frog, wondering if it was memorizing everything she was saying right now. Could she 

really trust this reporter? 

Her thoughts were shattered by a whistle echoing through the ship—the all-hands signal. The sultan was 

almost here. In a few minutes all the ship’s marines would be arrayed along the gangway, waiting for his 

arrival. 

Which meant that there wouldn’t be a guard at Volger’s stateroom door … 

Deryn reached for her ring of keys. 

“Come with me,” she said. 

As expected, no one was guarding the count’s stateroom. 

Deryn opened the door to the sight of Volger leaning halfway out his window, trying to get a better view 

of the sultan’s magnificent walker. Before she’d left the navigation room, Deryn had seen the 

elephant-shaped machine approaching across the airfield. It was even larger than theDauntless , its 

howdah as ornate as a lady’s hat on Derby Day. 

“Excuse me, sir,” she said to Volger’s backside, “but you have a visitor.” 

As the wildcount extracted himself from the window, Deryn checked the empty corridor and closed the 

door behind them. 

“A visitor?” Volger said. “How interesting.” 

The reporter stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “Eddie Malone, reporter for theNew York World 

.” 

Count Volger said nothing, eyeing Malone up and down. 

“He has a message from Alek,” Deryn said. 

Volger’s face froze for a moment. “Alek? Where is he?” 

“Right here in Istanbul.” Malone pulled out his battered notebook. “He told me about you being a 

prisoner aboard this ship. Are you being well treated, sir?” 

Volger didn’t answer, his expression still one of shock. 

“Blisters, Malone!” Deryn swore. “We haven’t got time for you to do a barking interview. Can your wee 

beastie please just deliver the message!” 

“Alek said it was private, just for the count.” 

Deryn groaned with frustration. “Alek won’t mind me hearing whatever he has to say. Right, your 

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countship?” 

Volger regarded the bullfrog with an expression of infinite distaste, but he gave the reporter a nod. 

Malone took the beastie from his shoulder and set it on the desk. He scratched beneath its chin, tapping 

a sort of code with his fingertip. “Okay, Rusty. Repeat.” 

The frog began to speak in Alek’s voice. “I can’t be sure if this is really you, Count, but I have to trust 

this man. We’re still here in Istanbul, you see, which I’m sure upsets you greatly. But we’ve met some 

friends—allies, I suppose you’d call them. I’ll say more about that when we meet face-to-face.” 

Deryn frowned. Allies? What was Alek blethering about? 

“Mr. Malone tells me that theLeviathan is still here as well,” the beastie continued. “If you and Hoffman 

can escape, you can join us! We’re at a hotel in the old city, with a name like my mother’s. We’ll stay 

here as long as we can.” 

At this, Count Volger softly groaned, his fists clenching at his sides. 

“Oh, and I apologize for making you listen to this abomination. But I need your help, Count, more than 

ever. Please try to join us. Um, end message, I suppose.” 

The bullfrog went silent. 

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions, sir?” Malone said, his pen at the ready. 

Count Volger didn’t answer, but sank into his desk chair, staring hatefully at the frog. “I suppose that’s 

really him?” 

“It sounds like Alek, right enough,” Deryn said. “And the beasties can only repeat what they’ve heard.” 

“Then why was he speaking in English?” Volger asked. 

“My name’s not Rosencrantz,” Eddie Malone said. “I wasn’t going to carry a message I didn’t 

understand.” 

“That little fool,” the count said quietly, shaking his head. “What’s he playing at now?” 

Eddie Malone picked up the bullfrog and placed it on his shoulder, a frown on his face. “You don’t 

sound glad to hear from this fellow. He seemed to think highly of you.” 

“Do you know what he was talking about?” Volger asked Malone. “Who these new ‘allies’ of his are?” 

The man shrugged. “He was being cagey about it. Istanbul is full of secret societies and conspiracies. 

There was a revolution just six years ago.” 

“So he’s fallen in with anarchists? Splendid.” 

“Anarchists?” Deryn frowned. “Alek’s not completely daft, you know!” 

Volger waved his hand at the bullfrog. “I believe this proves that he is. All he had to do was leave 

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Istanbul, then find somewhere to hide.” 

“Aye, butwhy would he do that?” Deryn said. “You and his da kept him cooped up his whole life, like a 

budgie in a fancy cage, and now he’s finally free. Did you really think he’d find some hole to hide in?” 

“The situation would seem to call for it.” 

“But Alek can’t keep running forever,” she cried. “He needs allies, like he had on this ship before the 

barking war got in the way. He needs somewhere to belong. But I will say this—I’m glad he ran away 

from the likes ofyou , even if he’s joined the barking Monkey Luddite Brigade! At least he can find his 

own way now!” 

Count Volger stared at her for a long moment, and Deryn realized that she’d let her voice go all 

squeaky. That was what came of thinking too hard about Alek—it turned her pure dead girly sometimes. 

“This Alek fellow just gets more and more interesting,” Malone said, pen scratching against his pad. 

“Can you give me a bit more background on him?” 

“No!” Deryn and Volger said together. 

The cast off alert sounded, and Deryn heard footsteps scrambling in the corridor outside. She 

swore—the captain had ordered a fast ascent. They had to make it down the peninsula before sunset, or 

her landing party would be keelhaul dropping in the dark. 

“We have to go now,” she said, dragging Malone toward the door. “They’ll be coming for his countship 

soon, to help with the engines.” 

“What about my interview?” 

“If they catch us in here, you’ll be interviewing a barking hangman!” Deryn eased open the door, 

peeking out and waiting for the corridor to clear. 

“Mr. Sharp,” Count Volger said from behind her. “I hope you understand that this complicates things.” 

She looked over her shoulder. “What are you blethering about?” 

“I need to rejoin Alek and talk him out of this madness. And that means escaping from this ship. 

Hoffman and I shall need your help with that.” 

“Have you gone barking mad as well?” she cried. “I’m not a traitor … notthat much of one, anyway.” 

“Perhaps, but if you don’t help us, I shall be forced to reveal your little secret.” 

Deryn froze. 

“I had begun to suspect during our fencing lessons,” the count said coolly. “There’s something about the 

way you stand. And your outbursts on Alek’s behalf have also been revealing. But really it was the look 

on your face just now that removed all doubt.” 

“I don’t know … what you’re talking about,” she said. The words came out ridiculously low, like a wee 

boy trying to sound like a man. 

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“Neither do I,” Eddie Malone said, his pen flying across the page. “But this is sure getting interesting.” 

“So if you want to continue serving on this ship,Mr. Sharp, I think you will be helping us to escape.” A 

cruel smile spread across Count Volger’s face. “Or shall I give our reporter friend here the news?” 

Deryn’s head was spinning like mad. She’d lived this moment in a hundred nightmares, but now the 

moment had arrived like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. And from barkingCount Volger , of all 

people. 

Suddenly Deryn hated all sneaky, clever people. 

She bit her lip, forcing her thoughts into focus. She was Midshipman Dylan Sharp, a decorated officer in 

His Majesty’s Air Service, not some ninny about to lose her head. Whatever she said now, she could 

scheme her way out of this later. 

“All right, then,” she spat. “I’ll help you escape.” 

Volger drummed his fingers. “It’ll have to be tomorrow night, before theLeviathan leaves Istanbul for 

good.” 

“Don’t you worry. I’ll be glad to see the back side of you!” 

With that, she dragged Eddie Malone out the door. 

Three hours later Deryn found herself staring out theLeviathan ’s open cargo door, a heavy pack on her 

back and a rocky expanse rolling past below. 

She sighed.Might as well jump now, without a barking rope. 

No matter how she thought the matter through, everything was hopeless and ruined. The count had 

guessed her secret, and he’d done so right smack in front of a reporter. Her first command was about to 

begin, but her career was practically over. 

“Don’t worry, lad,” the bosun said from beside her. “It’s never as far as it looks.” 

She nodded, wishing that it was something piffling like a keelhaul drop that had her jittery. Gravity was 

something you could beat; all it took was hydrogen, hot air, or even a bit of rope. But being a girl was a 

miserable, never-ending struggle. 

“I’m fine, Mr. Rigby. Just can’t wait to get started.” She turned toward her men. “How about you lot?” 

The three men in her landing party put on brave faces, but their eyes stayed glued to the passing 

landscape. As the Sphinx drew closer, the airship slowed, turning into the stiff breeze coming off the 

ocean. But the officers couldn’t come to a full halt without giving the sultan and his men too clear a view 

of the ground beneath them. 

A bit cheeky, committing espionage right in front of a nation’s sovereign. 

The bosun consulted his watch. “Twenty seconds, I’d say.” 

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“Clip your lines!” Deryn ordered. Her heart was starting to race now, driving out her gloomy thoughts. 

Volger and his threats could get stuffed. She could always toss him out his stateroom window. 

The terrain was rising beneath the ship now, turning from trees to scrub grass and rock, then finally sand. 

To her right was the Sphinx, a natural formation thrusting up like an ancient statue of some pagan god. 

“Get ready, lads.” She shouted, “Three, two, one …” … and jumped. 

The rope hissed through her safety clip, angry and piping hot in the sea breeze. She heard her comrades 

descending around her, a chorus of whirring cables slicing through the air. 

The ground came up fast, and Deryn snapped on a second clip. The friction doubled, jerking her into a 

slower fall. But solid rock and scrub grass still blurred beneath her, too fast for comfort. 

Then she felt it, a sway in her line. The airship was slowing just a squick. Her rope swung forward with 

her momentum, then began a slow swing backward, so that her position was almost static with the 

ground below. 

“Now!” Deryn cried, and pulled her second clip from the line. 

She dropped fast, hitting hard sand and loose, flat rocks that crunched and powdered under her boots. 

The impact shook her spine, but she stumbled along, managing to keep her feet. The rest of the cable 

whipped through her safety clip, smacked her hand spitefully, then skipped across the beach toward the 

sunset. 

As theLeviathan slid away into the distance, its engine noise faded into the crash of the waves. Deryn 

felt her gloom descend again, along with a lonely feeling of being left behind. 

She turned around, counting three other figures on the ridge. At least none of her command had been 

dragged into the sea. 

“Everyone all right?” she called. 

“Aye, sir!” two calls from the growing darkness, followed by a soft groan. 

It was Matthews, ten yards away and still not on his feet. Deryn scrambled across the loose rocks, and 

found him curled into a tight ball. 

“It’s my ankle, sir,” he said, teeth clenched. “I’ve turned it.” 

“All right. Let’s see if you can stand.” Deryn waved for the other men, then shrugged out of her heavy 

pack. She knelt and checked the glass case that held the vitriolic barnacles; it hadn’t broken. 

When Airmen Spencer and Robins had made their way over, she had them lift Matthews to his feet. But 

the moment his weight settled on the twisted right ankle, he cried out in pain. 

“Set him down,” she ordered, then let out a slow breath. 

The man’s ankle was stuffed. There was no way he could walk two miles across the rocky peninsula 

and back. 

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“You’ll have to wait here, Matthews.” 

“Aye, sir. But when are they picking us up?” 

Deryn hesitated. Of the four of them, only she knew exactly when theLeviathan would return to the 

Sphinx. That way, if the men were captured, the Ottomans couldn’t set a trap for the airship. 

As for Deryn herself, well, she was a decorated hero, wasn’t she? The Ottomans would never drag the 

truth from her. 

“I can’t tell you, Matthews. Just wait here, and don’t let anyone see you.” The man winced in pain again, 

and she added, “Trust me, the captain won’t leave us behind.” 

They knelt and divided the four packs among the three of them, giving Matthews most of the water and 

a little bully beef. Then Deryn, Robins, and Spencer headed down the ridge toward the strait, leaving him 

all alone. 

A few minutes into her first command, and she was already one man down. 

Two miles hadn’t looked very far on the map, but the real Gallipoli was a different matter. 

The peninsula was crisscrossed by high steep-sided ridges, as if mountains of limestone had been raked 

to pieces by giant claws. The valleys between were choked with dry, brittle undergrowth. And whenever 

Deryn and her party rested, ants made their way out of the sandy ground to torment their ankles. 

To make things worse, the Royal Navy’s maps of Gallipoli were useless, showing only a fraction of the 

ridgelines and overgrown ravines. Deryn kept an eye on her compass and on the stars overhead, but the 

tangled geography still forced her into tortured zigzags. 

By the time they reached the other side of the peninsula, it was after midnight. 

“I reckon this has to be Kilye Niman, sir,” Spencer said, dropping his heavy pack to the ground. 

Deryn nodded, peering down at the beach through her field glasses. Two lines of buoys stretched across 

the narrow strait, bobbing gently on the waves. The giant metal barrels were covered with cruel-looking 

barbs and phosphorous bombs. Hanging unseen beneath them would be the kraken nets, a thick lattice 

of metal cables threaded with more spikes and explosives. 

Rising from the water at either end of the nets were tall towers, their searchlights sweeping slowly across 

the water. Deryn made a quick sketch of the fortifications she could see—at least a score of twelve-inch 

guns aiming down from the cliffs, all sheltered in bunkers cut deep into the limestone. 

Impossible for ships to get past, but the behemoth could slip by beneath the water’s surface. 

“I reckon the navy will owe us a few favors after this, sir,” said Robins. 

“Aye, but it’s the Russians who’ll really thank us,” Deryn said, spotting a cargo ship waiting for daylight 

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to arrive so it could sail past the nets. “This is their lifeline.” 

When she’d told Volger about theGoeben and theBreslau , he’d agreed that the Germans’ ultimate plan 

was to close The Straits. Starving the Russian army’s fighting bears was worth giving the sultan a pair of 

ironclads. 

She pulled the diving gear from their packs, and knelt in the brush to put the suit together. It was a 

Spottiswoode Rebreather, the first underwater apparatus created from fabricated creatures. The suit had 

been woven from salamander skin and tortoise shell. The rebreather itself was practically a living 

creature, a set of fabricated gills that had to be kept wet even in storage. 

In short, the suit was a Monkey Luddite’s nightmare. Deryn felt a squick of jitters herself as she crawled 

inside, the wrinkled skin of reptiles slithering over her own. At least it made Spencer and Robins nervous 

too; they were happy to turn away as she put it on. Even as dark as it was, it would have been tricky 

stripping down to her skivvies in front of two airmen. 

When Deryn was ready, she and Spencer crept down to the beach, leaving Robins to guard the packs. 

At the water’s edge the tides had carved a yard-high bank of sand to hide behind. They waited there for 

the searchlights to sweep past, then slapped across the luminous wet sand of the beach, wading into the 

cool salt water of the strait. 

“Here you go, sir,” Spencer said, handing her the rebreather. “I’ll stay right here by the water.” 

“Just stay hidden.” Deryn dipped her goggles and strapped them on. “If I’m away longer than three 

hours, go back and see to Matthews before it’s light. I can get back on my own.” 

“Aye, sir.” Spencer saluted and crept back to the shadows. When he was out of sight, Deryn finally 

unwrapped the glass cases of vitriolic barnacles. As per the captain’s orders, she hadn’t let the men catch 

even a glimpse of them. 

The searchlight was sweeping around again, and she sank down to her neck, pressing the rebreather to 

her mouth. 

Just as in Dr. Busk’s office a few hours before, the feeling was uncanny and a bit horrid. The tendrils of 

the beastie crept into her mouth, seeking a source of carbon dioxide. A fishy taste covered her tongue, 

and the air she breathed turned warm and salty, like in theLeviathan ’s galley when the cooks were 

frying up anchovies. 

Deryn bent her knees, dropping beneath the surface. 

The searchlight flickered past overhead, and then it was very dark. She squatted on the sand for a 

moment, forcing herself to take slow and even breaths. 

When she’d stopped shivering from the cold, Deryn pushed out toward the first line of nets, staying just 

beneath the surface. She’d swum in the ocean plenty of times, but never at night. The blackness around 

her seemed full of huge shapes, and the strange taste of the rebreather was a constant reminder that she 

didn’t belong in this cold and inky realm. She remembered her first sea training exercise aboard the 

Leviathan , watching a kraken crush a wooden schooner into matchsticks. 

But there would be no krakens in this strait, not yet. This was Clanker territory, where the worst 

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beasties were sharks and jellyfish, neither of which could harm her through the Spottiswoode armor. 

After a long swim she reached one of the buoys, which bobbed in the water like a spiky metal 

hedgehog. Deryn took hold of one of the spurs gingerly. They were sharp enough to puncture kraken 

skin, and tipped with phosphorous bombs that would automatically ignite when the beastie tried to 

struggle free. 

She clung there, resting before heading down. The vitriolic barnacles had to be placed deep beneath the 

waterline, so the colony wouldn’t gobble up the buoys and give away their presence too soon. 

When Deryn had caught her breath, she let herself sink, descending until the last glimmer of the waning 

moon disappeared above. The net was easy to find even in the blackness, its cables as thick as her arm 

and studded with spurs the size of boat hooks. But it was tricky opening the glass cases while blind and 

wearing thick gloves of salamander skin, and it took Deryn long minutes to deposit six of the wee 

beasties a few feet apart. They had to be close enough to create a colony, Dr. Barlow had explained, but 

not so close that the fighting would start right away. 

Deryn kicked her way back to the surface, partly to orient herself and partly to recover from the cold of 

the deeper water. She stared tiredly down the line of buoys stretching across the half mile to the other 

shore. The job would take a dozen more dives, at least. 

It was going to be a long, cold night. 

Her fingers were dead numb by the time the last barnacle was in place. The cold had seeped through the 

salamander skin and deep into her bones, and Deryn realized that this was her second lost night of sleep 

in three days. 

On top of the cold and her exhaustion, the rebreather seemed to be slowly sucking the life from her. It 

felt as though she hadn’t had a proper gulp of air since its tendrils had crept into her mouth. So when she 

came up for the last time, Deryn decided to risk the searchlights and swim back on the surface. 

The rebreather came out a bit stickily, like pulling toffee stuck between her teeth. But it was worth a 

moment of irksomeness to taste the pure night air again. She headed back, ducking low in the water 

whenever the searchlights swung round. 

Halfway back to shore, the sharp slap of a gunshot rolled across the strait. 

Deryn’s exhaustion vanished in a flash, and she sank down until her eyes were just above the surface. A 

large black shape was lumbering across the sand, perhaps twenty yards from where she’d left Spencer 

waiting. 

It was a walker, a machine in the form of a scorpion, with six legs and two grasping claws in front. The 

long tail curled up into the air, the beam of a spotlight flaring from its tip. 

Deryn swam closer, hearing shouts and another gunshot. The spotlight was trained on a lone figure in a 

British flight suit, while a dozen or so men scrambled across the sand in pursuit. The searchlight from the 

nearest tower left its slow path and swung toward the beach, forcing Deryn underwater again. 

She stuffed the rebreather back into her mouth, then swam closer beneath the surface, her heart 

pounding in her ears. One of her men had obviously been caught, but perhaps the other was still hidden. 

If she could find him, they could swim away, sharing the rebreather between them. 

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A few yards from the beach, Deryn lifted her head above the water, letting herself rise and fall with the 

swell of the waves. Her eyes swept the shadows behind the shelf of sand, but she saw no one hidden 

there. She crawled closer, as slow as some primordial beastie taking its first steps on land. 

The scorpion’s spotlight shifted closer to the tree line, revealing another figure in a flight suit lying on the 

ground. Two Ottoman soldiers stood nearby, watching the downed man with their rifles pointed at him. 

Deryn swore silently—both her men had been captured. She clung to the darkness behind the shelf of 

sand, wondering what to do. The walker was moving now, making the sand tremble beneath her knees. 

How was she meant to take on a giant scorpion and a score of soldiers with nothing but a rigger’s knife? 

She poked her head up. The two Ottomans were lifting the downed man now, helping him up from the 

sand. He was limping on his right foot.… 

Deryn frowned. That wasMatthews , the man she’d left at the Sphinx. The Ottomans must have 

captured him. Had he led them here? Or had the Ottomans simply guessed that the kraken nets were 

their objective? 

And where was her third man? 

Then the spotlight shifted again, and machine-gun fire erupted from the tip of the scorpion’s tail, raking 

the trees along the beach. The branches thrashed madly in the hail of bullets, and sand sprayed into the 

air. 

Finally the machine gun went silent, and a group of Ottoman soldiers charged into the brush. A moment 

later they dragged something out. It was a body, motionless and as white as a sheet except for the red 

stains on the flight suit. 

Deryn swallowed. Her first command had been killed and captured down to the last man. 

With a noisy grinding of gears, the scorpion moved closer to the dead body. One of its massive front 

claws dug into the sand, then came up, lifting the lifeless form into the air. The Ottomans were taking her 

men somewhere, probably to interrogate the survivors and take a closer look at their uniforms and 

equipment. 

They would soon guess that the landing party had come from theLeviathan , even if they hadn’t forced 

it out of Matthews already. But her men knew nothing about the vitriolic barnacles, and even if the 

Ottomans inspected the nets, they wouldn’t notice a few more beasties among the millions already living 

along the miles of cable. 

Hopefully they would think this had been a simple reconnaissance mission, and an utter failure. The 

Ottomans would probably lodge a protest with theLeviathan ’s captain, but as far as they knew, this 

mission had not been an act of war. Deryn was the only one who could explain otherwise. 

She had to get away from here, or risk everything. There could be no heroic attempt to rescue her men, 

and no heading back to the Sphinx now either. The Ottomans would be patrolling the whole peninsula for 

weeks to come. 

There was only one place to go. 

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Deryn stared back out across the black water, to where the cargo ship she’d seen earlier waited to 

transit the strait. Once the sun rose, it would head for Istanbul. 

“Alek,” she said softly, and slipped back into the sea. 

The minarets of the Blue Mosque rose up behind the trees, six tall spires like thin freshly sharpened 

pencils standing on end. The graceful arc of the mosque’s dome stood out dark gray against the hazy 

sky, and sunlight shimmered from the spinning blades of gyrothopters and aeroplanes overhead. 

Alek sat outside the small coffeehouse where Eddie Malone had taken him the day before. It was on a 

quiet side street, and Alek was sipping black tea and studying his collection of Ottoman coins. He had 

begun to learn their names in Turkish, and which ones to hide from shopkeepers if he wanted a fair price. 

With the Germans handing out photographs of Bauer and Klopp, it was up to Alek to buy supplies. 

He’d learned a lot, though, wandering the streets of Istanbul on his own. How to bargain with merchants, 

how to slip through the German parts of town unnoticed, even how to tell time by the prayers drifting 

down from the city’s minarets. 

Most important of all, he’d realized something about this city—he was meant to be here. This was where 

the war would turn, either for or against the Clanker side. A slender strip of water glittered in the 

distance, the fog sirens of cargo ships wailing softly as they crept along it. This passage from the 

Mediterranean to the Black Sea was the Russian army’s lifeline, the thread that held the Darwinist 

powers together. That was why providence had brought him halfway across Europe. 

Alek was here to stop the war. 

In the meantime he’d also taught himself a little Turkish. 

“Nasilsiniz?”he practiced. 

“Iyiyim,” came an answer from the covered birdcage on his table. 

“Shush!” Alek looked about. Fabricated beasts might not be strictly illegal here, but there was no point 

in drawing attention to himself. Besides, it was insufferable that the creature’s accent was better than his 

own. 

He adjusted the cage’s cover, closing the gap the creature had been peeking through. But it was already 

sulking in a corner. It was uncannily good at reading Alek’s mood, which at the moment was one of 

annoyance. 

Where was Eddie Malone, anyway? He’d promised to be here half an hour ago, and Alek had another 

appointment soon. 

He was just about to leave when Malone’s voice called from behind him. 

Alek turned and nodded curtly. “Ah, here you are at last.” 

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“At last?” Malone raised an eyebrow. “You in a hurry to get somewhere?” 

Alek didn’t answer that. “Did you see Count Volger?” 

“I did indeed.” Malone waved for a waiter and ordered lunch, consulting the menu and taking his time 

about it. “A fascinating ship, theLeviathan . The sultan’s joyride turned out to be more interesting than I 

expected.” 

“I’m pleased to hear it. But I’m more interested in what Count Volger said.” 

“He said a lot of things … most of which I didn’t understand.” Malone pulled out his notebook and 

readied his pen. “I’m curious if you know the fellow who helped me get in to see Volger. Name of Dylan 

Sharp?” 

“Dylan?” Alek asked, frowning. “Of course I know him. He’s a midshipman aboard theLeviathan .” 

“Did you ever notice anything odd about him?” 

Alek shook his head. “What do you mean by odd?” 

“Well, when Count Volger heard your message, he decided that joining you might be a good idea, and 

said so. I thought it was downright rash of him to talk about escaping right in front of a crewman.” 

Malone leaned closer. “But then heordered Mr. Sharp to help him.” 

“He ordered him?” 

Malone nodded. “Almost as if he were threatening the boy. Looked like a case of blackmail to me. 

Does that make any sense?” 

“I … I’m not sure,” Alek said. Certainly Dylan had done a few things he wouldn’t want the ship’s 

officers to hear about—like keeping Alek’s secrets. But Volger could hardly blackmail Dylan on that 

subject without revealing to the Darwinists who Alek really was. “It doesn’t sound right, Mr. Malone. 

Perhaps you misheard.” 

“Well, maybe you’d like to hear for yourself.” The man took the frog from his shoulder, set it on the 

table, and scratched it under the chin. “Okay, Rusty. Repeat.” 

A moment later Count Volger’s voice emerged from the bullfrog’s mouth. 

“Mr. Sharp, I hope you understand that this complicates things,” it said, then switched to Dylan’s voice. 

“What are you blethering about?” 

Alek looked around, but the handful of other patrons didn’t seem to notice. They looked off into the 

distance, as if talking frogs came to dine at this establishment every day. No wonder Malone had insisted 

on meeting here. 

The frog started up a whooping noise, like theLeviathan ’s Klaxon sounding an alert. Then it continued 

in a tangle of voices, with the wail of the Klaxon breaking in at odd times, most of the words flying by too 

fast for the frog to render clearly. 

Page 88


But then Count Volger’s voice came out of the muddle. “Perhaps, but if you don’t help us, I shall be 

forced to reveal your little secret.” 

Alek frowned, wondering what was going on. Volger was talking cryptically about fencing lessons. At 

first Dylan sputtered that he didn’t understand, but his voice was shaky, almost as if he were about to 

cry. Finally he agreed to help the count and Hoffman escape, and with one last shriek of the Klaxon, the 

bullfrog went silent. 

Eddie Malone lifted it from the table and placed it gently back on his shoulder. “Care to shed any light 

on the matter?” 

“I don’t know,” Alek said slowly, which was the truth. He’d never heard such panic in Dylan’s voice 

before. The boy had risked being hanged for Alek. What threat of Volger’s could frighten him so much? 

But it was no good thinking aloud in front of this reporter. The man knew too much already. 

“Let me askyou a question, Mr. Malone.” Alek pointed at the frog. “Did they know this abomination 

was memorizing their words?” 

The man shrugged. “I never told them otherwise.” 

“How honest of you.” 

“I never lied,” Malone said. “And I can promise you that Rusty isn’t memorizing now. He won’t unless I 

ask him to.” 

“Well, whether he’s listening or not, there’s nothing I can add.” Alek stared at the frog, still hearing 

Dylan’s voice. He’d almost sounded like a different person. 

With Dylan’s help, of course, Volger and Hoffman stood a better chance of escaping. 

“Did Volger say when they would try?” 

“It has to be tonight,” Malone said. “The four days is almost up. Unless the British really do plan on 

giving theLeviathan to the sultan, it has to leave Istanbul tomorrow.” 

“Excellent,” Alek said, standing up and offering his hand. “Thank you for carrying our messages, Mr. 

Malone. I’m sorry that I must beg your leave.” 

“An appointment with your new friends, perhaps?” 

“I leave that to your imagination,” Alek said. “And by the way, I hope you won’t write about any of this 

too soon. Volger and I might decide to stay in Istanbul a bit longer.” 

Malone leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Oh, don’t worry about me making a mess of your plans. 

As far as I can see, this story is just getting interesting.” 

Alek left the man scribbling in his notebook, no doubt writing down everything they’d said. Or perhaps 

he’d been lying and the bullfrog had memorized it all. It was mad to trust a reporter with his secrets, Alek 

supposed, but being reunited with Volger was worth the risk. 

Page 89


He wished the wildcount could be here for his next appointment. Zaven was introducing him to more 

members of the Committee for Union and Progress. Zaven himself was a friendly sort, and an educated 

gentleman, but his fellow revolutionaries might not be so welcoming. It wouldn’t be easy for a Clanker 

aristocrat to earn their trust. 

“You were very good at staying quiet,” Alek whispered to the birdcage as he walked away. “If you 

keep behaving, I shall buy you strawberries.” 

“Mr.Sharp,” the creature answered, then made a giggling sound. 

Alek frowned. The words were a snatch of the conversation the bullfrog had repeated. The creature 

didn’t imitate voices, but Count Volger’s sarcastic tone was quite recognizable. 

Alek wondered why the beast had chosen those two words from everything it had heard. 

“Mr.Sharp,” it said again, sounding abundantly pleased with itself. 

Alek shushed it and pulled a hand-drawn map from his pocket. The route, labeled in Zaven’s flowery 

handwriting, took him north and west from the Blue Mosque, toward the neighborhood he’d stumbled 

into two nights before. 

The buildings grew taller as he walked, and the Clanker influences stronger. Tram tracks braided 

through the paving stones, and the walls were stained by exhaust, almost as black as the steel spires of 

Berlin and Prague. German-made machines huffed down the streets, their spare, functional designs 

strange to Alek after days of seeing walkers shaped like animals. The signs of rebellion also grew—the 

mix of alphabets and religious symbols filled the walls again, marks of the host of smaller nations that 

made up the Ottoman Empire. 

Zaven’s map led Alek deep into a tangle of warehouses, where mechanikal arms stood beside loading 

docks. The stone walls loomed high above the narrow streets, so tall they almost seemed to touch each 

other overhead. Sunlight filtered grayly through the fumes. 

There were few pedestrians here, and Alek began to feel wary. Before yesterday he’d never walked 

alone in a city, and he didn’t know which sorts of neighborhoods were safe and which were not. 

He came to a halt, setting down the birdcage to check Zaven’s map once more. As he squinted at the 

flamboyant handwriting, Alek noticed a figure out of the corner of his eye. 

The woman was dressed in long black robes, her face covered by a veil. She was hunched with age, 

and a few silver coins were sewn into her headdress. He’d seen plenty of desert tribesmen like her on the 

streets of Istanbul, but never a woman walking alone before. She stood, motionless, beside a warehouse 

wall, staring down at the cobblestones. 

When Alek had passed that building a moment ago, she hadn’t been there. 

He quickly folded the map, then picked up the cage and started walking again. A moment later he 

glanced backward. 

The old woman was following him. 

Alek frowned. How long had she been there? 

Page 90


He chewed his lip as he walked. He was close to the address Zaven had given him, but he could hardly 

lead this stranger straight to his new allies. Istanbul was full of spies and revolutionaries, and of secret 

police as well. 

But surely he could outrun an old woman. Hoisting the heavy birdcage higher, Alek quickened his pace. 

He let himself take longer and longer steps, ignoring the complaints from beneath the birdcage cover. 

And yet when he looked back, his pursuer was still there, gliding gracefully across the paving stones, her 

robes rippling like waves of black water. 

This was no old woman, perhaps no woman at all. 

Alek’s hand went to his belt, and he softly swore. He was armed only with a long knife he’d bought at 

the Grand Bazaar that morning. Its curved steel blade had looked exotically lethal laid out on red velvet. 

But its edge hadn’t been sharpened yet, and Alek had never trained to use a weapon of its kind. 

He rounded the last corner, almost at the address on Zaven’s map. With his pursuer out of sight for a 

moment, he dashed ahead, ducking into the entrance of an alley. 

“Shush,” he breathed through the birdcage’s cover. The creature made an unhappy noise at being 

bounced about again, but fell silent. 

Alek placed the cage carefully on the ground and peeked out. 

The dark figure appeared, moving slowly now, and came to a halt in front of a loading dock on the other 

side of the street. Alek saw the symbol painted on the dock, and frowned. 

It was the same symbol Zaven had drawn extravagantly on his map. 

Was this a coincidence? Or had this pursuer already known where Alek was headed? 

The black-robed figure jumped up onto the loading dock in a single bound, confirming that this was no 

woman. The man backed into the shadows, but his robes were just visible, billowing softly in the breeze. 

Alek stood there in the alley, his back pressed hard against cold stone. Thanks to Eddie Malone, he was 

already half an hour late. If he waited for his pursuer to give up and go away, it might take ages more. 

What would his new allies think if he arrived at their secret meeting hours behind schedule? 

Of course, if he brought them this spy as his prisoner, they might be somewhat more impressed.… 

A six-legged German walker was headed up the street, dragging a heavy cargo train behind it—the 

perfect cover. Alek knelt and spoke softly to the birdcage. “I’ll be right back. Just stay quiet.” 

“Quiet,” the creature muttered in reply. 

Alek waited until the cargo train was lumbering past, between him and the other man. He stole out of the 

alley and scampered along behind the train, then slipped between two cars and across the street. 

His back to the stone warehouse wall, Alek inched his way toward the loading dock. The long, curved 

knife felt unfamiliar in his hand, and he wondered for a moment if the man had spotted him. 

Page 91


But it was too late for doubts. Alek crept closer.… 

Suddenly a maniacal peel of laughter came from across the street, echoing from the alley where he’d left 

the beast! 

Alek froze. Was it in trouble? 

A moment later the black-robed figure jumped down onto the street. It crept toward the maniacal 

laughter, crossing the street to peer into the alleyway. 

Alek saw his chance, stealing up behind to press his knife against the man’s throat. “Surrender, sir! I 

have the advantage.” 

The man was smaller than he’d thought—and quicker. He whipped around within Alek’s grip, and 

suddenly they faced each other. 

Alek found himself staring into deep brown eyes framed with ringlets of black hair. This wasn’t a man at 

all! 

“Not quite an advantage, boy,” the girl said in perfect German. “Unless you want to join me in death.” 

Alek felt a nudge, and looked down. 

The tip of her knife was pressed against his stomach. 

Alek swallowed, wondering what to do. But then the door to the loading dock began to rise, rattling 

with the clatter of chains and pulleys. 

Both of them looked up, still locked in their lethal embrace. 

Zaven stood there in the doorway, beaming down at them. 

“Ah, Alek! You’re finally here. And I see you’ve met my daughter!” 

This book is a work of fiction. Any references 

to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. 

Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any 

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, 

living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

SIMON PULSE 

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 

www.SimonandSchuster.com 

First Simon Pulse hardcover edition October 2010 

Copyright © 2010 by Scott Westerfeld 

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. 

Page 92


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Designed by Mike Rosamilia 

The text of this book was set in Hoefler Text. 

Manufactured in the United States of America 

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 

Westerfeld, Scott. 

Behemoth / written by Scott Westerfeld; illustrated by Keith Thompson. 

—1st Simon Pulse hardcover ed. 

p. cm. 

Sequel to: Leviathan. 

Summary: Continues the story of Austrian Prince Alek who, in an alternate 1914 Europe, eludes the 

Germans by traveling in theLeviathan to Constantinople, 

where he faces a whole new kind of genetically engineered warships. 

ISBN 978-1-4169-7175-7 (hardcover) 

[1. Science fiction. 2. Imaginary creatures—Fiction. 3. Princes—Fiction. 

4. War—Fiction. 5. Genetic engineering—Fiction.] 

I. Thompson, Keith, 1982– ill. II. Title. 

PZ7.W5197Beh 2010 

[Fic]—dc22 

2010009755 

ISBN 978-1-4424-0957-6 (eBook) 

“You should have let me kill him,” Zaven’s daughter said as they climbed the broad staircase inside the 

warehouse. 

The creature giggled from the birdcage, and Alek wondered what madness had gotten into it. 

Zaven clicked his tongue sadly. “Ah, Lilit. You are your mother’s daughter.” 

“He was talking to a reporter!” 

Alek realized that Lilit was speaking German, deliberately letting him understand. He found it rather 

awkward, being threatened by a girl. Almost as embarrassing as mistaking her for a man. 

“Nene will agree with me,” Lilit said, fixing Alek with a cold glare. “Then we’ll see who has the 

advantage.” 

He rolled his eyes at her. As if a mere girl could get the better of him. It had all been the creature’s fault 

for distracting him. The birdcage seemed heavier than ever, climbing these endless stairs. How high up 

were they going? 

Page 93


“Mr. Malone was carrying a message for me,” he explained. “From my friend aboard theLeviathan . I 

didn’t tell him anything about your Committee!” 

“Maybe not,” Lilit said. “But I followed you an hour before you noticed me. Stupidity can be just as 

deadly as treachery.” 

Alek took a slow breath, wishing for the hundredth time that Volger were here. 

But Zaven only laughed. “Fah! There’s no shame in being trailed by my daughter, Alek. She’s a master 

of the shadows.” He thumped his chest. “Trained by the best there is!” 

“It’s true, I didn’t notice you,” Alek said, turning to Lilit. “But was anyone else following me?” 

“No. I would have seen them.” 

“Well, then. I haven’t given you away to the sultan’s secret police, have I?” 

Lilithmph ed and climbed ahead. “We’ll see what Nene says.” 

“In any case,” Alek called up after her, “if the Germans find me, they won’t bother trailing me. I’ll simply 

disappear.” 

Lilit didn’t turn to face him, but muttered, “That’s useful to know.” 

The staircase continued up, dimly lit by a column of latticed windows letting in gray sunlight. As Zaven 

lead them above the swirling exhaust fumes on the street, the stairs grew brighter. Small touches of 

humanity appeared on the cold stone walls—family portraits and the three-barred crosses of the 

Byzantine Church. 

“Zaven,” Alek asked, “do you live here?” 

“A masterpiece of deduction,” Lilit said. 

“We’ve always lived above the family business,” Zaven said, stopping before a pair of wooden doors 

with ornate brass fittings. “Whether it was a hat shop or a mechaniks factory. And now that the family 

business is revolution, we live above the Committee!” 

Alek frowned, wondering where this “committee” was. The warehouse felt as still as an empty church; 

the paint on the walls was cracked, the stairs in disrepair. 

As Zaven unlocked the doors, he said, “No disguises at home.” 

Lilit gave him an annoyed look, but pulled the desert robes over her head. Beneath them she wore a 

brilliant red silk dress that almost reached the floor. 

Alek noticed again how brown her eyes were, and how beautiful she was. What an idiot he’d been to 

mistake her for a man. 

Zaven pushed through the doors into a riot of color. The apartments’ divans and chairs were covered 

Page 94


with vivid silks, the electrikal lamps decorated with rainbows of translucent tiles. A vast Persian rug was 

spread across the floor, its meticulous geometries woven in the hues of fallen autumn leaves. Sunlight 

spilled in from a large balcony, setting the whole mosaic aflame. 

The furniture had seen better days, however, and the rug was worn through in places. 

“Very cozy,” Alek said, “for a revolution.” 

“We do our best,” Zaven said, taking in the room with a tired sweep of his eyes. “A proper host would 

offer you tea first. But we’re already late.” 

“Nene doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” Lilit said. 

Alek straightened his tunic. Nene was obviously the leader of the group. It would be best to look smart 

in front of him. 

They led him to another set of double doors. Lilit knocked softly, waited a moment, then pushed the 

doors open. 

Unlike the outer apartments, this room was dark, the air heavy with incense and the smell of dusty 

carpets. The viscous light of an old-fashioned oil lamp turned everything the color of red wine. A dozen 

wireless receivers sat in the shadows, their tubes softly glowing, the chatter of Morse code filling the air. 

Against the far wall stood a huge canopied bed covered with mosquito netting. It rested on four legs 

carved with drooping folds of skin, like those of a reptile. Within the netting lay a small, thin figure 

wrapped in white sheets. Two glittering eyes stared out from beneath an explosion of gray hair. 

“So this is your German boy?” came a crackly voice. “The one you had to save from the Germans?” 

“He’s Austrian,” Zaven said. “But yes, Mother, he’s a Clanker.” 

“And a spy, Nene.” Lilit bent to kiss the old woman on the forehead. “I saw him talking to a reporter 

before he came here!” 

Alek slowly let out his breath. The fearsome Nene was simply Zaven’s mother? Was this whole 

Committee nothing but an eccentric family hobby? 

He set down the birdcage and bowed. “Good afternoon, madam.” 

“Well, you certainly have an Austrian accent,” she said in excellent German—these Ottomans seemed to 

know half a dozen languages each. “But there are many Austrians working for the sultan.” 

Alek gestured at Zaven. “But your son saw the Germans chasing me.” 

“Chasing you straight to one of our walkers,” Nene said. “A rather convenient introduction.” 

“I had no idea that machine would catch me when I fell,” Alek argued. “I could have died!” 

“You still could,” Lilit muttered. 

Alek ignored her, kneeling by the birdcage to untie the cover’s straps. As he stood, he lifted the cage 

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into Nene’s view. 

“Would an agent of the sultan have one of these?” he said, then whisked off the cover. 

The creature looked out at them all, its huge eyes round. It turned from one face to the next, taking in 

Zaven’s surprise, Lilit’s suspicion, and finally Nene’s cold, glittering eyes. 

“What on earth is that?” she asked. 

“A creature from theLeviathan , where I’ve served as engine crew the last two weeks.” 

“A Clanker, on theLeviathan ?” Nene let out a chuckle. “What nonsense. You probably bought that 

beast from some backroom shop in the Grand Bazaar.” 

Alek drew himself straighter. “I certainly did not, madam. This creature was fabricated by Dr. Nora 

Darwin Barlow herself.” 

“A Darwin, making a cuddly trifle like that? Don’t be absurd. And what use would it be aboard a 

warship ?” 

“It was meant to be a gift for the sultan,” Alek said. “As a way to keep the Ottomans out of war. But 

then it hatched, um … ahead of schedule.” 

The old woman raised an eyebrow. 

“You see, Nene? He’s a liar!” Lilit said. “And a fool to think anyone would believe his nonsense!” 

“Believe,” the creature said, and the room fell silent. 

Zaven took a step backward. “Itspeaks ?” 

“It’s just a parrot,” Alek said. “Like a message lizard, one that repeats words at random.” 

The old woman fixed it with a long, critical stare. 

“Whatever it is, I’ve never seen one before. Let me take a closer look.” 

Alek opened the cage, and the beast climbed out and up onto his shoulder. He went closer to the bed, 

holding out a hand. The creature crawled slowly down his arm, returning Nene’s cold stare with its own 

wide eyed gaze. 

Alek saw the woman’s expression soften, just as Klopp’s and Bauer’s did every time he put the 

creature in their care. Something about its huge eyes and wizened face seemed to generate affection. 

Even Lilit was struck silent. 

Nene reached out and took Alek’s hands. “You have never worked for a living, that’s for sure. But 

there’s a bit of engine grease under your fingernails.” She rubbed his right thumb. “And you fence, don’t 

you?” 

Alek nodded, impressed. 

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“Tell me something about theLeviathan that a liar wouldn’t know,” she demanded. 

Alek paused a moment, trying to recall all the wonders he’d seen aboard the airship. “There are flechette 

bats, flying creatures made of jellyfish, and hawks who wear steel talons.” 

“Those beasts have been in the penny papers all week. Try again.” 

Alek frowned. He’d never read a newspaper in his life, and had no idea what was public knowledge 

about theLeviathan . He doubted the Darwinists had shown him any military secrets. 

“Well, we fought theGoeben and theBreslau on our way here.” 

There was a long moment of silence. From the looks on their faces, it seemed that little fact hadn’t been 

in the papers. 

“The sultan’s new toys?” Nene asked. “When exactly?” 

“Eight days ago. We stumbled on them due south of the Dardanelles. 

Nene nodded slowly, her eyes sliding to one of the chattering wireless receivers. “It’s possible. 

Something was certainly afoot last Monday.” 

“It was quite a battle,” Alek said. “TheGoeben ’s Tesla cannon almost put us all into the sea!” 

The three exchanged glances, then Zaven said, “Tesla cannon?” 

Alek smiled. At least he knewsomething that these revolutionaries might find useful. “That tower on her 

aft deck might look like a wireless transmitter, but it’s an electrikal weapon. It makes lightning. I know 

that sounds absurd, but—” 

Nene silenced him with a raised hand. “It does not. Come for a walk with me, boy.” 

“A walk?” Alek asked. He’d assumed the woman was an invalid. 

“Onto the balcony,” she ordered, and suddenly the delicate sound of a clockwork mechanism filled the 

room. One of the bed’s wrinkled legs took a slow, smooth step forward. 

Alek jumped back, and Lilit laughed from across the room. The creature crawled back up to his 

shoulder, echoing her giggle. 

“Haven’t you ever seen a turtle move?” Nene asked, smiling. 

Alek took another step back, getting out of the bed’s way as it lumbered toward the double doors. 

“Yes, but I never thought of sleeping on one.” 

“You sleep on one every night, boy. The world itself rests on a turtle’s back!” 

Alek smiled at her. “My mother used to tease me with that old wives’ tale.” 

“Old wives’ tale?” Nene cried, her voice crackling. “The notion is perfectly scientific. The world rests 

upon a turtle, which itself stands on the back of an elephant!” 

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Alek tried not to laugh. “Then what does the elephant stand on, madam?” 

“Don’t try to be clever, young man.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s elephants all the way down!” 

The bed made its slow way from the bedroom toward the balcony doors. As he followed, carefully 

matching its turtle’s pace, Alek wondered at the perfection of the mechanism. Clockwork machines ran 

on wound-up springs instead of noisy steam or gas engines, so the bed’s movements were smooth and 

slow, ideal for an invalid. 

But the woman lying in it had to be mad, with her talk of elephants. All three of them were a bit peculiar, 

in fact. They reminded Alek of his own poor relations, once-wealthy families who’d fallen on hard times 

but still had an inflated sense of their own importance. 

The night before, Zaven had said they’d been part of the Young Turk uprising six years ago. But was 

this strange family a real threat to the sultan, or simply wallowing in past glories? 

Of course, Zaven’s walker had been nothing to sneeze at. 

Out on the balcony Alek realized that the family’s apartments were built atop the warehouse, the rooftop 

surrounding them like a small plot of land. An odd place to live, but it had commanding views of the city. 

From this height they could see both the Sea of Marmara and the sparkling inlet of the Golden Horn. 

There she was, just as Eddie Malone had said—theGoeben , resting beside a long pier. Her huge 

kraken-fighting arms were working above the surface, helping to load cargo. 

Nene pointed a withered finger at the docks. “How do you know about this Tesla cannon.” 

“It fired at us,” Alek said. “It almost set the whole ship aflame.” 

“But how do you know itsname , boy? I doubt you guessed it.” 

“Ah.” Alek wondered how much to tell her. “One of my men is a master of mechaniks. He’d seen 

experimental models of the cannon.” 

“Your men have knowledge of German secret weapons, yet you served aboard theLeviathan ?” Nene 

shook her head in disbelief. “Tell me who you really are. At once!” 

Alek took a deep breath, ignoring Lilit’s cold smile. “I’m an Austrian nobleman, madam. My father was 

against this war, and the Germans had him killed for it. My men and I were hiding in the Alps when the 

Leviathan crash-landed there.” 

“And they simply invited you aboard?” 

“We helped the Darwinists escape. Our Stormwalker was damaged, and their airship’s engines were 

destroyed. So we put the two together, so to speak, so that we could both escape the Germans. But 

once we were airborne, it became clear they considered us prisoners of war. We had to jump ship.” He 

spread his hands. “So here we are, looking for allies to fight with.” 

“Allies,” the creature repeated softly. 

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“I want revenge on the Germans,” Alek said. “The same as you do.” 

There was a long silence, then Nene shook her head. 

“I don’t know what to make of you, boy. Clanker engines on a hydrogen breather? It’s ridiculous. And 

yet … no spy of the sultan’s would dare tell a story so unlikely.” 

“Wait,” Lilit said, taking her grandmother’s hand. “Remember when theLeviathan flew over the city 

yesterday? And we thought it funny how the engines were smoking, like Clanker airships’ do?” She 

glanced at Alek. “Not that he’s telling the truth.” 

Nene shook her head again. “No doubt this boy saw them as well, and that was what inspired this 

bizarre story.” 

“Madam, I don’t enjoy being called a liar,” Alek said firmly. “It makes me a stronger ally that I know 

both Darwinist and Clanker secrets! I have military training and gold. My men and I can pilot walkers 

and fix them as well. You must let us help you, unless you’re onlyplaying at revolution!” 

Lilit sprang to her feet, her teeth bared. Zaven stood silent, but moved a hand to his knife. 

Nene spoke very calmly. “Young man, you have no idea what this struggle has cost my family—our 

fortune, our station in society.” She gently took Lilit’s hand. “And this girl’s poor mother as well. How 

dare you call us amateurs!” 

Alek swallowed, realizing that he’d gone too far. 

“I doubt you can help us,” Nene continued. “I know an aristocrat when I see one. And spoiled brats like 

you never help anyone but themselves.” 

The words struck Alek like a kick in the stomach—this was how people always saw him, as a 

pampered fool, no matter how hard he tried. His knees bent, and he found himself sitting on the bed. 

“I’m sorry for speaking like an idiot,” he said. “And I’m sorry about your mother, Lilit. I lost my parents 

too. I just want to fight back somehow.” 

“You lostboth your parents?” Nene said, and her voice grew softer. “Whoare you, boy?” 

Alek looked into the old woman’s eyes, and realized that he had two choices—he could either trust her 

or go back to being alone. Without allies he and his men could do nothing but run into the wilds and hide. 

But he was here in Istanbul for more than that, he knew. 

“Who do you think I am?” he whispered. 

“An Austrian nobleman, certainly. Perhaps an archduke’s son?” 

He nodded, holding her fierce gaze. 

“Then surely you know your mother’s full maiden name. And if you don’t get every last syllable right, my 

granddaughter will drop you off this roof.” 

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Alek took a breath, then recited, “Sophie Maria Josephine Albina, Countess Chotek of Chotkow and 

Wognin.” 

Belief dawned at last on the old woman’s face. 

“Our meeting is providence,” he said. “I swear I can help you, Nene.” 

Inexplicably, Lilit burst into laughter. Zaven let out a low chuckle, and the creature joined in. 

“What a charmer,” Lilit said. “He’s adopted you now, Nene!” 

Alek realized his mistake.“Nene” wasn’t a name at all, but simply a word for “grandmother,” like 

“Oma” in German. 

“I’m sorry my Armenian is deficient, madam.” 

The old woman smiled. “Not to worry. At my age one can never have too many grandchildren. Even if 

some of them are idiots.” 

Alek took a deep breath, managing to hold his tongue. 

“Perhaps it’s my old age, but I’m starting to believe you,” Nene said. “Of course, if you are who you 

say, then surely you can pilot a walker.” 

“Show me one, and I’ll prove it to you.” 

She nodded, then waved her hand. “Zaven? Perhaps it’s time to introduce His Serene Highness to the 

Committee.” 

Lilit and Zaven led him to the far corner of the balcony, which overlooked a huge courtyard within the 

walls of several warehouses. The windows of the surrounding buildings were boarded up, and the whole 

courtyard covered with camouflage netting to hide it from the air. 

In the shadows five walkers stood silently. 

Alek knelt at the balcony railing, peering down. Over the last few days, he’d seen them in the streets, the 

motley array of combat walkers that guarded Istanbul’s ghettos. These five were marked with the dents 

and scrapes of old battles, their armor decorated with a multitude of signs—crescents, crosses, a Star of 

David, and other symbols he’d never seen before. 

“A committee of iron golems,” he said. 

Zaven raised a finger. “Iron golems is the Jewish name. The Vlachs call them werewolves, and our 

Greek brothers call them Minotaurs.” He pointed at the walker from two nights before. “I believe you’ve 

metS ahmeran, my personal machine. She is a goddess of the Kurdish people.” 

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“And they’re all here together,” Alek said. 

“Another excellent observation,” Lilit muttered. 

“Hush, girl,” Nene said, her bed making its slow way toward them. “For too long we were content to 

look after our own neighborhoods and let the sultan run the empire. But the Germans and their 

mekanzimat have done us a favor—they’ve united us at last.” 

Zaven knelt beside Alek. “The machines below are only a fraction of those pledged to us. We use these 

five to train, so that a Kurd knows how to pilot a werewolf, and an Arab an iron golem.” 

“So you can fight together properly,” Alek said. 

“Indeed. My own daughter has mastered all of them!” 

“A girl piloting a walker? How utterly—” Alek saw Lilit’s expression, and cleared his throat. “How 

exceptional.” 

“Fah! Not so strange as you think,” Zaven said, raising a fist. “Once the revolution comes, women will 

be the equal of men in all things!” 

Alek stifled a laugh. More of the family madness, it seemed, or perhaps the influence of the iron-willed 

Nene on her son. 

“How does that Tesla cannon work?” Lilit asked. 

“My man Klopp says it’s a lightning generator.” Alek cast his mind back to Klopp’s explanation a few 

days after the battle with theGoeben . “Mr. Tesla is an American, but the Germans fund his experiments. 

They’ve been working on this cannon for some time. How do you know about it?” 

“Never mind that,” Nene said. “Can it stop our walkers?” 

“I doubt it. The Tesla cannon is designed to be used against hydrogen breathers. But theGoeben still has 

its big guns, and walkers like these are the perfect targets.” Alek looked to the southeast, where smoke 

plumes rose from the sultan’s palace—near the water. As long as the German warships waited there, the 

palace was safe from a walker attack. “That’s the real reason those German ironclads are here, isn’t it? 

To keep the sultan in power.” 

“And to starve the Russians.” Nene shrugged. “A hammer can pound more than one nail. You’ve had a 

bit of military training, it seems.” 

“More than a bit, when it comes to walkers.” Alek straightened his shoulders. “Give me the trickiest one 

you have, and I’ll prove it.” 

Nene nodded, a slow smile spreading across her face. “You heard the boy, granddaughter. Take him to 

S ahmeran.” 

Alek flexed his fingers, looking over the controls. 

The instruments were labeled with symbols rather than words, but the purposes of most were clear. 

Engine temperature, pressure gauges, fuel—nothing he hadn’t seen in his Stormwalker. 

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But the saunters were a different matter entirely. They rose up from the pilot’s cabin floor, like huge 

levers. The handgrips looked like the armored gloves of a medieval knight. 

“How am I meant to walk with these?” he asked. 

“You aren’t. The saunters control the arms.” Lilit pointed at the floor. “You use the pedals to walk, 

ninny.” 

“Ninny,” the creature repeated, then chuckled. 

“Your pet knows you quite well, doesn’t it,” Lilit said, stroking the creature’s fur. “What’s its name?” 

“Name? Fabricated beasts don’t have them. Except for the great airships, of course.” 

“Well, this one needs a name,” Lilit said. “Is it a boy or a girl?” 

Alek thought for a moment, then frowned. “TheLeviathan ’s crew always said ‘it’ when speaking of 

beasts. Perhaps they’re neither.” 

“Then where do they come from?” 

“Eggs.” 

“But whatlays the eggs?” 

Alek shrugged. “As far as I know, the boffins pull them out of their bowler hats.” 

Lilit looked more closely at the beast while Alek stared at the saunters. He’d never piloted a walker with 

arms before. ThisS ahmeran might be trickier than he’d thought. 

But if a girl could pilot the monstrosity, it couldn’t be too difficult. 

“How do I know what the arms are doing? I can’t even see them from in here.”? 

“You justknow where they are, as if they were part of your own body. But since this is your first time 

…” Lilit spun a crank, and the top half of the pilot’s cabin began to move upward, huffing with 

pneumatics. “You can try it in parade mode.” 

“Parade mode?” 

“For whenS ahmeran marches in the Kurds’ religious festivals.” 

“Ah,that sort of parade,” Alek said. “This is a very odd country. All the walkers seem to be symbols as 

well as machines.” 

“Sahmeran is not a symbol. She’s a goddess.” 

“A goddess. Of course,” Alek muttered. “There certainly are a lot of females in this revolution.” 

Lilit rolled her eyes as she pulled the engine starter. The machine rumbled to life beneath them, and the 

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creature imitated the engine noise, then climbed from Alek’s shoulder to peek over the front edge of the 

control panel. 

“Will your pet be all right?” Lilit asked. 

“It has an excellent head for heights,” Alek said. “When we escaped theLeviathan , we climbed across 

a cable much higher than this.” 

“But why did you steal it?” she asked. “To prove that you’d been aboard the airship?” 

“I didn’t steal anything,” Alek said, placing his boots carefully on the foot pedals. “It insisted on coming.” 

The creature turned to face them and seemed to smile at Lilit. 

“Somehow, I almost believe you,” she said softly. “Well, show us how clever you are, boy. Walking is 

the easy part.” 

“I doubt it shall be any trouble,” Alek said, watching the instruments come to life. When the pressure 

gauges steadied, he pushed down on the foot pedals, slow and steady. 

The machine responded, moving forward smoothly, the spiny legs along its belly moving in automatic 

sequence. He lifted his left foot from the pedal, guiding the walker into a slow turn. 

“This is easier than my four-legged runabout,” he exclaimed. “I could pilot that when I was twelve!” 

Lilit gave him a strange look. “You had your own walker? When you were twelve?” 

“It was the family’s.” Alek reached for the saunters. “And boys have a natural gift for mechaniks, after 

all.” 

“A natural gift for boastfulness, you mean.” 

“We’ll see who’s being boastful.” Alek slipped his right hand into the metal glove and made a fist. A 

great pair of claws snapped shut on the machine’s right side. 

“Careful,” Lilit said. “Sahmeran is stronger than any mere boy.” 

Alek pushed the saunter about, watching how the walker’s arm followed his movements. The arm was 

long and sinuous, like a snake’s body, its scales sliding against one another with a sound like a dozen 

swords drawn from their scabbards. 

“The trick is to forget your own body,” Lilit said. “Pretend that the walker’s hands are yours.” 

The saunters were amazingly sensitive, the giant arms mimicking every movement of Alek’s, but slowly. 

He paced himself to match the walker’s scale, and soon he felt twenty meters tall, as if he were wearing a 

huge costume, instead of piloting. 

“Now comes the tricky part.” Lilit pointed. “Pick up that wagon over there.” 

In the far corner of the courtyard, an old wagon lay overturned. Its wooden side was scratched and 

gouged, like an ill-treated child’s toy. 

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“Looks easy enough,” Alek said, guiding the machine closer among the motionless forms of the other 

walkers. 

He stretched out his right hand, and the machine obeyed him. From the control panel the creature 

imitated the sounds of hissing air and metal as they echoed from the courtyard walls. 

Alek closed his fingers slowly, and the claws shut around the wagon. 

“Good so far,” Lilit said. “But stay gentle.” 

Alek nodded, remembering Volger’s rule on how to hold a sword—like a pet bird, tight enough to keep 

it from flying away but gentle enough not to suffocate it. 

The wagon shifted in theS ahmeran’s grip, threatening to fall. 

“Turn your wrist,” Lilit said quickly. “But don’t squeeze!” 

Alek turned the claw upright, trying to settle the wagon in its metal palm. But the wagon had other ideas, 

tipping from its side onto its wheels. It began to roll. 

“Careful!” Lilit said, and the creature repeated the word. 

Alek twisted his hand in the saunter again, trying to flip the wagon back onto its side. But it wouldn’t stay 

still, like a marble rolling back and forth in a bowl. The wagon reached the edge of his palm and teetered 

there, and Alek squeeze a little harder.… 

The giant metal fingers shut with a sharp hiss of air, and he heard the crack of wood splitting. Splinters 

flew in all directions, and Alek ducked as something large sailed past his head. Tiny wooden needles 

stung his face. 

He opened his eyes in time to see the wagon’s pieces crashing to bits against the paving stones below. 

He stared at the empty claw, annoyed. 

Lilit sat back up beside him—a few tiny splinters were caught in her black hair. The creature stared up at 

him from the pilot’s cabin floor, making a sound like the creak of shattering wood. 

“Having the power of a goddess is quite a responsibility,” Lilit said quietly, flicking at her hair. “Don’t 

you agree, boy?” 

Alek nodded slowly, turning his wrist and watching the giant claw rotate on its gears. He still felt it, the 

connection between himself and the machine. 

“I don’t suppose you have another wagon,” he said. “I think I’ve got it now.” 

Night was falling at last. 

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Deryn had spent a long, hot day among the crates on the cargo ship’s deck, hiding from the crew and 

the merciless sun. It was the vessel she’d spotted from the beach at Kilye Niman, a German steamship 

carrying fat coils of copper wire, and turbine blades the size of windmill sails. 

The ship had waited at the kraken nets till dawn, then had taken most of the day to steam to Istanbul. 

After spending seven weeks on an airship, Deryn was exasperated by the crawling pace of the surface 

craft. It didn’t help that since her hasty supper the night before, Deryn had eaten only a stale biscuit she’d 

found among the crates. For drink she’d had only handfuls of dew scraped from a canvas lifeboat cover. 

Of course, she was better off than her men, who were all either dead or held captive by the Ottomans. 

On the slow journey here, she’d replayed the scene on the beach a thousand times in her mind, 

wondering what she could have done. But against the scorpion walker and two dozen soldiers, she 

would only have been captured herself. 

The cargo ship was not entirely without conveniences, though. The crew mostly stayed belowdecks, and 

a line of sailors’ uniforms had been left drying in the sun. She’d found a set of slops that would fit well 

enough. 

Once the sun set, she would swim for shore. 

Istanbul was already lighting up before her. Clanker electricals were harsher than the soft 

bioluminescence of London and Paris, and what had seemed a ghostly glow from the airfield was dazzling 

this close. The city looked like a fairground coming to life, all glitter and brilliance. 

Even the sultan’s palace was alight on its hill, the minarets of the two great mosques lancing into the sky 

around it. Deryn had decided to head for that section of the city, the peninsula where both the oldest and 

newest buildings were clustered. 

But as she stretched her swimming muscles, Deryn felt one last squick of doubt about her plan and 

considered the options. There were more than a hundred ships standing off Istanbul, some of them 

civilian vessels under British flags. If she swam across to one of those, it might carry her back out to the 

Mediterranean, where the Royal Navy waited. Or north to the Russians in the Black Sea, who were 

Darwinists, at least. 

But a thousand excuses crowded her head—the Ottomans would be searching British ships carefully. 

And why would any captain believe that she was a decorated officer in the Air Service and not some 

mad stowaway? What if without her middy’s uniform and a ship full of beasties at her command, anyone 

could see straightaway that she was a mere girl? 

And even if she did make it back to theLeviathan , what if Volger hadn’t managed to escape? He could 

destroy her career with a word at any time. 

But it wasn’t any of those reasons that had set her on this course, Deryn knew. Alek was here in this 

city, and needed help. Perhaps it was daft to risk everything for some barking prince, a boy who didn’t 

even know she was a girl. But it was no more daft than Alek walking across a glacier to assist a 

wounded enemy airship, was it? 

When the water had turned into a black expanse, an upside-down sky shimmering with the city’s 

radiance, Deryn left her hiding place. She stuffed the stolen uniform inside her diving suit and crept to the 

bow. After slipping over the gunwales, she descended the anchor chain hand over hand, then slid into the 

water without a splash. 

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She crawled ashore in the shadows beneath a long pier. Even at night, men and walkers worked the 

bustling docks, scurrying about beneath huge mechanical arms that chuffed smoke as they pulled cargo 

from half a dozen ships. Floodlights cast hard black shadows that jittered and swung. 

Deryn stole into a maze of off-loaded crates and metal parts, and quickly found a dark spot where she 

could strip off the Spottiswoode suit. Pulling on her borrowed German sailor’s slops, she felt a squick of 

vexation—demoted from an officer in the Air Service to a common seaman! And if the Ottomans caught 

her like this, out of uniform, they’d hang her as a spy for sure. 

The diving suit had to disappear, so Deryn stuffed all but the boots and her rigging knife into a towering 

coil of copper wire. She reckoned most dock workers would hardly know what to make of the tangle of 

turtle shell and salamander skin, except to wonder if a mermaid had come ashore. 

It was easy, staying hidden among the endless piles of crates—enough mechanical parts to rebuild 

Istanbul from scratch, she reckoned. They were all labeled in German. 

Deryn crept inland, heading toward the city lights and the promise of food and water. At the edge of the 

warren, however, she found herself facing a chain-link fence. It was sixteen feet tall, with three coils of 

barbed wire glittering along its top side. The only gate in sight was wound shut with a massive chain. 

“Just my luck,” Deryn muttered. She’d come ashore at a top secret section of the waterfront. 

It would’ve been simple enough to swim out and come in elsewhere, but Deryn was weak with hunger. 

The thought of plunging back into the cold, dark water made her shiver. What was so barking important 

about all this cargo, anyway? As she skulked along the fence, looking for an unlocked gate, she took a 

closer look. 

It wasn’t just mechanical parts, but electricals as well. There were giant rolls of rubber insulation, and a 

row of glass jar batteries, the same kind of voltaic cells that theLeviathan ’s searchlights used. But these 

were the size of outhouses! Deryn remembered the turbine blades aboard the cargo ship. Were the 

Germans building a power station somewhere here in Istanbul? 

She heard voices, and ducked lower into the shadows. It was a dozen men or so, one with a ring of 

keys jingling in his hand. Perfect—they were headed out. 

Deryn crept behind them to a wide gate in the fence, with tracks leading through and out into the 

darkness. As their leader unlocked it, the men spread out across its length. They pulled it open, metal 

scraping over cobblestones. 

Something huge and restless waited beyond the fence, huffing and steaming in the cool night air. Then it 

began to move, a colossal machine rolling slowly into view. The engine at its front took the form of a 

dragon’s head, and the cargo arms were folded on its back like black metal wings. White clouds of 

steam roiled from its grinning jaws. 

“Barking spiders,” Deryn said softly, realizing that she’d seen pictures of this contraption in the penny 

newspapers.… 

It was the Orient-Express. 

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The great train eased forward, forcing Deryn farther back into the piles of cargo. But she was unable to 

take her eyes from it. 

The Express seemed to be a strange crossbreed of Ottoman and German design. The engine suggested 

a dragon’s face, with a great lolling tongue spilling from its jaws. But the mechanical arms that unfolded 

from its cargo cars were unadorned, and moved as smoothly as the wings of a soaring hawk. 

The arms reached out into the piles of cargo, lifting metal parts, coils of wire, and glass insulators shaped 

like huge translucent bells. The train began to load itself, like some greedy monster ravaging a treasure 

trove. 

Suddenly the dragon’s single eye burst to life, a blinding headlight. As brilliance spilled across the 

darkness, Deryn stumbled blindly back, the shadows of her hiding place ripped away. 

A cry sounded above the huffing engines of the Express—“Wer ist das?”—and Deryn understood 

enough Clanker to know what it meant. 

Someone had spotted her. 

She turned and ran, half blinded, stumbling on a bundle of plastic tubing. The tubes skittered underfoot, 

and Deryn hit the ground hard. She rose painfully to her feet and staggered into the darkness, where she 

curled up behind a large spool of wire. 

Her knee was throbbing, her hands cut and bleeding from breaking her fall. Dizziness swept across her, 

twenty-four hours without proper food taking its toll. The pounding in her chest felt thin and weak, like a 

bird’s heart instead of her own. 

There was no way to outrun the men—she had to outsmart them. 

Deryn ignored the pain, crawling back toward the Express on hands and knees, keeping low in the 

cargo stacks, squeezing through the narrowest gaps she could find. She hoped they hadn’t got a good 

look at her, and wouldn’t realize they were chasing a skinny wee slip of a girl. 

Their voices surrounded her, echoing through the piles of crates and metal. Deryn kept crawling, pushing 

back toward the bright lights of the train. The shouting men flowed past her, thinking she was still running 

away.… 

Then a shadow spilled across Deryn—a huge mechanical claw reaching down for her. She dropped flat, 

and the claw’s three rubber-tipped fingers closed around a coil of wire as big as a hippoesque. 

The machine paused a moment, its grip settling around the coil, and Deryn saw her chance. She 

scampered up and climbed inside the cylinder of wire. 

With a lurch the claw hauled it—and her—up into the air. 

She looked down to see the ground sliding past, the electric torches of her pursuers spreading out 

across the maze of crates. But no one thought to look up at the cargo passing overhead. 

The metal fingers squeezed tighter for a moment, and the wire pressed inward around Deryn. Had the 

arm’s operator spotted her and decided to crush her? 

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But it was just the giant claw adjusting its grip. Soon she was being gently lowered, the coil of wire 

settling in among a dozen others. 

She waited for the arm to swing away again, then climbed out into the belly of an open-topped freight 

car. The side walls were only a bit taller than Deryn was, and she scrambled up and peered out. 

More men had arrived to join the search. Dogs, too—a pair of German shepherds was yanking their 

handler along, sniffing everything in sight. Luckily, traveling by mechanical arm didn’t leave much of a 

scent trail. But she had to get out of this cargo car before the next incoming load crushed her flat. 

Deryn made her way to the front end, peeking at the next car along. It had a closed top and a 

fancy-looking glass door at this end. She climbed over and dropped between the cars, then jimmied the 

door open with her rigging knife. 

She slipped inside and closed it, holding the knife out in front of her. 

“Hallo?”she called softly, hoping her Clanker accent was believable. 

No one answered. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Deryn let out a low whistle. 

It was a saloon car, as fancy as a box of peacocks. A row of small tables ran down one side. The brass 

handrails gleamed, and the gently arching ceiling was padded with dimpled leather. The armchairs looked 

absurdly heavy compared to the spindly furniture on theLeviathan . Each of these chairs had its own tiny 

footrest rising from the floor. A mechanical bartender wearing a fez stood motionless in the shadows. 

She took a few steps forward, feeling out of place. Even empty and dark, the dining car had the smell of 

poshness, and Deryn half expected a man in a tuxedo to appear and smirk at her ill-fitting uniform. 

She sat down at one of the tables, peeking out through the curtains at the hunt outside. The electric 

torches of her pursuers bobbed in the darkness, but they were fanning out in the direction of the water, 

still thinking she’d run away from the Express. Barks and shouts echoed around the docks, but here 

inside the train it felt as if a fancy supper were about to be served.… 

“Supper,” Deryn whispered, and sprang to her feet. 

She climbed behind the bar and hunted through the shelves, finding corkscrews and towels, and bottles 

of brandy and wine. This was just a saloon, separate from the dining car—there was no barkingfood 

here! 

But then she discovered a drawer full of several fancy cakes wrapped up in thick cloth napkins. One of 

the crew must have set them aside and then forgotten them. 

Deryn sat on the floor and began to gobble the cakes. Stale or not, they tasted better than anything 

she’d eaten since joining the Service. She washed them down with water from the bottom of a silver ice 

bucket, then had a few swigs from an open bottle of brandy. 

“Not bad at all,” she said, then burped. 

Now that her head had stopped spinning with hunger, Deryn found herself wondering what exactly was 

going on here. Where were the Clankers taking all this cargo? According to the labels, it had all come 

from Germany. So why put it on the Express, which would be headed back to Munich? 

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Deryn peeked out a window again—no sign of the search remained. Her pursuers were probably at the 

shore, having guessed that she’d snuck in from the water. 

The mechanical arms were finishing up the last few pieces of cargo—huge glass jar batteries and 

insulators—and the train’s engines were rumbling back to life. 

What if it was headed to a place close by, somewhere it could return from before dawn? No one would 

notice it had slipped out of the city, or suspect the luxurious Orient-Express of carrying industrial cargo. 

The train jolted into motion, and Deryn reminded herself that she wasn’t here to spy on the Clankers. 

She was here to help Alek, not uncover the secrets of the Ottoman Empire. 

The barbed wire fence was already sliding past on either side—she could jump off anytime now with no 

one the wiser. 

Deryn went back to the bar and selected the fanciest bottle of brandy she could find. It was stealing, 

plain and simple, but she needed something to trade for money and a proper meal. This dusty old brandy 

was the best thing she could find. 

The Express crept slowly through Istanbul, not calling much attention to itself. The tracks traveled near 

the water’s edge, past darkened warehouses and closed factory gates. Deryn opened the door and 

stood between the cars, waiting for the right moment to jump. 

As the train slowed for a turn, she stepped off as smoothly as some tourist arriving on holiday. She 

skidded down the embankment and crouched there until the steaming dragon had passed, then made her 

way into the unlit streets. 

Even this late, the bright lights of the city still glowed on the horizon, but Deryn reckoned she needed rest 

more than food now. So she picked the darkest, shabbiest alley she could find and curled up for a few 

hours of fitful sleep. 

She awoke before dawn to someone prodding her with a broom. 

It was a young man in coveralls, who went about the task without particular enthusiasm. When Deryn 

scrambled to her feet, he turned back to sweeping the alley, never saying a word. Of course, the man 

would hardly expect her to speak Turkish. The port of Istanbul was probably full of foreign sailors 

lugging about bottles of brandy. 

Drums were sounding in the distance, along with a vigorous chanting. It seemed a bit early for anyone to 

be making such a racket. The trio of cats she’d shared the alley with hardly seemed to notice, though, 

and went back to sleep after the sweeping man had passed on. 

Deryn walked at random until she spied the forest of minarets near the sultan’s palace. Surely there were 

restaurants for sightseers thereabouts. The fancy cakes in her stomach had been replaced by gnawing 

hunger, and she needed to be thinking clearly if she was to find Alek in this giant city. 

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Touring Istanbul on foot wasn’t like looking down from an airship or the howdah of a giant elephant. The 

smells were sharper down here—unfamiliar spices and walker exhaust snarled in the air, and pushcarts 

full of strawberries passed, leaving a sweet haze in their wake, along with a few hungry-looking dogs. A 

dozen languages mixed in Deryn’s ears; a jumble of alphabets decorated every news kiosk. Luckily, 

there were also simple hand gestures among all the babel. Making herself understood would be simple 

enough. 

When men in seamen’s slops called out to Deryn, she answered them in Clanker. She’d learned a 

handful of greetings from Bauer and Hoffman, and a few choice curses as well. It never hurt to practice. 

She found a shop window filled with fancy liquor bottles, dusted off her brandy, and went inside. At first 

the proprietor looked askance at her disheveled slops, and almost tossed her out when he discovered 

that she was there to sell, not buy. But when he glimpsed the bottle’s label, his attitude changed. He 

offered her a pile of coins, which grew by half when she gave him a hard look. 

Most of the restaurants were closed, but Deryn soon found a hotel. A few minutes later she was sitting 

down to a breakfast of cheese, olives, cucumbers, black coffee, and a small bowl of a gloppy substance 

called yogurt, which was halfway between cheese and milk. 

As she ate, Deryn wondered how she would find Alek. In his message to Volger he’d said that his hotel 

had a name like his mother’s. That sounded simple enough, except that Alek had never told Deryn his 

mother’s name. She knew his granduncle the emperor, of course—Franz Joseph—and remembered that 

his father’s name was also Franz something-or-other. But wives were seldom as famous as their 

husbands. 

She watched a group of sailors walk past, and wondered if any of them were Austrian. Surely they 

would know the murdered archduchess’s name, if Deryn could only make her question understood. 

But then she remembered the other half of Alek’s message, that the Germans were looking for him. 

Questions about a fugitive prince from an English-speaking sailor in a Clanker uniform would only attract 

suspicion. 

She had to find the answer herself. Luckily, Alek’s family was famous. Wouldn’t they be in history 

books? 

All she needed was some sort of family tree.… 

An hour later Deryn was standing on a broad marble stair, a brand-new sketchbook in her hand. Before 

her stood, according to her half dozen conversations in sign language and halting Clanker, the newest and 

largest library in Istanbul. 

Its huge brass columns gleamed in the sun, and its steam-powered revolving doors gathered and 

disgorged people without pausing. As she passed through them, Deryn had the same jitters she’d felt in 

the saloon car of the Orient-Express. She didn’t belong in any place so fancy, and the bustle of so many 

machines made her dizzy. 

The ceiling was a tangle of glass tubes, full of small cylinders zooming through them, almost too fast to 

see. The clicking fingers of calculation engines covered the walls, fluttering like the cilia of the great 

airbeast when it was nervous. Clockwork walkers the size of hatboxes scrabbled along the marble floor, 

stacks of books weighing them down. 

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A small army of clerks waited behind a row of desks, but Deryn made her way through the vast lobby, 

headed toward the towering stacks of books. There looked to bemillions of them, surely a few were in 

English. 

But she found herself halted by a fancy iron fence that stretched all the way across the room. Every few 

feet there was a sign that repeated the same message in two dozen languages: 

CLOSED STACKS—ASK AT INFORMATION DESK. 

Deryn returned to the desks, screwed up her courage, and went to the one with the nicest-looking clerk 

behind it. He wore a long gray beard, a fez, and pince-nez glasses, and gave her a slightly puzzled smile 

as she approached. Deryn guessed that most sailors didn’t spend their shore leave in the library. 

She bowed to him, then tore two pages from her sketch pad and set them down on the desk. On one 

she’d drawn the Hapsburg crest that had decorated the breastplate of Alek’s Stormwalker. On the other 

she had sketched a branching tree, like the genealogies of the great airbeasts that Mr. Rigby was always 

making them memorize. No doubt the Clankers drew their family trees in a different manner, but surely a 

librarian would understand the concept. 

The man adjusted his glasses, stared at the sketches for a moment, then gave Deryn a quizzical look. 

“You are Austrian?” he asked in careful Clanker. 

“No, sir. America.” She spoke in German as well, but tried to mimic Eddie Malone’s accent. “But I 

want …”—her brain raced—“to understand the war.” 

The man slowly nodded. “Very well, young man. A moment, please.” 

He turned to face what looked like a piano set into the desk, and clacked away at its keys. No music 

emerged, but as he typed a punch card emerged from a slot in the desk. He handed it to her and pointed. 

“Good luck.” 

Deryn bowed and thanked him, then followed his gesture to a kiosk in the center of the room. She 

watched another patron use it first. The woman fed her punch card into what looked like a miniature 

loom. The card slid beneath a fine-tooth comb, whose tiny metal teeth jabbed up and down, as if 

scrutinizing the holes in the card. 

After a moment’s spinning and clattering, the card was spat back out. From the top of the kiosk, a 

clockwork machine climbed up and out, then went skittering away into the stacks of books. 

Deryn felt queasy from following the Clanker logic of it all, but stepped forward to repeat the process 

with her own card. When the card popped back out, she discovered that it was stamped with a number. 

After a minute’s wandering about the lobby, Deryn found a row of small tables labeled with numbers of 

their own. She sat down at the one that matched her card and pulled out her sketchbook. 

As she drew, the whirr and clatter of the machines echoed around her, the sounds blending like the crash 

of distant waves. Deryn wondered how the Clankers managed it, translating questions into scatterings of 

holes in paper. Did every wee sliver of knowledge have its own number? The system was probably 

quicker than wandering through the ceiling-high shelves, but what other books might she have found, 

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doing it herself? 

She looked up at the calculating engines that covered the walls, and wondered what they were up to. 

Did they record every question that the librarians had been asked? And if so, who looked at the results? 

Deryn remembered the eyes peering at her through the slats of the throne room wall, and began to drum 

her fingers. 

Surely in all this tumult of information, no one would notice a few questions about the tragedy that had 

started this whole barking war. 

Finally her clockwork machine scuttled back, like a dog with a fetched bone. It was weighted down with 

half a dozen books, all of them heavy and bound with cracked old leather. 

She picked a few up and leafed through the gilt-edged pages. Some were in Clanker, others in a flowing 

script she’d seen on many of the signs outside, but one had hardly any words at all, only names, dates, 

and coats of arms. On its cover was the Hapsburg crest, and a Latin phrase she remembered from the 

first time Alek and Dr. Barlow had met. 

Bella gerant alii, tu Felix Austria, nube. 

“Let others wage war,” the first part meant. 

“Barking spiders,” Deryn said softly to herself—there were alot of Hapsburgs. The book was thick 

enough to stun a hippoesque, and the entries stretched back eight hundred years. But Alek was only 

fifteen; he’d have to be at the end. 

She turned to the last pages and soon found him: “Aleksandar, Prinz von Hohenberg,” along with his 

birth date and the names of his parents—Franz Ferdinand and Sophie Chotek. 

“Sophie,” Deryn murmured, leaning back and smiling to herself. 

She left the stack of books on the table and headed back toward the revolving doors. After a quick trip 

down the marble stairs outside, she approached the first of a rank of six-legged taxis, all of them in the 

shape of giant beetles. Deryn reached into her pocket for the remaining coins. 

“Sophie Hotel?” she asked. “Hotel” was the same in English or Clanker. 

The pilot frowned, then asked, “Hotel Hagia Sophia?” 

Deryn nodded happily. That sounded close enough—ithad to be the one. 

The taxi pilot inspected her handful of coins, then hooked a thumb toward the back seat. Deryn jumped 

aboard, for once enjoying the rumble of a Clanker engine beneath her. After tracking Alek down in a city 

of millions, she deserved to ride instead of walk. 

The Hotel Hagia Sophia was pure dead fancy. 

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Deryn shook her head. She might have expected to find Alek in a place like this. The lobby alone was 

three stories high and lit by two gas chandeliers and a giant stained-glass skylight. Uniformed bellmen 

guided their clockwork luggage carriers through the bustling crowd. Marble staircases spiraled their way 

to the mezzanines and balconies, while steam elevators huffed into the air like sky rockets taking flight. 

Even if Alek had chosen this hotel to match his mother’s name, Deryn wondered if he might have found 

another clue to use—one that would have led somewhere a bit less …princely . The Germans were still 

looking for him, after all. 

Of course, that meant that Alek wouldn’t be listed under his own name. So how was she going to get a 

message to him? 

Deryn stood there, hoping to catch a glance of Alek, Bauer, or Master Klopp in the lobby. But the 

crowd was full of unfamiliar faces, and soon Deryn felt the eyes of a white-gloved bellman on her. Her 

stolen uniform was rumpled and dirty from sleeping in the alley, and she stuck out like a clump of clart on 

a fancy china plate. She had only a few coins left, surely not enough to pay for a room, not here. 

Perhaps she could buy coffee and some lunch. Judging by what she’d had for breakfast, there were 

worse places than Istanbul to crawl ashore half starved. 

Deryn took a seat at a small table in the hotel dining room, making sure she had a view of the lobby 

doors. The waiter understood no English, but spoke Clanker no better than she did. He returned with a 

pot of strong coffee and a menu, and before long Deryn was feasting again, this time on lamb chopped 

into a hash with nuts and sultanas, covered with a plum jelly as dark as an old bruise. 

She ate slowly, keeping her eyes on the hotel’s main doors. 

People came and went, most of them well-heeled old Clankers. The man at the table next to hers wore a 

monocle and a handlebar mustache, and was reading a German newspaper. When he left, Deryn reached 

over and snatched it up. She leafed through the pages to conceal that she was stalling with her food. 

The last page was all photographs—the latest fashions, new clockwork house servants, and 

well-dressed ladies at a roller-skating parlor. Nothing earth-shattering, until Deryn’s eyes fell upon three 

photos across the bottom of the page. One was theLeviathan flying over the city, another was the 

Dauntless kneeling in the street after its rampage, and the last showed two men under guard.… 

It was Matthews and Spencer, the survivors of her disastrous first command. 

She squinted at the caption, annoyed that Alek hadn’t taught her any Clanker spelling. These three 

pictures together could hardly be good news. TheLeviathan would be leaving Istanbul under a dark 

cloud today. 

Unless the Ottomans had been angry enough to order the airship away early. 

Deryn frowned. Count Volger had planned to escape last night, hadn’t he? After her almost sleepless 

night, she’d forgotten all about him. 

She lowered the newspaper, looking more closely at the stuffy old Clankers in the lobby. None had 

Volger’s tall, lean frame and gray mustache. But the wildcount wouldn’t have needed a trip to the library 

to learn Alek’s mother’s name. Maybe he and Hoffman were already upstairs, having a cup of tea with 

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Alek and the others! 

Just then Deryn noticed a young couple coming in through the lobby doors. They were dressed like 

locals, and the girl was perhaps eighteen and quite beautiful, with long dark hair in tight braids. 

Deryn swallowed—the boy wasAlek ! She’d hardly recognized him in his tunic and tasseled fez. Not 

that he could wander about Istanbul in an Austrian piloting uniform, but somehow she hadn’t expected 

him to look so... Ottoman. 

Alek drew to a halt, his eyes searching the lobby, but Deryn snapped the newspaper up in front of her 

face. 

Who was this strange girl? One of his newallies? Suddenly that word took on an entirely new meaning 

in Deryn’s head. 

A moment later Alek and the girl headed toward the elevators, and Deryn leapt to her feet. Whoever 

this girl was, Deryn couldn’t afford to miss this chance. She slapped her remaining coins onto the table 

and headed after them. 

An elevator opened up before the two, the attendant ushering them inside. Deryn waved her newspaper, 

and the attendant nodded, holding the door. Alek and the girl were talking intently in Clanker, and hardly 

noticed when she stepped in beside them. 

As the door slid closed, Deryn opened the paper, pretending to read. 

“Nice weather we’re having,” she said in English. 

Alek turned toward her, a baffled expression on his face. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. 

“Dylan,” she said politely. “In case you’ve forgotten.” 

“God’s wounds! Itis you! But what are you—” 

“It’s a long story,” Deryn said, glancing at the girl. “And a bit secret, actually.” 

“Ah, of course—introductions are in order,” he said, then glanced at the elevator man. “Or will be … 

quite soon.” 

They rode the rest of the way in silence. 

Alek led them to a set of double doors that opened onto a vast room, all silk and tassels, with its own 

balcony and a shiny brass switchboard for calling servants. There was no bed in sight, just a pair of 

French doors half opened to reveal yet another room. 

Deryn noticed the other girl’s eyes widen, and she felt a squick of relief. Apparently this girl had never 

been here before either. 

“Almost as fancy as your castle,” Deryn said. 

“And with rather better service. There’s someone here you should meet, Dylan.” Alek turned and called 

out, “Guten tag, Bovril!” 

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“Guten tag!”came a voice from nowhere, and then a wee beastie waddled from behind the curtains. It 

looked like a cross between a butler monkey and some kind of cuddly toy, all huge eyes and tiny, clever 

hands. 

“Barking spiders,” Deryn breathed. She’d forgotten all about Dr. Barlow’s missing beastie. “Is that what 

I think it is?” 

“Mr.Sharp,” the beastie said sarcastically. 

She blinked. “How in blazes does itknow me?” 

“An intriguing question,” Alek said. “Bovril seems to have been listening while it was still in the egg. But it 

also heard your voice from that reporter’s awful bullfrog.” 

“You mean that bum-rag was recording us?” 

Alek nodded, and Deryn softly swore. What of Volger’s threats had the bullfrog repeated? 

The strange girl didn’t seem surprised to see Bovril at all. She pulled a bag of peanuts from her pocket, 

and the beastie crawled over to her and began to eat them. 

Deryn remembered her conversation with Dr. Barlow aboard the sultan’s airyacht. The lady boffin had 

been quite vague about the creature’s purpose. Deryn still didn’t know what “perspicacious” meant, and 

there was all that business about nascent fixation, which had sounded a bit sinister, even if baby ducks 

did it too. 

She’d have to keep an eye on this beastie. 

“You named it Bovril?” she asked Alek. 

“Inamed it, in fact,” said the girl in slow, careful English. “This silly boy kept calling it ‘the creature.’” 

“But you’re not supposed to name beasties! If you get too attached, you can’t use them properly.” 

“Usethem?” Lilit asked. “What a horrid way to think of animals.” 

Deryn rolled her eyes. Had Alek taken up with Monkey Luddites now? “Aye, lassie, and you’ve never 

eaten meat?” 

The girl frowned. “Well, of course I have. But that seems different, somehow.” 

“Only because you’re used to it. And why in blazes did you name itBovril , anyway? That’s a sort of 

beef tea!” 

The girl shrugged. “I thought it should have an English name. And Bovril is the only English thing I like.” 

“It’s Scottish, actually,” Deryn muttered. 

“Speaking of names, I’ve been quite rude.” Alek bowed a little. “Lilit, this is Midshipman Dylan Sharp.” 

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“Midshipman?” she asked. “You must be from theLeviathan .” 

“Aye,” Deryn said, giving Alek a hard look. “Though Iwas meaning to keep that a secret.” 

“Secret,” Bovril repeated, then made a chuckling noise. 

“Don’t worry,” Alek said. “Lilit and I have no secrets from each other.” 

Deryn stared at the boy, hoping that wasn’t true. He couldn’t have told this girl who his parents were, 

could he? 

“But where’s Volger?” Alek asked. “You must have escaped with him.” 

“I didn’tescape at all, you ninny. I’m here for a …” She glanced at Lilit. “A secret mission. I’ve no idea 

where his countship is.” 

“But the bullfrog said you were going to help Volger escape!” 

Deryn raised an eyebrow, wondering what else the bullfrog had repeated. Of course, Eddie Malone 

hadn’t understood Volger’s threats, and neither would Alek. 

“Mr.Sharp,” the creature said again, still chuckling. 

She ignored it. “I was planning to help him and Hoffman escape, but then I was given a mission. Maybe 

they managed on their own.” Deryn held up the newspaper. “But I reckon they didn’t have time.” 

Alek took the paper from her and squinted at the captions. “‘TheLeviathan had been granted leave to 

stay in the capital for four extra days, but the night before last the brave Ottoman army discovered 

Darwinist saboteurs in the Dardanelles. All were killed or captured. In his outrage at this affront, His 

Excellency the sultan has demanded that the airship leave the capital immediately.’” 

He let the paper drop. 

“Aye, I thought so,” Deryn said. “Volger was planning on escaping last night, but if the ship was sent 

away yesterday …” 

“Then he’s gone,” Alek said softly. 

Deryn nodded, realizing that theLeviathan was gone too. 

“Where will they take him? London?” 

“No. They’ll head back down to the Mediterranean,” Deryn said. “Patrol duty.” 

Of course, it would be much more than patrol. The airship would be awaiting the behemoth’s arrival. 

There would be weeks of training missions, practice in guiding the huge beastie through narrow straits. 

Battle drills and midnight alerts. And here she was, stuck in this alien city, all alone except for Alek and 

his men, the perspicacious loris, and this unknown girl. 

“But, Dylan,” Alek said, “if you didn’t escape, then why are you here?” 

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“Don’t you see?” Lilit spoke up. “That’s a German sailor’s uniform—a disguise.” She turned to Deryn. 

“You were one of the saboteurs, weren’t you?” 

Deryn frowned. The lassie was quick, wasn’t she? 

“Aye, I’m the only one they didn’t catch. Those three poor blighters were my men.” 

Alek sat down in a tasseled chair, swearing softly in Clanker. “I’m sorry about your men, Dylan.” 

“Aye, me too. And I’m sorry about Volger,” said Deryn, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it. The 

wildcount was too much of a clever-boots for her liking. “He really did mean to join you.” 

Alek nodded slowly, staring at the floor. For a moment he looked younger than his fifteen years, like a 

wee boy. But he gathered himself and looked up at her. 

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to do, Dylan. You’re a fine soldier, after all. I’m sure the Committee will be 

happy to have you.” 

“What are you talking about? What committee?” 

“The Committee for Union and Progress. They seek to overthrow the sultan.” 

Deryn glanced at Lilit, then back at Alek, her eyes widening. Overthrow the sultan? What if Count 

Volger had been right, and Alek had joined some daft bunch of anarchists? And Monkey Luddite 

anarchists at that! 

“Alek,” said Lilit softly, “you can’t go telling this boy our secrets. Not till he’s met Nene, at least.” 

Alek waved her protests away. “You can trust Dylan. He’s known for ages who my father was, and he 

never betrayed me to his officers.” 

Deryn’s jaw dropped. Alek had already told this anarchist lassie about his parents? But he’d been in 

Istanbul onlythree barking days ! 

Suddenly she wondered if she should just walk out the door. She’d seen a dozen cargo ships flying 

British flags. Maybe one would take her out to the Mediterranean and back to sanity. 

Why had she abandoned her sworn duty for some barkingprince ? 

“Besides,” Alek said, standing up and putting a hand on Deryn’s shoulder, “fate has delivered Dylan 

here to Istanbul. Clearly he’smeant to help us!” 

Deryn and Lilit looked at each other, and they both rolled their eyes. 

Alek ignored their skeptical looks. “Listen to me, Dylan. You Darwinists want to keep the Ottomans out 

of the war, right? It’s the whole reason Dr. Barlow brought us all this way.” 

“Aye, but that’s all gone pear-shaped. Everything we’ve done has only pushed the sultan into the 

Germans’ hands.” 

“Perhaps,” Alek said. “But what if the sultan were overthrown? Since the last revolution, the rebels here 

Page 117


have despised the Germans. They’d never join the Clanker side.” 

“The British are just as bad,” Lilit said. “All the great powers take advantage of us. But it’s true enough, 

we don’t want anything to do with your war. We just want the sultan gone.” 

Deryn stared at the girl, wondering whether to trust her. Alek apparently did, having blathered all his 

secrets. But what if he was wrong? 

Well, in that case he needed someone hecould trust. 

“Great powers,” muttered Bovril, then went back to eating peanuts. 

Deryn let out a slow sigh. She’d come to Istanbul to help Alek, after all, and here he was, asking for 

help. But this was so much bigger than anything she’d expected. 

If the sultan could be tossed out of his palace, then The Straits would stay open and the Russian army 

wouldn’t starve. The Clankers’ grand plan to extend their influence into Asia would be stopped in its 

tracks. 

This was a chance not just to help Alek but to change the course of the whole barking war. Perhaps it 

was her duty to stay right here. 

“All right, then,” she said. “I’ll do what I can.” 

“I do look rather Turkish, don’t I?” Klopp said, regarding himself in the mirror. 

Alek hesitated a moment, struggling for words. The man didn’t look like a Turk at all—more like a 

zeppelin wrapped in blue silk with a tasseled nose cone. 

“Perhaps without the fez, sir,” Bauer suggested. 

“You might be right, Hans,” Alek said. “A turban would be better.” 

“Fez!” proclaimed Bovril, who was sitting on Dylan’s shoulder eating plums. 

“The fez is good,” Dylan said. The boy’s German was getting better, but he still missed words here and 

there. 

“How does one put on a turban?” Klopp asked, but no one knew. 

Bauer and Klopp had been stuck in the hotel for almost a week now, and it had been slowly driving 

them mad. A cage was still a cage, however luxurious. But at last they were going out, headed to Zaven’s 

warehouse to inspect the walkers of the Committee. 

The problem was how to get them there without being spotted. 

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Alek and Dylan had tried their best to buy disguises at the Grand Bazaar, but the results hadn’t been 

entirely successful. Bauer looked too fancy, like one of the hotel doormen, and Klopp’s voluminous 

robes had turned him into a silken airship. 

“We don’t have to pass for Ottomans,” Alek said. “We’re just going through the lobby and into a taxi, 

then straight to the warehouse. Hardly anyone will see us.” 

“Then why aren’t you dressed like a Hapsburg prince, young master?” Klopp pulled the fez from his 

head. “Seeing as how these anarchists already know your name.” 

“They’re not anarchists,” Alek said for the hundredth time. “Anarchists want to destroy all government. 

The Committee just wants to replace the sultan with an elected parliament.” 

“It’s all the same nasty business,” Klopp said, shaking his head. “Murdering one’s masters. Have you 

forgotten those Serb boys throwing bombs at your parents?” 

Alek bridled at Klopp’s impertinence, but kept his anger in check. The old man had a dim view of 

revolutions in general, and Lilit’s chatter about women’s equality had hardly helped. 

But meeting Zaven and the iron golems would put Klopp at ease. Nothing brought a smile to his face like 

the sight of a new walker. 

“The Germans were behind that attack, Master Klopp. And allying with the Committee is our only way 

to strike back at them.” 

“I suppose you’re right, young master.” 

“Indeed,” Alek said simply. He looked at Bauer, who promptly nodded his head. 

Dylan, however, was proving more difficult to convince. He’d taken an instant dislike to Lilit, and 

refused to tell Alek anything about his mission in Istanbul, saying only that it was too secret to share with 

“a bunch of daft anarchists.” 

Still, it was enough that Dylan was here in Istanbul, ready to help. Something about the boy’s brisk 

confidence made Alek remember that providence was on his side. 

“We have to bring the beastie,” Dylan said in English, pulling on a silk jacket. His clothes fit 

perfectly—he’d spent an hour alone with the tailor getting them just right. “Dr. Barlow says it can be 

quite useful.” 

“But all it does is babble,” Alek said, pulling his most important cargo—a small, heavy satchel—onto his 

shoulder. “Did she explain exactlyhow it’s meant to help?” 

Dylan opened the birdcage, and Bovril scampered over and jumped inside. “Only that we should listen 

to it. Because it’s quite … perspicacious.” 

Alek frowned. “I’m afraid that word is beyond my English.” 

“Aye. It’s beyond mine, too.” Dylan reached into the birdcage and scratched the creature’s chin. “But 

you’re a cute wee beastie, aren’t you?” 

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“Perspicacious,” the creature said. 

When Klopp was finally ready, Alek used the switchboard to call for a steam elevator. A few minutes 

later the four of them were downstairs and headed across the lobby. 

The hotel was bustling, and no one stared at their clothes or asked why they were carrying toolboxes. 

Alek dropped the key off at the desk, and the doorman saluted smartly as he led them all outside. One 

thing could be said for Istanbul, people minded their own business here. 

Several of the city’s scarab beetle taxis were waiting, and Alek chose the largest. It had two ranks of 

passenger seats, the rearmost big enough for Klopp’s ample frame. Alek climbed into the front rank with 

Deryn, then handed the pilot some coins and told him the name of Zaven’s neighborhood. 

The man gave him a nod, and then they were off. 

Above the noises of the street, Alek heard a rumbling from the birdcage. It was Bovril imitating the 

walker’s engine. He leaned down to shush the beast, then slipped the small, heavy satchel under the seat. 

“A lot of soldiers about,” Bauer said. “Is it always this way?” 

Alek looked up, frowning. The walker was striding down a wide avenue lined with tall trees. Ottoman 

soldiers stood on either side, forming themselves into double ranks. Most were in dress uniforms. 

“I’ve never seen this many,” he said. “Perhaps it’s a parade.” 

The taxi was slowing now, the traffic growing heavier. Ahead of them a cargo walker in the shape of a 

water buffalo began to belch black smoke, and Klopp made a rude comment about poor maintenance. 

Hot steam clouds billowed from the surrounding engines, until the four of them were all tugging at their 

new clothes. 

“Sir,” Bauer said softly, “something’s going on up there.” 

Alek peered through the water buffalo’s exhaust. A hundred meters ahead a squad of soldiers was 

stopping every vehicle that passed. 

“A checkpoint,” Alek said. 

“Foreigners are meant to carry passports in this country,” Klopp said softly. 

“Should we get out and walk?” Alek said. 

Klopp shook his head. “That’ll just make them curious. We’re carrying these toolboxes … and a 

birdcage , for heaven’s sake.” 

“Right,” Alek sighed. “Well, then, we’re tourists who’ve left our passports at our hotel. And if that 

doesn’t work, we can bribe them.” 

“And if bribery doesn’t work?” Klopp asked. 

Alek frowned. They were carrying too much to run, and there were too many soldiers here to start a 

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fight. 


“Let me guess,” Dylan said in English. “You’re thinking about bribing them. They’ll refuse. No soldier 

takes a bribe with so many captains about.” 

Alek swore softly. It was true—officers with tall plumed hats were everywhere. 

“Can’t you pilot this contraption?” Dylan asked. 

Alek peered over the pilot’s shoulder at the strange controls. “With six legs? Not me, but Klopp can 

handle anything.” 

Dylan gave him a grin. “Enough with your blether, then. When it comes time, I’ll give the pilot a heave, 

and you and Bauer shove Master Klopp in front of the saunters!” 

“I suppose that sounds simple enough,” Alek said. 

But of course it wasn’t simple at all. 

The next five minutes were quite excruciating. The line oozed along like heavy engine oil, while Klopp 

listed every conceivable disaster under his breath. But finally the belching water buffalo ahead of them 

passed the checkpoint, and the taxi strode into place. 

A soldier stepped forward and gave them all a long, puzzled look. He held his hand out, saying 

something in Turkish. 

“I’m sorry,” Alek said, “but we don’t speak your language.” 

The man offered a polite bow, and said in excellent German, “Passports, then, please.” 

“Ah.” Alek made a show of checking his pockets. “I seem to have forgotten mine.” 

Klopp and Bauer followed suit, patting their silk robes and frowning. 

The soldier raised an eyebrow, then turned to his squad and lifted a hand in the air. 

“Oh, blisters!” Dylan cried, grabbing the startled pilot under his armpits and lifting him up. “Do itnow !” 

As Dylan dropped the man over the side of the taxi, Alek helped Bauer shove Klopp toward the front 

seat. He felt as heavy as a hogshead of wine, but a moment later he was sitting at the controls, his hands 

gripping the saunters. 

The taxi reared up like a stallion on its four hind legs, scattering the guards around them. Then it bolted 

forward, sparks flying from its metal feet. Past the crowded checkpoint the avenue was clear, and soon 

Klopp had the machine at full gallop. 

The soldiers cried out, unshouldering their rifles, and soon gunshots echoed around the taxi. Alek 

ducked, feeling as though his teeth were being shaken from his head. Dylan’s arms were wrapped around 

Klopp’s waist to keep them both from flying out of the taxi. Bauer had his hands on the toolboxes, and 

Alek reached down to secure the small satchel on the floor. 

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The only sound from the birdcage was Bovril’s maniacal laughter. 

“Hold on tight!” Klopp shouted, and leaned the taxi into a tight turn. Its six insectlike feet skidded along 

the cobblestones, making a sound like sabers dragged along a brick wall. 

Alek stuck his head up. This side street was narrower, and pedestrians were scattering as the taxi’s 

beetle jaws hurtled toward them. 

“Don’t kill anyone, Klopp!” he shouted, just as the machine’s right foreleg clipped a stack of barrels. 

One barrel split as the stack tumbled, and the sharp scent of vinegar sprayed into the air. At the next turn 

the taxi began to skid again, threatening to slide sideways through the large windows of a butcher shop, 

but Klopp wrestled it back under control. 

“Where am I going?” he cried. 

Alek pulled Zaven’s hand-drawn map from his pocket, and made a rough calculation. “Head left when 

you can, and slow down. No one’s behind us yet.” 

Klopp nodded, and brought the machine down into a six-legged canter. The next street was lined with 

mechanical parts shops and crowded with cargo walkers. No one looked twice at the taxi. 

“I don’t know how you can stand these daft contraptions,” Dylan said, sitting up straight in his seat. 

“They’re pure murder when they go fast!” 

“Wasn’t thisyour idea?” Alek asked. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” 

“For the moment. They’ll be after us soon enough.” 

The taxi made its way deeper into the industrial part of town, with Klopp following Alek’s guesses. The 

markings of the Committee’s mix of languages soon filled the walls. But streets signs were rare here, and 

nothing matched the few avenues labeled on Zaven’s map. 

“This is all quite familiar,” Alek said to Klopp. “We’re close.” 

“That might be a problem, sir,” Bauer said. “Didn’t you tell the cabbie where we were headed?” 

“I told him what neighborhood.” 

“The Ottomans must have questioned him by now. They’ll be here soon.” 

“You’re right, Hans. We have to hurry.” Alek turned to Klopp. “Zaven’s warehouse has a view of the 

whole city. We should be able to see it from higher ground.” 

Klopp nodded, turning whenever a road led upward. Finally the taxi eased to a halt at the crest of a hill, 

and Alek saw the cluster of warehouses, with Zaven’s apartments nestled on top. 

“That’s it! Maybe half a kilometer!” 

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“Do you hear that sound?” Dylan asked. 

Alek listened. Even with the taxi idling, it was there—a buzzing at the edge of his awareness. He looked 

around, but there was nothing in sight except cargo walkers and a clockwork messenger cart. 

“It’s not down here,” Dylan said quietly, staring at the sky. 

Alek looked up and saw it.… 

A gyrothopter hovering directly overhead. 

“Find cover!” Alek cried. 

Klopp urged the taxi forward again, rounding a corner into a narrow alley. 

Stone walls loomed over them, the sky hardly wider than a sliver. The gyrothopter darted in and out of 

view. But however the alley twisted and turned, the machine’s buzzing echoed in Alek’s ears. 

He noticed that the streets had cleared—the people knew that a military operation was on, and were 

anxious to get out of the way. Only a few dogs were left to scamper out of the taxi’s path. 

A light sparkled overhead, followed by a crackling sound. 

“Fireworks!” Dylan cried. “The gyropilot’s signaling that he’s found us!” 

Alek heard the shriek of whistles dead ahead. 

“Klopp! Slow down!” 

As it rounded the next corner, the taxi skidded to a halt, too late. A squad of soldiers waited, their rifles 

ready. Klopp pulled the saunters back as they fired, and the taxi reared up again. Alek heard theping of 

bullets ricocheting from the machine’s underside. 

Klopp wheeled the taxi around with its forelegs still in the air, and bolted back the way they’d come. 

Another volley of shots followed, dust spitting from the stone walls on either side. 

The taxi careened around a corner, but gears were grinding beneath the floorboards, and the smell of 

burning metal filled the air. 

“Our engine’s been hit!” Bauer cried. 

“I know a trick for that,” Klopp said calmly. 

He turned them aside into a small plaza with an old stone fountain, and walked the machine straight into 

the water. Hissing clouds of steam rose up around them as the tortured metal cooled. 

“She won’t go much farther,” Klopp said. 

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“We’re almost there.” As Alek stared at his map, he noticed a rumbling sound coming from the 

birdcage. What in blazes was the beast imitating now? 

Then he heard it above the hiss of boiling water. 

“A walker’s coming.” Dylan pointed ahead. “From that way, dead fast.” 

“It sounds big. We’ll have to turn back and face the soldiers.” 

“Not if we take those,” Dylan said, pointing at a stone staircase that led down from the plaza. 

Alek shook his head. “Too steep.” 

“What’s the point of legs if you can’t take the barking stairs? Just getmoving !” 

In English or not, Klopp could tell what they were talking about—he was also staring down the steps. 

He looked at Alek, who nodded. The old man sighed, then grasped the saunters again. 

“Hold on, everyone!” Alek shouted, planting one boot on the satchel at his feet. 

The machine tipped slowly forward, then slid, its hooves rattling like a rock drill as they skidded down 

the steps. Stone dust flew as the taxi bounced back and forth, battering the ancient walls. Klopp 

somehow kept the machine from tipping over, and at last it reached the bottom, sliding onto level 

pavement. 

Alek heard acrack and looked up. Soldiers were taking positions in the plaza above, their rifle muzzles 

flaring. A two-legged walker strode into view. 

Alek blinked—it had Ottoman markings, but it was a German design, not like an animal in any way. 

“Get down!” he cried. “And keep going, Klopp!” 

The taxi ground back into motion, its gears whining with every step. As it rounded the next corner, Alek 

dared to glance back up. Soldiers were streaming down the stairs, but the walker had come to a halt, its 

crew unwilling to dare the stairway on two legs. 

Alek checked the map again. “We’re almost there, Klopp. That way!” 

The taxi was limping now, one of its middle legs flailing. But it managed to drag itself onto Zaven’s street, 

staggering sideways like a drunken crab. 

Lilit and her father had heard the commotion, of course—they were waiting with the warehouse door 

wide open. 

“Go fast, Klopp!” Dylan shouted in crude German. “The gyrothopter!” 

Alek looked up. He couldn’t see the gyrothopter, but its buzzing sound was building in the air. They had 

to disappearnow . 

The taxi took another step toward the open warehouse door, then sputtered and died. Klopp whirled 

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the starting crank, but the engine only hissed and spat like a fresh log tossed onto a fire. 

“Barking stupid contraptions!” Dylan cried. 

“Lilit, if you please?” Zaven said calmly, and she leapt to the controls of the mechanikal arm on the 

loading dock. It rumbled to life and reached out to slide the taxi through the warehouse door. 

The door rolled closed behind them, and Zaven stepped inside just as the last view of the street 

disappeared, plunging them all into darkness. 

Alek reached down and checked the satchel at his feet—it was still there. 

A moment later an electrikal light switched on. 

“A most dramatic entrance,” Zaven said, his smile gleaming. 

“But won’t someone tell them?” Alek panted, looking at the crack of sunlight beneath the door. 

“Fah! Not to worry,” Zaven said. “Our neighbors are all friends. They have ignored greater disturbances 

than this.” He offered a deep bow. “Greetings, Masters Klopp, Bauer, and Sharp. I welcome you all to 

the Committee for Union and Progress!” 

The Committee’s walkers towered over them like five huge misshapen statues. 

“What an odd collection,” Bauer said. “Never seen any of these before.” 

“A few of those fought in the First Balkan War,” Klopp said, pointing at the Minotaur. “They were a bit 

old-fashioned even then.” 

“War,” said Bovril, staring up from Alek’s shoulder. 

Alek frowned. The first time he’d seen the walkers, he’d assumed the dents in their armor were from 

training battles. But with the noon sun flooding the vast courtyard, there was no denying it—these 

machines were ancient. 

“You can fix them up, can’t you?” he asked. 

“Perhaps,” Klopp said. 

“Fah! We shall fix them together!” Zaven proclaimed. He was already treating Klopp like a long-lost 

brother. “You may have modern knowledge, sir, but our mechaniks have those skills that can only be 

passed from father to son—and to daughter, of course!” 

“These machines are like family to us,” Lilit said. 

Klopp set down his toolbox. “Hmm … grandparents, I suppose.” 

No one laughed at this joke except Bovril, who climbed down and scampered across the courtyard to 

inspect the giant steel hooves of the Minotaur. 

Dylan had been standing silently since they’d arrived, his arms folded. But now he spoke in halting 

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German. “How many are there?” 

“How many pledged to the revolution?” Zaven rubbed his hands together happily. “We have a half 

dozen in every ghetto in this city. Almost fifty in all; enough to sweep away the sultan’s metal elephants. 

We could have done so six years ago, but we were not united then.” 

“And now, sir?” Bauer asked. 

“Like a fist!” Zaven said, demonstrating with both hands. “Even the Young Turks have rejoined us, 

thanks to all the Germans marching about.” 

“And thanks to the Spider, too, of course,” Lilit said. 

Alek looked at her. “The Spider?” 

“Shall we show them?” Lilit asked, but didn’t wait for her father to answer. She ran to a large metal 

door in the courtyard wall, and jumped up to grab a chain hanging beside it. As she climbed it, her weight 

drew the chain down, and the door began to slide grudgingly upward. 

A huge machine stood in the shadows. 

Alek had no idea what it was for, but could see why Lilit had called it the Spider. A dark mass of 

machinery rested at its center, from which eight long jointed arms thrust out. A snarl of conveyor belts led 

into the core, like on a harvesting combine. 

“Is that some sort of walking contraption?” Dylan asked in English. 

“They called it ‘the Spider,’” Alek translated, then shook his head. “But it doesn’t look as though it can 

walk.” 

“This is no mere war machine,” Zaven proclaimed. “But a far more powerful engine of progress. Lilit, 

show our guests!” 

Lilit stepped through the doorway, almost disappearing in the shadows beneath the machine’s bulk. A 

panel of dials and levers flickered to life, showing her in silhouette. She worked the controls, and a 

moment later the paving stones of the courtyard were rumbling beneath Alek’s feet. 

The eight arms began to move, stirring the air like the hands of an orchestra conductor, their manipulator 

claws making fine adjustments to the conveyor belts and other parts of the machine. 

“It does look a bit like a spideresque,” Dylan said. “One of the big ones that weaves parachutes.” 

Zaven nodded vigorously, answering her in his flawless English. “The Spider has woven the threads that 

hold our revolution together. Did you know, lad, that the word ‘text’ comes from the Latin word for 

weaving?” 

“Text?” Alek said. “What does that have to do with … ?” 

His voice faded as he saw a flicker of white within the gloom. A roll of paper was unspooling along one 

of the belts, disappearing into the machine’s dark center. The arms began to whirl through the air, 

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carrying about trays of metal pieces, pouring buckets of black liquid, then cutting and folding the paper 

with long, nimble fingers. 

“Barking spiders,” Dylan snorted. “It’s a printing press.” 

“A Spider with a bark, indeed,” Zaven said. “Far mightier than any sword!” 

The machine whirred and spun for another minute, then slowed and darkened again. When Lilit emerged 

from the shadows, she was carrying a stack of neatly folded leaflets covered with inscrutable symbols. 

Zaven lifted one up. “Ah, yes, my article on the subject of women being allowed to vote. Can you read 

Armenian?” 

Alek raised an eyebrow. “Alas, no.” 

“How unfortunate. But the real message is just here.” Zaven pointed at a row of symbols across the 

bottom of the page—stars, crescents, and crosses that looked like mere decoration. 

“A secret code,” Alek murmured, recalling the markings on the alley walls. With the profusion of 

newspapers sold on the streets of Istanbul, one more in a hodgepodge of languages wouldn’t attract 

much notice. But for those who knew the code … 

He felt Bovril tugging on his trouser leg. The beast was stepping from one foot to the other. 

Alek closed his eyes, and felt the slightest tremor through his boots. 

“What’s that rumbling?” 

“It feels like walkers, sir,” Bauer said. “Big ones.” 

“Have they found us?” Alek asked. 

“Fah. It’s just the sultan’s parade, for the end of Ramazan.” Zaven swept one hand toward the stairs. 

“Perhaps you would all join my family on the roof. Our balcony has an excellent view.” 

The Ottoman war elephants paraded down the distant tree-lined avenue, leaving footprints of shattered 

cobblestones. Their crescent flags snapped in the wind, and their trunks—tipped with machine 

guns—swayed between long, barbed tusks. They turned in formation, as precise as marching soldiers, 

heading away toward the docks. 

Deryn breathed a sigh of relief, handing the field glasses back to Alek. 

“Mr. Zaven’s right. They’re not coming this way.” 

“This must be the parade they were getting ready for,” Alek said, then handed the glasses to Klopp. 

“Was denken Sie, Klopp? Hundert Tonnen je?” 

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“Hundert und funfzig?,”the master of mechaniks said. 

Deryn nodded in agreement. If she understood him rightly, Klopp was guessing the metal elephants 

weighed a hundred and fifty tons each. Clanker tons were a bit larger than British ones, she recalled, but 

the point was clear enough. 

Those elephants were barking big. 

“Mit achtzig-Millimeter-Kanone auf dem Turmchen,”Bauer added, which was beyond Deryn’s 

Clanker. But she nodded again, pretending to understand. 

“Kanone,”repeated Bovril, who was sitting on Alek’s shoulder. 

“Aye, cannon,” Deryn murmured, watching the shimmer from the steel turrets on the elephants’ backs. 

The cannon were the important bit, after all. 

Klopp and Alek went on talking in indecipherable Clanker, so Deryn strolled to the far corner of the 

balcony to stretch her legs. Her bum was still sore from the wild ride in the taxi, which had been worse 

than any galloping horse. She didn’t understand how Clankers could ride about in machines all day—they 

way they moved was just deadwrong . 

“Are you injured?” came Lilit’s voice from just behind her, making Deryn jump a bit. The girl was 

always sneaking up on her. 

“I’m fine,” Deryn said, then pointed down at the war elephants. “I was just wondering, do they often 

parade about like that, smashing up the streets?” 

The girl shook her head. “They usually stay out of the city. The sultan is showing his strength.” 

“That’s for certain. Pardon me for saying so, miss, but you can’t beat them. Those walkers carry 

cannon, and yours have only got claws and fists. It’d be like taking boxing gloves to a pistol duel!” 

“The world is built on elephants, my grandmother always says.” Lilit let out a sigh. “It is an old law—our 

walkers can’t be armed, not like the sultan’s. But at least we’ve scared him. His army wouldn’t be 

tearing up the streets if he weren’t nervous!” 

“Aye, he might be nervous, but that also means he’s ready for you.” 

“The last revolution was only six years ago,” Lilit said. “He is always ready.” 

Deryn was about to say how cheery a thought that was, but an odd buzzing sound had filled the air. She 

turned to see a bizarre contraption headed across the balcony. It waddled along on pudgy legs, a cross 

between a reptile and a four-poster bed, buzzing like a windup toy. 

“What in blazes isthat ?” 

“That,” Lilit said with a smile, “is my grandmother.” 

As they walked back toward the others, Deryn saw a mass of gray hair sprouting from the white sheets. 

It was an old woman, no doubt the fearsome Nene that Alek had talked about. 

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Bovril seemed pleased to see her. It scampered down from Alek’s shoulder and across the balcony, 

then crawled up to the footboard of the bed. The beastie stood there with its fur ruffling in the breeze, as 

happy as an admiral at sea. 

Alek bowed to the old woman, introducing Master Klopp and Corporal Bauer in a stream of polite 

Clanker. 

Nene nodded, then turned her steely gaze on Deryn. 

“And you must be the boy from theLeviathan ,” she said, her English accent as posh as Zaven’s. “My 

granddaughter’s told me about you.” 

Deryn clicked her heels. “Midshipman Dylan Sharp, at your service, ma’am.” 

“From your accent, you were raised in Glasgow.” 

“Aye, ma’am. You have a good ear.” 

“Two of them, in fact,” Nene said. “And you have an odd voice. Your hands, please?” 

Deryn hesitated, but when the old woman snapped her fingers, she found herself obeying. 

“Lots of calluses,” Nene said, feeling carefully. “You’re a hardworking lad, unlike your friend the prince 

of Hohenberg. You draw a bit, and you do a lot of sewing, for a boy.” 

Deryn cleared her throat, remembering her aunties teaching her to quilt. “In the Air Service we middies 

darn our own uniforms.” 

“How industrious of you. My granddaughter tells me you don’t trust us.” 

“Aye … well, it is a bit awkward, ma’am. I’m under orders to keep my mission here a secret.” 

“Under orders?” Nene looked Deryn up and down. “You don’t appear to be in uniform.” 

“I may be undercover, ma’am,” Deryn said, “but I’m still a soldier.” 

“Undercover,” Bovril said, chuckling. “Mr.Sharp!” 

Deryn glared at the beastie, wishing it would stopsaying that. 

“Well, boy, at least you’re honest about your doubts,” Nene said, dropping her hands and turning to 

Alek. “So, what do your men think of our walkers?” 

Alek answered in Clanker, and soon Klopp and Bauer were peppering Nene and Zaven with questions. 

Deryn couldn’t follow half of it, but it hardly mattered what language you said it in—this revolution was 

well and truly stuffed without cannon. Zaven was barking mad to think otherwise. 

Even Alek couldn’t see the truth. He was always on about how it was his destiny to help the revolution, 

to get revenge on the Germans and end the war. That was a load of yackum, Deryn reckoned. 

Providence wouldn’t stop the sultan’s walkers from chewing up the Committee’s antiques, as easy as a 

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box of chocolates. 

She pulled out her sketch pad and stared down at the parade again. The elephants were lining up beside 

a long pier, their guns elevating, readying to salute a warship.… 

“TheGoeben ,” Deryn murmured. The ironclad’s new Ottoman flags fluttered bright crimson, her Tesla 

cannon glittering like a steel spiderweb in the sun. 

Lilit had been right—the sultan was flaunting his power today. Even if the Committee could beat those 

elephants somehow, they’d still have to face the big guns of theGoeben and theBreslau . 

Or perhaps not. Less than a month from now theLeviathan would be headed up the Dardanelles, 

guiding a beastie hungry for German ironclads. Admiral Souchon might have fought kraken before, but 

nothing like the behemoth. The creature was supposedly powerful enough to sink the sultan’s two new 

warships in half an hour. 

Now,that would be a barking good night for a revolution to start. 

The problem was, Deryn couldn’t tell the Committee what was coming. If just one of them was a 

Clanker spy, letting the plan slip could spell doom for theLeviathan . She was duty bound to keep quiet. 

A torrent of smoke poured from the war elephants’ cannon, rippling into a vast dark cloud on the sea 

breeze. The sound arrived long seconds later, as tardy as distant thunder. Then theGoeben ’s guns 

returned the salute, ten times louder and more fiery. 

Deryn sighed as she began to sketch the scene—there were too many barking pieces to this puzzle. The 

behemoth might sink the German ironclads, but it couldn’t slither onto land and fight the sultan’s elephants 

as well. 

Behind her the discussion had grown heated. Zaven was proclaiming in Clanker while Klopp shook his 

head, arms crossed. 

“Nein, nein, nein,”the old man kept repeating. 

If only there were a simple way to handle a hundred and fifty tons of steel … 

Then, all in a flash, it came to her. 

“Hold on, Mr. Zaven,” she broke in. “It doesn’t matter that your walkers haven’t got cannon. We can 

fix that!” 

Alek shook his head tiredly. “There’s nothing we can do. He says the army has strict control over 

cannon and ammunition.” 

“Aye, but you don’t need anything so fancy,” Deryn said. “When theDauntless was hijacked, the 

attackers had nothing but a few bits of rope.” 

“Hijacked?” Nene asked. “I thought theDauntless ’s rampage was due to sloppy piloting.” 

Deryn snorted. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, ma’am.” She pointed down at the 

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armored elephants. “See how there’s a pilot for each leg? The hijackers lassoed our men and yanked 

them off, then climbed up to take their place. That’s how you stop those metal beasties. Knock out a 

couple of pilots, and you stop them completely!” 

“Perhaps on theDauntless , where the pilots ride out in the open,” Zaven said. “But the men down there 

are well shielded.” 

Deryn had thought of this already. “Shielded from ropes and bullets, maybe. But they must have vision 

slits, like Alek’s Stormwalker did. What if something spicy got through them?” 

“Somethingspicy ?” Nene asked. 

“Aye.” Deryn grinned, turning to Alek. “I never told you about how I rescued theDauntless , did I?” 

Alek shook his head. 

Deryn took a moment to compose her thoughts, knowing she had their full attention now. “It was my 

idea, in fact. The barking diplomats had no proper weapons aboard, so I snatched up a big bag of spice 

powder and hurled it at one of the hijackers. The smell of it knocked that bum-rag right off his saddle! 

And armor will only make things worse—imagine being stuck inside a wee metal cabin with a snootful of 

spices!” 

“Spices,” Bovril repeated quietly. 

“That hijacker could hardly breathe,” Deryn said. “And my uniform was pure dead ruined!” 

“The army doesn’t control hot peppers,” Nene murmured, and Alek began to translate for Klopp and 

Bauer. 

Lilit turned to her father. “Do you think it could work?” 

“Even a foot soldier can fight a walker that way,” Zaven said. “The Committee can flood the streets with 

spice-wielding revolutionaries!” 

“Aye, but think bigger than that,” Deryn said. “Unlike the German walkers, yours have all got hands. I 

reckon that Minotaur beastie could throw a spice bomb half a mile!” 

“Farther than that,” Lilit said, then smiled. “If Alek can manage not to crush it first, that is.” 

Alekhmphed a bit. “Klopp says he can rig something up—some sort of magazine to hold the spice 

bombs. We’re standing above a mechanikal factory, after all.” 

“Parts aren’t a problem,” Zaven said. “But the hottest spices are sold by the pinch. We’re talking about 

buying tons!” 

“If I can provide the money, are you willing to try?” Alek asked. 

Zaven and Lilit both looked at Nene. She raised an eyebrow, staring at Alek. 

“We’re talking about a lot of money, Your Serene Highness.” 

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Alek didn’t answer, but knelt to open his satchel—the small one he’d been lugging about all day. He slid 

out what looked like a brick wrapped in a handkerchief. 

“Junge Meister!”Klopp said softly.“Nicht das Gold!” 

Alek ignored him, unwrapping the handkerchief to reveal a metal bar. When sunlight struck it, a pale 

yellow fire burned across its surface. 

Deryn swallowed. Barking spiders, but princes wererich ! 

“You really are him, aren’t you?” Nene murmured. A thin few slices had been shaved from the bar’s 

edges, but the Hapsburg crest was still plain. 

“Of course, madam,” Alek said. “I am a very poor liar.” 

The conversation started up again, shifting back to Clanker as Nene, Zaven, and Klopp began to plan. 

Lilit turned to face Deryn, her eyes glittering. 

“Spices! You’re brilliant. Just perfectly brilliant.” Lilit gathered her into a hug. “Thank you!” 

“Aye, I’m dead clever … sometimes,” Deryn said, pulling herself quickly away. “It’s just lucky Alek 

brought that slab of gold along.” 

Alek nodded, but a pained look crossed his face. “That was my father’s idea. He and Volger planned 

for anything.” 

“Aye, but it’s barking lucky you brought ittoday ,” Deryn said. “Otherwise you’d have lost it.” 


“Stop being aDummkopf ,” Deryn said, shaking her head. “The taxi pilot knows what hotel we came 

from. And the way we’re dressed, it’s dead certain the management will remember us if the police come 

asking. So we’ll have to stay here. We’ve lost the wireless set, but we’ve got Klopp’s tools, Bovril, and 

your gold.” Deryn shrugged. “That’s everything important, right?” 

Alek squeezed his eyes shut, his voice falling to a whisper. “Almost everything.” 

“Blisters! You didn’t havetwo slabs of gold, did you?” 

“No. But I left a letter behind.” 

“Does it say who you are?” Lilit asked softly. 

“All too clearly.” Alek turned to stare at Deryn, his gaze suddenly intense. “It’s well hidden. If no one 

finds it, we can sneak back and fetch it!” 

“Aye, I suppose so.” 

“In a week, once things have settled down. Please say you’ll help me!” 

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“You know me, always happy to lend a hand,” Deryn said, punching Alek on the shoulder. Though, 

frankly, it sounded a bit pointless to her. The Germans already knew that Alek was in Istanbul, so why 

risk getting caught? 

It was only a barking letter, after all. 

“You bum-rag!” Deryn cried. “I was having a dead good dream!” 

“It’s time to go,” Alek said. 

Deryn groaned. She’d been helping Lilit with the Spider all day, carrying parts and trays of type, and 

every muscle in her body ached. It was no wonder that Clankers were grumpy all the time—metal was 

barkingheavy . 

In her dream she’d been flying. Not on an airship or a Huxley, but with wings of her own, as light as 

gossamer. It had been brilliant. 

“Can we not leave it for another night? I’m knackered.” 

“It’s a week since we left the hotel, Dylan. That’s what we agreed.” 

Deryn sighed. She could see the desperate gleam in the boy’s eye again. He got it every time he talked 

about his lost letter, though he wouldn’t say why it was so barking important. 

Alek threw her blanket aside, and Deryn jumped to cover herself. But she’d slept in her mechanic’s 

slops, as she always did now. She’d had to watch her step here. The pilots who came to train in Zaven’s 

warehouse were all curious about the strange boy in the background, who knew none of the languages of 

the Ottoman Empire. So Deryn stuck with Lilit, working on the Spider, and helped Zaven with the 

cooking, learning the names of new spices, and slicing garlic and onions until her fingers stung. 

“Leave off!” she cried. “I’m getting up.” 

“Hush. I don’t want any questions from the others about where we’re going.” 

“Aye, right. Just wait outside a minute.” 

He hesitated, but finally left her alone. 

Deryn changed into her Turkish clothes, muttering about the various defects of Alek’s character. She 

often talked to herself these days—living among Clankers was driving her mad. Instead of the murmurs 

of beasties and the steady hum of airflow, Deryn spent her days surrounded by the rattle of gears and 

pistons. Her skin smelled of engine grease. 

Of all the machines she’d worked on this last week, the Spider was the only one she had a fondness for. 

Its dance of cutting blades and conveyor belts was as elegant as any ecosystem, a whirl of paper and ink 

converging into neat bundles of information, and its huge legs stretched out like the boughs of an ancient 

tree. But even that faint suggestion of a living thing only made Deryn miss her airship home the harder. 

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And all to help some barkingprince . 

She went out into the training courtyard, where the latest bunch of walkers stood, their spice-bomb 

throwers half finished. A djinn towered above the rest, its powerful arms crossed, its nozzles still wet 

from being tested. As fellow Muslims, the Arabs had a dispensation from the sultan to arm their walkers 

with steam cannon. The cannon didn’t shoot projectiles, but in a pinch the djinn could disappear into a 

white-hot cloud. 

The courtyard’s outer door was wedged open a squick. Deryn slipped through to find Alek waiting out 

on the street. 

Lilit was there too, dressed up in fancy European clothing. 

“What’sshe doing here?” 

Alek raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t I tell you? We need someone the hotel staff won’t recognize. Lilit 

rented a suite yesterday.” 

“And exactly how does that help us?” 

“My room is on the highest floor, like Alek’s was,” Lilit said. “Two doors away. And they both have 

balconies.” 

Deryn frowned. She had to admit, climbing across balconies might be a wee bit easier than picking the 

lock. But why hadn’t anyone toldher the plan? 

“I can sneak about just as well as you two can,” the girl said. “Ask Alek how easily I trailed him.” 

“Aye, he’s told me that story more than once,” Deryn said. “It’s just that …” 

She tried to think of what to say. Lilit wasn’t a bad sort, really. She was a dab hand with machines, as 

good at piloting as any of the men. In a way, she’d managed the same trick as Deryn had—acting like a 

man—without pretending, and that was a splendid sort of anarchy, one had to admit. 

But the girl had a habit of turning up whenever Alek and Deryn were alone together, which was barking 

tiresome. 

Why hadn’t Alek mentioned that she was coming along? What other secrets was he keeping about her? 

“Is it because I’m a girl?” Lilit asked stiffly. 

“Of course not.” Deryn shook her head. “I’m just sleepy, is all.” 

Lilit stood there, looking a little cross and waiting to hear more. But Deryn only turned and headed 

toward the fancy part of town. 

The Hotel Hagia Sophia stood, dark and silent, a single gaslight burning above the doorway. Deryn and 

Alek watched from the shadows as Lilit made her way inside, the doorman saluting as she passed. 

“It seems a bit daft, ussneaking in,” Deryn whispered. “Do you really think they’d recognize us?” 

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“Don’t forget,” Alek said. “If they’ve found my letter, there’ll be a dozen German agents in the lobby, 

day and night.” 

Deryn nodded. That was true enough—any trace of Austria’s missing prince would stir up more ruckus 

than a stolen taxi. 

“She’s meeting us back here.” Alek led Deryn around to a small lane, where rubbish was heaped 

outside the hotel kitchen door. He and Lilit had done a lot of planning together, it seemed. 

Deryn shook the jealous thought from her head. She was a soldier on a mission, not some daft lassie 

mooning at a village dance. 

She crept closer and peeked through a window. It was dark inside the kitchen, the motionless arms of a 

clockwork dishwasher casting eerie shadows. But after a few minutes a silent shape slipped through the 

darkness, and the door creaked opened. 

“There’s someone at the front desk,” Lilit whispered. “And a man reading in the lobby, so keep quiet.” 

As they slipped inside, the scents of cooking filled Deryn’s nose, as delicious as she remembered from 

her two days here. Bowls of dates and apricots and waxy yellow potatoes crowded a long and knotted 

wooden table, a row of aubergines shining purple in the darkness, waiting for the gleaming knives to gut 

them. 

But the smell of paprika made her wince. Zaven had been mixing up spice bombs all day, and Deryn’s 

eyeballs were still sore. 

Lilit led them from the kitchen into a dark and empty dining room. The places were all set, the napkins 

neatly folded as if guests were about to arrive, and Deryn got the shivery feeling she always did in fancy 

places. 

“There’s a back stair for the servants,” Lilit whispered, heading for a small doorway in the far wall. 

The staircase was narrow and pitch-black, and complained at every step. Clanker wood always 

sounded so ancient and unhappy, like Deryn’s aunties on a damp winter morning. That was what came of 

chopping down trees instead of fabricating your wood, she supposed. 

The three climbed slowly to keep quiet, and it was long minutes later that Lilit led them out into a wide, 

familiar hallway. 

Deryn felt a squick of chill as she passed Alek’s room. What if his letter had been found, and half a 

dozen Clanker agents were waiting inside? 

Lilit stopped two doors farther along, pulling out a key. A moment later they were all standing in a suite 

as fancy as Alek’s had been. Deryn wondered again what was so barking important about this letter. 

Was it really worth spending money on this suite, money that could have gone to the Committee’s 

walkers? 

Lilit pointed. “The balcony.” 

Deryn crossed the room and stepped out into the cool of night. Here on the top floor the balconies were 

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almost as wide as the suites themselves. Easy enough to get from one to the next—the sort of jump an 

airman made every day. 

But she turned to Alek and whispered, “If you’d let me in on the barking plan, I could have brought a 

safety line.” 

He smiled. “Lost your air sense already?” 

“Hardly.” Deryn put one foot up on the railing, hands out for balance. 

Alek turned to Lilit. “Stay here. There might be someone waiting for us.” 

“Do you think I can’t fight?” 

Deryn paused in her jump, wondering how Alek would answer. Was he more worried about Lilit’s 

safety than his own? Or didn’t he want a mere girl helping him? 

Either would be dead annoying. 

“It’s not that you can’t fight,” he said. “But if you’re captured, someone might recognize you as Zaven’s 

daughter. That would lead the police straight back to the warehouse.” 

Deryn blinked—maybe Alek was just beingsensible . 

“What if you two get captured?” Lilit asked. 

“Then you’ll have to overthrow the sultan and set us free.” 

Lilit fumed a bit, but nodded. “Just be careful, both of you.” 

“Don’t worry about us,” Deryn said, and jumped. 

She landed on the next balcony with a softclang , then waited to give Alek a hand. He jumped with a 

grim look on his face, and his hand was shaking a bit when she grabbed it to steady him. 

“Who’s lost his air sense now?” she whispered. 

“Well, itis rather high.” 

Deryn snorted. After skylarking at a thousand feet, half a dozen stories was nothing. She crossed the 

balcony, climbed onto the railing, and jumped again, hardly glancing at the ground. 

She gestured for Alek to wait as she peeked inside. 

The room was dark, but no one was in sight. Deryn slipped her rigging knife into the crack between the 

doors to lift the hasp, pushed them open, and listened—nothing. 

She slipped inside and stole softly to the bedroom doors. The bed was empty, the covers and the 

pillows all straight. If anyone had searched this room, they’d cleaned up after themselves. 

In fact, the whole suite looked exactly as Deryn remembered it: the potted plants, the footstool that had 

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been Bovril’s favorite, the low divan she’d slept on while Alek had snored away in the splendor of the 

bedroom. 

She heard a softthud and turned around—Alek was stepping in from the balcony. He pulled a 

screwdriver from his pocket, heading straight for the shiny brass switchboard on the wall. 

“Doesn’t that contraption call the front desk?” she whispered. In her two days here Alek had used the 

switchboard to call delicious meals up to the room, as if by magic. 

“Yes, of course. But I won’t activate it.” His fingers spun, and soon the front panel slipped off into his 

hands. 

He set the panel carefully onto the floor and reached into the Clanker guts of the device. From among 

the tangle of wires and bells, he pulled out a long cylinder of leather. 

Deryn took a step forward, squinting in the darkness. 

“It’s my letter,” Alek said. “It’s in a scroll case.” 

“Ascroll case ? Someone sent you a barkingscroll? ?” 

Alek didn’t answer, slipping the screwdriver back into his pocket. 

“Aye, I know—top secret,” she muttered, crossing to the suite’s front door. “We may as well take the 

hallway. No point testing your air sense again.” 

Deryn pressed her ear against the door—no sound at all. But when she looked back at him, Alek was 

still standing in the same spot, wearing a thoughtful expression. 

“Forgot something else?” she whispered. “Another scroll? A bar of platinum?” 

“Dylan,” the boy said softly, “before we go back to Lilit, I should tell you something.” 

Deryn froze, her hand on the doorknob. “Something about her?” 

“About Lilit? Why would I …,” Alek began, but then his expression broke into a smile. “Ah, you’ve 

been wondering about her.” 

“Aye, a bit.” 

Alek chuckled quietly. “Well, she is quite beautiful.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“I was wondering when you’d notice. You’ve been quite aDummkopf about it. And she’s been trying 

awfully hard to get you to see.” 

“To getme to see? But why …” Deryn frowned. “What are we talking about, exactly?” 

Alek rolled his eyes. “You’restill being a ninny! Haven’t you noticed how much she likes you?” 

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Deryn’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Alek said. “She’s liked you from the start. Did you think she had you 

working on the Spider for your mechanical skills?” 

“But—but I thought that you and her …” 

“Me? She thinks I’m a perfectly useless aristocrat.” Alek shook his head. “You really are aDummkopf , 

aren’t you?” 

“But shecan’t like me,” Deryn said. “I’m a … barking airman!” 

“Yes, she thinks that’s quite romantic as well. You do have a certain swagger about you, I suppose. 

And you’re not bad looking, to be sure.” 

“Oh, leave off!” 

“In fact, when I first met you, I thought, ‘Now,there’s the boy I want to be—or would, if I hadn’t been 

born such a hopeless prince.’” 

Deryn glared at Alek, who was clearly enjoying himself now, his eyes glistening with laughter held in 

check. It made her want to punch him, and yet … 

“Do you really think I’m handsome?” she asked. 

“Most beguiling, I’m sure. And now that you’ve masterminded the revolution, Lilit’s affections are quite 

out of control.” 

Deryn groaned, shaking her head. She had to put a stop to this, before it got too blistering tricky. 

“But we should discuss your romantic life another time.” Alek held up the scroll case. “I need to tell you 

about this.” 

Deryn stared dumbly, trying to force her mind to stop spinning. She could deal with Lilit. It was just a 

matter of… well, not of telling her the truth, certainly, but of sayingsomething sensible. 

After all, it was true that women liked an airman’s swagger—Mr. Rigby was always saying so. It was 

just part of being a soldier. Part of being aboy , really. She could make up a story of a girl back home … 

“Right, then,” Deryn finally managed. “What’s so barking important about this scroll of yours?” 

“Well, it’s like this.” Alek took a slow breath. “Along with our revolution here in Istanbul, I think this 

letter might end the war.” 

The boy just looked at him, speechless again. 

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Standing there in the dark, Alek could hear his own heart pounding. Getting those first words out had 

taken all the willpower he possessed. 

But now that Volger was gone, bearing the secret alone was too much. And Dylan had proven himself 

loyal a dozen times over. 

“It’s from the Holy Father,” Alek said, holding up the scroll case. 

It took Dylan a moment, but then he said, “You mean, thepope ?” 

Alek nodded. “It changes the terms of my parents’ marriage, making me my father’s heir. I suppose I’ve 

been lying to you—I’m not just a prince.” 

“Then you’re … an archduke?” 

“I’m the archduke of Austria-Este, royal prince of Hungary and Bohemia. When my granduncle dies, it 

may be that I can stop this war.” 

Dylan’s eyes slowly widened. “Because you’ll be the barking emperor!” 

Alek sighed, crossing to the large chair with tasseled arms that had been his favorite. He fell into it, 

suddenly exhausted. 

He’d rather missed this hotel room, with all its Levantine splendor. In the week of hiding here he’d felt 

…in command for the first time in his life, with no tutors or mentors to appease. But now he’d joined a 

committee of revolutionaries, and had to argue over every detail. 

“It’s complicated. Franz Joseph has named another successor, but he chose my father first.” Alek 

looked at the crossed keys on the leather case, a sign of papal authority that no faithful Austrian could 

ignore. “This document might throw the succession into doubt, if the war is going badly and the people 

want change. My father used to say, ‘A country with two kings will always falter.’” 

“Aye,” Dylan said, coming closer. “And if there’s been a revolution here, then Germany will be 

completely alone!” 

Alek smiled. “Not such aDummkopf after all, are you?” 

Dylan perched on one arm of the chair, looking dizzy and astonished. 

“Pardon me, your princeliness, but this is all a bit much. First you tell me about her …” The boy waved 

in the direction of Lilit’s room. “And nowthis !” 

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to lie to you, Dylan. But I learned about this letter the same night I met you. 

It’s still quite strange for me.” 

“It’s pure dead strange for me, too!” Dylan said, standing up again and pacing across the room. “Ending 

a whole barking war with a bit of paper, even if itis a fancy scroll. Who would believe it’sreal? ?” 

Alek nodded. He’d felt the same way when Volger had shown him the letter. It seemed too small an 

object to change so much. But here in Istanbul, Alek had begun to understand what the scroll really 

meant. TheLeviathan had been brought to that mountaintop, and then here. It was up to him, 

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Aleksandar of Hohenberg, to end the war that his parents’ death had started. 

“Volger says the pope himself will vouch for me, as long as I keep this letter secret until my granduncle 

passes away. The emperor turned eighty-four last week. He could die any day.” 

“Blisters. No wonder the Germans want to catch you so badly!” 

“True enough. It has made things dangerous.” Alek looked at the scroll case. “But that’s why we had to 

come back here. And why I’m willing to trade my father’s gold to make the Committee’s revolution 

work. What we do here can changeeverything .” 

Dylan stopped pacing in the middle of the room, his fists clenched, as if struggling with some secret of his 

own. 

“Thank you for trusting me, Alek.” The boy looked at the floor. “I haven’t always trusted you. Not with 

everything.” 

Alek pulled himself up from the chair and walked closer, resting his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “You 

know you can, Dylan.” 

“Aye, I suppose. And there’s something I should tell you. But you have to swear not to tell anyone 

else—not Lilit, not the Committee. No one.” 

“I’ll always keep your secrets, Dylan.” 

The boy nodded slowly. “This one’s a bit trickier than most.” 

He fell silent again, the pause stretching out. 

“It’s about your mission here, isn’t it?” 

Dylan let out a slow sigh, a sound of relief and exhaustion. “Aye, I suppose it is. We were an advance 

party, sent to sabotage the kraken nets in the strait. It was all part of Dr. Barlow’s plan from the 

beginning.” 

“But your men were captured.” 

Dylan shook his head. “My men may have been caught, but we did our job. Right now those nets are 

being eaten away by wee beasties. And it’s happening so slowly that the Ottomans won’t realize until it’s 

too late.” 

“So you British aren’t waiting for the sultan to join the war. You’ll strike the first blow.” 

“Aye, in three weeks. Dr. Barlow says the nets will be in tatters by then. On the night of the next new 

moon, theLeviathan will guide a new beastie down the strait. It’s the companion creature for theOsman 

, the ship that Lord Churchill stole from the Ottomans. It’s called a behemoth, and it’s barking huge, like 

the world has never seen before! Those German ironclads’ days are numbered.” 

Alek clenched the scroll case tighter. The weakest link in the Committee’s plans had always been the 

German ironclads. But with some kind of Royal Navy monster on its way, the odds had changed 

considerably. 

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“But this is exactly what we need, Dylan. Wehave to tell the Committee!” 

“We can’t,” the boy said. “I trust Zaven and his family, but there are hundreds of others involved. What 

if one of them is a Clanker spy? If the Germans find out theLeviathan is coming, theGoeben could 

surprise it anywhere along the way with her Tesla cannon charged!” 

“Of course.” Alek shuddered a bit, remembering the lightning coursing through his body. “But what 

about Zaven’s plan? He’s leading walkers with spice bombs against the ironclads. Klopp says it’s 

insane.” 

“Aye, completely daft,” Dylan said. “But don’t tell Zaven that! If they strike on the night of the new 

moon, theGoeben will be sunk before they even get there!” 

Alek nodded slowly, thinking it through. In an all-out battle for the city, the sultan would send his 

walkers into the streets, relying on the German warships to protect the palace. But if they lay at the 

bottom of the sea, the revolution could be over in a single night. Thousands of lives might be spared. 

Of course, an attack in utter darkness would mean teaching the Committee’s pilots how to drive their 

walkers at night. He’d already explained the principles to Lilit, and she’d picked them up quickly enough. 

If anything, it would give the revolutionaries yet another advantage. 

“I’ll order Klopp to say he’s changed his mind, that he thinks spice bombing theGoeben will work. He 

might grumble a bit, but he’ll do as he’s told. But how do we get the Committee to pick that exact night?” 

“Have Klopp say that it’s best to attack the ironclads in darkness.” Dylan shrugged. “Then we’ll point 

out that September 19 is a new moon, and let them decide on their own.” 

Alek smiled. “And with your masculine charms, you can persuade Lilit to plead our case for us!” 

Dylan rolled his eyes, turning beet red again. “Speaking of secrets, you won’t tell Lilit aboutthat 

discussion either, will you? It’ll only complicate things.” 

Alek chuckled. He’d always heard that Darwinists were quite plainspoken about matters of biology, to 

the point of being vulgar. But Dylan looked positively shamefaced about the whole thing, more like a 

schoolboy than a soldier. 

It was most amusing. 

“As I said, all your secrets are safe with me.” 

“Aye, good, then.” Dylan hesitated. “And … you’re completely sure it’sme she likes, not you?” 

Alek laughed. “I should hope so. After all, if we did like each other, I’d have to run a mile.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“For heaven’s sake, Dylan. Lilit is acommoner , far more common than my mother.” Alek held up the 

scroll case. “I grew up not knowing if this would ever happen. Not knowing who I really was, and 

always thinking how much easier it would be for everyone if I hadn’t been born. I could never do that to 

my own children, not in a thousand years.” 

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Dylan stared at the scroll case sadly. “Must be tough, being a prince.” 

“Not any longer, thanks to this.” Alek clasped Dylan’s shoulder again, happy that his only real friend 

knew his last secret. “Let’s get out of here. We have a revolution to plan.” 

Lilit opened her door wearing a frown. 

“Took you two long enough. I thought you’d got yourselves into trouble.” 

“We were having a bit of a discussion.” Alek winked at Dylan, then held up the scroll case. “But we 

found this.” 

Lilit gave them both an odd look, and Dylan turned away in embarrassment, heading toward the 

servants’ staircase. 

Alek shrugged for Lilit’s benefit, then followed. 

As they descended the stairs, the hotel began to stir around them. The steam elevators rumbled and 

hissed, building up pressure for the morning traffic, and soon a clattering rose up from below. 

Dylan came to a halt, raising his hand. “The cooks are in the kitchen already. We can’t go back that 

way.” 

“Straight through the lobby doors, then,” Lilit said. “If no one found your letter, there won’t be any 

German agents about.” 

“Aye, but some of us are wanted taxi thieves!” Dylan said. 

Alek shook his head. “It’ll be fine. We’ll be out the door before anyone gives us a second look.” 

“Just try not to act suspicious,” Lilit said, nudging open the door to the dining room. 

She led them through the empty tables, with a stride as confident as if she owned the hotel. A young boy 

in a fez looked up from polishing silverware and frowned, but didn’t say a word. 

They passed him and headed through the lobby, which was empty except for one rather shabby-looking 

tourist waiting for a room.… 

The man glanced up from his newspaper, smiled, and waved a hand. 

“Ah, Prince Alek,” he called. “I thought you might be somewhere hereabouts.” 

Alek froze in midstride. It was Eddie Malone. 

To Justine: 

nine years, seventeen novels, and counting 

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“Of course, I never took you for a taxi thief,” Malone said, stirring his coffee. “But then I heard the name 

of that hotel.” 

Alek didn’t answer, just gazed at his cup in silence. The black surface of the liquid flickered, reflecting 

the dancing shapes of shadow puppets on the screen behind him. 

The reporter had led them to a coffeehouse, well away from the curious glances of the hotel staff. Each 

table had its own tiny shadow play machine, and the place was dark and nearly empty, the few patrons 

all transfixed by their own puppets. But Alek felt as though the walls were listening. 

Perhaps it was the beady eyes of the bullfrog staring at him from across the table. 

“My mother’s name,” he said softly. “Of course.” 

Malone nodded. “I’ve been looking at hotel signs ever since, and wondering. The Dora Hotel? The 

Santa Pera? The Angel?” He let out a low chuckle. “And then I heard about some Germans staying at 

the Hagia Sophia stealing a taxi. So the name Sophie started ringing in my ears.” 

“But how did you know to call meprince ?” Alek said. “I’m not the only Austrian with a mother named 

Sophie.” 

“That’s what I figured, until I started looking into that Count Volger fellow. He and your father were old 

friends, weren’t they?” 

Alek nodded, his eyes closing. He was exhausted, and there was another long day of work ahead—a 

whole revolution to rethink. 

“But we stole that taxi seven barking days ago!” Dylan said. “Have you been sitting in that lobby all that 

time?” 

“Of course not,” Malone said. “It took me three days of pondering, then another three to find out who 

Count Volger was. I practically just got there.” 

Alek winced a little. If only they’d gone to retrieve the letter a day earlier, they might have never laid 

eyes on the man. 

“But once it all fell into place, I justhad to find you again.” Malone’s face was beaming. “A missing 

prince, the boy whose family started the Great War! Biggest story I’ve ever covered.” 

“Should we kill him now?” Lilit asked. 

Malone gave her a curious look; clearly he hadn’t understood her German. He pulled out his notepad. 

“And who might you be, miss?” 

Lilit’s eyes narrowed, and Alek hurriedly spoke up. “I’m afraid that’s none of your business, Mr. 

Malone. We won’t be answering any of your questions.” 

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The man held up his notebook. “So I’ll have to publish my story with so many questions left 

unanswered? And so soon? Say … tomorrow?” 

“Are you blackmailing us, Mr. Malone?” 

“Of course not. I just don’t like loose ends.” 

Alek shook his head and sighed. “Write what you want. The Germans already know I’m here in 

Istanbul.” 

“Interesting,” Malone said, his pen scribbling on the pad. “See? You’re adding background already! But 

what’s really interesting is young Dylan being with you. The Ottomans will be surprised to hear that one 

of theLeviathan ’s saboteurs escaped!” 

From the corner of his eye, Alek saw Dylan’s fists clench. 

But Malone had turned his gaze on Lilit. “And then there’s the matter of your new revolutionary friends. 

That might raise a few eyebrows as well.” 

“My knife is ready,” Lilit said softly in German. “Just say the word.” 

“Mr. Malone,” Alek said, “perhaps we can convince you to delay publishing your story.” 

“How long do you need?” the man said, his pen still poised to write. 

Alek sighed. Giving Malone a date only revealed more about their plans. But they had to string the man 

along somehow. If the Ottomans learned that a Darwinist saboteur was working with revolutionaries here 

in Istanbul, they might begin to piece together Dr. Barlow’s plan. 

Alek looked to Dylan for help. 

“Don’t you see, Mr. Malone?” the boy said. “If you give us all away, then the story’s over. But if you 

just wait awee bit , it’ll get heaps more interesting, we promise!” 

Malone leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. “Well, I suppose you’ve got a little while. I file 

my stories by messenger tern. That’s four days to cross the Atlantic. And because I use birds, the 

Germans’ can’t listen in on their fancy new wireless tower.” 

“Four days is hardly—,” Alek began, but Dylan grabbed his arm. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Malone,” the boy said. “What wireless tower are you talking about?” 

“The big one they’re just finishing.” Malone gave a shrug. “It’s meant to be a secret, but half the 

Germans in this city are working on it. Has its own power station, they say.” 

Dylan’s eyes grew wider. “Is this tower somewhere along a railroad line?” 

“I’ve heard it’s somewhere on the cliffs, where the old tracks follow the water.” Malone narrowed his 

eyes. “What’s so interesting about that?” 

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“Barking spiders,” Dylan said softly. “I should have realized the first night I was here.” 

Alek stared at the boy, remembering his story about the night he’d arrived. Dylan had secretly ridden a 

short way on the Orient-Express, which the Germans were using to smuggle parts out of the city … 

electrikal parts. 

The pieces finally fell into place. 

“With its own power station?” Alek asked. 

Eddie Malone nodded, his eyes flicking between the two of them. 

Alek felt a cold finger sliding down his spine. No mere wireless tower would need that much power. The 

Leviathan was flying straight into disaster. 

“Can you give us a month?” he asked Malone. 

“A whole month?” The reporter let out a snort. “My editors would have me brought home in a brown 

bag. You have to give mesomething to write about.” 

Dylan sat up straighter. “All right, then, I’ve got a story for you. And the sooner you publish it, the 

better. That wireless tower—” 

“Wait!” Alek said. “I have something better. How about an interview with the missing prince of 

Hohenberg? I’ll tell you about the night I left my home, how I escaped Austria and made it to the Alps. 

Who I think killed my parents, and why. Will that keep you busy enough, Mr. Malone?” 

The man’s pen was scribbling, his head nodding furiously. Dylan was staring at Alek, wide eyed. 

“But there’s one condition: You can’t mention either of my friends,” Alek said. “Just say I’m hiding in the 

hills somewhere, alone.” 

The man paused a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever you want, as long as I can take some 

photographs too.” 

Alek shuddered—ofcourse Malone’s newspaper was the sort that published photographs. How 

perfectly vulgar. 

But he could only nod. 

“Mr. Malone,” Dylan said, “there’s still one other thing—” 

“Not tonight,” Alek said. “I’m afraid we’re all quite tired, Mr. Malone. I’m sure you understand.” 

“You’re not the only ones.” The reporter stood up, stretching his arms. “I’ve been in that lobby all night. 

Meet me tomorrow in the usual cafe?” 

Alek nodded, and Malone gathered his things and left, not even offering to pay for his coffee. 

“This is all my fault,” Lilit said when the man was gone. “I saw him when I followed you. I should have 

recognized him on my way up.” 

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Alek shook his head. “No. I was the one foolish enough to involve a reporter in my affairs.” 

“No matter whose fault it is,” Dylan said, “we should have told him about the …” He hesitated, looking 

at Lilit. 

She waved a hand dismissively. “The Committee knows all about that tower. We’d been watching the 

Germans build it for months, wondering what it might be. Until Alek came along and explained 

everything.” 

“I did?” Alek asked, then remembered his first day at the warehouse. Nene hadn’t believed a word he’d 

said … until he’d mentioned the Tesla cannon. Then suddenly she’d become quite interested, peppering 

him with questions—what it was called, how it worked, and whether it could be used against walkers. 

“But I thought we were talking about theGoeben . Why didn’t you tell me the sultan hadanother Tesla 

cannon?” 

“It hardly mattered—you said it couldn’t affect our walkers.” She frowned, looking at Dylan. “But itcan 

shoot down airships, can’t it?” 

The boy cleared his throat, but only shrugged. 

“And you both just turned green at the thought of that,” Lilit said. 

“Aye, well, you know,” Dylan said. “Those contraptions are a professional hazard, when you’re an 

airman.” 

Lilit crossed her arms. “And you were about to tell that reporter what this ‘wireless tower’ really was, to 

warn your Darwinist friends!” She turned to Alek. “And you’re willing to spill your family secrets just to 

keep Dylan out of the papers! There’s something you two aren’t telling me.” 

Alek sighed. Lilit could be annoyingly perceptive sometimes. 

“Shall I ask my grandmother to help me sort this all out? She’s very good at puzzles.” 

Alek turned to Dylan. “We should tell her everything.” 

The boy threw up his hand in surrender. “Aye, it hardly matters anymore. We have to put a stop to the 

whole plan! Just tell Malone about the Tesla cannon tomorrow. Once that’s in the papers, the Admiralty 

will know the plan is too dangerous.” 

“We can’t,” Alek said. “The revolution will fail without theLeviathan ’s help!” 

“But they’ll never make it. If that cannon’s got its own power plant, it’s got to be barkinghuge .” 

Alek opened his mouth, but couldn’t find words to argue with. There was no way to fly an airship over 

Istanbul now, not with a giant Tesla cannon overlooking the city. 

Lilit let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, since neither of you boys can be bothered to explain, allow me.” 

She held up one hand, ticking off points on her fingers. 

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“One, theLeviathan is clearly on its way back to Istanbul, or you wouldn’t care about this Tesla 

cannon. Two, whatever it’s up to can help the revolution, as Alek just said. And three, this all has to do 

with your secret mission.” She hesitated a moment, staring at Dylan. “Your men were captured near the 

kraken nets, weren’t they?” 

Alek opened his mouth again, wanting to interrupt before she figured out the truth. But Lilit silenced him 

with a wave of her hand. 

“Everyone thinks your mission failed, but they don’t know thatyou weren’t captured.” Her eyes 

widened. “You plan to bring a kraken down the strait!” 

Dylan looked miserable, but only nodded. “Not really a kraken, but close enough. And a fine plan it was 

too. But it’s all ruined now! We have to tell Malone about the cannon, or get a warning to the Admiralty 

some other way.” 

“But this is perfect!” Lilit said. 

“Perfect in what way, exactly?” Dylan cried. “That cannon is a death trap, and theLeviathan is headed 

right toward it! That’s my ship we’re talking about!” 

“We’re talking about the liberation of my people as well,” Lilit said softly, her eyes locked on his. “The 

Committee will deal with this problem, I swear.” 

“But my mission was meant to be top secret.” Dylan shook his head. “I can’t let it go forward if a daft 

bunch of anarchists know about it!” 

“Then we won’t tell anyone else,” Lilit said. “Only we three have to know.” 

Alek frowned. “The three of us can’t destroy a Tesla cannon.” 

“No, we can’t. But …” Lilit held one hand up, her eyes squeezing shut for a moment. “My father plans 

to lead the assault on theGoeben himself, with four walkers. But if theLeviathan and its sea monster can 

deal with the ironclads, we have those walkers to spare. So on the night of the revolution, we explain 

everything to my father, then head to the cliffs and tear this Tesla cannon to the ground!” 

“Someone might find out,” Dylan said. 

“What if we only use pilots we trust?” Alek asked. “Lilit’s walker, mine, Klopp’s, and Zaven’s. No one 

else has to know what’s going on.” 

Lilit shrugged. “No one else is volunteering to fight theGoeben , after all.” 

Dylan stared at them both, a look of terror in his eyes. 

“But what if we fail?” he said softly. “They’ll all burn.” 

Lilit reached across the table and took his hands in her own. 

“We won’t fail,” she said. “Our revolution depends on your ship.” 

Dylan stared at her hands for a moment, then looked helplessly at Alek. 

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“It’s the only way they can win,” Alek said simply. “And the only way to complete your mission. Your 

men sacrificed themselves for this, right?” 

“Oh, youhad to say that,” Dylan said with a groan, pulling his hands from Lilit’s grasp. “Aye, all right, 

then. But you barking anarchists had better not make a mess of this!” 

“We won’t,” Lilit said, beaming at the boy. “You’ve saved the revolution again!” 

Dylan rolled his eyes. “No need to get all moony, lassie.” 

Alek smiled. They really were the most amusing couple. 

Deryn spread her arms out straight, and waited. 

“R …” 

She dipped her left arm forty-five degrees. 

“S …” 

She let her right arm drop, the screwdriver in her hand pointing straight down. 

“G!” said Bovril, and ate another strawberry. Then it tossed the stem over the edge of the balcony, 

leaning its head through the rails to watch it fall. 

“How do you likethat ?” Deryn cried. “It’s learnt the whole barking alphabet!” 

Lilit and Alek stared at the beastie, then at her. 

“You taught it this?” Lilit asked. 

“No! I was just practicing my signals. I was saying the letters out loud, I suppose, and after a couple 

times through …” Deryn pointed at Bovril. “The beastie joined in, as quick as a bosun’s mate.” 

“And that’s why you want to bring it along tonight?” Alek asked. “In case we need to send semaphore 

signals?” 

Deryn rolled her eyes. “No, you daft bum-rag. It’s because …” 

She sighed, unsure exactly how to say it. The loris had a knack for noticing important details, just as Dr. 

Barlow had claimed. And tonight was the most important mission that Deryn had ever been a part of. 

She didn’t dare leave the beastie behind. 

“Perspicacious,” the creature said. 

“Aye, that’s the word,” Deryn cried. “Because it’s barking perspicacious.” 

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Two weeks before, Zaven had put his posh education to use and explained the loris’s species name to 

Deryn. It turned out that “perspicacious” meant the same as “shrewd,” or even “farsighted.” And though 

that didn’t sound like the sort of thing a beastie could be, it certainly fit. 

Alek sighed, and turned toward the family’s apartments, where Nene’s tortoise bed was emerging, 

covered with maps fluttering in the breeze. The old woman called to Lilit and Alek. 

As they walked away, Alek said over his shoulder, “All right, Dylan. But I have a walker to pilot. So 

you’ll be looking after it.” 

“More than happy to,” Deryn said softly, scratching the loris’s wee head. 

Only having the beastie about had made it bearable, working with Clankers and their lifeless machines, 

smelling of exhaust and engine grease. The bustling splendor of Istanbul was still so alien, its foreign 

tongues too many to learn in a lifetime, much less a month. Deryn spent her days printing newspapers she 

couldn’t read, and wondering what the prayers gliding over the rooftops might mean. The intricate 

geometries of Zaven’s carpets and tiled ceilings dazzled her eyes, and even the wondrous food often 

proved to be—like the rest of the capital—too sumptuous. 

But hardest of all was being so close to Alek, while still hiding from him. He’d shared his last secret with 

her, and Deryn realized now that she could have told him that same night, in that dark hotel room with no 

one about to hear. 

But every time she’d tried, Deryn had imagined the look of horror on his face. Not that she was a girl in 

boy’s clothes, or that she’d lied to him for so long. All that yackum Alek would soon get past, she knew. 

And then he would love her, sheknew . 

But that was the problem, because there was one thing that would never change.… Deryn was a 

commoner. She was a thousand times more common than Alek’s mother, who’d been born a countess, 

or even Lilit, an anarchist who spoke six languages and always knew which fork to use. Deryn Sharp 

was as common as barkingdirt , and the only reason that didn’t matter to His Serene Highness, 

Aleksandar of Hohenberg, was that she was also, in his mind, a boy. 

The moment she could be anything more than a friend, shewould be, and then he’d have to run a mile. 

The pope did not write letters to transform orphan daughters of balloonists, or girls in boy’s britches, or 

unrepentant Darwinists, into royalty. She was dead certain of that. 

Deryn watched Alek kneel by Nene’s bed like a good grandson, the three of them going over the details 

of the attack one last time. This battle tonight was something they had helped make together, she and 

Alek, and this was the closest they would ever be. 

“A, B, C … ?” Bovril asked, and Deryn nodded. 

She prayed that her signal practice really would come in handy. If all went well tonight, theLeviathan ’s 

crew would be taking a long hard look at the Tesla cannon after it had been destroyed. That could be her 

only chance to let them know that she was alive. 

It might even be a chance to go home, and leave her prince behind at last. 

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The great outer gates of the courtyard swung slowly open, revealing a clear and moonless sky. 

“Lucky it didn’t rain tonight,” Alek said, checking the controls. 

“Right enough,” Deryn answered. A midnight downpour would have turned the spice bombs into a 

useless, soupy mess, ruining the Committee’s only weapons. That was the thing about battles, Mr. Rigby 

always said, one squick of bad luck could make all your plans go pear-shaped. 

Much like the rest of life, she supposed. 

The courtyard filled with the rumble of engines from four walkers.S ahmeran, with Zaven at its controls, 

raised a giant hand and waved them forward as it slithered out the gates. 

Lilit went next, piloting a Minotaur. The half bull, half man bowed low to get its horns through, giant 

hands out for balance. Spice bombs rattled in the magazine that Master Klopp had welded to its forearm. 

Alek placed his feet on the djinn’s pedals. Klopp had insisted that Alek pilot an Arab machine tonight; 

their steam cannon made them the safest of the Committee’s walkers. Behind the djinn, Klopp and Bauer 

sat at the controls of an iron golem. 

“Hold on tight, Bovril,” Deryn said, and the beastie scampered up onto her shoulder. Its claws poked 

through her piloting jacket like wee needles. 

Alek worked his feet, and the contraption took a huge step forward. 

Deryn grasped the sides of her commander’s chair, queasy as always in the lumbering machine. At least 

the djinn was still in parade mode, the top of its head split open, so she could see the stars and breathe 

fresh air. 

“Turn left here,” she said. To keep this mission as secret as possible, the four walkers had no copilots. 

So Deryn was serving as Alek’s navigator and, once the shooting started, as range finder for the throwing 

arm. Deryn had never been a gunner before, but altitude practice had made her a dab hand at estimating 

distances—as long as she remembered to think in meters instead of yards. 

Deryn looked at her map again. It showed four separate routes to the Tesla cannon, with Alek’s marked 

in red. These four walkers were headed out before the main attack began, so they couldn’t afford to 

raise suspicions by traveling together. The trick would be arriving at their target all at the same time. 

Also marked on the map were the positions of the other forty-odd walkers pledged to the Committee, 

poised to spring into action an hour later. Deryn wondered if there were any spies among those crews, 

ready to sell the Committee’s plans to the sultan for a lump of gold. 

At least she could be certain that this attack on the Tesla cannon had been kept secret. Zaven himself 

had heard about it only this afternoon. He’d fumed a bit about being kept in the dark, until realizing that 

he wouldn’t have to face the big guns of theGoeben . 

Unless the Admiralty had changed the night of the behemoth’s arrival, of course. 

“Have you thought about how many things can go wrong?” Deryn said. “It’s like the bard says, ‘The 

best laid plans of mice and men.’” 

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“Fah!” said Bovril, imitating Zaven’s tone. 

“You see?” Alek said. “Your perspicacious friend is confident.” 

Deryn looked at the beastie. “I just hope it’s right.” 

They made good time on the almost empty streets of Istanbul. The Committee’s walkers had been 

practicing night walking for the last month, pretending to patrol for robbers, so no one gave the djinn a 

second glance. 

The buildings thinned out at the city’s edge, and soon the djinn was traveling down a dusty carriage 

road. The route was barely wide enough for the walker, and the skirt of steam cannon thrashed the tree 

branches on either side. When they passed a darkened inn at a crossroads, Deryn saw curious faces 

peering from the windows. Sooner or later someone would wonder what a walker from Istanbul’s 

ghettos was doing in the countryside. 

But they were too close to their target for that to matter now. The landscape climbed, growing rockier 

as the cliffs rose. The city came into view out the walker’s rear viewport, its glitter and brilliance garish in 

the moonless night. 

A hundred masts and smokestacks were scattered across the water’s black expanse, and Deryn 

wondered again what would happen if theLeviathan were shot down. Would the behemoth simply swim 

away, or go mad among all those unarmed ships? 

She shook her head. They couldn’t fail tonight. 

They were only a few miles from the Tesla cannon when a spotlight lanced out of the dark. 

Deryn squinted—her eyes caught a flash of steel, and the silhouette of a trunk and tail. 

It was one of the sultan’s war elephants, blocking their path. 

“Range?” Alek asked calmly. 

“About a thousand yards. That is, nine hundred meters.” 

Alek nodded, pulling a lever. A spice bomb rolled from the magazine into the djinn’s hand. Deryn caught 

a whiff of it and winced. Even wrapped in oiled burlap, the bombs let off eye-burning dust every time 

they moved. 

“Top down, please,” Alek said. 

“Aye, your princeliness.” Deryn set to work on the hand crank, and the djinn’s forehead rolled slowly 

closed across the stars. 

Alek stoked the engines, sending power to the steam boilers. The machine’s right arm drew slowly 

back. 

Someone in the war elephant shouted at them through a megaphone. Deryn didn’t recognize any of the 

Turkish words, but it sounded more curious than angry. As far as the Ottomans knew, the djinn was 

unarmed. 

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“They’re just wondering what in blazes we’re doing here,” Deryn muttered. “No reason to be nervous.” 

“Nervous,” said the beastie. 

Alek laughed. “Perspicacious or not, the creature knows you.” 

Deryn frowned at the loris. Ofcourse she was a wee bit jittery. Only a fool wouldn’t be, heading into 

battle. Especially on a finicky Clanker contraption. 

“Loaded and ready to fire,” Alek said. 

“Hold on.” Deryn watched the ranging gauge that Klopp had installed, its needle slowly climbing as 

steam pressure built in the djinn’s shoulder joint. 

The tricky bit was, Klopp hadn’t been able to test every throwing arm in the Committee’s army, so he’d 

marked the gauges using only math and guesswork. Until their first shot landed, there was no telling how 

far the bombs would actually travel. 

The needle finally reached nine hundred meters.… 

“Fire!” Deryn cried. 

Alek pulled the release trigger, and the djinn’s giant hand swung overhead. Clouds of steam gushed from 

its metal shoulder, turning the air in the cabin scalding. 

The spice bomb struck fifty yards in front of the elephant, exploding into a cloud of dust that swirled as 

red as blood in the spotlight. 

“Master Klopp knows his sums,” Deryn said with a smile. “Next time we’ll hit the bum-rags dead-on!” 

“More steam,” Alek ordered. “I’m loading another.” 

Deryn pulled the stokers, and the engines roared beneath them, but the ranging needle was slow to 

climb. The djinn had exhausted every squick of shoulder pressure with its first throw. 

“Come on!” she urged it. “They’ll be shooting back any second.” 

“If this were a proper walker, we’d be taking evasive action,” Alek muttered. “What I wouldn’t give for 

a decent gun sight.” 

“Or a decent gun!” 

“These spice bombs were your idea, I seem to—” 

The elephant’s main turret roared to life, sending a shell screaming overhead. The explosion came 

seconds later, rocking the djinn on its feet. 

“They overshot us!” Alek cried. “But they have our range now. Can I fire yet?” 

“Hold on!” Deryn watched the needle climb. The loris dug its claws deep into her shoulder, imitating the 

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whistle and boom of the near miss. 

The needle passed nine hundred meters, but she needed another fifty at least.… 

“Fire!” she finally cried. 

The great arm swung again, rocking the cabin backward. The moment the bomb had flown, Alek 

grabbed the controls and took them charging ahead. 

Through the rocking viewport Deryn watched the war elephant disappear into a roiling cloud of red dust. 

“Bull’s-eye!” she cried. 

But the walker’s crew still managed to fire—the main gun blazed again, setting the dust cloud around the 

elephant into a massive whirlwind. The air cracked once more as the shot zoomed past. 

The djinn reeled from the blast—the shell had landed right where they’d been standing, Deryn reckoned. 

Alek struggled with the controls as the walker staggered forward. 

The machine gun on the elephant’s trunk opened up, setting the path ahead of them jittering with plumes 

of dirt. Then came a chorus of bullets striking metal, as loud as pistons misfiring. 

“We need steam cover!” Alek cried. 

“No chance!” Deryn stared at the motionless pressure gauge. The engines were too busy keeping the 

walker moving to recharge its boilers. 

But the elephant’s main turret didn’t fire again. Only its left front leg was moving, like a dog’s pawing at 

the ground. The searchlight swung away aimlessly into the sky. 

“They’ve got a snootful!” Deryn cried. Even hundreds of yards away, her eyes were starting to prickle 

from the spices. She pulled the goggles up from around her neck and snapped them on. 

“Snootful,” Bovril said, chuckling, then sneezed. 

Alek twisted the saunters, putting the djinn’s hands out for balance. But he kept the walker charging 

ahead. 

“I’m going to knock them over. Brace yourself.” 

Deryn checked her straps. “Hold on, beastie!” 

The elephant was stumbling in circles now, another of its legs trying to move. But the turret stayed 

motionless. Had the spice bomb struck it dead-on? 

Then Deryn saw the airflow patterns made visible by red dust, and realized what had happened—the 

cannon’s recoil had sucked the spices right into the main turret. The elephant’s crew had done 

themselves in with their own shot. 

“They must be positively gagging!” 

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“Not for long, though,” Alek said. “Hold on!” 

The war elephant had turned sideways, stumbling into a barbed wire fence just behind it. As the djinn 

charged into the swirling red clouds, Deryn’s throat began to burn, and she was glad for her goggles. But 

Alek didn’t waver—he tipped the djinn’s left shoulder down … 

Metal crunched and tore around them, a shock wave thundering through the djinn’s huge frame. The 

world spun in the viewport, sky and ground and darkness flashing past. Alek swore, twisting at the 

controls, and a lungful of spices set Deryn coughing. 

Finally the djinn stopped spinning; it was listing at a crazy angle. Deryn sprayed a squick of steam to 

clear the air, unstrapped herself, and leaned out the viewport. 

The white clouds around them parted, revealing the elephant lying motionless on its side. 

“We got them!” 

“Snootful!” Bovril shouted. 

“But why are we leaning like this?” Alek cried. “And what in blazes is holding us up?” 

Deryn leaned out farther, and saw glittering metal everywhere. The djinn had stumbled through the 

barbed wire fence, pulling up a quarter mile of it. 

“We’re tangled in that barking wire!” 

Alek worked his foot pedals, and wires snapped and scraped. “There’s more of them ahead. We need 

steam cover—now.” 

Deryn stoked the boilers, then looked through the viewport. Two miles in the distance the Tesla cannon 

rose up from the cliffs, half as tall as the Eiffel Tower. 

Around its base three more war elephants stood waiting, their smokestacks belching to life. 

“Are the others anywhere about?” Alek asked. 

Deryn leaned out the viewport, looking backward. There was nothing on the horizon but the silhouettes 

of short salt-sheered trees along the cliff tops. Then she spotted them—a trio of smoke trails against the 

starlight, no more than two miles away. 

“Aye, all of them! Three kilometers or so behind us.” She glanced at the pressure gauge, which was only 

now beginning to climb again. “And a good thing too. It’ll be a few minutes before we can throw again.” 

“We don’t have that much time. Give us some cover while I shake this wire off.” 

As Deryn reached for the steam cannon lever, one of the war elephants fired. The shell landed short, but 

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close, and Deryn was thrown backward from the controls. Gravel and dirt spat through the viewport, 

leaving a scratch on her goggles. 

“If you please, Mr. Sharp?” Alek asked. 

“Mr.Sharp,” Bovril repeated with a chuckle. 

Deryn scrambled up from the floor to pull the lever, and hissing filled her ears. The pilot’s cabin was 

suddenly as hot and humid as a greenhouse. 

Outside the viewport the world disappeared behind a veil of white. 

Alek worked the pedals and saunters, blindly tearing at the tangle of barbed wire. More gunfire boomed 

beyond the steam cloud, but the answering explosions sounded in the distance. 

“They’re shooting at the others,” Deryn said. 

“Then now’s the time to attack! Get me some pressure in my throwing arm.” 

“I’d be happy to, Your Highness.” Deryn pulled the engine stokers again. “But we’ve emptied the 

boilers to make this steam, and now you’re dancing about like a loon, which is taking even more power!” 

“Fine, then,” Alek said, bringing the djinn into a crouched halt. As the engines idled, the ranging gauge 

began to climb again. 

Through the whiteness came the clatter of machine guns—the Ottomans were firing into the bank of 

steam clouds, listening to see where their bullets hit metal. 

“They’ll find us soon enough,” Alek said. He pulled the release, and Deryn heard a third spice bomb 

rattle into place. 

She wiped condensation from the ranging gauge. “Three hundred meters and climbing.” 

“That’s enough—if we charge them!” 

“Are you daft? There’sthree of them and one of us!” 

“Yes, but we haven’t much time. Listen to your beast.” 

Deryn stared at the loris. Its wee eyes were closed, as if it had decided to take a nap. But a soft noise 

came from its lips—a hum and crackle, like the static on Klopp’s wireless. She’d heard the sound before 

… 

“Barking spiders,” she breathed. 

“Indeed.” Alek pushed at the pedals. As the djinn thundered forward, the hot clouds parted around 


The Tesla cannon stood tall on the cliffs, its frame glimmering against the dark sky. Faint sparkles 

traveled along its lower struts, like fabricated fireflies flitting about on Guy Fawkes Day. Its shimmer 

spilled across the battlefield. 

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She leaned forward to squint up at the stars. No dark silhouette moved among them, but if the Ottomans 

were charging up their cannon, they must have spotted theLeviathan approaching. 

The war elephants were still firing at the other walkers, their mortars elevated high. But as Alek charged 

ahead, one of the turrets began to spin about.… 

Moments later its main gun billowed flame and smoke. The shell struck close enough to send the djinn 

staggering. The needle on the ranging gauge trembled, then fell—pressure was leaking somewhere. 

“We’re hit!” Deryn cried. 

“The trigger is yours, Mr. Sharp,” Alek said calmly, his hands white-knuckled on the saunters. The djinn 

was limping now, the whole pilot’s cabin lurching from side to side. 

Deryn grasped the release trigger, her eyes flicking back and forth between the ranging gauge and the 

three steel elephants ahead. The needle had stopped at four hundred meters, trembling uncertainly, and 

the distance to the elephants was lessening with every step. 

The nearest elephant swung its trunk toward the djinn, its machine gun blazing. Bullets struck armor with 

a sound like coins shaken in a tin. One bullet slipped in through the viewport, a sliver of hot metal striking 

sparks around their heads. 

“Are you hit?” Alek asked. 

“Not me!” Deryn said. 

“Not me!” Bovril repeated, then filled the cabin with its maniacal laughter. 

Another of the elephants’ big guns was taking aim … 

The ranging needle sputtered again, then climbed, and finally they were close enough. Deryn pulled the 

trigger, and the walker’s throwing arm swung overhead as they ran, like a charging fast bowler unleashing 

a cricket ball at a batsman. 

The spice bomb went straight into the closest elephant, exploding into a swirl of fiery red. The machine 

staggered, but the cloud moved hastily away, spreading through the shimmering lower struts of the Tesla 

cannon. 

“Blisters!” Deryn cried. “The wind’s too strong up here!” 

Of course, the wind always blew hard against seaside cliffs. She’d been aDummkopf not to realize it! 

But Alek didn’t falter, barreling straight at the elephant. The direct hit had done some damage, at least. 

The Ottoman machine was stumbling about like a newborn calf. 

But just before they collided, the elephant’s great head rolled on its neck, raising the two barbed 

tusks.… 

Alek twisted at the saunters, but the walker was moving too fast to turn. With an awful metal shriek the 

djinn impaled itself upon one tusk, a white blast of steam shooting from the boilers in its chest. 

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The air in the pilot’s cabin turned wet and scalding, every valve hissing like a teakettle. The elephant 

shook its head, tossing the djinn madly and throwing Deryn from her seat. She screamed as her hands 

splayed against the burning metal floor and the beastie’s claws went deep into her shoulder. 

“We’re done for!” she shouted. “Abandon ship!” 

“Not yet.” Alek pulled a saunter back with one hand, hitting the bomb release with another, and with the 

djinn’s last squick of strength brought its throwing arm down. 

Deryn stood, squinting through her goggles to watch the remaining spice bombs—almost a dozen of 

them—rattle down the magazine to burst against the elephant’s back. 

“Barking spiders,” said the perspicacious loris. 

“Open us up,” Deryn said, unstrapping herself. “In another moment we won’t be able to breathe!” 

While Alek spun the hand crank furiously, she kicked open the locker in the back of the cabin, pulling a 

mass of rope from it. 

“Aren’t you glad we practiced belaying?” she shouted over the din of steam and gunfire. 

“I’d rather not know what’s coming,” Alek said. 

“Nonsense. This is easy compared with a sliding escape from a Huxley! I’ll tell you about that some 

time.” 

As the djinn’s head opened, Deryn tied the rope off and flung it over the back of the walker. Stepping 

up onto the cabin’s edge, she peered down into the nebulous white cloud beneath them. The last steam 

from the djinn’s boilers was still billowing from the tusk protruding from its back. 

“I’ll go first,” she said. “So if you slide too fast, I’ll break your fall.” 

“Won’t that hurt a bit?” 

“Aye. So don’t slide too fast!” 

Deryn clipped herself to the rope, taking one last look at the battle spread out around them. Another of 

the war elephants had been hit—it was stumbling in a circle, red dust splattered across its glittering steel 

armor. Lilit’s Minotaur was charging forward while the iron golem stood back, its huge right arm 

launching spice bombs at the remaining elephant. Even with the sea breeze at her back, the smells of 

spices and gunfire were choking. 

Then she saw it—Sahmeran lying on her belly half a mile from the tower, pouring out black smoke and 

burning oil. 

“Zaven’s been hit!” she cried. 

“And that’s not all.” Alek pointed toward the city, where a new column of smoke was rising in the 

distance. 

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“Blisters! Enemy reinforcements!” 

“Don’t worry. That walker’s ten kilometers away, and the Ottomans don’t have anything fast.” 

“Fast,” Bovril said. 

Deryn gave it a hard look. “What in blazes are you saying, beastie?” 

“Fast,” it said again. 

A giant crash rolled across the battlefield—Lilit’s Minotaur had charged straight into the last undamaged 

war elephant. Both machines went down, tumbling over each other like cats in a fight. A vast red cloud 

billowed out in all directions, driven by the steam from the two machines’ broken boilers, turning the stars 

in the sky blood red. 

The two walkers’ tumbling came to a halt in the center of a swirling tower of dust and engine smoke, 

neither of them moving. 

“Lilit …,” Deryn said hoarsely. 

The Minotaur was down, but its head seemed to be undamaged. Maybe the girl was safe inside her 

metal shell. 

“Look,” Alek said. “She’s opened the way for Klopp!” 

Only one elephant remained standing, and it was covered with red dust, barely moving. The iron golem 

was lumbering steadily forward, with nothing between it and the Tesla cannon. 

But Klopp didn’t veer toward the wounded elephant or the cannon—he was headed straight toward 


“What’s he doing?” Deryn asked. “Why’s he cominghere ?” 

Alek swore. “Klopp and Bauer are following Volger’s orders. They’re coming to rescue me!” 

“Blisters, this is what you get for being a barkingprince !” 

“An archduke, technically.” 

“Whatever you are, we have to show him you don’t need rescuing. Come on!” 

Deryn lifted the rope, and felt Bovril tighten its grip on her shoulder. 

“Abandon ship,” the beastie said. 

She jumped, sliding down through hot clouds of vapor. 

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Before he followed Dylan, Alek looked down at the war elephant that had impaled the djinn. 

Crewmen were abandoning the walker through its belly hatch, coughing and stumbling blindly. They 

wouldn’t be much of a threat for the moment. 

But seeing the ground so far below made Alek pull his piloting gloves tighter. Learning how to “belay,” 

as Dylan called it, had taught him a healthy respect for rope burn. He swallowed, the tastes of paprika 

and cayenne heavy in his mouth, then jumped … 

The rope whipped past him, wild and angry, like a stream of scalding water. He jerked himself to a 

painful halt every few meters, his boots banging against the hot metal of the djinn’s armor. Steam clouds 

swirled around him, the engines inside the walker knocking and hissing as they cooled. 

As his feet thumped down onto hard earth, Alek pulled off the gloves to stare at his burning palms. 

“Took you long enough,” Dylan complained, turning toward the iron golem. “Comeon . That Tesla 

cannon’s getting ready to fire. We need to show Klopp you’re okay!” 

Alek unclipped himself and followed the boy, who had broken into a dead run. The iron golem was still 

headed toward them, making its steady way across the battlefield. 

Klopp clearly hadn’t seen the Ottoman reinforcements coming from behind him. 

As he ran, Alek squinted at the smoke trail in the distance. It seemed closer already, and he saw now 

how the column curved backward against the starlit sky. 

Fast,the creature had said. But what walker wasthat fast? 

Dylan let out a yelp from just ahead. He’d tripped and fallen face-first into the dirt. As the boy 

scrambled to his feet, Alek slowed, staring down at what Dylan had stumbled on—train tracks. 

“Oh, no.” 

“What in blazes?” Dylan stared down at the rails. “Ah, this must be where the Orient-Express …” 

“Express,”the beast hissed softly. 

Together they turned to stare at the approaching column of smoke. It was much closer now, charging 

along the cliffs ten times faster than any lumbering walker. 

And it was headed straight for the iron golem. 

“He can’t see it,” Alek said. “It’s right behind him!” 

“Klopp!” Dylan cried out, breaking back into a run, his arms waving in the air. “Get away from the 

tracks!” 

Alek ran a few more steps, his heart thudding in his ears. But yelling was pointless. He searched his 

pockets for a way to send a signal—a flare, a gun. 

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The famous dragon-headed engine was visible in the distance now, it single eye glowing white hot, 

smoke spewing from its stacks. Dylan was still running toward Klopp, pointing back at the massive train. 

The iron golem came to a lumbering halt, its head lowering for a better view of the tiny boy before it. 

Alek watched as two huge cargo arms unfolded from the engine car of the Express. A dozen meters 

long, they stretched out in both directions, like a pair of sabers wielded by a charging horseman. 

Klopp must have understood Dylan’s cries, or heard the train behind him, because the walker began to 

slowly turn … 

But in that moment the Express shot past, its left cargo arm slicing through the golem’s legs. Metal 

shrieked and buckled, and a cloud of steam burst from the ruined knees. 

The walker tipped backward, its huge arms flailing, and landed on the trailing end of the Express. Two 

freight cars buckled around the fallen machine, and the cars behind kept piling into it, hurling glass and 

metal parts into the air. 

The shock wave from being pulled in half rippled up the train until it reached the engine, which skidded 

from the rails, plowing through the dirt. But the pilots had been ready for this—the Express’s arms 

stretched out like wings to steady the engine car. A handful of coal and freight cars dragged behind the 

engine, sending clouds of dust into the air. 

Alek saw Dylan running back toward him, Bovril a tiny silhouette on his shoulder, both of them about to 

be swallowed in the rolling mass of dust. 

“Run!” he was shouting, pointing sideways from the tracks. 

The front half of the train, skidding and derailed but still speeding along, was headed straight at Alek. 

He turned and ran the way Dylan was pointing, directly away from the rails. Long seconds later the dust 

cloud overtook Alek, blinding him and filling his lungs. 

Something flew out of the dark mass and knocked him off his feet, strong hands pushing his head down 

into the dirt. 

A huge shadow swept overhead—the Express’s cargo arm, Alek realized. A cascade of dirt and gravel 

flew over him, and a clamor like a thousand foundries rolled past, full of shrieks and clangs and 

explosions. 

As the noise faded, the dust cleared a little, and Alek looked up. 

“Well, that was close,” he said. Not five meters from his head, the skidding claw of the cargo arm had 

carved a furrow as wide as a carriage lane. 

“You’re welcome, your archdukeness.” 

“Thank you, Dylan.” Alek stood up, dusting off his clothes and looking dazedly about. 

The front half of the Orient-Express had finally slid to a halt, almost skidding into the Tesla cannon itself. 

The iron golem lay hissing and steaming on the ground, the back half of the train in piles around it. Alek 

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took a step closer, wondering if Master Klopp and Bauer were all right. 

But Bovril was growling, echoing a low buzzing noise that drifted across the battlefield. A crackle was 

building in the air. 

Dylan pointed toward the southern sky, where a long silhouette had finally appeared—theLeviathan , 

black and huge against the stars. 

Alek turned back toward the Tesla cannon. As he watched, the awful shimmers began to travel up into 

its tip. 

“We have to stop it,” Dylan said. “There’s no one else.” 

Alek nodded dumbly. Klopp and Bauer, Lilit and Zaven—they all needed his help. But the Tesla cannon 

was readying to fire, and theLeviathan had more than a hundred men aboard. 

His fists clenched in frustration. If only he were in a walker now, with huge arms to tear the tower down. 

“Express,” Bovril hissed. 

“The train,” Alek said softly. “If we can take the engine car, we can use its cargo arms!” 

Dylan gazed at him a moment, then nodded. They ran together, stumbling across the wreckage-strewn 

ground, dodging the piles of scattered cargo that had been thrown from the train. 

The front half of the Orient-Express had come to rest only fifteen meters from the Tesla cannon. The 

cargo arms were motionless, but the smokestacks were still belching. A few soldiers stumbled out of the 

engine cars, wearing German uniforms, rifles strapped across their shoulders. 

Alek dragged Dylan to a halt in the shadows. “They’re armed, and we’re not.” 

“Aye. Follow me.” 

The boy ran to the last car in the line, a freight carrier lying lopsided in the furrow dug by the train’s 

passage. He climbed up and along its top, making his way toward the engine car. Alek followed, 

crouching low to keep out of sight. 

The soldiers hardly looked alert. They were walking about in a dumbfounded state, gazing at the battle 

wreckage around them and coughing spices from their lungs. A few stared at theLeviathan in the sky. 

Alek heard a familiar sound—the rumble of the airship’s engines. He glanced up and saw that the 

Leviathan was halfway through a turn. The crew had spotted the glittering Tesla cannon and were trying 

to bring the ship about. 

But they were too late. It would take long minutes to get out of range, and the Tesla cannon was buzzing 

like a beehive, almost ready to fire. 

Dylan had reached the coal hopper behind the engine, and Alek jumped in after him. Coal skidded 

under his feet and turned his hands black as he caught himself from stumbling. 

Dylan scrambled to the front and climbed out, reaching down to give Alek a hand. 

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“Quickly now,” the boy whispered. 

Alek pulled himself up between the two huge cargo arms. He could feel the air crackling; sparks from 

the giant tower were making the shadows quiver. But the engineer’s cabin was just ahead. 

“There’s only one man inside,” Dylan whispered, handing Bovril to Alek and pulling a knife from his 

jacket. “I can handle him.” 

Not waiting for an answer, the boy swung himself down and in through a window in a single motion. By 

the time Alek reached the door, Dylan had the lone engineer cowering in a corner. 

Alek stepped inside and looked at the controls—a legion of unfamiliar dials and gauges, brake levers 

and engine stokers. But the saunters were metal gloves on poles, just like the ones that controlledS 

ahmeran’s arms. 

He placed Bovril on the floor, stuck his hands into the saunters, and made a fist. 

A dozen meters to his right, the huge claw responded, snapping shut. A few of the German soldiers 

looked up at the noise, but most were transfixed by the glittering Tesla cannon and the airship overhead. 

“Don’t muck about!” Dylan hissed. “Tear it down!” 

Alek extended his arm, reaching out for the tower. But the great claw clamped shut a few meters short 

of the nearest glowing strut. 

“Get us closer!” Dylan said. 

Alek stared at the engine levers, then realized that the train’s wheels were useless without a track. But he 

remembered a legless beggar he’d seen in the town of Lienz, propelling himself along on a wheeled board 

with his hands. 

He set both claws against the ground, one on either side, and scraped them backward. The engine car 

lifted a bit, sliding forward a meter or so, then settled back into the dirt. 

“Closer,” Bovril said approvingly. 

“Well, we’ve got the Germans’ attention now,” Dylan muttered, looking out the window. 

“I leave that matter to you,” Alek answered, scraping the huge claws against the ground again. The 

engine car skidded forward with an ungodly screech, metal striking the bedrock of the cliffs. 

Shouts came through the windows now, and a soldier leapt up to pound on the door. Dylan punched the 

engineer in the stomach, crumpling him to the floor, then turned to stand ready with his knife. 

Alek outstretched the cargo arms again. 

This time one great claw reached the Tesla cannon’s lowest strut. As he snapped the claw shut, a 

crackle shot through the cabin. The metal gloves sizzled in Alek’s hands, and an invisible force seemed to 

close around his chest. Every hair on Bovril’s body was standing on end. 

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“Barking spiders!” Dylan cried. “The lightning’s coming for us!” 

Sparks danced along the controls and the walls of the cabin, and the soldier at the door yelped, jumping 

off the metal running board. 

Alek set his teeth against the pain, pulling harder on the saunter. The engine car lifted into the air again, 

the strut letting out a metal groan as it slowly bent toward them. At the base of the tower, a ball of white 

fire was spiraling into being. 

“It’s about to fire!” Dylan cried. 

Alek pulled as hard as he could, and a sudden shudder passed through the car. The saunters went limp 

in his hand, and the lightning on the cabin walls flickered out. 

“You snapped it, and the cannon’s …” Dylan frowned. “It’s tipping. The whole barking thing is tipping 

over!” 

“From one broken strut?” Alek stepped to the window, looking up. 

The tower was slowly leaning away, the lightning flowing down from its higher struts into a ball of white 

fire on its opposite side. A huge snakelike form clung to the struts there, halfway up, wrapped in a 

glowing cocoon of electricity. 

“Is that … ?” 

“Aye,” Dylan breathed. “It’sS ahmeran.” 

Zaven had somehow piloted his injured walker all the way to the tower. And now it was acting as a 

conductor, drawing the power of the cannon into itself. 

Lightning spun in a whirlwind around the goddess walker, glowing brighter and brighter until Alek had to 

shut his eyes. 

“He’ll be done for in there,” Dylan said, and Alek nodded. 

A few seconds later the Tesla cannon began to fall. 

The tower toppled aroundS ahmeran in a maelstrom of white fire. 

Tendrils of lightning leapt out in all directions, dancing on the frozen djinn and elephant, on the other 

fallen walkers, and along the wreckage of the Orient-Express. The metal walls of the engine car crackled 

with sparks and spiderwebs of flame. 

As the lightning faded, the roar of the tower’s collapse filled the air. A falling strut struck the engine 

car—the ceiling dented inward, and the windows shattered all at once. Bending metal howled around 

them, and smoke and dust billowed through the car. 

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Long moments later a heavy silence settled over the battlefield. 

“Are you all right, Dylan?” Alek’s words sounded muffled in his own ears. 

“Aye. How about you, beastie?” 

“Zaven,” said Bovril softly. 

Dylan took the creature into his arms. “Listen. TheLeviathan ’s still up there.” 

It was true—the soft rumble of the airship’s engines had settled over the silent battlefield. At least all this 

madness hadn’t been in vain. 

“Leviathan,” Bovril repeated slowly, rolling the word around in its mouth. 

Alek stepped closer to the window. The Tesla cannon stretched out into the distance, jagged and 

broken, like the unearthed spine of some huge extinct creature. The djinn lay fallen beside the war 

elephant, both walkers battered by the cascade of debris. 

A cold shiver went through Alek—most of the German soldiers had disappeared beneath the ruined 

tower. 

“We need to see if Lilit’s all right,” he said. “And Klopp and Bauer.” 

“Aye.” Dylan put Bovril on his shoulder. “But who first?” 

Alek hesitated, realizing that his men might be dead, as Zaven certainly was. “Lilit first. Her father …” 

“Of course.” 

They opened the door and stepped out into a hellish landscape. The smoke and spices and engine oil 

were choking, but the smells of burned flesh and hair were worse. Alek turned his eyes from what the 

cannon’s last discharge of electricity had done to the men outside. 

“Come on,” Dylan said hoarsely, dragging him away. 

As they skirted the wreckage, Bovril raised its head and said, “Lilit.” 

Alek followed the creature’s gaze, squinting through the darkness. There at the edge of the cliffs was a 

lonely figure, looking out over the water. 

“Lilit!” Dylan called, and the figure turned to face them. 

They ran to her, the cool sea breeze carrying away the smells of battle and destruction. Lilit’s piloting 

gear was torn, her face pale in the darkness. A long canvas bag lay in the dirt beside her feet. 

As they drew close, she stumbled into Dylan’s arms. 

“Your father,” the boy said. “I’m so sorry.” 

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Lilit pulled away. “I saw what he was doing, so I cleared a path for him. Ihelped him do it …” She 

shook her head, tears tracking the dust on her face, and turned to stare at the fallen tower. “Have we all 

gone mad, to want this?” 

“He saved theLeviathan ,” Alek said. 

Lilit just looked at him, dazed and uncertain, as if every language she knew had been knocked from her 

head. Her stare made him feel foolish for speaking. 

“All gone mad,” Bovril said. 

Lilit reached out to stroke the creature’s fur, her eyes still glassy. 

“Are you all right?” Dylan asked. 

“Just dizzy … and amazed. Look at that.” 

She pointed across the water toward the city of Istanbul. Its dark streets sparkled with gunfire, and half 

a dozen gyrothopters hovered over the palace. As Alek watched, a silent tendril of flame arced through 

the sky, then disappeared with a rumble among the ancient buildings. 

“See? It’s really happening,” Lilit said. “Just as we planned.” 

“Aye, that’s the barking strangest thing about battle—that it’s real.” Dylan looked out across the water. 

“The behemoth won’t be long now.” 

Alek took a step closer to the cliff’s edge and gazed down. TheGoeben was steaming out, her 

kraken-fighting arms spread like the claws of a crab. Sparks glimmered across the tower on her aft 

decks. 

“Another Tesla cannon,” Lilit whispered. “I’d forgotten.” 

“Not to worry,” Dylan said. “It’s not as big, and doesn’t have the range. The lady boffin has this timed 

to perfection.” 

As he spoke, a single spotlight lanced out from the airship’s gondola, so bright that its beam sliced deep 

into the water. It slid toward theGoeben , a column of light rippling through blackness. 

The gyrothopters above the palace moved toward the airship, and smaller spotlights from theLeviathan 

sprang to life, picking the gyrothopters out against the dark sky. From this distance Alek couldn’t see the 

hawks or bats, but one by one, the gyrothopters tumbled from the air. 

“They’ve had a whole month for repairs and refits,” Dylan said. “And to make more beasties.” 

Alek nodded, realizing that he’d never seen theLeviathan at full strength, only damaged and starved. 

Tonight it would be a different ship altogether. 

“Beasties,” said Bovril, its eyes glowing like a cat’s. 

The main spotlight reached theGoeben , and for a moment the warship’s steel guns and armor glowed a 

blinding white. Then the spotlight flicked from one color to the next—purple, green, and finally blood red. 

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A pair of tentacles stretched from the water, spilling sheets of rain across theGoeben ’s decks. 

It was the behemoth. 

The ironclad’s kraken-fighting arms swung about, their snippers slashing at the sea monster’s flesh. But 

the tentacles didn’t seem to feel the cuts, coiling like slow pythons around the center of the warship. A 

huge head lifted up from the water, two eyes gleaming in the red of the spotlight.… 

Alek took a step back. Unlike a kraken’s, the behemoth’s tentacles were only a small part of the beast. 

Its long body was all bony plates and segments, a spiny ridge traveling down its back. It repulsed him, 

like something dragged up from the deepest ocean, ancient and alien. 

A desolate sound rolled across the water, the ironclad’s hull wailing as it bent in the behemoth’s grasp. 

Her small guns were firing in all directions, the kraken-fighting arms flailing against the massive tentacles. 

Men and spent ammunition slid across the warship’s decks as she rocked back and forth. 

“Barking spiders,” Dylan breathed. “Dr. Barlow said the beastie was huge, but I never thought …” 

Something flared inside theGoeben ’s broken hull, one of her boilers spilling flame. Hissing steam clouds 

shot from ruptures in the ship’s armor plates. 

The Tesla cannon tried to fire, but its half-charged lightning barely leapt into the sky, then tumbled back 

to coil around the behemoth’s tentacles and dance on the metal decks. Explosions flickered up and down 

the warship’s length as fuel tanks and magazines were ignited by white fire. 

The searchlight turned a brilliant blue, and in one huge motion the behemoth hauled its body onto the 

superstructure, forcing the warship down. TheGoeben resisted for a moment, but then her foredecks 

slipped beneath the waves. The aft end rose up, and the Tesla cannon climbed into the dark sky, still 

shimmering. With a metal shriek the warship split in two, both halves sliding neatly down into the water. 

A lone kraken-fighting arm reached up from the churning waves, its claw snapping at the air before it 

disappeared again. Then a burst of red light flared beneath the surface, sending columns of fresh steam 

into the air. 

The water settled slowly, and then was still again. 

“Poor bum-rags,” Dylan said. 

Alek stood silent. In the last month he’d somehow forgotten what the revolution would mean for the 

crew of theGoeben . 

“I have to join my comrades,” Lilit said, kneeling beside the long canvas bag. She pulled out a mass of 

metal poles and rippling silk, and set to work. The contraption expanded, driven by coils of springs 

inside. In moments it was five meters across, the wings as translucent as those of a mosquito. 

“What in blazes?” Dylan cried. 

“A body kite,” Alek said. “But you’ll never make it back to Istanbul in that.” 

“I don’t need to. My uncle’s fishing boat is waiting beneath the cliffs.” Lilit turned to Dylan. “I’m sorry, 

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but he can be trusted. And I had to tell someone else our plan, in case we needed a way back to the 

city.” 

“Now?” Dylan asked. “But we have to check on Klopp and Bauer!” 

“Of course you do; they’re your friends. But the revolution needs its leaders tonight.” Lilit stared across 

the water, her voice falling. “And Nene will need me too.” 

As she stood there, fresh tears streaking the grime on her face, Alek thought of the night his own parents 

had died. Strangely, all he could recall now was repeating the story to Eddie Malone in payment for the 

man’s silence. It was as if the telling had erased the real memory. 

“I’m sorry about your father,” he said, every word stiff and clumsy in his mouth. 

Lilit gave him a curious look. “If the sultan wins tonight, you’ll simply run off somewhere new, won’t 

you?” 

Alek frowned. “That’s probably true.” 

“Good luck, then,” she said. “Your gold was very useful.” 

“You’re welcome, if that was meant as a thank you.” 

“It was.” She turned to Dylan. “No matter what happens, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for us. I 

think you’re the most brilliant boy I’ve ever met.” 

“Aye, well, it was just—” 

Lilit didn’t let him finish, but threw her arms around him, kissing him hard on the lips. After a long 

moment she pulled away and smiled. “I’m sorry. I was just curious.” 

“Curious? Barking spiders!” Dylan cried, a hand at his mouth. “You hardly know me!” 

Lilit laughed and lifted the body kite into the air. As its wings filled with the cool sea breeze, she stepped 

to the edge of the cliffs, her hands on the pilot strut. 

“I know you better than you think,Mr . Sharp.” She smiled, turning to Alek. “You don’t know what a 

friend you have in Dylan.” 

With that, she stepped off into the darkness … and fell from their sight. 

Alek rushed to the edge of the cliff, looking down in horror. The body kite tumbled for a moment, but 

then steadied itself and angled out to sea. The wind lifted it up higher, almost level with the cliff tops, and 

for a moment they could hear Lilit’s laughter once more. 

The kite turned hard, banking toward the city lights. A moment later it had slipped away into the 

darkness. 

“Mr.Sharp,” Bovril said, and chuckled. 

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Alek shook his head, wondering at Lilit. Her father was dead and her city in flames—and there she was, 

soaring through the air, somehow laughing. 

“That girl is quite mad.” 

“Aye.” Dylan touched his mouth again. “But she’s not a bad kisser.” 

Alek looked at the boy, then shook his head again. 

“Come on. Let’s go see about Master Klopp.” 

The iron golem lay in a heap of train cars and scattered cargo, its legs twisted and torn. Only its upper 

half remained intact, the huge head leaning back against the wreckage of two freight cars, a sleeping giant 

with a crumpled metal pillow. 

Deryn and Alek made their way closer, through electrical parts and shattered glass. The railroad tracks 

had been torn from the ground, and lay among the other debris like tangled ribbons of steel. 

“Blisters,” Deryn said as they passed an overturned dining car, its red velvet curtains spilling through 

broken windows. “Lucky there were no passengers aboard.” 

“We can get up to the golem’s head that way,” Alek said, pointing at the huge hand lying splayed in the 

dirt. They climbed onto it and up the walker’s arm, and soon saw two motionless forms strapped into the 

pilots’ chairs. 

“Master Klopp!” Alek cried out. “Hans!” 

One of the men stirred. 

Deryn saw that it was Bauer, his eyes glazed, his hands reaching feebly for the seat straps. She followed 

Alek up and helped him get the man out. 

“Was uns getroffen?”he asked. 

“Der Orient-Express,”Alek explained. 

Bauer gave him a befuddled look, then saw the wreckage around them, belief dawning slowly in his face. 

The three of them unstrapped Klopp and laid him on the golem’s broad shoulder. The master of 

mechaniks still wasn’t moving. Blood caked his face, and when Deryn put her hand to Klopp’s neck, his 

pulse was weak. 

“We have to get him to a doctor.” 

“Yes, but how?” Alek asked. 

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Deryn’s eyes swept the battlefield. Not a single walker remained standing. But in the sky theLeviathan 

’s silhouette had swung into profile. It was just as she’d expected—now that it had dispatched the 

Goeben , the airship was coming about for a closer look at the wrecked Tesla cannon. 

She opened her mouth to explain, but suddenly the beastie on her shoulder was imitating a soft thumping 

sound. 

Alek heard it too. “Walkers.” 

Deryn turned toward the city. A dozen columns of smoke rose from the horizon. 

“Could they be from the Committee?” 

Alek shook his head. “They don’t even know we’re here.” 

“Aye, it wasmeant to be that way. But that anarchist lassie told her uncle, didn’t she?” 

Bauer rose unsteadily to his feet, lifting a pair of field glasses. One lens was shattered, so he held the 

other to his eye like a telescope. 

“Elefanten,”he said a moment later. 

Alek swore. “At least those things are slow.” 

“But we’ll never carry Klopp out of here,” Deryn said. “Not without help.” 

“And where do you suppose we’ll get that?” 

She pointed up at the dark shape over the water, still turning, its searchlights angling toward the cliffs 

now. “TheLeviathan is on its way to take a closer look. We can signal them, and get Klopp to the ship’s 

surgeon.” 

“A, B, C …,” Bovril said happily. 

“They’ll take us prisoner again!” Alek said. 

“Aye, and what do you think the barking Ottomans will do, after all this?” Deryn swept her arm across 

the wreckage. “At least with us you’ll be alive!” 

“Ich kann bleiben mit Meister Klopp, Herr,”Bauer said. 

Deryn’s eyes narrowed. After a month working with Clankers, her German was much better. “What 

does he mean, he’ll stay with Klopp?” 

Alek turned to Deryn. “Your ship can pick Bauer and Klopp up, while you and I make a run for it.” 

Deryn’s jaw dropped. “Have you gone barking mad?” 

“The Ottomans will never spot us in all this mess.” Alek clenched his fists. “And just think, if the 

Committee wins tonight, they’ll throw the Germans out. And they owe both of us a debt, Dylan. We can 

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stay here, among allies.” 

“Not me, you daft prince! I have to go home!” 

“But I can’t do this alone … not without you.” His eyes softened. “Please come with me.” 

Deryn turned from him, for a moment wishing that Alek were asking this same question but in a different 

way. Not as someDummkopf of a prince who expected everyone to serve his purposes, but as a man. 

It wasn’t his fault, of course. She’d never told Alek why she’d really come to Istanbul—not for the 

mission but for him. She hadn’t told him anything, and it was too late now. They’d been together a whole 

month, working and fighting side by side, and still she hadn’t convinced herself that a common girl could 

matter to him. 

So what was the point of staying? 

“There’s more to do here, Dylan,” he said. “You’re the best soldier the revolution has.” 

“Aye, but that’s my home up there. I can’t live with … your machines.” 

Alek spread his hands. “It doesn’t matter. Your crew will never see us.” 

“They have to.” Deryn stared out across the battlefield, looking for something to signal with. But Alek 

was right; even if she had ten-foot semaphore flags, no one would ever see her among the wreckage of 

the train. 

Then she saw them—the golem’s arms stretched out in both directions. The right one was straight out, 

the left one at an angle, almost making the sign for the letterS . 

“Can this contraption still move?” 

“What, the walker?” 

“A, B, C,” Bovril said again. 

“Aye. A giant sending signals would be barking hard to miss.” 

“The boilers are cold,” Alek said. “But I suppose the pneumatics might still have some pressure in them.” 

“Then take a look!” 

Alek gritted his teeth, but climbed back up to the head and knelt by the controls. He rapped at two of 

the gauges, then turned back, an uncertain look on his face. 

“Can it work?” she called. “Don’t lie to me!” 

“I would never lie to you, Dylan. We can signal perhaps a dozen letters.” 

“Then do it! Follow my lead.” Deryn held her right arm out straight, her left angled down. 

Alek didn’t move. “If I give myself up to your captain, he’ll never let me escape again.” 

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“But if you don’t signal theLeviathan for help, Klopp is a dead man. We all are, once those walkers get 

here!” 

Alek stared at her another moment, then sighed and turned to the controls, placing his hands in the 

saunters. The hiss of pneumatics filled the air, and then the great arms scraped slowly along the ground, 

exactly matching Deryn’s stance. 

“S …,” the perspicacious loris said. 

Deryn swung her left arm across herself. This letter was harder for the iron golem, half lying in the dirt as 

it was, but Alek managed to bend its elbow just enough. 

“H!” Bovril announced, and kept up as Deryn continued. “A … R … P …” 

By the fifth letter theLeviathan ’s huge kraken spotlight had found them, and together they repeated the 

sequence twice more before the giant arms’ last squick of pressure hissed away into the night. 

Alek turned from the saunters.“Wie lange haben wir, Hans?” 

Bauer shielded his eyes from the spotlight’s glare.“Zehn minuten?” 

“We still have time to get away, Dylan.” 

“Not with only ten minutes, and there’s no need to run.” Deryn put a hand on Alek’s shoulder. “After 

what we’ve done tonight, I can tell the captain how you introduced me to the Committee. And how if you 

hadn’t, the ship would’ve been shot down!” She said it all fast. Breaking her silent promise to leave him 

behind was as easy as breathing. 

“I expect they’ll give me a medal,” Alek said drily. 

“Aye, you never know about that.” 

The spotlight began to flicker then, long and short flashes. Deryn was out of practice with Morse code, 

but as she watched, the familiar patterns came back into her mind. 

“Message received,” she said. “And the captain sends me greetings!” 

“How very polite.” 

Deryn kept her eyes on the flickering spotlight. “They’re getting ready to pick us up. We’ll have Master 

Klopp to a surgeon in half a squick!” 

“Then you don’t need me and Hans anymore.” Alek held out his hand. “I have to say good-bye.” 

“Don’t,” Deryn pleaded. “You’ll never make it past all those walkers. And I swear I won’t let the 

captain chain you up. If he does, I’ll break the locks myself!” 

Alek stared down at his offered hand, but then his dark green eyes caught hers. They gazed at each 

other for a long moment, the rumble of the airship’s engines trembling on Deryn’s skin. 

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“Come with me,” she said, finally grasping his hand. “It’s like you said the night before you ran away, 

how all the parts of theLeviathan fit. You belong there.” 

He looked up at the airship, his eyes glistening. He was still in love with it, Deryn could see. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t run off without my men,” he said. 

“Mein Herr,”Bauer said.“Graf Volger befahl mir—” 

“Volger!” Alek spat. “If it weren’t for his scheming, we’d all have kept together in the first place.” 

Deryn squeezed his hand harder. “It’ll be all right. I swear.” 

As the airship drew closer, a whisper of wings came from overhead, steel talons glinting in the 

searchlights. Deryn let go of Alek’s hand, and breathed deep the bitter almond of spilled hydrogen—the 

dangerous, beautiful smell of a hasty descent. Ropes tumbled from the gondola’s cargo door, and 

seconds later men were sliding down them. 

“Isn’t that a barking brilliant sight?” 

“Beautiful,” Alek said. “If one isn’t chained up inside.” 

“Nonsense.” Deryn banged his shoulder. “That blether about chains, that was just an expression. They 

only locked Count Volger in his stateroom, and I had to bring him breakfast every day!” 

“How luxurious.” 

She smiled, though the thought of Volger sent a squick of nerves through her—he knew her secret. The 

man could still betray her to the officers, or to Alek, anytime he wanted. 

But she couldn’t keep hiding from his countship forever. It wasn’t soldierly. And besides, she could 

always toss him out a window if it came to that. 

As the airship came to a rumbling halt, Bovril clung tighter to her shoulder. “Breakfast every day?” it 

asked. 

“Aye, beastie,” Deryn said, stroking its fur. “You’re going home.” 

“S-H-A-R-P!” said Newkirk from the mouth of the cargo bay. “Blisters, Dylan, it’s really you!” 

“Who else?” Deryn replied, grinning as she took the boy’s offered hand. She pulled herself up in a single 

heave. 

“And you found the missing beastie?” 

“Aye.” Deryn hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the wreckage-strewn battlefield. “One of my many 

accomplishments.” 

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Newkirk looked down. “Youhave been busy, Mr. Sharp. But save your bragging. There are German 

walkers coming, and the bosun says you’re wanted in the navigation room.” 

“Now?” Deryn glanced back at the rescue operation. Klopp was rising through the air, trussed to a 

stretcher, while Alek and Bauer waited on the iron golem’s shoulder. 

“The bosun says right away.” 

“All right, Mr. Newkirk. But make sure you get those Clankers up safely.” 

“Aye, don’t worry. We’ll not let the bum-rags slip away again!” 

Deryn didn’t argue with the boy. It didn’t matter what Newkirk thought, as long as the officers knew 

that Alek had come back of his own free will. 

Clanker or not, he belonged here. 

On her way to the navigation room, the airship hummed and rumbled beneath Deryn’s feet, the corridors 

full of scrambling men and beasts. Bovril took in everything with eyes the size of florins, awed into a rare 

silence. The beastie belonged here too, it seemed. 

The lady boffin waited in the navigation room, staring out at the lights of Istanbul across the water. Deryn 

frowned—she’d expected to find the captain. Of course, with German walkers on the way, the officers 

would be up on the bridge. But why had she been ordered here instead of to a battle station? 

Tazza leapt up from the floor beside Dr. Barlow, running over to snuffle at Deryn’s boots. She knelt to 

cup his nose with her palm. 

“Good to see you, Tazza.” 

“Tazza,” Bovril repeated, then chuckled. 

“A pleasure to see you too, Mr. Sharp,” the lady boffin said, turning from the view. “We’ve all been 

quite beside ourselves with worry.” 

“It’s brilliant to be home, ma’am.” 

“Of course, it stands to reason that you’d make it back safe and sound, resourceful lad that you are.” 

The lady boffin’s fingers drummed the sill of the window. “Though I see you’ve caused a bit of trouble in 

the meantime.” 

“Aye, ma’am.” Deryn allowed herself to smile. “Itwas a bit of trouble, knocking out that Tesla cannon. 

But we got it done.” 

“Yes, yes.” The lady boffin waved her hand, as if she saw towers wrapped in lightning topple every day. 

“But I meant that creature on your shoulder, not this tiresome battle.” 

“Oh,” Deryn said, looking at Bovril. “You mean you’re glad to have it back, then?” 

“No, Mr. Sharp, that is not what I mean.” Dr. Barlow let out a slow sigh. “Have you forgotten already? 

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I went to great pains to make sure that the loris hatched whileAlek was in the machine room. So that its 

nascent fixation would be directed entirely at him.” 

“Aye, I remember that,” Deryn said. “How it’s like a baby duck, latching on to whoever it sees first.” 

“Exactly, which was Alek. And yet here it is onyour shoulder, Mr. Sharp.” 

Deryn frowned, trying to remember exactly when Bovril had started riding on her shoulder as often as 

Alek’s. “Well, the beastie seems to like me just as much as it does him. And why wouldn’t it? I mean, 

Alek is a barkingClanker , after all.” 

Dr. Barlow sat down at the map table, shaking her head. “It wasn’t designed to bond with two people! 

Not unless they’re …” She narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you and Alek have rather a close friendship, 

haven’t you, Mr. Sharp?” 

“Mr.Sharp,” Bovril repeated, then giggled. 

Deryn gave the beastie a hard look, then spread her hands. “Honestly, I don’t know, ma’am. It’s just 

that Alek was busy driving the walker tonight, so Bovril started off onmy shoulder, and I suppose that—” 

“Excuse me,” Dr. Barlow interrupted. “But did you just sayBovril? ?” 

“Oh, aye. That’s its name, sort of.” 

The lady boffin raised an eyebrow. “As in the beef extract?” 

“It wasn’t me who named it,” Deryn said. “They taught us all that in middy training, about not getting 

attached. But this anarchist lassie kept insisting on calling itBovril , and the name sort of … stuck.” 

“Bovril,” the beastie repeated. 

Dr. Barlow stepped forward to peer more closely at the loris, then shook her head again. “I wonder if 

this excess of bonding is Mr. Newkirk’s fault. He never quite kept the eggs at an even temperature.” 

“You mean, Bovril might bedefective ?” 

“One never can tell with a new species. You say an ‘anarchist lassie’ started thisBovril nonsense?” 

Deryn started to explain, but found herself wavering on her feet, and plonked down into a chair. It 

wasn’t exactly good manners, sitting in a lady’s presence, but suddenly all that had happened tonight was 

hitting Deryn hard—the battle, Zaven’s death, the narrow escape of theLeviathan from a fiery end. 

More than anything else, it was a relief to be home. To feel the ship beneath her feet, real and solid, and 

not burning horribly in the sky. And Alek aboard by now as well … 

“You see, ma’am, when I found him, Alek had taken up with this Committee for Union and Progress, 

who were dead keen to overthrow the sultan. I didn’t approve of them, of course, but then we found out 

there was a Tesla cannon being built. Knowing that it could destroy theLeviathan , I had to make sure it 

came down. Even if that meant joining up with anarchists—or revolutionaries, whatever you want to call 

them.” 

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“Very resourceful, as always.” The lady boffin sat across from her, reaching down to scratch Tazza’s 

head. “Count Volger wasn’t far wrong, was he?” 

“Count Volger?” A squick of panic went through Deryn at the name. “If you don’t mind me asking, 

ma’am, what exactly wasn’t he wrong about?” 

“He said that Alek had fallen in with unsavory elements. And also thatyou would be able to find our 

missing prince.” 

Deryn nodded slowly. Volger had been sitting right there, of course, when she’d heard the clue about 

Alek’s hotel. “He’s a clever-boots, that one.” 

“Indeed.” The lady boffin stood up again and turned to stare out. “Though he may be wrong about this 

Committee. However unsavory their politics, they have performed a valuable service for Britain today.” 

“Aye, ma’am. They helped us save the barking ship!” 

“They seem to have toppled the sultan as well.” 

Deryn hauled herself up and joined Dr. Barlow at the window. The ship was under way again, heading 

back across the water. In the distance the streets of Istanbul were still alight with gunfire and explosions, 

and Deryn could make out swirling clouds of spice dust in the war elephants’ searchlights. 

“I’m not certain he’s toppled yet, ma’am. It looks as if they’re still fighting.” 

“This battle is quite pointless, I assure you,” the lady boffin said. “A few minutes after theGoeben was 

destroyed, we spotted the Imperial AiryachtStamboul lifting off from the palace grounds, flying a flag of 

truce.” 

“Truce? But the battle’s hardly begun. Why would the sultan surrender?” 

“He did not. According to theStamboul ’s signal flags, the Kizlar Agha was in command.” Dr. Barlow 

smiled coolly. “He was taking the sultan to a place of safety, far from the troubles of Istanbul.” 

“Oh.” Deryn frowned. “You mean he was …kidnapping his own sovereign?” 

“As I said to you some time ago, sultans have been replaced before.” 

Deryn let out a low whistle, wondering how long this meaningless battle would go on. Out the window 

the dark water of the bay was still churning where theGoeben had gone down. She wondered if the 

behemoth was still down there, picking through the jumble of steel and oil for its supper. 

The spotlight came on again, cutting into the water to bring the beastie to heel. TheBreslau would be 

next on the menu. 

“If the Committee’s really winning,” Deryn said, “then Germany will be the only Clanker power left!” 

“My dear boy, there is still Austria-Hungary.” 

“Right, of course.” Deryn cleared her throat, silently cursing herself. “Don’t know how I forgot about 

them.” 

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Dr. Barlow raised an eyebrow. “You forgot about Alek’s own people? How odd, Mr. Sharp.” 

“Mr. Sharp,” came a voice from above them. 

Deryn looked straight up, and her jaw dropped. 

Two small eyes were peering back at her from the ceiling. They belonged to another perspicacious loris, 

its tiny paws clinging to a message lizard tube. It looked almost like Bovril, except for missing the spots 

on its haunches. 

“What in blazes?” 

Then she remembered—there had beenthree remaining eggs. Bovril’s, the one smashed by the sultan’s 

automaton, and another that she’d forgotten all about. It would have hatched in the last month, of course. 

Dr. Barlow raised a hand, and the other beastie swung from one paw like a monkey, then dropped. It 

encircled the lady boffin’s arm, sliding down to her shoulder. 

“Mr. Sharp,” the new beastie said again. 

“Mr.Sharp,” Bovril corrected, then they both began to giggle. 

“Why does it keep laughing?” asked the lady boffin. 

“I’ve no barking idea,” Deryn said. “Sometimes I think it’s cracked in the attic.” 

“Revolution,” Bovril announced. 

Deryn stared at it. She’d never heard the creature say something out of the blue before. 

The new beastie repeated the word, rolling it around on its tongue happily, then said, “Balance of 

power.” 

Bovril chuckled at the phrase, then dutifully parroted it. 

As Deryn watched with growing astonishment, the creatures began to jabber, each repeating what the 

other said. The single words became a torrent of phrases in English, Clanker, Armenian, Turkish, and half 

a dozen other languages. 

Soon Bovril was reciting whole conversations that Deryn had shared with Alek or Lilit or Zaven, while 

the new beastie made declamations that sounded just like Dr. Barlow talking, even a few that had to be 

Count Volger! 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Deryn whispered, “but what in blazes are theydoing ?” 

The lady boffin smiled. “My boy, they are doing what comes naturally to them.” 

“But they’re fabricated! What’snatural to them?” 

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“Why, only becoming more perspicacious, of course.” 

The next morning Alek was allowed to visit Volger. 

As his guard let him into the wildcount’s stateroom, Alek noticed that the door wasn’t locked. Alek 

himself had been treated politely the night before, more like a guest than a prisoner. Perhaps the tension 

between his men and their Darwinist captors had thawed a little in the last month. 

Count Volger looked comfortable enough. He was at his desk eating a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and 

toast, and didn’t bother to stand when Alek arrived. He simply nodded and said, “Prince Aleksandar.” 

Alek bowed. “Count.” 

Volger went back to scraping butter onto a piece of toast. 

Standing there waiting, Alek felt like a schoolboy called in for punishment. He had never been to school, 

of course, but somehow adults—whether tutors, parents, or grandmotherly revolutionaries like Nene—all 

wore their disappointment in the same way. Surely headmasters weren’t so different. 

Finally Alek sighed and said, “It might save time if I began.” 

“As you wish.” 

“You want to tell me that I’m a fool for having been captured again. That it was mad to involve myself in 

Ottoman politics. By now I could be safely hidden in the wilds.” 

Count Volger nodded. “Yes, there is that.” 

The man went back to scraping his piece of toast, seemingly intent on covering every square millimeter 

with butter. 

“In not taking your advice, I risked my life and the life of my men,” Alek continued. “Dr. Busk says that 

Klopp is recovering well enough, but I led him and Bauer into an all-out battle. Things could have turned 

out worse.” 

“Much worse,” Volger said, then fell silent again. 

“Let’s see … Ah, I’ve also thrown awayeverything my father left me. The castle, all your plans, and 

finally his gold.” Alek reached inside his piloting coat and felt for a hard lump sewed into a corner of the 

lining. He tore the fabric, pulled out what remained of the gold, and tossed it onto the table. 

After a month of buying spices and mechanikal parts, the bar had been mostly shaved away. All that was 

left was the round Hapsburg crest stamped at its center, like a thick, roughly made coin. 

Volger blinked, and Alek let himself smile. At least he’d finally provoked a reaction. 

“Did you finance this revolutionentirely on your own?” 

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“Only the finishing touches—a little spice on top.” Alek shrugged. “Revolutions are expensive, it seems.” 

“I wouldn’t know. I avoid them on principle.” 

“Of course,” Alek said. “That’s what you’re really angry about, isn’t it? That I overturned the natural 

order and deposed a fellow royal? That I forgot that revolutionaries want to overthrowall aristocrats, 

including me and you?” 

Volger took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully, then poured himself more coffee. “There is that, 

too, I suppose. But there’s one thing you’ve forgotten.” 

Alek wondered for a moment what his final failure might be, but then gave up. He took a cup from the 

windowsill, filled it with coffee, and sat down across the desk from Volger. 

“Enlighten me.” 

“You also saved my life.” 

Alek frowned. “I did what?” 

“If you had disappeared into the wilds as you were meant to, that Tesla cannon would have sent me and 

Hoffman to the bottom of the sea, along with the rest of this ship’s crew.” The count stared into his coffee 

cup. “I owe you my life. Quite an annoying turn of events.” 

Alek hid his surprise by taking a sip of coffee. It was true—Count Volger had been saved along with the 

Leviathan . But was the man reallythanking him for joining the Committee’s revolution? 

“This doesn’t mean that you are any less of an idiot, of course,” Volger added. 

“Of course not,” Alek said, a bit relieved. 

“And there is also the matter of your newfound celebrity.” Volger opened a drawer, pulled out a 

newspaper, and dropped it onto the desk. 

Alek picked it up. It was in English—New York World, read the masthead. And there on the first page 

was a photograph of Alek, above a long article by “Istanbul Bureau Chief” Eddie Malone. 

Alek let the newspaper fall back onto the table. He’d never seen a photograph of himself before, and the 

effect was distinctly disagreeable. Like looking into a frozen mirror. 

“Are my ears really that large?” 

“Almost. What on earth were you thinking?” 

Alek lifted his cup, staring at the glimmering black reflection on the coffee’s surface. He had steeled 

himself to face any amount of scorn from Volger, but not for this. As the newspaper’s name declared, the 

whole world was gawking at him now. His family secrets were out there for anyone to read. 

“That reporter, Malone, he knew too much about the Committee’s plans. An interview was the only way 

to distract him.” Alek dared another glance at the photo, and noticed the caption—THE MISSING 

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HEIR. “So that’s why the crew have been so polite to me. They know who I am now.” 

“Not just the crew, Alek. Britain has a consulate in New York, of course. Even their bumbling diplomats 

could hardly have missed this. Lord Churchill himself sent that newspaper to Captain Hobbes, carried by 

some sort of beastly eagle.” 

“But how in blazes didyou get it?” 

“Dr. Barlow and I have been sharing information for some time now.” The wildcount leaned back in his 

chair. “She is proving to be a most interesting woman.” 

Alek stared at the man, a slight shudder passing through him. 

“Don’t worry, Alek, I haven’t told her all my secrets. How is your friend Dylan, by the way?” 

“Dylan? He’s … quite astounding, at times.” Alek sighed. “In a way it’s because of him that I let myself 

be captured again.” 

Volger’s coffee cup froze halfway to his lips. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Dylan convinced me it was safer to give myself up than to escape. Therewere a dozen Ottoman 

walkers headed toward us, I suppose. But it was more than that. He seems to think that I belong on this 

ship.” Alek sighed. “Not that it matters. Once we’re back in Britain, they’ll put me in a cage.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about that just yet.” The wildcount glanced at the windows. “Haven’t you noticed?” 

Alek looked out the window. Last night when he’d grown too tired to stay awake, the airship had been 

headed back down the strait, guiding the behemoth back toward the Mediterranean Sea. But now there 

were mountains passing by, tipped with orange from the rising sun. Their long shadows stretched through 

the mist, trailing toward his left. 

“Are we headed east?” 

Volger clucked his tongue. “That took you some time. I’m sure your friend Dylan would have noticed 

right away.” 

“No doubt. But why are we headed for Asia? The war’s back in Europe.” 

“When this war began, the German navy had ships in every ocean. TheGoeben and theBreslau aren’t 

the only ones that the British have been searching for.” 

“Do you knowwhere in Asia we’re going?” 

“Alas, Dr. Barlow hasn’t been forthcoming on the matter. But I suspect we will be in Tokyo sooner or 

later. Japan declared war against Germany four weeks ago.” 

“Of course.” Alek stared out at the mountains passing by. The Japanese had been Darwinists since 

signing a cooperation pact with the British in 1902. But it was astounding to think that the war ignited by 

his parents’ death had already outgrown Europe, and now encompassed the entire globe. 

“This detour is inconvenient, but it keeps you out of that cage a little longer,” Volger said. 

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“Austria-Hungary is not faring well against the great fighting bears of Russia. The time for you to reveal 

yourself may be sooner than I thought.” He prodded the newspaper as if it were a dead fish. “That is, to 

reveal what little you haven’t already.” 

Alek pulled the scroll case from his pocket. “You mean this?” 

“I was afraid to ask if you still had it.” 

“As if I would have lost it!” Alek said angrily, then realized that he had, in fact, lost it once already. But 

since the taxi incident, he’d kept the letter with him at all times. 

The night before, the airman who’d searched him in the cargo bay had found the scroll case and opened 

it. But the letter’s ornate Latin script had meant nothing to him, and he had politely returned it. 

“I’m not a complete fool, Volger. In fact, this letter is why I ignored your advice and stayed in Istanbul.” 

“What do you mean, Your Highness?” 

“A pointless feud among my family started this war, so it’s up to me to stop it.” He held up the case. 

“This is the will of heaven, which tells me what I’m meant to do. Not skulk in hiding but take my rightful 

place and put an end to this war!” 

Volger stared at him for a long moment, then steepled his fingers. 

“That letter is no guarantee that you’ll take the throne.” 

“I know all that. But the pope’s word must count for something.” 

“Ah, I had forgotten.” The wildcount turned away. “You’ve been in a land of heathens and heretics. You 

haven’t heard the news from the Vatican.” 

“News?” 

“The Holy Father is dead.” 

Alek stared at the man. 

“They say the war was hard on him,” Volger continued. “He wanted peace too much. Of course, what 

he wanted doesn’t matter now.” 

“But … this letter represents the will of heaven. The Vatican will still confirm that it’s real, won’t they?” 

“One would think so. Of course, someone there told the Germans about your father’s visit.” The man 

spread his hands. “We must hope that this someone doesn’t have the new pope’s ear.” 

Alek turned to stare out the window, trying to make sense of Volger’s news. 

After his parents’ death, the whole world had gone mad, as if his family tragedy had broken history itself. 

But in Istanbul, somehow, things had started to fall back into place. The Committee’s revolution, Dylan 

arriving with the behemoth in his wake, all of it revealed that it was up to Alek to stop the war, to put 

matters right. For the first time in his life, he had felt a certainty in all his actions, as if providence were 

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guiding him. 

But now the world was turning upside down again. Fate was taking him not back toward the center of 

the war but away from his homeland and his people, away from everything he had been born to do. And 

the letter in his hand, the only thing his father had left him that Alek hadn’t thrown away, might now be 

worthless. 

What mad providence was this? 

AFTERWORD 

Behemothis a novel of alternate history, so most of its characters, creatures, and machines are my own 

inventions. But the historical locations and events are modeled closely on the realities of World War I. 

Here’s a quick review of what’s true and what’s fictional. 

TheSultan Osman I was a real warship, purchased by the Ottoman Empire and awaiting completion at 

a British shipyard in late 1914. As the war began, however, First Lord of the Admiralty Winston 

Churchill decided to seize the ship, worried that the Ottomans might join the Germans and use the 

warship against Britain. The Ottomans did ultimately enter the war, but partly because Churchill had 

stolen their ship. It is still debated whether they would have become involved without this provocation. 

As inBehemoth , the Ottoman Empire was unstable in 1914. In the real world, in fact, the sultan and his 

grand vizier were no longer in charge. They had been overthrown during the revolution of 1908, and the 

Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) was already in power. 

In the world ofBehemoth , however, the 1908 revolution was unsuccessful, leaving the sultan in power 

and the CUP split into many factions. I created a second rebellion in 1914 because I wanted my 

characters to be involved in a successful revolution, one that would perhaps nudge history toward a more 

positive outcome. 

The German influence in Istanbul was very real; they owned a popular newspaper, while the British 

embassy had no one on its staff who could read Turkish. (Hard to believe, but true.) 

Just as in this book, the German ironcladsBreslau andGoeben found themselves trapped in the 

Mediterranean at the beginning of the war. They escaped to Istanbul and became part of the Ottoman 

navy, crews and all. In return for the two ships, the Ottomans put Admiral Wilhelm Souchon, commander 

of theGoeben , in charge of their entire fleet. On October 29, 1914, Admiral Souchon attacked the 

Russian navy without official permission, dragging the Ottomans into the war. 

In the real world, the war resulted in the end of the Ottoman Empire, which was partitioned into a 

number of countries, including Turkey, Syria, and Lebanon. I wanted to create a history in which the 

empire remained intact and Istanbul retained its cosmopolitan nature as a model for the rest of the world. 

And yes, you really should call it Istanbul, not Constantinople. Although the Ottoman aristocracy used 

the nameKostantiniyye for many centuries, and many westerners cling to the name in story and song, 

Istanbul was a more common name among its people. (Actually, most of them just called it “the City.”) In 

any case, the Turkish post office stopped delivering mail marked “Constantinople” in 1923. 

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The Orient-Express was a real train, of course, running along various routes from Paris to Istanbul since 

1883. In its heyday, the Express symbolized all that was elegant and adventurous about travel. On 

December 14, 2009, a few weeks after I finished this book, it ran for the last time. 

There is no such thing as a “Tesla cannon,” but Nikola Tesla was a real inventor, famous for discovering 

the basic principles of radio, radar, and the alternating current. He spent decades working on a so-called 

death ray, and in the 1930s he claimed it could “shoot down 10,000 planes at a rage of 250 miles.” He 

offered the device to several governments, but no one took him up on it. 

Maybe that’s a good thing. 

Alek raised his sword. “On guard, sir!” 

Deryn hefted her own weapon, studying Alek’s pose. His feet were splayed at right angles, his left arm 

sticking out behind like the handle of a teacup. His fencing armor made him look like a walking quilt. 

Even with his sword pointed straight at her, he looked barking silly. 

“Do I have to stand likethat ?” she asked. 

“If you want to be a proper fencer, yes.” 

“A proper idiot, more like,” Deryn muttered, wishing again that her first lesson were someplace less 

public. A dozen crewmen were watching, along with a pair of curious hydrogen sniffers. But Mr. Rigby, 

the bosun, had forbidden swordplay inside the airship. 

She sighed, raised her saber, and tried to imitate Alek’s pose. 

It was a fine day on theLeviathan ’s topside, at least. The airship had left the Italian peninsula behind 

last night, and the flat sea stretched in all directions, the afternoon sun scattering diamonds across its 

surface. Seagulls wheeled overhead, carried by the cool ocean breeze. 

Best of all, there were no officers up here to remind Deryn that she was on duty. Two German ironclad 

warships were rumored to be skulking nearby, and Deryn was meant to be watching for signals from 

Midshipman Newkirk, who was dangling from a Huxley ascender two thousand feet above them. 

But she wasn’t really dawdling. Only two days before, Captain Hobbes had ordered her to keep an eye 

on Alek, to learn what she could. Surely a secret mission from the captain himself outweighed her normal 

duties. 

Maybe it was daft that the officers still thought of Alek and his men as enemies, but at least it gave Deryn 

an excuse to spend time with him. 

“Do I look like a ninny?” she asked Alek. 

“You do indeed, Mr. Sharp.” 

“Well, you do too, then! Whatever they call ninnies in Clanker-talk.” 

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“The word is ‘Dummkopf’” he said. “ButI don’t look like one, because my stance isn’t dreadful.” 

He lowered his saber and came closer, adjusting Deryn’s limbs as if she were a dummy in a shop 

window. 

“More weight on your back foot,” he said, nudging her boots farther apart. “So you can push off when 

you attack.” 

Alek was right behind her now, his body pressing close as he adjusted her sword arm. She hadn’t 

realized this fencing business would be so touchy. 

He grasped her waist, sending a crackle across her skin. 

If Alek moved his hands any higher, he might notice what was hidden beneath her careful tailoring. 

“Always keep sideways to your opponent,” he said, gently turning her. “That way, your chest presents 

the smallest possible target.” 

“Aye, the smallest possible target,” Deryn sighed. Her secret was safe, it seemed. 

Alek stepped away and resumed his own pose, so that the tips of their swords almost touched. Deryn 

took a deep breath, ready to fight at last. 

But Alek didn’t move. Long seconds passed, the airship’s new engines thrumming beneath their feet, the 

clouds slipping slowly past overhead. 

“Are we going to fight?” Deryn finally asked. “Or juststare each other to death?” 

“Before a fencer crosses swords, he has to learn this basic stance. But don’t worry”—Alek smiled 

cruelly—“we won’t be here more than an hour. It’s only your first lesson, after all.” 

“What? A whole barking hour … without moving?” Deryn’s muscles were already complaining, and she 

could see the crewmen stifling their laughter. One of the hydrogen sniffers crept forward to snuffle her 

boot. 

“This is nothing,” Alek said. “When I first started training with Count Volger, he wouldn’t even let me 

hold a sword!” 

“Well, that sounds like a daft way to teach someone sword fighting.” 

“Your body has to learn the proper stance. Otherwise you’ll fall into bad habits.” 

Deryn snorted. “You’d think that in a fightnot moving might be a bad habit! And if we’re just standing 

here, why are you wearing armor?” 

Alek didn’t answer, just narrowed his eyes, his saber motionless in the air. Deryn could see her own 

point wavering. She set her teeth. 

Of course, barkingPrince Alek would have been taught how to fight in the proper way. From what she 

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could tell, his whole life had been a procession of tutors. Count Volger, his fencing master, and Otto 

Klopp, his master of mechaniks, might be the only teachers with him now that he was on the run. But 

back when he’d lived in the Hapsburg family castle, there must have been a dozen more, all of them 

cramming Alek’s attic with yackum: ancient languages, parlor manners, and Clanker superstitions. No 

wonder he thought that standing about like a pair of coatracks was educational. 

But Deryn wasn’t about to let some stuck-up prince outlast her. 

So she stood there glaring at him, perfectly still. As the minutes stretched out, her body stiffened, her 

muscles beginning to throb. And it was worse inside her brain, boredom twisting into anger and 

frustration, the rumble of the airship’s Clanker engines turning her head into a beehive. 

The trickiest part was holding Alek’s stare. His dark green eyes stayed locked on hers, as unwavering 

as his sword point. Now that she knew Alek’s secrets—the murder of his parents, the pain of leaving 

home behind, the cold weight of his family squabbles starting this awful war—Deryn could see the 

sadness behind that gaze. 

At odd moments she could see tears brightening Alek’s eyes, only a fierce, relentless pride holding them 

back. And sometimes when they competed over stupid things, like who could climb the ratlines fastest, 

Deryn almost wanted to let him win. 

But she could never say these things aloud, not as a boy, and Alek would never meet her eyes like this 

again, if he ever learned she was a girl. 

“Alek …,” she began. 

“Need a rest?” His smirk wiped her charitable thoughts away. 

“Get stuffed,” she said. “I was just wondering, what’ll you Clankers do when we get to 

Constantinople?” 

The point of Alek’s sword wavered for a moment. “Count Volger will think of something. We’ll leave 

the city as soon as possible, I expect. The Germans will never look for me in the wilds of the Ottoman 

Empire.” 

Deryn glanced at the empty horizon ahead. TheLeviathan might reach Constantinople by dawn 

tomorrow, and she’d met Alek only six days ago. Would he really be gone so quickly? 

“Not that it’s so bad here,” Alek said. “The war feels farther away than it ever did in Switzerland. But I 

can’t stay up in the air forever.” 

“No, I reckon you can’t,” Deryn said, focusing her gaze on their sword points. The captain might not 

know who Alek’s father had been, but it was obvious the boy was Austrian. It was only a matter of time 

before Austria-Hungary was officially at war with Britain, and then the captain would never let the 

Clankers leave. 

It hardly seemed fair, thinking of Alek as an enemy after he’d saved the airship—two times now. Once 

from an icy death, by giving them food, and the second time from the Germans, by handing over the 

engines that had allowed them all to escape. 

The Germans were still hunting Alek, trying to finish the job they’d started on his parents.Someone had 

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to be on his side.… 

And, as Deryn had gradually admitted to herself these last few days, she didn’t mind if that someone 

wound up being her. 

A fluttering in the sky caught her attention, and Deryn let her aching sword arm drop. 

“Hah!” Alek said. “Had enough?” 

“It’s Newkirk,” she said, trying to work out the boy’s frantic signals. 

The semaphore flags whipped through the letters once more, and slowly the message formed in her 

brain. 

“Two sets of smokestacks, forty miles away,” she said, reaching for her command whistle. “It’s the 

German ironclads!” 

She found herself smiling a little as she blew—Constantinople might have to wait a squick. 

The alarm howl spread swiftly, passing from one hydrogen sniffer to the next. Soon the whole airship 

rang with the beasties’ cries. 

Crewmen crowded the spine, setting up air guns and taking feed bags to the flechette bats. Sniffers 

scampered across the ratlines, checking for leaks in theLeviathan ’s skin. 

Deryn and Alek cranked the Huxley’s winch, drawing Newkirk down closer to the ship. 

“We’ll leave him at a thousand feet,” Deryn said, watching the altitude markings on the rope. “The lucky 

sod. You can see the whole battle from up there!” 

“But it won’t be much of a battle, will it?” Alek asked. “What can an airship do to a pair of ironclads?” 

“My guess is, we’ll stay absolutely still for an hour. Just so we don’t fall into any bad habits.” 

Alek rolled his eyes. “I’m serious, Dylan. TheLeviathan has no heavy guns. How do we fight them?” 

“A big hydrogen breather can do plenty. We’ve got a few aerial bombs left, and flechette bats …” 

Deryn’s words faded. “Did you just say ‘we’?” 


“You just said, ‘How dowe fight them?’ Like you were one of us!” 

“I suppose I might have.” Alek looked down at his boots. “My men and Iare serving on this ship, after 

all, even if you are a bunch of godless Darwinists.” 

Deryn smiled again as she secured the Huxley’s cable. “I’ll make sure to mention that to the captain, 

next time he asks if you’re a Clanker spy.” 

“How kind of you,” Alek said, then raised his eyes to meet hers. “But that’s a good point—will the 

officers trust us in battle?” 

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“Why wouldn’t they? You saved the ship—gave us engines from your Stormwalker!” 

“Yes, but if I hadn’t been so generous, we’d still be stuck on that glacier with you. Or in a German 

prison, more likely. It wasn’t exactly out of friendship.” 

Deryn frowned. Maybe thingswere a squick more complicated now, what with a battle coming up. 

Alek’s men and theLeviathan ’s crew had become allies almost by accident, and only a few days ago. 

“You only promised to help us get to the Ottoman Empire, I suppose,” she said softly. “Not to fight 

other Clankers.” 

Alek nodded. “That’s what your officers will be thinking.” 

“Aye, but what areyou thinking?” 

“We’ll follow orders.” He pointed toward the bow. “See that? Klopp and Hoffman are already at 

work.” 

It was true. The engine pods on either side of the great beastie’s head were roaring louder, sending two 

thick columns of exhaust into the air. But to see the Clanker engines on a Darwinist airship was just 

another reminder of the strange alliance theLeviathan had entered into. Compared to the tiny 

British-made engines the ship was designed to carry, they sounded and smoked like freight trains. 

“Maybe this is a chance to prove yourself,” Deryn said. “You should go lend your men a hand. We’ll 

need good speed to catch those ironclads by nightfall.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “But don’t get 

yourself killed.” 

“I’ll try not to.” Alek smiled and gave her a salute. “Good luck, Mr. Sharp.” 

He turned and ran forward along the spine. 

Watching him go, Deryn wondered what officers down on the bridge were thinking. Here was the 

Leviathan , entering battle with new and barely tested engines, run by men who should by all rights be 

fighting on the other side. 

But the captain didn’t have much choice, did he? He could either trust the Clankers or drift helplessly in 

the breeze. And Alek and his men had to join the fight or they’d lose their only allies. Nobody seemed to 

have much choice, come to think of it. 

Deryn sighed, wondering how this war had got so muddled. 

As he ran toward the engines, Alek wondered if he’d told Dylan the whole truth. 

It felt wrong, hurrying to join this attack. Alek and his men had fought Germans—even fellow 

Austrians—a dozen times while fleeing to Switzerland. But this was different—these ironclads weren’t 

hunting him. 

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According to wireless broadcasts that Count Volger had overheard, the two ships had been trapped in 

the Mediterranean at the start of the war. With the British in control of Gibraltar and the Suez Canal, 

there’d been no way for them to get back to Germany. They’d been running for the past week. 

Alek knew what it felt like to be hounded, trapped in a fight that someone else had started. But here he 

was, ready to help the Darwinists send two ships full of living, breathing men to the bottom of the sea. 

The vast beast rolled under his feet, the tendrils that covered its flanks undulating like windblown grass, 

pulling it into a slow turn. Fabricated birds swirled around Alek, some already harnessed and carrying 

instruments of war. 

That was another difference. This time he was fighting side by side with these creatures. Alek had been 

raised to believe they were godless abominations, but after four days aboard the airship, their squawks 

and cries had begun to sound natural. Except for the awful flechette bats, fabricated beasts could even 

seem beautiful. 

Was he turning into a Darwinist? 

When he reached the spine above the engine pods, Alek headed down the port side ratlines. The airship 

was tilting into a climb, the sea falling away below him. The ropes were slick with salty air, and as he 

strained to keep from falling, questions of loyalty fled his mind. 

By the time he reached the engine pod, Alek was soaked in sweat and wishing he hadn’t worn fencing 

armor. 

Otto Klopp was at the controls, his Hapsburg Guard uniform looking tattered after six weeks away from 

home. Beside him stood Mr. Hirst, theLeviathan ’s chief engineer, who was studying the roaring 

machine with a measure of distaste. Alek had to admit, churning pistons and spitting glow plugs looked 

bizarre beside the undulating flank of the airbeast, like gears attached to a butterfly’s wings. 

“Master Klopp,” Alek shouted over the roar. “How’s she running?” 

The old man looked up from the controls. “Smoothly enough, for this speed. Do you know what’s going 

on?” 

Of course, Otto Klopp spoke hardly any English. Even if a message lizard had brought the news up to 

the pod, he wouldn’t know why the airship was changing course. All he’d seen were color codes flashed 

from the bridge to the signal patch, orders to be obeyed. 

“We’ve spotted two German ironclads.” Alek paused—had he said “we” again? “The ship is giving 

chase.” 

Klopp frowned, chewing on the news for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, the Germans haven’t done us 

any favors lately. But it’s also true, young master, that we could blow a piston at any time.” 

Alek looked away into the spinning gears. The newly rebuilt engines were still cantankerous, with 

unexpected problems always cropping up. The crew would never know if a temporary breakdown were 

intentional. 

But this was no time to betray their new allies. 

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For all the talk of Alek saving theLeviathan , the airship had really saved him. His father’s plan had 

been for Alek to hide in the Swiss Alps for the entire war, emerging only to reveal his secret—that he 

was heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary. The airship’s crash landing had rescued him from long years 

of skulking in the snow. 

He owed the Darwinists for saving him, and for trusting his men to run these engines. 

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen, Otto.” 

“As you say, sir.” 

“Anything wrong?” Mr. Hirst asked. 

Alek switched to English. “Not at all. Master Klopp says she’s running smoothly. I believe Count Volger 

is assigned to the starboard engine crew. Shall I stay here and translate for you two?” 

The chief engineer handed Alek a pair of goggles to protect his eyes from sparks and wind. “Please do. 

We wouldn’t want any … misunderstandings in the heat of battle.” 

“Of course not.” Alek pulled on the goggles, wondering if Mr. Hirst had noticed Klopp’s hesitation. As 

the airship’s chief engineer, Hirst was a rare Darwinist with an understanding of machines. He always 

watched Klopp’s work on the Clanker engines with admiration, even though the two didn’t share a 

language. There was no point in arousing his suspicions now. 

Hopefully this battle would be over quickly, and they could head on to Constantinople without delay. 

As night fell, two dark slivers came into view on the horizon. 

“The little one’s not much to look at,” Klopp said, lowering his field glasses. 

Alek took the glasses and peered through them. The smaller ironclad was already damaged. One of its 

gun turrets had been blackened by a fire, and an oil slick spread in the ship’s wake, a shimmering black 

rainbow in the setting sun. 

“They’ve been in a fight already?” he asked Mr. Hirst. 

“Aye, the navy’s been hunting them all over the Mediterranean. They’ve been shelled a few times from a 

distance, but they keep slipping away.” The man smiled. “But they won’t escape this time.” 

“They certainly can’t outrun us,” Alek said. TheLeviathan had closed a gap of sixty kilometers in a few 

hours. 

“And they can’t fight back either,” Mr. Hirst said. “We’re too high for them to hit. All we have to do is 

slow them down. The navy’s already on its way.” 

Aboom rang out on the spine above, and a swarm of black wings lifted from the front of the airship. 

“They’re sending in flechette bats first,” Alek said to Klopp. 

“What sort of godless creature is that?” 

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“They eat spikes,” was all Alek could say. A shudder passed through him. 

The swarm began to muster, forming a black cloud in the air. Searchlights sprang to life on the gondola, 

and as the sunlight faded, the bats gathered in the beams like moths. 

TheLeviathan had lost countless beasts in her recent battles, but the airship was slowly repairing itself. 

More bats were already breeding, like a forest recovering after a long hunting season. The Darwinists 

called the ship an “ecosystem.” 

From a distance there was something mesmerizing about the way the dark swarm swirled in the 

searchlights. It coiled toward the smaller ironclad, ready to unleash its rain of metal spikes. Most of the 

crew would be safe beneath armor plating, but the men at the smaller deck guns would be torn to pieces. 

“Why start with bats?” Alek asked Hirst. “Flechettes won’t sink an ironclad.” 

“No, but they’ll shred her signal flags and wireless aerials. If we can keep the two ships from 

communicating, they’re less likely to split up and make a run for it.” 

Alek translated for Klopp, who pointed a finger into the distance. “The big one’s coming about.” 

Alek raised the field glasses again, taking a moment to find the larger ship’s silhouette against the 

darkening horizon. He could just read the name on her side—theGoeben looked far more formidable 

than her companion. She had three big gun turrets and a pair of gyrothopter catapults, and the shape of 

her wake revealed a set of kraken-fighting arms beneath the surface. 

On her aft deck stood something strange—a tall tower that bristled with metal rigging, like a dozen 

wireless transmitters crammed together. 

“What’s that on her back side?” Alek asked. 

Klopp took the glasses and stared. He’d worked with German forces for years, and usually had a lively 

opinion on military matters. But now he frowned, his voice hesitant. 

“I’m not sure. Reminds me of a toy I once saw …” Klopp squeezed the glasses tighter. “She’s launching 

a gyrothopter!” 

A small shape hurtled into the air from one of the catapults. It banked hard and came whirring toward 

the bats. 

“What’s he up to?” Klopp asked softly. 

Alek watched with a frown on his face. Gyrothopters were fragile machines, barely strong enough to lift 

a pilot. They were designed for scouting, not attack. But the little aircraft was headed straight at the cloud 

of bats, its twin rotors spinning wildly. 

As it neared the fluttering swarm, the gyrothopter suddenly kindled in the darkness. Bolts of flame shot 

from its front end, a spray of brilliant crimson fireworks that stretched across the sky. 

Alek remembered something that Dylan had said about the bats—they were deathly afraid of red light; it 

scared the spikes right out of them. 

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The stream of fire tore through the swarm, scattering bats in all directions. Seconds later the cloud had 

disappeared, like a black dandelion in a puff of wind. 

The gyrothopter tried to veer away, but was caught beneath a wave of fleeing bats. Alek could see 

flechettes falling, glittering in the searchlights, and the gyrothopter began to shudder in midair. The blades 

of its rotors tore and crumpled, their remaining energy twisting the delicate frame into wreckage. 

Alek watched as the flying machine tumbled from the sky, disappearing in a small white splash on the 

ocean’s dark surface. He wondered if its unlucky pilot had survived the flechettes long enough to feel the 

water’s cold. 

TheLeviathan ’s searchlights 

still swept across the sky, but the swarm was too scattered to resume the attack. Small fluttering shapes 

were already streaming back toward the airship. 

Klopp lowered his glasses. “The Germans have some new tricks, it seems.” 

“They always do,” Alek managed, staring at the ripples spreading out from where the gyrothopter had 

crashed. 

“Orders coming in,” Mr. Hirst said, pointing at the signal patch. It had turned blue, the sign to slow the 

engine. Klopp adjusted the controls, giving Alek a questioning look. 

“Are we giving up the attack?” Alek asked in English. 

“Of course not,” Mr. Hirst said. “Just changing course. I reckon we’ll ignore theBreslau for now and go 

after the big one. Just to make sure that other gyrothopter doesn’t trouble us with those sparklers.” 

Alek listened to the thrum of the ship for a moment. The starboard engine was still running high, pushing 

theLeviathan into a slow turn toward theGoeben . The battle wasn’t over yet. More men would die 

tonight. 

He looked back at the whirling gears of the engine. Klopp could halt them in a dozen subtle ways. One 

word from Alek would be enough to stop this battle. 

But he’d promised Dylan to fight loyally. And after throwing away his hiding place, his Stormwalker, and 

his father’s gold to make these Darwinists allies, it seemed absurd to betray them now. 

He knew Count Volger would agree. As heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, Alek had a duty to 

survive. And survival in an enemy camp didn’t start with mutiny. 

“What happens next?” he asked Hirst. 

The chief engineer took the field glasses from Klopp. “We won’t waste any more time tearing up their 

signal flags, that’s for certain. We’ll probably go straight in with aerial bombs. A gyrothopter can’t stop 

those.” 

“We’re going to bomb them,” Alek translated for Klopp. “They’re defenseless.” 

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The man just nodded, adjusting the controls. The signal patch was turning red again. TheLeviathan had 

found her course. 

It took long minutes to close the final distance to theGoeben . 

The ship’s big guns boomed once, spilling fire and smoke into the night sky. But Mr. Hirst was 

right—the shells flew well beneath theLeviathan , erupting into white columns of water kilometers away. 

As theLeviathan drew closer, Alek watched the German ship through the field glasses. Men scrambled 

across the ironclad’s decks, hiding her small guns under what looked like heavy black tarps. The 

coverings shone dully in the last flickers of sunset, like plastic or leather. Alek wondered if they were 

made of some new material strong enough to stop flechettes. 

But no plastic could stop high explosives. 

The men on the ironclad hardly seemed worried, though. No lifeboats were readied, and the second 

gyrothopter stayed on its catapult, the rotors strapped down against the wind. Soon it too was veiled 

with a glossy black covering. 

“Young master,” Klopp said, “what’s happening on her aft deck?” 

Alek swung the field glasses, and saw lights flickering atop the ironclad’s strange metal tower. 

He squinted harder. There were men working at the tower’s base, dressed in uniforms made from the 

same shiny black that covered the deck guns. They moved slowly, as if encased in a fresh layer of tar. 

Alek frowned. “Take a look, Master Klopp. Quickly, please.” 

As the old man took the field glasses, the flickering lights grew brighter—Alek could see them with his 

naked eyes now. Shimmers slid along the struts of the tower, like nervous snakes made of lightning.… 

“Rubber,” Alek said softly. “They’re protecting everything with rubber. That whole tower must be 

charged with electriks.” 

Klopp swore. “I should have realized. But they only showed us toys and demonstration models, never 

one that huge!” 

“Models ofwhat ?” 

The old man lowered the glasses. “It’s a Tesla cannon. A real one.” 

Alek shook his head. “As in Mr. Tesla, the man who invented wireless? You mean that’s a transmitting 

tower?” 

“The same Mr. Tesla, young master, but it’s not a transmitter.” Klopp’s face was pale. “It’s a weapon, a 

lightning generator.” 

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Alek stared in horror at the shimmering tower. As Dylan often said, lightning was an airship’s natural 

enemy. If raw electriks flowed across the airship’s skin, even the tiniest hydrogen leak could burst into 

flame. 

“Are we in range yet?” 

“The ones I’ve seen could hardly shoot across a room,” Klopp said. “They only tickled your fingers or 

made your hair stand on end. But that one’shuge , and it’s got the boilers of a dreadnought to power it!” 

Alek turned to Mr. Hirst, who was watching their conversation with an air of disinterest, and said in 

English, “We have to come about! That tower on the aft deck is some kind of … lightning cannon.” 

Mr. Hirst raised an eyebrow. “A lightning cannon?” 

“Yes! Klopp has worked with the German land forces. He’s seen these things before.” Alek sighed. 

“Well, toy ones, anyway.” 

The chief engineer peered down at theGoeben . The electriks were sparkling brighter now, unfolding 

into spidery forms that danced along the tower’s struts. 

“Can’t you see?” Alek cried. 

“It is rather odd.” Mr. Hirst smiled. “But lightning? I doubt your Clanker friends have mastered the 

forces of nature just yet.” 

“You have to tell the bridge!” 

“I’m sure the bridge can see it well enough.” Hirst pulled a command whistle from his pocket and blew a 

short tune. “But I shall inform them of your theory.” 

“Mytheory ?” Alek shouted. “We don’t have time for a debate! We have to turn around!” 

“What we’ll do is wait for orders,” Mr. Hirst said, dropping the whistle into his pocket. 

Alek swallowed a groan of frustration, then turned back to Klopp. 

“How long do we have?” he said in German. 

“Everyone’s cleared the deck, except for those men in protective suits. So it could be any moment.” 

Klopp lowered the glasses. “Full reverse on this engine will turn us around fastest.” 

“Full reverse from full ahead?” Alek shook his head. “You’ll never make that look like an accident.” 

“No, but I can make it look like my own idea,” Klopp said, then grabbed Alek by the collar and shoved 

him hard to the floor. As Alek’s head cracked against the metal deck of the engine pod, the world went 

starry for a moment. 

“Klopp! What in blazes are you—” 

The shriek of gears drowned out Alek’s words, the whole pod shuddering in its frame around him. The 

Page 192


air suddenly stilled as the propeller sputtered to a halt. 

“What’s the meaning of this!” cried Hirst. 

Alek’s vision cleared, and he saw Klopp brandishing a wrench at the chief engineer. With his free hand 

the old man deftly shifted the engine into reverse, then pushed the foot pedal down. 

The propeller sputtered back to life, drawing air backward across the pod. 

“Klopp, wait!” Alek began. He tried to stand, but his head spun, and he fell back to one knee. 

Blazes! The man had actuallyhurt him! 

Hirst was blowing on his whistle again—a high-pitched squeak—and Alek heard a hydrogen sniffer 

howling in response. Soon a pack of the ugly creatures would be thundering down upon them. 

Alek pulled himself up, reaching out for the wrench. “Klopp, what are youdoing ?” 

The man swung at him, yelling, “Got to make this convincing!” 

The wrench whistled over Alek’s head. He ducked and fell back onto one knee again, cursing. Had 

Klopp gonemad? 

Mr. Hirst reached into a pocket and pulled out a compressed air pistol. 

“No!” Alek cried, leaping for the gun. As his fingers wrapped around Hirst’s wrist, the pistol exploded 

with a deafeningcrack . The shot missed Klopp, but the bullet rang like an alarm bell as it ricocheted 

around the engine pod. 

Something kicked Alek in the ribs, hard, and searing pain blossomed in his side. 

He fell backward, his fingers slipping from Hirst’s wrist, but the man didn’t raise the gun again. Hirst and 

Klopp both gaped, dumbstruck, at theLeviathan ’s flank. 

Alek blinked away pain and followed their stares. The cilia were in furious motion, rippling like leaves in 

a storm. The airbeast’s vast length was bending, twisting harder than he’d ever seen. The great harness 

groaned around them as it stretched, joined by thepop of ropes snapping in the ratlines. 

“The beast knows it’s in danger,” Klopp said. 

Alek watched in wonder as the airship seemed to curl around them in the air. The stars spun overhead, 

and soon the huge animal had turned itself entirely around. 

“Back to full …,” Alek began, but it hurt too much to speak. Every word was another kick in the ribs. 

He looked down at his hand pressed against his left side, and saw blood between the fingers. 

Klopp was already working, reversing the engine once more. Mr. Hirst clutched his pistol tight, still 

staring in wonder at the airbeast’s flank. 

“Get out of the pod, young master,” Klopp yelled as the propeller’s gears caught again. “It’s metal. The 

lightning will jump to it.” 

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“I don’t think I can.” 

Klopp turned. “What … ?” 

“I’m shot.” 

The old man dropped the controls and bent beside him, eyes wide. “I’ll lift you.” 

“Mind your engine, man!” Alek managed. 

“Young master—,” Klopp began, but his words were drowned out by a crackling in the air. 

With a painful heave Alek pulled himself up to look backward. TheGoeben was falling behind them, but 

the Tesla cannon was blindingly bright. It flickered like a welding lamp, sending jittering shadows across 

the dark sea. 

Beside him the airship’s cilia still seethed and billowed, pushing at the air like a million tiny oars. 

Faster,Alek prayed to the giant airbeast. 

A great fireball formed at the tower’s base, then swiftly rose, dancing and shimmering as it climbed. 

When it reached the top, a thunderousboom rang out. 

Fingers of lightning, jagged and colossal, shot up from the Tesla cannon. They stretched across the 

whole sky at first, a tree of white fire, then leapt toward theLeviathan as if drawn by scent. The lightning 

spread a fiery web across the airbeast’s skin, a dazzling wave that surged down its length. In an instant 

the electricity flowed three hundred meters from tail to head, leaping eagerly across the metal struts that 

supported the engine pod. 

The whole pod began to crackle, the gears and pistons flinging out radiant spokes of fire. Alek was 

seized by an invisible force; every muscle in his body tightened. For a long moment the lightning squeezed 

the breath from him. Finally its power wilted, and he slipped back to the metal deck. 

The engine sputtered to a halt again. 

Alek smelled smoke, and felt an awful pounding in his chest. His ribs ached with every heartbeat. 

“Young master? Can you hear me?” 

Alek forced his eyes open. “I’m all right, Klopp.” 

“No, you aren’t,” the man said. “I’ll get you to the gondola.” 

Klopp wrapped one big arm around Alek and pulled him up, sending a wave of fresh agony through 

him. 

“God’s wounds, man! Thathurts !” 

Alek wavered on his feet, dumbstruck by the pain. Mr. Hirst didn’t lend a hand, his nervous eyes 

scanning the length of theLeviathan beside them. 

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Somehow, the airship was not aflame. 

“The engine?” Alek asked Klopp. 

The man sniffed the air and shook his head. “All the electrikals are cooked, and the starboard side is 

silent as well.” 

Alek turned to Hirst and said, “We’ve lost the engines. Perhaps you could put that gun away.” 

The chief engineer stared at the air pistol in his hand, then slipped it into his pocket and pulled out a 

whistle. “I’ll call a surgeon for you. Tell your mutinous friend to set you down.” 

“My ‘mutinous friend’ just saved your—,” Alek started, but a fresh wave of dizziness passed over him. 

“Let me sit,” he muttered to Klopp. “He says he can get a doctor up here.” 

“But he’s the one who shot you!” 

“Yes, but he was aiming at you. Now please put me down.” 

With an unkindly look at Hirst, Klopp leaned Alek gently against the controls. As Alek caught his 

breath, he glanced up at the airship’s flank. The cilia were still rippling like windblown grass. Even 

without the engines to motivate it, the great beast was still headed away from the ironclads. 

Alek looked sternward through the motionless propeller. The ironclads were steaming away. 

“That’s odd,” he said. “They don’t seem to want to finish us off.” 

Klopp nodded. “They’ve gone back to their north-northeast heading. They must be expected 

somewhere.” 

“North-northeast,” Alek repeated. He knew that was significant somehow. He also knew that he should 

be worried that theLeviathan was now drifting southward, away from Constantinople. 

But breathing was worry enough. 

Deryn stood up slowly, blinking away spots from her eyes. 

A barking lightning bolt! That was what had fizzled up from the Clanker warship and leapt across the 

sky, dancing on every squick of metal on theLeviathan ’s topside. The Huxley winch had thrown out a 

blinding flock of white sparks, knocking her half silly in the process. 

Deryn looked in all directions, terrified that she would see fires bursting willy-nilly from the membrane. 

But it was all dark except for the jaggy shimmers burned into her vision. The sniffers must have done their 

jobs brilliantly before the battle. Not a squick of hydrogen had been leaking from the skin. 

Then she remembered—theLeviathan had spun around just in time, the whole airship twisting like a dog 

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chasing its own tail. 

Hydrogen … 

She looked up into the dark sky, and her jaw dropped. 

There was Newkirk, his arms waving madly, the Huxley blazing over his head like a giant Christmas 

pudding soaked with brandy. 

Deryn felt sick, the way she had in a hundred nightmares replaying Da’s accident, so close to the awful 

sight above her. The Huxley tugged at its cable, carried higher by the heat of the flames, spinning the 

winch’s crank. 

But a moment later, its hydrogen expended, the airbeast began to drop. 

Newkirk was twisting in the pilot’s rig, still alive somehow. Then Deryn saw a misting in the starlight 

around the Huxley. Newkirk had spilled the water ballast to keep himself from burning. Clever boy. 

The dead husk of the airbeast billowed out like a ragged parachute, but it was still falling fast. 

The Huxley was a thousand feet up, and if it missed crashing against theLeviathan ’s topsides, it would 

drop another thousand feet before the cable snapped it to a halt. Best to make that trip as short as 

possible. Deryn reached for the winch—but her hand froze. 

Did electricity linger? 

“Dummkopf!”she cursed herself, forcing herself to grasp the metal. 

No sparks shot from it, and she began to turn as fast as she could. But the Huxley was coming down 

faster than she could reel it in. The cable began to coil across the airship’s spine, tangling in the feet of 

crewmen and sniffers running past. 

Still spinning the crank wildly, Deryn looked up. Newkirk was hanging limply beneath the burned husk, 

which was drifting away from theLeviathan . 

The engines had stopped, and the searchlights had gone dead too. The crewmen were using electric 

torches to call the bats and strafing hawks back from the black sky—the Clanker lightning contraption 

had knocked everything out. 

But if the airship was powerless, why was the wind pushing Newkirk away? Shouldn’t they all have 

been drifting together? 

Deryn looked down at the flank, her eyes widening. 

The cilia were still moving, still carrying the airship away from danger. 

“Now, that’s barking odd,” she muttered. 

Usually a hydrogen breather without engines was content to drift. Of course, the airbeasthad been acting 

strangely since the crash in the Alps. All the old crewmen said that the crash in the Alps—or the Clanker 

engines—had rattled its attic. 

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But this was no time to ponder. Newkirk was gliding past only a hundred feet away, close enough that 

Deryn could see his blackened face and soaking uniform. But he didn’t seem to be moving. 

“Newkirk!” she yelled, her hand raw on the winch’s handle. But he fell past without answering. 

The coils of slack cable began to rustle, like a nest of snakes strewn across the topside. The Huxley was 

dragging its cable behind as it dropped below the airship. 

“Clear those lines!” Deryn shouted, waving off a crewman standing among the slithering coils. The man 

danced away, the cable snapping at his ankles, trying to drag him down as well. 

She went at the crank again, till the line snapped tight with a sickening jerk. Deryn hit the brake and 

checked the cable markings—just over five hundred feet. 

TheLeviathan was two hundred feet from top to bottom, so Newkirk would be dangling less than three 

hundred feet below. Strapped into the pilot’s rig, he was probably all right. Unless the fire had got him, or 

he’d been jolted to a neck-breaking stop … 

Deryn took a deep breath, trying to stop her hands from shaking. 

She couldn’t crank him back up. The winch was designed for a hydrogen-filled Huxley, not to haul dead 

weight. 

Deryn followed the taut cable, climbing down the ratlines on the airbeast’s flank. From the ship’s waist 

she could just see the Huxley’s dark shape fluttering against the whitecaps of the waves. 

“Barking spiders,” she murmured. The water was much closer than she’d expected. 

TheLeviathan was losing altitude. 

Of course—the great airbeast was trying to find the strongest wind to pull itself away from the German 

ironclads. It wouldn’t care about smacking poor burnt Newkirk against the ocean’s choppy surface. 

But the officers could drop ballast, and drag the ship up against its will. Deryn pulled out her command 

whistle and blew for a message lizard, then stared again at the Huxley below. 

There was no human movement that she could see. Newkirk had to be stunned, at least. And he 

wouldn’t have the right equipment to climb the cable. No one expected to climbup from an ascender. 

Where was that barking message lizard? She saw one scrambling across the membrane, and whistled for 

it. But the lizard just stared at her and jabbered something about an electrical malfunction. 

“Brilliant,” she murmured. The bolt of Clanker lightning had scrambled the wee beasties’ brains! Down 

below, the dark water looked closer every second. 

She was going to have to rescue Newkirk herself. 

Deryn searched the pockets of her flight suit. In airmanship class Mr. Rigby had taught them about how 

riggers “belayed,” which was Service-speak for sliding down a rope without breaking your neck. She 

found a few carabiners and enough line to make a pair of friction hitches. 

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After attaching her safety clip to the Huxley’s cable, Deryn twisted the carabiner tight. She couldn’t wind 

the rope around her hips because the weight of the dead Huxley would snip her in half. But after a 

moment’s fiddling, she attached the extra carabiners to her harness and strung the cable through them. 

Mr. Rigby wouldn’t approve of this method,Deryn thought as she kicked herself away from the 

membrane. 

She slid down in short jerks, the carabiners’ friction keeping her from falling too fast. But the rope was 

hot beneath her gloves, its fibers fraying wherever she snapped to a halt. Deryn doubted this cable was 

designed to hold the weight of a dead Huxley and two middies. 

The ocean thundered below Deryn, the wind growing colder now that the sun had fully set. The peak of 

a tall wave smacked against the Huxley’s drooping membrane, cracking like a gunshot. 

“Newkirk!” Deryn shouted, and the boy stirred in his pilot’s rig. 

A shudder of relief went through her—he was alive. Not like Da. 

She let herself fall the last twenty yards, the rope hissing like mad and spilling a burnt smell into the salt 

air. But her boots landed softly on the squishy membrane of the dead airbeast, which smelled of smoke 

and salt, like jellyfish cooked on a hearth fire. 

“Where in blazes am I?” Newkirk mumbled, barely audible over the rumble of the waves. His hair was 

scorched, his face and hands blackened with smoke. 

“Almost in the barking ocean, that’s where! Can you move?” 

The boy stared at his blackened hands, wriggling his fingers, then unstrapped himself from the harness. 

He stood up shakily on the frame of the pilot’s rig. 

“Aye. I’m just singed.” He ran his fingers through his hair, or what was left of it. 

“Can you climb?” Deryn asked. 

Newkirk stared up at theLeviathan ’s dark belly. “Aye, but that’smiles away! Couldn’t you have 

cranked faster?” 

“You could havefallen slower !” Deryn shouted back. She unclipped two carabiners and shoved them 

into his hands, along with a short length of line. “Tie yourself a friction hitch. Or don’t you remember Mr. 

Rigby’s classes?” 

Newkirk stared at the carabiners, then up at the distant airship. 

“Aye, I remember. But I never thought we’d be ascending that far.” 

“Ascending,” of course, was Service-Speak for climbingup a rope without breaking your neck. Deryn’s 

fingers worked fast with her own line. A friction hitch slid freely up a rope, but held fast when weight was 

hanging from it. That way, she and Newkirk could stop and rest without relying on their muscles to keep 

them from sliding back. 

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“You go first,” she ordered. If Newkirk slid down, she could stop him. 

He pulled himself up a few feet, then tested his hitch, swinging freely from the rope. “It works!” 

“Aye. You’ll be conquering Mount Everest next!” As she spoke, another wave slapped at the Huxley, 

splashing across them both. Deryn lost her footing, but her friction hitch held. 

She spat out salt water and yelled, “Get going, youDummkopf ! The ship’s losing altitude!” 

Newkirk started climbing, scrambling with feet and hands. He had soon cleared enough distance that 

Deryn could haul herself off the dead Huxley. 

Another wave hit the airbeast, snapping the line tight, and Newkirk skidded down till he was almost on 

top of her. If theLeviathan dropped any lower, the beastie’s carcass would be dragging in the water. If 

the membrane filled up, it would pull on the rope like a barrel full of stones. 

Enough to break any cable … She had to cut the Huxley loose. 

“Higher!” she yelled, and started climbing madly. 

About twenty feet above the Huxley, Deryn halted, hanging just above a badly frayed spot. She pulled 

out her rigging knife, reached down, and started hacking at the line. Huxley cable was barking thick, but 

when the next tall wave struck the airbeast, the fibers unraveled in a blur and snapped. 

Without the beastie’s dead weight anchoring them, suddenly they were swinging across the black sea, 

cast about by the wind. Newkirk cried out with surprise overhead. 

“Sorry!” Deryn yelled up. “Should have warned you.” 

But with the Huxley’s weight gone, the rope wouldn’t snap … probably. 

She started climbing again, wishing for the hundredth time that she had the arm strength of a boy. But 

soon the waves no longer threatened her dangling boots. 

Halfway up, Deryn took a long breather, searching the dark horizon for the two German ironclads. They 

were nowhere to be seen. 

Maybe the Royal Navy was close by, and had kept the ships running. But Deryn couldn’t see any sign 

of surface ships. The only shape on the water was the Huxley’s carcass, a lonely black smear on the 

waves. 

“Poor beastie,” she said, shivering. The whole airship and its crew might have wound up like that—burnt 

black, as lonely as driftwood on the dark sea. If the hydrogen sniffers had missed a single leak, or if the 

airbeast hadn’t spun itself around just in time, they’d all have been done for. 

“Barking Clankers,” Deryn murmured. “Making their ownlightning now.” 

She closed her eyes to shut her dark memories away, the roar of skin-prickling heat and the smell of 

burnt flesh. This time she’d won. The fire hadn’t taken anyone she loved. 

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Deryn shuddered once more, then started to climb again. 

“This is entirely unacceptable!” Dr. Barlow cried. 

“I’m s-sorry, ma’am,” the guard sputtered. “But the captain said the Clanker boy wasn’t to have 

visitors.” 

Deryn shook her head—the man’s resistance was already faltering. He was backed up against Alek’s 

stateroom door, sweat breaking out on his forehead. 

“I am not a visitor, you imbecile,” Dr. Barlow said. “I’m a doctor here to see an injured patient!” 

Tazza’s ears perked up at the lady boffin’s sharp tone, and he let out a low growl. Deryn held his leash a 

squick tighter. “Shush now, Tazza. No biting.” 

“But the surgeon was already here,” the guard squeaked, staring wide eyed at the thylacine. “Said the 

boy only bruised a rib.” 

“On top of suffering from shock, no doubt,” Dr. Barlow said. “Or did you fail to notice our recent 

encounter with a prodigious amount of electricity?” 

“Of course not, ma’am.” The guard swallowed, still eyeing Tazza nervously. “But the captain was quite 

specific—” 

“Did hespecifically forbid doctors from seeing the patient?” 

“Er, no.” 

Just give up,thought Deryn. It didn’t matter that Dr. Barlow was a boffin—a fabricator of 

beasties—and not a pulse-taking stick-out-your-tongue doctor. She’d be seeing this particular patient 

one way or another. 

Deryn hoped that Alek really was all right. The Clanker lightning had danced across the whole ship, but 

it must have been worst in the engine pods, with all that metal about … Well, second to worst, anyway. 

Newkirk’s hair was half burnt off, and he had a knot on his head the size of a cricket ball. 

But how had Alek bruised a rib? That didn’t sound like something an electric shock would do. 

Finally the guard surrendered his post, slinking off to check with the watch officer and trusting Dr. 

Barlow to wait till he got back. She didn’t, of course, just pushed the door straight open. 

Alek lay in bed, his ribs wrapped in bandages. His skin was ashen, his dark green eyes glistening in the 

dawn light streaming through the portholes. 

“Barking spiders!” Deryn said. “You’re as pale as a mealyworm.” 

A wan smile spread across the boy’s face. “It’s good to see you, too, Dylan. And you, Dr. Barlow.” 

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“Good morning, Alek,” the lady boffin said. “Youare pale, aren’t you? As if you’ve lost some blood. An 

odd symptom for electrocution.” 

Alek grimaced as he struggled to sit up higher. “I’m afraid you’re right, ma’am. Mr. Hirst shot me.” 

“Shot you?” Deryn cried. 

Alek nodded. “Luckily it was one of your feeble compressed air guns. Dr. Busk said the bullet hit a rib 

and bounced off, but nothing’s broken, thanks partly to my fencing armor. I should be walking about 

soon enough.” 

Deryn stared at the bandages. “But what in blazes did he shoot youfor ?” 

“He was aiming for Klopp. They had a … disagreement. Klopp realized what was about to 

happen—what the Tesla cannon was—and decided to turn us around.” 

“A Tesla cannon?” Dr. Barlow repeated. “As in that awful Mr. Tesla?” 

“That’s what Klopp says,” Alek said. 

“But you Clankers didn’t turn us around,” Deryn said. “Everyone says that the beastie itself turned, 

because it got scared.” 

Alek shook his head. “Klopp reversed the port engine first, then the airbeast followed suit. It seems the 

Leviathan has more sense than its own officers.” 

“You said they had a disagreement?” Dr. Barlow asked. “You mean you changed course without 

orders?” 

“There wasn’t time to wait for orders,” he said. 

Deryn let out a low groan. No wonder Alek was under guard. 

“That’s barking mutiny,” she said softly. 

“But we saved the ship.” 

“Aye, but you can’t disobey orders just because the officers are being daft. Especially not in 

battle—that’s a hanging offense!” 

Alek’s eyes widened, and the room was silent for a moment. 

Dr. Barlow cleared her throat. “Please don’t say alarming things to my patient, Mr. Sharp. He’s no more 

a member of this crew than I am, and is therefore not subject to your brutish military authority.” 

Deryn bit down a reply. She doubted Captain Hobbes would see it that way. This had probably been 

his worry since the Clankers had come aboard, that they’d ignore the bridge and pilot the ship whichever 

way they wanted. 

Changing course wasn’t like skylarking or learning to fence on duty. It was mutiny, pure and simple. 

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The lady boffin sat primly on the stateroom’s only chair, snapping her fingers for Tazza to come to her. 

“Now, Alek,” she said, stroking the thylacine’s striped flank. “You say that Klopp was operating the 

engine. So this ‘mutiny’ wasn’t your idea?” 

The boy thought for a moment. “I suppose not.” 

“Then, pray tell, why areyou under guard?” 

“When Mr. Hirst pulled the pistol, I tried to take it from him.” 

Deryn shut her eyes. Striking an officer—anotherhanging offense. 

“Very sensible of you,” Dr. Barlow said. “This ship won’t get very far without its master of mechaniks, 

will it?” 

“Where is Klopp now?” Alek asked. 

“I reckon he’s in the brig,” Deryn said. 

“Andnot at work on the engines, thus further delaying my mission.” Dr. Barlow stood up, straightening 

her skirts. “Don’t you worry about Master Klopp, Alek. Now that I have all the facts, I’m sure the 

captain will see reason.” 

She handed the leash to Deryn. 

“Please walk Tazza and then check on the eggs, Mr. Sharp. I don’t trust that Mr. Newkirk, especially 

with his head swelling up like a melon.” She turned. “In fact, I’d much rather that you were watching 

them, Alek. Please do get better soon.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll try,” the boy said. “But if you don’t mind, could Dylan stay a moment?” 

The lady boffin’s eyes measured them both, and then she smiled. “Of course. Perhaps you could amuse 

Mr. Sharp with whatever you know about this … Tesla cannon? I have some familiarity with the 

inventor, and it seemed a most intriguing device.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know much—,” Alek began, but Dr. Barlow was already out the door and gone. 

Deryn stood silently a moment, wondering where to start. With the Clankers’ lightning contraption? Or 

how Newkirk had almost burnt to a crisp? Or the possibility that Alek would be court-martialed and 

hanged? 

Then her eyes fell on his bandages, and an awful feeling went through her. If the gun had been pointed a 

few inches higher, Alek might be dead. 

“Does getting shot hurt much?” she asked. 

“Like a mule kicked me.” 

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“Hmm. I’ve never been daft enough to let that happen.” 

“Nor have I.” Alek smiled weakly. “But it feels about right.” 

The two were silent again, Deryn wondering how things had gone pear-shaped so fast. Before Newkirk 

had spotted the ironclads, she’d been hoping that Alek would wind up staying on theLeviathan 

somehow. But she hadn’t meant lying wounded in bed, or clapped in irons for mutiny, orboth . 

“This is the second time someone’s shot at me,” Alek said. “Remember those gunners on the zeppelin?” 

Deryn nodded slowly. Back in the Alps, the daft prince had stepped out into the middle of a battle, right 

in front of a machine gun. Only a hydrogen leak had saved him, the German gunners setting their own 

airship aflame. 

“Perhaps I wasn’t meant to die that day,” he said. “Or last night, either.” 

“Aye, or perhaps you were just barkinglucky .” 

“I suppose,” Alek said. “Do you really think they’ll hang us?” 

Deryn thought a moment, then shrugged. “There aren’t any rules for something like this, I reckon. We’ve 

never had Clankers aboard before. But they’ll listen to the lady boffin, because of her grandfather’s 

name.” 

Alek grimaced again. Deryn wondered if it was his wound, or being reminded that Dr. Barlow was 

related to old Charles Darwin himself. Even after serving on a living airship, the Clankers were still 

superstitious about life threads and fabrication. 

“I wish wehad mutinied,” Alek said. “And ended that pointless battle before it started. Klopp and I 

thought about stopping the engines and making it look like a malfunction.” 

“Well, thinking isn’t the same as doing,” Deryn said, slumping onto the chair. She’d entertained madder 

ideas than mutiny. Like telling Alek that she was a girl, or giving Dr. Barlow a smack—the latter more 

than once. The trick was never to let what you were thinking slip out into the world. 

“And anyway,” she continued, “I haven’t heard about this mutiny business, so the officers must be 

keeping dead quiet. Maybe the captain wants to let you off without looking soft. Everyone thinks it was 

the airbeast who turned us around, for fear of that Clanker cannon.” 

“The beastdid turn us around. It must have smelled the lightning—it knew we’d all burn.” 

Deryn shuddered again, as she did every time she thought of how close they’d come. She could still see 

the Huxley, blazing in midair just like Da’s balloon. 

“But Newkirk isn’t dead,” she told herself softly. 


Deryn cleared her throat. She didn’t want to wind up with her voice squeaking like a girl’s. “I said, the 

engines are dead. And the airbeast has gone bonkers, and thinks it’s still running away from that Tesla 

thingie. We’re halfway to Africa!” 

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Alek swore. “I suppose those ironclads are already there.” 

“What, in Africa?” 

“No,Dummkopf —Constantinople.” He pointed at the desk in the room. “There’s a map in that drawer. 

Kindly fetch it for me.” 

“Aye, your princeliness,” Deryn said, hauling herself up to get the map. It was just like Alek, to be 

thinking of maps and schemes while lying wounded, guilty of a hanging offense. 

She sat on the bed beside him, smoothing out the roll of paper. It was labeled in Clanker writing, but she 

could see it was the Mediterranean. 

“The ironclads were headed north into the Aegean,” Alek said. “See?” 

Deryn traced theLeviathan ’s course from southern Italy with one finger, until she found the spot where 

they’d fought theGoeben andBreslau —almost due south of Constantinople. 

“Aye, they were headed that way.” She pointed at the Dardanelles, the narrow stretch of water that led 

to the ancient city. “But if they head north, they’ll be trapped in the strait, like a fly in a bottle.” 

“What if they plan to stay there?” 

Deryn shook her head. “The Ottoman Empire is still neutral, and ships at war can’t hang about in a 

neutral port. Dr. Barlow says we’re only allowed to stay in Constantinople for twenty-four hours. It must 

be the same for the Germans.” 

“But didn’t she also say that the Ottomans were angry with the British? For stealing their warship?” 

“Well, aye,” Deryn said, then muttered, “but that’s just borrowing, really.” 

To be truthful, though, ithad been a bit like stealing. Britain had just completed a new dreadnought for 

the Ottoman navy, along with a huge companion creature, some new sort of kraken. Both the warship 

and the creature had already been paid for, but when the war had begun, the First Lord of the Admiralty 

had decided to keep the ship and its beastie, at least until the conflict ended. 

Borrowing or stealing, it had caused the diplomatic ruckus that Dr. Barlow and theLeviathan had been 

sent to sort out. Somehow the mysterious eggs in the engine room were meant to help. 

“So the Ottomans might decide to let the ironclads stay,” Alek said. “Just to get back at your Lord 

Churchill.” 

“Well, that would make everything trickier, wouldn’t it?” 

Alek nodded. “It would mean even more Germans in Constantinople. It might even bring the Ottomans 

over to the Clanker side! TheGoeben ’s Tesla cannon is pretty convincing.” 

“Aye, it convinced me,” Deryn said. She wouldn’t fancy sharing the same city with that contraption. 

“And what happens if the Ottomans close the Dardanelles to British shipping?” 

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Deryn swallowed. The fighting bears of the Russian army needed lots of food, most of which was 

brought in by ship. If they were cut off from their Darwinist allies, the Russians would have a long, hungry 

winter. 

“But are you sure that’s where the ironclads were headed?” 

“No. Not yet.” He raised his dark gaze from the map. “Dylan, can you do me a favor? Asecret favor?” 

She swallowed. “That depends on what it is.” 

“I need you to deliver a message.” 

Heat Wave 

Richard Castle 

To the extraordinary KB 

and all my friends at the 12th 

EIGHT 

When Detective Heat nosed the Crown Vic out of underground parking at the Starr Pointe tower, she 

heard the low, steady thrum that could only mean helicopters, and rolled her window down. Three of 

them hovered to her left about a quarter mile west, on the far side of the Time Warner building. The 

lower one, she knew, would be the police chopper, the two deferential ones at higher altitude would 

belong to TV stations. “Breaking nyoooz!” she said to her empty car. 

She dialed in the tactical band on her radio and before long put together that a steam pipe had blown 

and geysered, further evidence that the ancient Gotham infrastructure was no match for nature’s oven. 

Almost a week of the big heat, and Manhattan was starting to bubble and blister like a cheese pizza. 

Columbus Circle would be impossible, so she took the longer but faster route back to the precinct, 

entering Central Park across from the Plaza and taking its East Drive north. The city kept the park closed 

to motor vehicles until three, so without traffic, her ride had a Sunday-in-the-country feel, lovely as long 

as she blasted the air conditioner. Sawhorses blocked the drive at 71st, but the auxiliary cop recognized 

her car as an unmarked and slid the barrier with a wave. Nikki pulled to a stop beside her. “Who’d you 

piss off to get this duty?” 

“Must be karma from a past life,” said the uniform with a laugh. 

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Nikki looked at the unopened bottle of cold water sweating in her cup holder and passed it to the 

woman. “Stay cool, Officer,” she said and drove on. 

The heat tamped everything down. Aside from a handful of certifiable runners and insane cyclists, the 

park had been left to the birds and squirrels. Nikki slowed as she passed the back of the Metropolitan 

Museum, and looking at the sloped glass wall of the mezzanine, she smiled, as she always did, at her 

classic movie memory of Harry in there with Sally, teaching her how to tell a waiter there was too much 

pepper on the paprikash. A young couple ambled across the lawn hand in hand, and without deciding to, 

Nikki stopped the car and watched the two of them, simply together, with all the time in the world. When 

a ripple of melancholy stirred in her, she pushed it down with a slow press of the gas pedal. Time to get 

back to work. 

Rook sprang up from her desk chair when Nikki came into the bull pen. It was clear he was waiting for 

her to get back and wanted to know where she’d gone, meaning, without saying it, Why didn’t you bring 

me? When she told him it was to follow up with Noah Paxton, Rook didn’t get any more relaxed or 

much less obvious. 

“You know, I get it that you aren’t the biggest fan of my ride-along thing, but I’d like to think I’m a 

pretty useful set of eyes and ears for you on these interviews.” 

“Can I mention that I am in the middle of an active murder investigation? I needed to see a witness alone 

because I wanted him to be open to me without any extra eyes and ears, useful though they may be.” 

“So you’re saying they are useful?” 

“I’m saying this isn’t a time for you to personalize or be needy.” She looked at him, just wanting to be 

with her and, she had to admit, being more cute than needy. Nikki found herself smiling. “And 

yes—sometimes—they are useful.” 

“All right.” 

“Just not every time, OK?” 

“We’re in a good place, let’s not overexamine,” he said. 

“Got some news about Pochenko,” said Ochoa as he and Raley came through the door. 

“Tell me he’s on Rikers Island and can’t get a lawyer, that would be good news,” she said. “What have 

you got?” 

“Well, you called it,” said Ochoa. “A guy fitting his description shoplifted half the first aid aisle at a 

Duane Reade in the East Village today.” 

“Got surveillance vid, too.” Raley popped a DVD in his computer. 

“Positive ID on Pochenko?” she asked. 

“You tell me.” 

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The drugstore video was ghosty and jerky, but there he was, the big Russian, filling a plastic bag with 

ointments and aloe, then ducking through the first aid section to help himself to wrapping tape and finger 

splints. 

“Dude’s in bad shape. Remind me never to get in a fight with you,” said Raley. 

“Or to have you press my shirts,” added Ochoa. 

They went back and forth like that. Until somebody came up with a magic pill, gallows humor was still 

the best coping mechanism for a cop. Otherwise the job ate you alive. Normally, Nikki would have been 

right there taking shots with them, but she was too raw to laugh it off just yet. Maybe if she could see 

Pochenko shackled in the back of a van on his way to Ossining for the rest of his life, then she wouldn’t 

still be smelling him or feeling his skillet hands on her throat in her own home. Maybe then she could 

laugh. 

“Whoa, check out the finger, I think I’m gonna yack,” said Ochoa. Raley added, “He can kiss off that 

piano scholarship to Juilliard.” 

Rook’s smart mouth was uncharacteristically silent. Nikki checked him out and caught him watching her 

with something like what she’d seen in his eyes at the poker table the night before, but magnified. She 

broke off, feeling the need to get clear of whatever this was, just like she had after he gave her the framed 

print. “All right, so that’s definitely our man,” she said and moved away to contemplate the whiteboard. 

“And do I need to point out he’s still in the city?” said Rook. 

She chose to ignore him. The fact was obvious and the worry useless. Instead she turned to Raley. 

“Nothing at all on your Guilford tape?” 

“I went over that puppy until I was cross-eyed. No way they came back through that lobby after they 

left. I also screened video of the service entrance. Nothing.” 

“All right, we gave it a shot.” 

“Screening that lobby video was totally the worst,” said Raley. “Like watching C-SPAN only not as 

exciting.” 

“Tell you what, then, I’ll get you out in the world. Why don’t you and Ochoa drop in on Dr. Van Peldt’s 

office and see if Kimberly Starr’s alibi clears? And since it’s a safe bet she’s tipped off her one true love 

that we’ll be checking—” 

“I know,” said Ochoa, “verify with his receptionist, nurses, and/or hotel staff, etcet-yadda, etcet-yadda.” 

“Gosh, Detective,” said Heat, “it’s almost like you know what you’re doing.” 

Detective Heat stood at the whiteboard and under the heading “Guilford Surveillance Video” wrote two 

red letters: N.G. It must have been the angle she was writing at that brought on the pinching stiffness from 

the previous night’s brawl. She let her shoulders drop and rolled her head in a slow circle, feeling the 

delicious edge of discomfort that told her she was still alive. When she was done, she circled “Matthew’s 

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Mistress” on the board, capped her marker, and yanked the magazine out of Rook’s hands. “Want to 

take a ride?” she asked. 

They took the West Side Highway downtown, and even the river showed symptoms of heat strain. To 

their right, the Hudson looked as if it was too hot to move and its surface lay there in surrender, all flat 

and dozy. The zone west of Columbus Circle was still a mess and would surely lead the five o’clock 

news. The erupting steam jet had been shut off, but there was a lunar-sized crater that would close West 

59th for days. On the scanner, they listened to one of the NYPD quality of life squads report they had 

busted a man for public urination who admitted he tried to get arrested so he could spend the night in 

air-conditioning. “So the weather caused two eruptions that required police action,” said Rook, which 

made Heat laugh and feel almost glad he was along. 

When she’d set up the meeting with Matthew Starr’s former mistress, Morgan Donnelly asked if they 

could meet her at work, since that’s where she spent most of her time. That fit the profile Noah Paxton 

had sketched of her when Nikki asked him about her in their conversation earlier that day. As was his 

way, once he opened up, Nikki’s pen could hardly keep pace. In addition to revealing choice office 

nicknames, he’d called their romance the inter-office elephant in the conference room and summed up 

Starr’s not-so-secret mistress by saying, “Morgan was all brains, tits, and drive. She was the Matthew 

Starr ideal: work like crazy, screw like mad. Sometimes I’d picture them in bed with their BlackBerrys, 

texting oh-yeah-like-that’s to each other between deals.” 

So, with that in her head, when Nikki Heat parked the car at the business address off Prince Street in 

SoHo Donnelly had given her, she had to double-check her notes to make sure she had the right place. It 

was a cupcake bakery. Her sore neck protested when she twisted to read the sign above the door. 

“‘Fire and Icing’?” she said. 

Rook quoted a poem, “‘Some say the world will end in fire,/Some say in ice.’” He opened his car door 

and the heat rolled in. “Today, I’m going with fire.” 

“I still can’t believe it,” said Morgan Donnelly as she sat down with them at a round cafe table in the 

corner. She unsnapped the collar flap of her crisp white chef’s tunic and offered the stainless sugar caddy 

to Heat and Rook for their iced Americanos. Nikki tried to reconcile the Morgan the baker before her 

with the Morgan the marketing powerhouse Noah Paxton drew. There was a story there and she would 

get it. The corners of Donnelly’s mouth turned down, and she said, “You hear about things like this in the 

news, but it’s never anybody you know.” 

The girl came from behind the counter and set a sample plate of mini-cupcakes in the center of the table. 

When she stepped away, Morgan continued, “I know getting involved with a married man doesn’t make 

me look like the best person. Maybe I wasn’t. But when it was happening, it seemed so right. Like in the 

middle of all the pressure of the job there was this passion, this amazing thing that was just ours.” Her 

eyes filled a little and she swiped her cheek once. 

Heat studied her for tells. Too much remorse or not enough were red flags. There were others, of 

course, but those indicators formed the baseline for her. Nikki hated the term, but so far Morgan’s 

reaction was appropriate. But the detective needed to do more than take her temp. As the ex of a 

murder victim, she had to be checked out, and that meant getting answers to two simple questions: Did 

she have a strong revenge motive, and did she stand to gain from the man’s death? Life would be so 

much simpler if Heat could just have her check off boxes on a questionnaire and mail it in, but it didn’t 

work that way and now Nikki’s job was to make this woman a little uncomfortable. “Where were you 

when Matthew Starr was killed? Say, between twelve-thirty and two-thirtyP.M. ?” She started throwing 

the high heat to catch Morgan off guard. 

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Morgan took a moment and answered without any defensiveness. “I know exactly where I was. I was 

with the Tribeca Film people for a tasting. I won a catering contract for one of their after-parties this 

spring, and I remember because the tasting went well and I was driving back here to celebrate that 

afternoon when I heard about Matthew.” 

Nikki made a note and continued. “Did you and Mr. Starr have any contact after the affair ended?” 

“Contact. You mean, did we still see each other?” 

“That. Or any contact at all.” 

“No, although I did see him once a few months ago. But he didn’t see me and we didn’t talk.” 

“Where was this?” 

“Bloomingdale’s. At the lunch counter downstairs. I was going to get a tea and he was there.” 

“Why didn’t you speak to him?” 

“He was with someone.” 

Nikki made a note. “Did you know her?” 

Morgan smiled at Nikki’s perception. “No. I might have said hello to Matthew, but she had her hand on 

his thigh. They seemed preoccupied.” 

“Can you describe her?” 

“Blond, young, pretty. Young.” She thought a moment and added, “Oh, and she had an accent. 

Scandinavian. Denmark or Sweden, maybe, I don’t know.” 

Nikki and Rook traded glances, and she could sense him looking over her shoulder as she wrote 

“Nanny?” in her notes. “So otherwise no contact at all then?” 

“No. When it was over, it was over. But it was very cordial.” She looked down at her espresso and 

then up at Nikki and said, “Bullshit, it was painful as hell. But we were both grown-ups. We both went 

our ways. Life goes…well…” She left that unfinished. 

“Let’s go back to the end of your relationship. It must have been difficult in the office. Did he fire you 

when it was over?” 

“It was my decision to leave. Working together would be awkward for us, and I sure as hell didn’t want 

to deal with the gossip residue.” 

“But still, you had a big career there.” 

“I had a big love there. At least I told myself it was. When that ended, I wasn’t focused on my career so 

much.” 

“I’d be angry as hell,” said the detective. Sometimes the best way to ask a question was not to ask it. 

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“Hurt and fragile, yes. Angry?” Morgan smiled. “It ended up for the better. A relationship like that, you 

know, the fun-and-convenient, going-nowhere kind? I realized I was using that relationship to stay out of 

relationships, just as I was with my work. Do you know what I mean?” 

Nikki shifted uncomfortably in her chair and managed a neutral “Uh-huh.” 

“At best it was a place holder. And I wasn’t getting any younger.” Nikki shifted again, wondering how 

she had ended up as the one feeling uncomfortable. “Matthew was good to me, though. He offered me a 

huge chunk of money.” 

Nikki snapped out of herself and back to the interview and made a note to check that out with Paxton. 

“How much did he give you?” 

“Nothing. I wouldn’t accept it.” 

“It’s not like he would have missed it,” said Rook. 

“But don’t you see?” she said to him, as if he never would. “If I took his money, then that would be what 

it was all about. It wasn’t like people said. It wasn’t about rising to the top on my back with my legs in 

the air.” 

Rook persisted. “Still, nobody would have to know you took his money.” 

“I would,” she said. 

And with those two words, Detective Heat closed her notebook. A carrot cupcake was screaming at 

her from that plate and it had to be silenced. As Nikki peeled at the ruffles of the bottom wrapper, she 

nodded her head to the trendy bake shop and asked, “What about all this? Not where I expected to find 

the infamous M.B.A. on Red Bull.” 

Morgan laughed. “Oh, that Morgan Donnelly. She’s around somewhere. Makes an appearance once in 

a while and turns my life nuts.” She leaned forward over the table, toward Nikki. “The end of that affair 

three years ago turned out to be an epiphany. Before it came, I was getting hints, but I ignored them. For 

instance, some nights I’d stand there in my big old corner office up on the penthouse floor of the Starr 

Pointe, one phone going, two lines on hold, and a dozen e-mails to answer. And I’d look below on the 

street and say to myself, ‘Look at all those people down there. Going home to somebody.’” 

Nikki was licking some buttercream frosting from her fingertip and stopped. “But come on, a career 

woman at the top of your game, that must have been very satisfying, right?” 

“After Matthew, all I could think of was, What was I left with? And all the stuff that had passed me by 

while I was putting on the power suits and doing the career. You know, life? Well, here was the 

epiphany. One day I’m watchingGood Morning America, and Emeril’s on, and he was making pies, and 

it got me remembering when I was a kid, how much I loved to bake. So there I was, in my pajamas and 

Uggs, creeping up on thirty, no job, no relationship, and let’s face it, not getting much out of either one 

when I had them anyway, thinking, ‘Time to reboot.’” 

Nikki found her heart racing. She took a sip of her Americano and asked, “So you just took the jump? 

No net, no regrets, no looking back?” 

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“At what? I decided to follow my bliss. Of course, the price of bliss is a loan to the eyeballs, but it’s 

working out. I started small…hell, look around, I still am small…but I’m loving it. I’m even engaged.” 

She held out her hand, which had no ring on it. 

“It’s lovely,” said Rook. 

Morgan made a whoops face and blushed a little. “I never wear it when I’m baking, but the guy who 

does my Web site? He and I are tying the knot this fall. I guess you never know where life’s taking you, 

huh?” 

Nikki reflected and unfortunately had to agree. 

As they headed uptown, Rook balanced a huge box of two dozen cupcakes on his lap. Heat brought the 

car to a gentle stop at a red light so his gift to the precinct break room wouldn’t turn into a box of 

crumbs. “So, Officer Rook,” she asked, “I haven’t heard you tell me to slap Morgan Donnelly in jail. 

What gives?” 

“Oh, she’s got to be off the list.” 

“Because?” 

“Too happy.” 

Heat nodded. “Agreed.” 

“But,” said Rook, “you’ll still check her alibi and whether Paxton cut her a fat good-bye check.” 

“That’s right.” 

“And we have a surprise mystery guest to check out, the Nordic Nanny.” 

“You’re learning.” 

“Oh, yeah, learning a lot. Those were very revealing questions.” She watched him, knowing something 

was coming. “Especially when you finished asking about the case and started getting personal.” 

“…Yeah? She had an interesting story and I wanted to hear it.” 

“Huh. You sure didn’t look like it.” Rook waited until he saw the color come to her cheeks, and then he 

just stared straight ahead out the windshield with that stupid grin again. All he said was, “Green.” 

“Hey, man, it’s the thought that counts,” said Raley. Rook, Roach, and a number of detectives and 

uniforms were crowded in the precinct break room, around the open Fire and Icing box Rook had 

lovingly cradled on the drive. The assortment of buttercream icings, whipped creams, and ganache had 

melted and run together into what would charitably be described as cupcake roadkill. 

“No, it’s not,” from Ochoa. “Man promised cupcakes, I don’t want thought, I want a cupcake.” 

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“I tell you these were perfect when they left the bakery,” said Rook, but the room was emptying around 

his good deed. “It’s the heat, it’s melting everything.” 

“Leave ’em outside a little longer. I’ll come back with a straw,” said Ochoa. He and Raley moved on to 

the bull pen. When they arrived, Detective Heat was updating the whiteboard. 

“Filling up,” said Raley. It was always a mixed feeling at this point on an open homicide, when the 

satisfaction of seeing the board becoming populated with data was offset by the most salient fact: Nothing 

up there had brought a solve. But they all knew it was a process, and every bit they posted was a step 

closer to clearing the case. 

“So,” Nikki said to her squad, “Morgan Donnelly’s alibi checks with the Tribeca Film commish.” As 

Rook entered the room eating a cupcake out of a paper cup with a spoon, she added, “For the sake of 

her cupcakes, I hope the heat wave breaks by April. Roach, you saw Kimberly Starr’s cosmetic 

surgeon?” 

“Yeah, and I’m thinking of getting something ugly removed that’s been bothering me for the past two 

years.” Raley paused and added, “Ochoa.” 

“See, Detective Heat?” said his partner. “I give and I give, and this is what I put up with all day.” Then 

Ochoa went to his notes. “The widow’s alibi checks. She had a last-minute booking for a ‘consultation,’ 

and showed up at one-fifteen. That squares with her departure from the ice cream parlor on Amsterdam 

at one.” 

Heat said, “Over to the East Side in fifteen minutes? She got there in a hurry.” 

“Ain’t no mountain high enough,” said Rook. 

“All right,” continued Nikki, “Mrs. Starr managed to tell us the truth about cheating on both her husband 

and Barry Gable with Dr. Boy-tox. But that’s just her whereabouts. Check phone records from her or 

the doc for any calls to Miric or Pochenko just to button it all down.” 

“Right,” said Roach in unison and they laughed. 

“See? I can’t stay mad at you,” said Ochoa. 

That evening, darkness was trying to push through the soggy air outside the precinct on West 82nd when 

Nikki Heat stepped out carrying the Met Store box containing her John Singer Sargent print. Rook was 

standing at the curb. “I’ve got a car service coming. Why don’t you let me give you a lift?” 

“That’s all right, I’m fine. And thanks again for this, you shouldn’t have.” She started off toward 

Columbus, on her way to the subway near the planetarium. “But you’ll notice I’m keeping it. Night.” 

She got to the corner and Rook was beside her. “If you insist on proving how macho you are by 

walking, at least let me carry that.” 

“Good night, Mr. Rook.” 

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“Wait.” She stopped but didn’t mask her impatience. “Come on, Pochenko’s still at large. You should 

have an escort.” 

“You? Who’ll protect you? Not I.” 

“Jeez, a cop who uses proper grammar as a weapon. I’m rendered helpless.” 

“Look, if you have any doubt I can take care of myself, I’ll be more than happy to give you a 

demonstration. Is your health insurance current?” 

“All right, what if this is just my flimsy excuse to see your apartment? What would you say to that?” 

Nikki looked across the street and back at him. She smiled and said, “I’ll bring in some pictures 

tomorrow,” and crossed with the light, leaving him there on the corner. 

A half hour later, Nikki came up the steps from the R train onto the sidewalk at East 23rd and saw the 

neighborhood plunge into darkness as Manhattan finally threw in the towel and collapsed into a citywide 

blackout. At first a strange silence fell as hundreds of window air conditioners up and down the street 

ground to a stop. It was as if the city were holding its breath. There was some ambient light from 

headlights on Park Avenue South. But the streetlights and traffic lights were out, and soon came the angry 

horns as New York drivers competed for asphalt and right of way. 

Her arms and shoulders were aching when she turned onto her block. She set the Sargent print down on 

the sidewalk and leaned it carefully against a neighbor’s wrought iron gate while she opened her shoulder 

bag. The farther she got from the avenue, the darker it had become. Heat fished for her mini-Maglite and 

adjusted the tiny beam so she wouldn’t take a header on uneven pavement or some dog crap. 

The eerie silence began to give way to voices. They floated in the darkness from above as apartment 

windows were thrust open and she could hear over and over again the same words from different 

buildings: “blackout,” and “flashlight,” and “batteries.” She startled at a nearby cough and shined her light 

on an old man walking his pug. 

“You’re blinding me with that damn thing,” he said as he passed, and she pointed the beam down at the 

ground. 

“Be safe,” she said but got no response. Nikki picked up her box in both hands and moved on toward 

her building with the mini-Mag wedged between her palm and the carton, shining light a few feet ahead of 

each step. She was two doors from her building when a foot scraped on a pebble behind her and she 

stopped. Listened. Listened hard. But heard no footsteps. 

Some idiot hollered, “Awooooo!” from the rooftop across the street and dropped some flaming paper 

that spun a bright orange swirl until it burned itself out halfway down to the sidewalk. These were healthy 

reminders that this would be a good time to get off the street. 

At her front steps, Nikki set down the box again and bent to get her keys. Behind her came quickening 

footsteps and then a hand touched her back. She whirled and threw a high, backward circle kick that 

grazed Rook, and by the time she heard his “Hey!” it was too late to do anything but gain her balance 

and hope he didn’t hit his head on the way down. 

“Rook?” she said. 

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“Down here.” Nikki shined her light in the direction of his voice and spotlighted him sitting up in the 

sidewalk planter with his back against a tree trunk, holding his jaw. 

She bent down to him. “Are you all right? What the hell were you doing?” 

“I couldn’t see you, I bumped into you.” 

“But why are you here?” 

“I just wanted to make sure—” 

“—that you ignored what I said and followed me.” 

“Always the savvy detective.” He put one of his hands against the tree and the other on the sidewalk. 

“You might want to turn away. I am about to struggle. Pay no attention to the groaning” She didn’t turn 

away but put a hand under his arm to help him up. 

“Did I break anything?” she asked and shined the flashlight on his face. His jaw was red and chafed from 

her foot. “Do this,” she said and shined the light on herself as she worked her jaw open and closed. She 

put the light on him and he followed her instructions. “How’s that?” 

“The humane thing may be just to put me down. You got a bullet on you?” 

“You’re fine. You’re lucky I only grazed you.” 

“You’re lucky I signed that waiver against lawsuits when I started my ride-along.” 

She smiled in the dark. “I guess we’re both lucky.” Nikki figured he must have heard the smile in her 

voice because he drew closer to her, until there was only the slightest gap separating them. They stood 

there like that, not quite touching but sensing each other’s closeness in the dark of the hot summer night. 

Nikki started to sway, and then leaned ever so slightly toward him. She felt her breast brush softly against 

his upper arm. 

Then the bright light hit them. 

“Detective Heat?” said the voice from the patrol car. 

She took one step back from Rook and shielded her eyes against the spotlight. “I am.” 

“Everything all right?” 

“Fine. He’s…,” she looked at Rook, who wasn’t appreciating her pause while she struggled to define 

him, “with me.” 

Nikki knew the score. As they lowered the beam out of her eyes, she pictured the meeting in Captain 

Montrose’s office after she’d left and the call that went out. It was one thing to rib each other and play 

their game of Too Cool to Care, but the precinct was family, and if you were one of their own and you 

were threatened, you could bet your badge they’d have your back. The gesture would have been so 

much more welcome if she hadn’t had Jameson Rook on her hip. “Thank you, but you know, this isn’t 

necessary. Really.” 

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“No sweat, we’ll be here all night. You want us to show you upstairs?” 

“No,” Nikki said a little more urgently than she’d intended. She continued more softly, “Thank you. I’ve 

got a,” she looked at Rook, who smiled until she said, “flashlight.” 

Rook lowered his voice. “Nice. Think I’ll tell James Taylor I have his new song. ‘You’ve Got a 

Flashlight.’” 

“Oh, don’t be so—You know James Taylor?” 

“Heat?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Got any ice up there in that apartment?” 

Nikki gave it a moment while he rubbed his sore jaw. “Let’s go up and find out.” 

NINE 

Nikki Heat’s apartment building was not the Guilford. It was not only a fraction of the size, there was no 

doorman. Rook looped his fingers in the brass handle and held open the front door as she entered the 

small vestibule. Her keys clacked against the glass of the inner door, and once Nikki unlocked it, she 

waved to the blue-and-white still double-parked out front. “We’re in,” she said. “Thank you.” 

The cops left on the spotlight for them, and thanks to its spill the lobby was dim but not totally dark. 

“Chair, see?” Nikki shined her light at it briefly. “Stay close.” A row of shiny metal-plated mailboxes 

caught the reflection beside them. She twisted the beam a little wider, and although it was not as intense, 

it gave them a better sense of the area, revealing the long, narrow lobby, which was a small-scale match 

for the footprint of the building. A single elevator sat ahead to the left, and on its right, separated by a 

table holding some UPS deliveries and unclaimed newspapers, was an open passageway to the staircase. 

“Hang onto this.” She gave him the box and crossed over to the elevator. 

“Unless that thing’s steam powered, I don’t think it’s going to be working,” said Rook. 

“Ya think?” She shined the light up at the deco brass dial indicating which of the five floors the car was 

on. The arrow pointed to the 1. Heat rapped the heel of her flashlight on the elevator door and a series of 

loud bongs resonated. She called out, “Anybody in there?” and put her ear to the metal. “Nothing,” she 

said to Rook. Then she dragged the lobby chair to the elevator door and stood on it. “For this to work, 

you have to do this up top, at the header.” Clenching the tiny flashlight in her teeth to free her hands, she 

used them to pry the doors open a few inches at the center. Nikki angled her head forward and inserted 

the light into the partition. Satisfied, she released the doors and stepped down, reporting, “All clear.” 

“Always a cop,” said Rook. 

“Mm, not always.” 

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She learned just how dark it could get when they started climbing the stairs, which were wall-bound and 

did not get any of the police spotlight bleeding into the lobby. Nikki led with her Maglite; Rook surprised 

her with a beam of light of his own. At the second floor landing she said, “What the hell is that?” 

“iPhone ap. Cool, huh?” The screen of his cell phone radiated a bright flame from a virtual Bic lighter. 

“These are all the rage at concerts now.” 

“Did Mick tell you that?” 

“No, Mick didn’t tell me that.” They resumed their climb and he added, “It was Bono.” 

It was an easy climb to her third-floor apartment, but the stifling air of the staircase had them both 

palming sweat off their faces. Inside her foyer she flicked the light switch out of habit and chided herself 

for being so on autopilot. “Do you have service on that thing?” 

“Yep, showing all bars.” 

“Miracle of miracles,” she said and flipped open her own phone to speed-dial Captain Montrose. She 

had to try twice to get a connection, and while it rang, she led Rook into the kitchen and lit up the freezer. 

“Ice down that jaw, while I—Hello, Captain, thought I’d check in.” 

Detective Heat knew the city would be on a tactical alert and wanted to see if she should come to the 

station or go to a staging area. Montrose confirmed that Emergency Management had called the T.A. 

and that leaves and days off were temporarily suspended. “I might need you to cover a shift, but so far 

anyway, the city is behaving. Guess we’ve got this down from the 2003,” he said. “Considering the 

twenty-four hours you’ve just had, your best use for me would be to get some rest and be fresh 

tomorrow in case this drags on.” 

“Uh, Captain, I was surprised to see I’ve got a little company out front.” 

“Oh, right. Put in a call to the Thirteenth Precinct. They’re treating you right, I hope.” 

“Swell, very solid. But here’s the thing. With this T.A. on, is this the best use of resources?” 

“If you mean covering my best investigator to make sure she doesn’t get her sleep disturbed, I can’t 

think of a better use. Raley and Ochoa insisted on doing it themselves, but I put a stop to that. Now, that 

would be a waste of resources.” 

God, she thought. That would be just what she needed, having Roach show up and catch her out there 

brushing buttons in the dark with Rook. As it was, she wasn’t keen on the idea of those uniforms 

knowing what time Rook was leaving, even if it would be soon. “It’s sweet, Cap, but I’m a big girl, I’m 

home safe, the door’s locked, the windows are closed, I’m armed, and I think our city will be better off if 

you kick that car loose.” 

“All right,” he said. “But you double-lock that door. No strange men in that apartment tonight, you 

hear?” 

She watched Rook leaning against the butcher block holding a dish towel of ice cubes to his face and 

said, “No worries, Captain. And Cap? Thank you.” She pressed End and said, “They don’t need me 

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tonight.” 

“So your obvious attempt to cut my visit short didn’t pan out.” 

“Shut up and let me look at that.” She stepped over to him and he lowered the towel so she could 

examine his sore jaw. “Not swelling, that’s good. An inch closer to my foot, you’d have been drinking 

soup through a straw for the next two months.” 

“Hold on, that was your foot you hit me with?” 

She shrugged and said, “Yeah?” then rested her fingertips on his jaw. “Work it again.” Rook moved it 

back and forth. “That hurt?” 

“Only my pride.” 

She smiled and held her fingers there on him, caressing his cheek. The corners of his mouth turned up 

slightly, and he looked at her in a way that made her heart flutter. Nikki stepped away before the magnet 

pull gained real force, suddenly worried that deep down she might be some sort of freak who got turned 

on at crime scenes. First on Matthew Starr’s balcony and now here in her own kitchen. Not the worst 

thing, to be a bit of a freak, she thought, but crime scenes? That was sure the common denominator. 

Well, that and, um, Rook. 

He shook the ice out of the towel and into the sink, and while he was occupied, her mind raced to figure 

out just what the hell she was thinking, asking him up there. Maybe she was loading too much meaning 

into this visit, projecting. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, right? And sometimes coming up for ice was 

just coming up for ice. Her breath was still high in her chest, though, from being close to him. And that 

look. No, she said to herself, and made her decision. The best course was not to force this. He had his 

ice, she’d kept her promise, yes, the smart thing would be to stop this now and send him on his way. 

“Would you like to stay for a beer?” she asked. 

“I’m not sure,” he said with a grave tone. “Is your iron unplugged? Oh wait, there’s no electricity so I 

don’t have to worry about my face getting pressed.” 

“Funny man. Guess what? I don’t need no stinking iron. I’ve got a Bagel Biter over there and you don’t 

want to know what I can do with that.” 

He took a moment and said, “I’m good with beer.” 

There was only one Sam Adams in the fridge so they split it. Rook said he was fine with sharing hits off 

the bottle, but Nikki got them glasses, and while she got them down, she wondered what had made her 

ask him to stay. She felt a naughty thrill and smiled about how blackouts and hot nights brought on a 

certain lawlessness. Maybe she did need guarding—from herself. 

Rook and his virtual lighter disappeared into the living room with their beers while she scrounged a 

kitchen drawer for some candles. When she came into the living room, Rook was standing at the wall 

adjusting the John Singer Sargent print. “This look level to you?” 

“Oh…” 

“I know it’s kind of forward. We know about my boundary issues, right? You can hang it somewhere 

else, or not, I just thought I’d swap it for your Wyeth poster so you could get the effect.” 

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“No, no, it’s good. I like it there. Let me get some more light going for a better look. It might have found 

its home.” Nikki struck a wooden match and the flare-up anointed her face with gold. She reached down 

into the curved glass of the hurricane lamp on the bookcase and touched the flame to the wick. 

“Which one are you?” said Rook. When she looked up, he gestured to the print. “The girls, lighting the 

lanterns. I’m watching you do the same thing and wondering if you see yourself as one of them.” 

She moved to the coffee table and set out a pair of votives. As she lit them, she said, “Neither, I just like 

the way it feels. What it captures. The light, the festiveness, their innocence.” She sat on the sofa. “I still 

can’t believe you got it for me. It was very thoughtful.” 

Rook came around the other end of the coffee table and joined her on the couch, but putting himself at 

the far end with his back against the armrest. Allowing some space between them. “Have you seen the 

original?” 

“No, it’s in London.” 

“Yes, at the Tate,” he said. 

“Then you’ve actually seen it, show off.” 

“Mick and Bono and I went. In Elton John’s Bentley.” 

“You know, I almost believe you.” 

“Tony Blair was so pissed we invited Prince Harry instead of him.” 

“Almost,” she chuckled and glanced over at the print. “I used to love to see Sargent’s paintings at the 

Fine Arts in Boston when I was going to Northeastern. He did some murals there, too.” 

“Were you an art student?” Before she could answer, he raised his glass. “Hey, look at us. Nikki and 

Jamie, doin’ the social.” 

She clinked his glass and took a sip. The air was so warm, the beer was already hitting room temp. “I 

was an English major, but I really wanted to transfer to Theater.” 

“You’re going to have to help me with this. How did you go from that to becoming a police detective?” 

“Not such a huge leap,” said Nikki. “Tell me what I do isn’t part acting, part storytelling.” 

“True. But that’s the what. I’m curious about the why.” 

The murder. 

The end of innocence. 

The life changer. 

She thought it over and said, “It’s personal. Maybe when we know each other better.” 

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“Personal. Is that code for ‘because of a guy’?” 

“Rook, we’ve been riding together for how many weeks? Knowing what you know about me, do you 

think I would make a choice like that for a guy?” 

“The jury will disregard my question.” 

“No, this is good, I want to know,” she said, and scooted closer to him. “Would you change what you 

do for a woman?” 

“I can’t answer that.” 

“You have to, I’m interrogating your ass. Would you change what you do for a woman?” 

“In a vacuum…I can’t see it.” 

“All right, then.” 

“But,” he said and paused to form his thought, “for the right woman?…I’d like to think I’d do just about 

anything.” He seemed satisfied with what he’d said, even affirmed it to her with a nod, and when he did, 

he raised his eyebrows, and at that moment, Jamie Rook didn’t look like a globetrotter on the cover of a 

glossy magazine at all but like a kid in a Norman Rockwell, truthful and absent of guile. 

“I think we need better alcohol,” she said. 

“There’s a blackout, I could loot a liquor store. Do you have a stocking I can borrow to pull over my 

face?” 

The exact contents of her liquor cupboard in the kitchen were a quarter bottle of cooking sherry, a bottle 

of peach Bellini wine cocktail that had no freshness date but years ago had separated and taken on the 

look and hue of nuclear fissionable material…Aha! And a half bottle of tequila. 

Rook held the light and Nikki rose up from the crisper drawer of the refrigerator brandishing a sad little 

lime as if she’d snagged a Barry Bonds ball complete with hologram. “Too bad I don’t have any triple 

sec or Cointreau, we could have margaritas.” 

“Please,” he said. “You’re in my area now.” They returned to the couch and he set up shop on the 

coffee table with a paring knife, a salt shaker, the lime, and the tequila. “Today, class, we’re making what 

we call hand margaritas. Observe.” He sliced a lime wedge, poured a shot of tequila, then licked the web 

of his hand at the thumb and forefinger and sprinkled salt on it. He licked the salt, tossed back the shot, 

then bit the lime. “Whoa-yeah. That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he said. “I learned how to do this from 

Desmond Tutu,” he added and she laughed. “Now you.” 

In one fluid move Nikki picked up the knife, sliced a wedge, salted her hand, and brought it all home. 

She saw his expression and said, “Where the hell you think I’ve been all these years?” 

Rook smiled at her and prepared another, and as she watched him, she felt herself relaxing her sore 

shoulders and, inch by inch, coming untethered from the state of alertness she had unwittingly adopted as 

a lifestyle. But when he was ready, Rook didn’t down this shot. Instead, he held out his hand to her. She 

looked down at the salt on his skin and the lime between his thumb and finger. Nikki didn’t look up at 

him because she was afraid if she did she would change her mind instead of taking the leap. She bent 

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toward his hand and darted her tongue out, quickly at first, but then, choosing to slow the moment down, 

she lingered there licking the salt off his skin. He offered her the shot and she fired it back and then, 

cradling his wrist in her fingers, she guided the lime wedge he was holding to her lips. The burst of lime 

juice cleansed her palate, and as she swallowed, the warmth from the tequila spread from her stomach to 

her limbs, filling her with a luxurious buoyancy. She closed her eyes and ran her tongue on her lips again, 

tasting the citrus and salt. Nikki wasn’t at all drunk, it was something else. She was letting go. The simple 

things people take for granted. For the first time she could remember in a long time, she was flat-out 

relaxed. 

That’s when she realized she was still holding Rook’s wrist. He didn’t seem to mind. 

They didn’t speak. Nikki licked her own hand and salted it. Held a wedge. Poured a shot. And then she 

offered her hand to him. Unlike her, he didn’t avert his gaze. He brought her hand up to him and put his 

lips on it and tasted the salt and then the saltiness of her skin around it as they stared at each other. Then 

he drank the shot and bit the lime she gave to him. They held eye contact like that, neither one moving, 

the extended-play version of their perfume ad moment on Matthew Starr’s balcony. Only this time Nikki 

didn’t break off. 

Tentatively, slowly, each drew an inch closer, each still silent, each still holding the other’s steady gaze. 

Whatever worry or uncertainty or conflict she’d felt before, she pushed it aside as too much thinking. At 

that moment, Nikki Heat didn’t want to think. She wanted to be. She reached out and gently touched his 

jaw where she had struck him earlier. She rose up on one knee and leaned forward to him and, rising 

above him, lightly kissed his cheek. Nikki hovered there, studying the play of shadows and candlelight on 

his face. The soft ends of her hair dangled down and brushed him. He reached out, gently smoothing one 

side back, lightly stroking her temple as he did. Leaning there above him, Nikki could feel the warmth 

from his chest coming up to meet hers and she inhaled the mild scent of his cologne. The flickering of the 

candles gave the room a feeling of motion, the way it looked to Nikki when the plane she was in flew 

through a cloud. She pressed herself down to him and he came to meet her, the two of them not so much 

moving as drifting weightless toward each other, attracted by some irresistible force in nature that had no 

name, color, or taste, only heat. 

And then what began so gently took on its own life. They flew to each other, locking open mouths 

together, crossing some line that dared them, and they took it. They tasted deeply and touched each 

other with a frenzy of eagerness fired by wonder and craving, the two of them released at last to test the 

edge of their passion. 

A votive candle on the coffee table began to sputter and pop. Nikki pulled away from Rook, tearing 

herself away from him, and sat up. Chest heaving, soaked with perspiration, both his and her own, she 

watched the candle’s glowing ember fade out, and when it had been consumed by the darkness, she 

stood. She held out her hand to Rook and he took it, rising up to stand with her. 

One candle had sparked brightly and died but one was still burning. Nikki picked that one up and used it 

to light the way for them to her bedroom. 

Contents 

One 


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It was always the same for her when she arrived… 

Two 

Nikki Heat’s footsteps echoed back at her off the concrete… 

Three 

Heat and Rook trailed two steps behind Noah Paxton as… 

Four 

Nikki didn’t go home following the movie after all. She… 

Five 

There is very little chance of a high-speed pursuit on… 

Six 

Nikki stepped into the rooftop bar of the Soho House… 

Seven 

Even as she stood frozen in her hallway, Nikki’s first… 

Eight 

When Detective Heat nosed the Crown Vic out of underground… 

Nine 

Nikki Heat’s apartment building was not the Guilford. It was… 

Ten 


Nikki led him wordlessly into her bedroom and set the… 

Eleven 

Thirty minutes later, Detective Heat stepped off the Guilford’s elevator… 

Twelve 

The three detectives and Rook maintained a tense silence as… 

Thirteen 

In the precinct interrogation room, the biker, Brian Daniels, seemed… 

Fourteen 

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Raley came back into the bullpen dangling his sport coat… 

Fifteen 

Jameson Rook stood in the precinct Observation Room staring in… 

Sixteen 

Nikki was tucking in her blouse as she sailed down… 

Seventeen 

The receptionist at Starr Real Estate Development popped back on… 

Eighteen 

On their drive back from the M.E.’s office, Nikki didn’t… 

Nineteen 

Heat, Raley, Ochoa, and Rook crossed through the lobby of… 

Twenty 

“Stop squirming,” said Noah Paxton. Rook started to turn his… 

Acknowledgments 

Copyright 

ONE 

It was always the same for her when she arrived to meet the body. After she unbuckled her seat belt, 

after she pulled a stick pen from the rubber band on the sun visor, after her long fingers brushed her hip 

to feel the comfort of her service piece, what she always did was pause. Not long. Just the length of a 

slow deep breath. That’s all it took for her to remember the one thing she will never forget. Another body 

waited. She drew the breath. And when she could feel the raw edges of the hole that had been blown in 

her life, Detective Nikki Heat was ready. She opened the car door and went to work. 

The wallop of one hundred degrees almost shoved her back in the car. New York was a furnace, and 

the soft pavement on West 77th gave under her feet like she was walking on wet sand. Heat could have 

made it easier on herself by parking closer, but this was another of her rituals: the walk up. Every crime 

scene was a flavor of chaos, and these two hundred feet afforded the detective her only chance to fill the 

clean slate with her own impressions. 

Thanks to the afternoon swelter, the sidewalk was nearly empty. The neighborhood lunch rush was over, 

and tourists were either across the street cooling in the American Museum of Natural History or seeking 

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refuge in Starbucks over iced drinks ending in vowels. Her disdain for the coffee drinkers dissolved into a 

mental note to get one herself on the way back to the precinct. Ahead she clocked a doorman at the 

apartment building just her side of the barrier tape that encircled the sidewalk cafe. His hat was off and 

he was sitting on the worn marble steps with his head between his knees. She looked up at the hunter 

green canopy as she passed him and read the building name: The Guilford. 

Did she know the uniform flashing her the smile? She rapid-fired a slideshow of faces but stopped when 

she realized he was just checking her out. Detective Heat smiled back and parted her linen blazer to give 

him something else to fantasize about. His face rearranged itself when he saw the shield on her waistband. 

The young cop lifted the yellow tape for her to duck under, and when she came up she caught him giving 

her a sex-ray again, so she couldn’t resist. “Make you a deal,” she said. “I’ll watch my ass, you watch 

the crowd.” 

Detective Nikki Heat entered her crime scene past the vacant hostess podium of the sidewalk cafe. All 

the tables at La Chaleur Belle were empty except one where Detective Raley of her squad sat with a 

distraught family with sunburned faces struggling to translate German into a statement. Their uneaten lunch 

swarmed with flies. Sparrows, avid outdoor diners themselves, perched on seat backs and made bold 

dives forpommes frites. At the service door Detective Ochoa looked up from his notebook and 

quick-nodded her while he questioned a busboy in a white apron flecked with blood. The rest of the 

serving staff was inside at the bar having a drink after what they had witnessed. Heat looked over to 

where the medical examiner knelt and couldn’t blame them one bit. 

“Male unknown, no wallet, no identification, preliminary age range sixty to sixty-five. Severe blunt force 

trauma to head, neck, and chest.” Lauren Parry’s gloved hand peeled back the sheet for her friend Nikki 

to have a look at the corpse on the sidewalk. The detective glanced and quickly looked away. “No face, 

so we’ll comb the area for any dental; otherwise not much to ID from after that impact. Is this where he 

landed?” 

“There.” The M.E. indicated the cafe busing station a few feet away. It had caved in from the top so 

hard it was split in half. The violent splash of ice and blood had already baked into the sidewalk in the 

minutes since the fall. As Heat stepped over there, she noted that the cafe umbrellas and the stone walls 

of the building also wore dried blood, ice spatter, and bits of tissue. She got as close to the wreckage as 

she dared without contaminating the scene and looked straight up. 

“It’s raining men.” 

Nikki Heat didn’t even turn. She just sighed his name. “Rook.” 

“Hallelujah.” He held onto his smile until she finally looked at him, shaking her head. “What? It’s OK, I 

don’t think he can hear me.” 

She wondered what sort of karma payback it was for her to be saddled with this guy. It wasn’t the first 

time that month she had wondered it, either. The job was hard enough if you were doing it right. Add a 

reporter with a mouth playing make-believe cop and your day just got a little longer. She backed up to 

the long flower boxes that defined the perimeter of the outdoor cafe and looked up again. Rook moved 

with her. “I would have been here sooner except somebody didn’t call me. If I hadn’t phoned Ochoa, I 

would have missed this.” 

“It’s just tragedy upon tragedy, isn’t it?” 

“You wound me with your sarcasm. Look, I can’t research my article on New York’s finest without 

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access, and my deal with the commissioner specifically states—” 

“Trust me, I know your deal. I’ve been living day and night. You get to observe on all my homicides just 

like real-life detectives who work for a living.” 

“So you forgot. I accept your apology.” 

“I didn’t forget, and I didn’t hear any apology. At least not from me.” 

“I kind of inferred it. You radiate subtext.” 

“Someday you’re going to tell me what favor you did for the mayor to get this ride-along pushed 

through.” 

“Sorry, Detective Heat, I’m a reporter and that’s strictly off the record.” 

“Did you kill a story that made him look bad?” 

“Yes. God, you make me feel cheap. But you’ll get nothing more.” 

Detective Ochoa wrapped his busboy interview and Heat beckoned him over. “I passed a doorman for 

this building who looked like he was having a very bad day. Go check him out, see if he knows our 

Doe.” 

When she turned back, Rook had curled his hands to form skin binoculars and was sighting up the 

building overlooking the cafe. “I call the balcony on six.” 

“When you write your magazine article, you can make it any floor you like, Mr. Rook. Isn’t that what 

you reporters do, speculate?” Before he could reply, she held her forefinger to his lips. “But we’re not 

celebrity journalists here. We’re just the police, and darn it, we have these pesky things called facts to dig 

up and events to verify. And while I try to do my job, would it be too much to ask that you maintain a 

little decorum?” 

“Sure. No problem.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Jameson? Jameson Rook?!” Rook and Heat turned to see a young woman behind the police line 

waving and jumping up and down for his attention. “Oh my God, it’s him, it’s Jameson Rook!” Rook 

gave her a smile and a wave, which only made his fan more excited. Then she ducked under the yellow 

tape. 

“Hey, no, get back!” Detective Heat signaled to a pair of uniforms, but the woman in the halter and 

cutoffs was already inside the line and approaching Rook. “This is a crime scene, you have to go.” 

“Can I at least get an autograph?” 

Heat weighed expediency. The last time she tried to chase off one of his fans, it had involved ten minutes 

of arguing and an hour writing up an answer to the woman’s official complaint. Literate fans are the 

worst. She nodded to the uniforms and they waited. 

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“I saw you onThe View yesterday morning. Oh my God, you’re even cuter in person.” She clawed 

through her straw bag but kept her eyes on him. “After the show I ran out and bought the magazine so I 

could read your story, see?” She pulled out the latest issue ofFirst Press. The cover shot was Rook and 

Bono at a relief center in Africa. “Oh! I have a Sharpie.” 

“Perfect.” He took the marker and reached for her magazine. 

“No, sign this!” She took a step closer and tugged aside the cup of her halter. 

Rook smiled. “I think I’m going to need more ink.” 

The woman exploded with laughter and clutched Nikki Heat’s arm. “See? This is why he’s my favorite 

writer.” 

But Heat was focused on the front steps of the Guilford, where Detective Ochoa clapped a sympathetic 

hand on the shoulder of the doorman. He left the shade of the canopy, did a limbo under the tape, and 

crossed to her. “Doorman says our vic lived in this building. Sixth floor.” 

Nikki heard Rook clear his throat behind her but didn’t turn. He was either gloating or signing a 

groupie’s breast. She wasn’t in the mood to see either one. 

An hour later in the solemn hush of the victim’s apartment, Detective Heat, the embodiment of 

sympathetic patience, sat in an antique tapestry chair across from his wife and their seven-year-old son. 

A blue reporter’s-cut spiral notebook rested closed on her lap. Her naturally erect dancer’s posture and 

the drape of her hand on the carved wooden armrest gave her a look of regal ease. When she caught 

Rook staring at her from across the room, he turned away and studied the Jackson Pollock on the wall in 

front of him. She reflected on how much the paint splatters echoed the busboy’s apron downstairs, and 

though she tried to stop it, her cop’s brain began streaming its capture video of the mangled busing 

station, the slack faces of traumatized waitstaff, and the coroner’s van departing with the body of real 

estate mogul Matthew Starr. 

Heat wondered if Starr was a jumper. The economy, or, more accurately, the lack of it, had triggered 

scores of collateral tragedies. On any given day, the country seemed one turn of a hotel maid’s key away 

from discovering the next suicide or murder-suicide of a CEO or tycoon. Was ego an antidote? As New 

York real estate developers went, Matthew Starr didn’t write the book on ego, but he sure did the term 

paper. A perennial also-ran in the race to slap his name on the outside of everything with a roof, you had 

to credit Starr with at least staying in the chase. 

And by the looks of his digs, he had been weathering the storm lavishly on two luxury floors of a 

landmark building just off Central Park West. Every furnishing was either antique or designer; the living 

room was a grand salon two stories high, and its walls were covered up to the cathedral ceiling by 

collectible art. Safe bet nobody left take-out menus or locksmith brochures at this front door. 

A trace of muffled laughter turned Nikki Heat’s attention to the balcony where Detectives Raley and 

Ochoa, a duo affectionately condensed to “Roach,” were working. Kimberly Starr rocked her son in a 

long hug and didn’t seem to hear it. Heat excused herself and crossed the room, gliding in and out of 

ponds of light beaming down from the upper windows, casting an aura on her. She sidestepped the 

forensics tech dusting the French doors and went out onto the balcony, flipping her notebook to a blank 

page. 

“Pretend we’re going over notes.” Raley and Ochoa exchanged confused looks then drew closer to her. 

Page 225


“I could hear you two laughing in there.” 

“Oh, jeez…,” said Ochoa. He winced and the sweat bead clinging to the tip of his nose fell onto her 

page. 

“Listen to me. I know to you this is just another crime scene, right? But for that family in there, it’s the 

only one they’ve ever experienced. Are you hearing me? Good.” She half turned to the door and turned 

back. “Oh. And when we get out of here? I want to hear that joke. I could use it.” 

When Heat came back in, the nanny was ushering Kimberly’s son out of the room. “Take Matty outside 

for a while, Agda. But not out front. Do you hear me? Not out front.” She pulled another tissue and 

dabbed her nose. 

Agda stopped in the archway. “It is so hot in the park today for him.” The Scandinavian nanny was a 

looker and could have been Kimberly’s coed sister. A comparison that made Heat ponder the age 

disparity between Kimberly Starr, who she ballparked at twenty-eight, and her dead husband, a man in 

his mid-sixties. Can you say Trophy Wife, boys and girls? 

Matty’s solution was the movies. The new Pixar film was out, and even though he’d seen it on its first 

day, he wanted to go again. Nikki made a note to take her niece to it on the weekend. That little girl 

loved animated movies. Almost as much as Nikki. Nothing like a niece to provide the perfect excuse to 

spend two hours enjoying pure innocence. Matty Starr left with an unsure wave, sensing something amiss 

but so far spared the news that would descend upon the little boy soon enough. 

“Once again, Mrs. Starr, I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you, Detective.” Her voice came from a far place. She sat primly, smoothing the pleats of her 

sundress and then waited, immobile except for the tissue she absently twisted on her lap. 

“I know this isn’t the best time, but there are some questions I’m going to need to ask.” 

“I understand.” Again, the waif voice, measured, remote, and what else? Heat wondered. Yes, proper. 

Heat uncapped her pen. “Were you or your son here when it happened?” 

“No, thank God. We were out.” The detective made a short note and folded her hands. Kimberly 

waited, rolling a chunk of black onyx from her David Yurman necklace, then filled the silence. “We went 

to Dino-Bites over on Amsterdam. We had frozen tar pit soup. It’s just melted chocolate ice cream with 

Gummysaurs. Matty loves the tar pit soup.” 

Rook sat down on the toile Chippendale wing chair opposite Heat. “Do you know if anyone else was 

home?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” She seemed to see him for the first time. “Have we met? You look familiar.” 

Heat jumped in to close that flank, and fast. “Mr. Rook is a journalist. A magazine writer working with 

us in an unofficial capacity. Very unofficial.” 

“A reporter…You’re not going to do a story about my husband, are you?” 

“No. Not specifically. I’m just doing background research on this squad.” 

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“Good. Because my husband wouldn’t like that. He thought all reporters were assholes.” 

Nikki Heat said she understood completely, but she was looking at Rook when she said it. And then she 

continued, “Did you notice any changes in your husband’s mood or behavior recently?” 

“Matt did not kill himself, don’t even go there.” Her demure, preppy composure vaporized in a flare of 

anger. 

“Mrs. Starr, we just want to cover all—” 

“Don’t! My husband loved me and our son. He loved life. He was building a mixed-use low-rise with 

green technology, for God’s sake.” Beads of perspiration sprouted under her side-swept bangs. “Why 

are you asking stupid questions when you could be looking for his killer?” 

Detective Heat let her vent. She had been through enough of these to know that the composed ones had 

the most rage to siphon off. Or was she just recalling herself back when she was the one in The Loss 

Chair, nineteen years old with her world suddenly imploding around her? Had she really siphoned off all 

her rage, or merely clamped a lid on it? 

“It’s summer, damn it, we should be in the Hamptons. This wouldn’t have happened if we were at 

Stormfall.” Now, that’s money. You don’t just buy an estate in East Hampton, you name it. Stormfall 

was beachfront, secluded, and Seinfeld-adjacent with a partial Spielberg view. “I hate this city,” 

Kimberly shouted. “Hate it, hate it. What is this, like, murder number three hundred so far this year? As if 

they even matter to you people after a while.” She panted, apparently finished. Heat closed her notebook 

and circled around the coffee table to sit beside her on the sofa. 

“Please hear me. I know how difficult this is.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

“I’m afraid I do.” She waited for the meaning of that to sink in on Kimberly, then continued. “Murders 

are not numbers to me. A person died. A loved one. Someone you thought you were eating dinner with 

tonight is gone. A little boy has lost his father. Someone is responsible. And you have my promise I will 

see your case through.” 

Mollified or maybe just shock-worn, Kimberly nodded and asked if they could finish this later. “Right 

now I just want to go to my boy.” 

She left them in the apartment to continue their investigation. After she left, Rook said, “I always 

wondered where all those Martha Stewarts came from. They must breed them on a secret farm in 

Connecticut.” 

“Thank you for not interrupting while she was spewing.” 

Rook shrugged. “I’d like to say that was sensitivity, but it was really because of the chair. It’s hard for a 

man to sound authoritative surrounded by toile. OK, now that she’s gone, can I tell you I get a vibe off 

her I don’t like?” 

“Uh-huh, I’m not surprised. That was a hell of a shot she took at your ‘profession.’ Accurate though it 

was.” Heat turned, in case her inner smile leaked onto her face, and started back to the balcony. 

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He fell in with her. “Oh, please, I have two Pulitzers, I don’t need her respect.” She gave him a side 

glance. “Although, I did kind of want to tell her that the series of articles I wrote about my month 

underground with the Chechen rebels are being optioned for a movie.” 

“Why didn’t you? Your self-aggrandizement might have been a welcome distraction from the fact that 

her husband just died a violent death.” 

They stepped out into the afternoon scorch, where Raley and Ochoa’s shirts had soaked clean through. 

“What have you got, Roach?” 

“Definitely not liking suicide,” said Raley. “A, check out the fresh paint chips and stone dust. Somebody 

banged open those French doors pretty hard, like during a struggle.” 

“And B,” Ochoa picked up, “you’ve got your trail of scuff marks leading from the doors across 

the…what is this?” 

“Terra-cotta tile,” said Rook. 

“Right. Shows the marks pretty good, huh? And they go all the way to here.” He stopped at the 

balustrade. “This is where our man went over.” 

All four of them leaned to look below. “Wow,” said Rook. “Six floors down. It is six, isn’t it, fellas?” 

“Let it go, Rook,” said Heat. 

“But here’s our telltale.” Ochoa got on his knees to indicate something on the railing with his pen. “You’ll 

have to get close.” He backed up to make room for Heat, who knelt to see where he was pointing. “It’s 

torn fabric. Forensics geek says it’ll test out as blue denim after he runs it. Our vic wasn’t wearing jeans, 

so this came from someone else.” 

Rook knelt down beside her to look. “As in someone who shoved him over.” Heat nodded, as did 

Rook. They turned to face each other, and she was a little startled by his proximity but didn’t pull back. 

Nose-to-nose with him in the heat, she held his gaze and watched the dance of reflected sunlight playing 

off his eyes. And then she blinked. Oh shit, she thought, what was that? I can’t be attracted to this guy. 

No way. 

Detective Heat quickly rose to her feet, crisp and all business. “Roach? I want you to run a background 

on Kimberly Starr. And check out her alibi at that ice cream place on Amsterdam.” 

“So,” said Rook, rising beside her, “you got a vibe off her, too, huh?” 

“I don’t do vibes. I do police work.” Then she hurried away to the apartment. 

Later, on the elevator ride down, she asked her detectives, “OK, what was so funny that I could have 

killed you both with my bare hands? And so you know, I am trained to do that.” 

“Aw, nothing, just letting the giddy out, you know how it gets,” said Ochoa. 

“Yeah, nothing at all,” said Raley. 

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Two floors of silence passed and they both started a low hum of “It’s Raining Men” before they cracked 

up. 

“That? That’s what you were laughing at?” 

“This,” said Rook, “may be the proudest moment of my life.” 

As they stepped back out into the blast furnace and gathered under the Guilford canopy, Rook said, 

“You’ll never guess who wrote that song.” 

“I don’t know songwriters, man,” from Raley. 

“You’d know this one.” 

“Elton John?” 

“Wrong.” 

“Clue?” 

A woman’s scream cut through the rush-hour noise of the city, and Nikki Heat bounded onto the 

sidewalk, her head swiveling to search up and down the block. 

“Over there,” called the doorman, pointing toward Columbus. “Mrs. Starr!” 

Heat followed his gaze to the corner, where a large man gripped Kimberly Starr by the shoulders and 

jammed her against a store window. It thundered on impact but did not break. 

Nikki was off in a sprint, with the other three close behind. She waved her shield and hollered at 

pedestrians to move as she wove through the after-work crowd. Raley fisted his two-way and called for 

backup. 

“Police, freeze,” called Heat. 

In the assailant’s split second of alarm, Kimberly went for a groin kick that missed wildly. The man was 

already on the move and she torqued herself down to the pavement. “Ochoa,” said Heat, pointing at 

Kimberly as she passed. Ochoa stopped to attend her while Raley and Rook followed Heat, dodging 

cars into the crosswalk on 77th. A tour bus making an illegal turn blocked their path. Heat ran around the 

bus’s rear end, through a puff of hot diesel exhaust, emerging on the cobblestone sidewalk that 

surrounded the museum complex. 

There was no sign of him. She slowed to a jog and then a race-walk across from the Evelyn at 78th. 

Raley was still on his walkie behind her, calling in their location and the man’s description: “…male cauc, 

thirty-five, balding, six feet, white short-sleeve shirt, blue jeans…” 

At 81st and Columbus Heat stopped and turned a circle. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her chest 

and fed a darkened V-pattern down the front of her top. The detective showed no sign of fatigue, only 

alertness, seeing near and far at the same time, knowing all she needed was a glimpse of any piece of him 

to put her back on the run. 

“He wasn’t in that good a shape.” Rook sounded a little winded. “He couldn’t have gotten far.” 

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She turned to him, a little impressed he had kept up. And a little annoyed that he had. “What the hell are 

you doing here, Rook?” 

“Extra set of eyes, Detective.” 

“Raley, I’ll cover Central Park West and circle the museum. You take 81st to Amsterdam and loop 

back on 79th.” 

“Got it.” He cut against the grain of the downtown flow on Columbus. 

“What about me?” 

“Have you noticed I might be too busy to babysit you right now? If you want to be helpful, take that 

extra set of eyes and see how Kimberly Starr is doing.” 

She left him there on the corner without looking back. Heat needed her concentration and didn’t want 

her focus pulled, not by him. This ride-along was getting tired enough. And what was with that business 

back there on the balcony? Pulling up next to her face like some perfume ad inVanity Fair, those ads that 

promise the kind of love that life just never seems to deliver. Lucky she shook herself out of that little 

tableau. Still, she wondered, maybe she had just bitch-slapped the guy a little too hard. 

When she turned to check on Rook, she didn’t see him at first. Then she spotted him halfway down 

Columbus. What the hell was he doing crouching behind that planter? He looked like he was spying on 

something. She hopped the fence of the dog park and cut across the lawn toward him at a jog. That’s 

when she saw White Shirt–Blue Jeans climb out of the Dumpster at the rear entrance to the museum 

complex. She kicked it up to a sprint. Ahead of her, Rook stood up behind his planter. The guy made 

him and took off down the driveway, disappearing into the service tunnel. Nikki Heat called out to him, 

but Rook was already running into the underground entrance after her perp. 

She cursed and leaped over the fence at the other end of the dog park, chasing after them. 

TWO 

Nikki Heat’s footsteps echoed back at her off the concrete tunnel as she ran. The passage was wide 

and high, big enough to truck in exhibits for both museums in the complex: the American Museum of 

Natural History and the Rose Center for Earth and Space, aka the planetarium. The orange cast of 

sodium-vapor lamps gave good visibility, but she couldn’t see ahead around the curve of the wall. She 

also didn’t pick up any other footfalls, and coming around the bend, she saw why not. 

The tunnel came to a dead end at a loading dock and nobody was there. She bounded up the steps to 

the landing, from which a pair of doors fed off—one to the natural history museum on the right, the other 

to the planetarium on her left. She made a Zen choice and hit the push bar to the natural history door. It 

was locked. To hell with instinct; she went for the process of elimination. The door to the planetarium 

service bay popped open. She drew her gun and went in. 

Heat entered in the Weaver stance, keeping her back to a line of crates. Her academy trainer had drilled 

her to use the more square and sturdy Isosceles, but in tight quarters with lots of pivoting, she made her 

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own call and assumed the pose that let her flow and present less target area. She cleared the room 

quickly, startled only once by an Apollo space suit dangling from an old display. In the far corner she 

found an internal staircase. As she approached, somebody upstairs threw a door open against a wall. 

Before it slammed shut, Heat was climbing steps two at a time. 

She emerged into a sea of visitors roaming the lower level of the planetarium. A camp counselor passed 

by leading a herd of kids in matching T-shirts. The detective holstered-up before young eyes could freak 

out at her gun. Heat waded through them, squinting in the blinding whiteness of the Hall of the Universe, 

speed-scanning for Rook or Kimberly Starr’s attacker. Over by a rhino-sized meteorite she spotted a 

security guard on his two-way, pointing at something: Rook, vaulting a banister and clambering up a ramp 

that curved around the hall and spiraled to the floor above. Halfway up the incline, her suspect’s head 

popped over the railing to back-check on Rook. Then he raced on with the reporter in pursuit. 

The sign said they were on the Cosmic Pathway, a 360-degree spiral walkway marking the timeline of 

the evolution of the universe in the length of a football field. Nikki Heat covered thirteen billion years at a 

personal best. At the top of the incline, quads protesting, she stopped to make another scan. No sign of 

either of them. Then she heard the screams of the crowd. 

Heat rested a hand on her holster and orbited under the giant central sphere to see the guest lineup for 

the space show. The alarmed crowd was parting, backing away from Rook, who was on the ground 

taking a rib kick from her man. 

The attacker drew back for another kick, and during the most vulnerable part of his balance shift, Heat 

came up behind him and used her leg to sweep his out from under him. All six feet of him dropped hard 

onto the marble. She cuffed him rodeo quick and the crowd broke into applause. 

Rook sat himself up. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” 

“Nice work slowing him down like that. Is that how you rolled in Chechnya?” 

“The guy jumped me after I tripped.” He pointed under his foot to a bag from the museum store. “On 

that.” Rook opened it up and pulled out an art glass paperweight of a planet. “Check it out. I tripped on 

Uranus.” 

When Heat and Rook entered the Interrogation Room, the prisoner snapped upright at the table the way 

fourth-graders do when the principal walks in. Rook took the side chair. Nikki Heat tossed a file on the 

table but stayed on her feet. “Stand up,” she said. And Barry Gable did. The detective walked a circle 

around him, enjoying his nervousness. She bent low to examine his blue jeans for any rips that could 

match the fabric shard the killer had left on the railing. “What did you do here?” 

Gable arched himself to look at the scuff she was pointing to on the back of his leg. “I dunno. Maybe I 

scraped them on the Dumpster. These are brand-new,” he added, as if that might put him in a more 

favorable light. 

“We’re going to want your pants.” The guy started to unhitch them right there, and she said, “Not now. 

After. Sit down.” He complied, and she eased into the seat opposite, all casual, all in charge. “You want 

to tell us why you attacked Kimberly Starr?” 

“Ask her,” he said, trying to sound tough but shooting nervous looks at himself in the mirror, a giveaway 

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to her he had never sat in Interrogation before. 

“I’m asking you, Barry,” said Heat. 

“It’s personal.” 

“It is to me. Battery like that against a woman? I can get very personal about that. You want to see how 

personal?” 

Rook chimed in, “Plus you assaulted me.” 

“Hey, you were chasing me. How did I know what you were going to pull? I can tell a mile away you’re 

not a cop.” 

Heat kind of liked that. She arched an eyebrow at Rook and he sat back to stew. She turned back to 

Gable. “Not your first assault, I see, is it, Barry?” She made a show of opening the file. There weren’t 

many pages in it, but her theater made him more uneasy, so she made the most of it. “Two thousand six 

scrape with a bouncer in SoHo; 2008, you pushed a guy who caught you keying the side of his 

Mercedes.” 

“Those were all misdemeanors.” 

“Those were all assaults.” 

“I lose it sometimes.” He forced a John Candy chuckle. “Guess I should stay out of the bars.” 

“And maybe spend more time at the gym,” said Rook. 

Heat gave him a cool-it glance. Barry had turned to the mirror again and adjusted his shirt around his 

gut. Heat closed the file and said, “Can you tell us your whereabouts this afternoon, say around one to 

twoP.M .?” 

“I want my lawyer.” 

“Sure. Would you like to wait for him here or down in the Zoo Lockup?” It was an empty threat that 

only worked on newbies, and Gable’s eyes widened. Underneath the hard-ass face she fixed on him, 

Heat was loving how easily he caved. Gotta love the Zoo Lockup. Works every time. 

“I was at the Beacon, you know, the Beacon Hotel on Broadway?” 

“You do know we will check your alibi. Is there anyone who saw you and can vouch for you?” 

“I was alone in my room. Maybe somebody at the front desk in the morning.” 

“That hedge fund you operate pays for a mighty nice address on East 52nd. Why book a hotel?” 

“Come on, are you going to make me say this?” He stared at his own pleading eyes in the mirror then 

nodded to himself. “I go there a couple times a week. To meet somebody. You know.” 

“For sex?” asked Rook. 

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“Jeez, yeah, sex is part of it. It goes deeper than that.” 

“And what happened today?” asked Heat. 

“She didn’t show.” 

“Bad for you, Barry. She could be your alibi. Does she have a name?” 

“Yeah. Kimberly Starr.” 

When Heat and Rook left Interrogation, Detective Ochoa was waiting in the observation booth, staring 

through the magic mirror at Gable. “Can’t believe you wrapped this interview and didn’t ask the most 

important question.” When he had their attention, he continued, “How did that swamp doofus get a babe 

like Kimberly Starr into the sack?” 

“You are so superficial,” said Heat. “It’s not about looks. It’s about money.” 

“Weird Al,” said Raley when the three of them entered the squad room. “‘It’s Raining Men’? My guess 

is Al Yankovic.” 

“Nope,” said Rook. “The song was written by…Ah, I could tell you, but where’s the sport in that? 

Keep trying. But no fair Googling.” 

Nikki Heat sat at her desk and swiveled to face the bullpen. “Can I break up tonight’s episode of 

Jeopardy! for a little police work? Ochoa, what do we know about Kimberly Starr’s alibi?” 

“We know it doesn’t check out. Well, I know, and now you do, too. She was at Dino-Bites today but 

left shortly after she got there. Her kid ate his tar pit soup with the nanny, not his mom.” 

“What time did she leave?” asked Heat. 

Ochoa flipped through his notes. “Manager says around one, one-fifteen.” 

Rook said, “I told you I got a vibe off Kimberly Starr, didn’t I?” 

“You like Kimberly Starr as a suspect?” asked Raley. 

“Here’s how it spins for me.” Rook sat on Heat’s desk. She noticed him wince from the rib kicks he’d 

taken and wished he would get himself checked out. “Our adoring trophy wife-and-mother has been 

getting sweet lovin’ on the side. Her punch pal Barry, no looker he, claims she dropped him like a sack 

of hammers when his hedge fund cratered and his money supply pinched off. Hence today’s assault. 

Who knows, maybe our dead gazillionaire kept the little missus on a short money leash. Or maybe 

Matthew Starr found out about her affair and she killed him.” 

Raley nodded. “Does look bad that she was cheating on him.” 

“I have a novel idea,” said Heat. “Why don’t we do this thing called an investigation? Gather evidence, 

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assemble some facts. Somehow that might sound better in court than, ‘Here’s how it spins for me.’” 

Rook took out his Moleskine notebook. “Excellent. This is all going to be swell in my article.” He 

clicked a pen theatrically to needle her. “So what do we investigate first?” 

“Raley,” said Heat, “check out the Beacon, see if Gable’s been a regular there. Show them a picture of 

Mrs. Starr while you’re at it. Ochoa, how soon can you pull together a background check on our trophy 

widow?” 

“How’s first thing tomorrow?” 

“OK, but I was kind of hoping for first thing tomorrow.” 

Rook raised his hand. “Question? Why not just pick her up? I would love to see what happens when 

you set her down in your hall of mirrors.” 

“Much as I live my day to provide you with top entertainment, I’m going to hold off until I learn a little 

more. Besides, she’s not going anywhere.” 

The next morning, amid flickering lights, City Hall put out the word for New Yorkers to curtail 

air-conditioning use and strenuous activity. For Nikki Heat that meant her close-quarter combat training 

with Don, the ex-SEAL, would be done with the gym windows open. His brand of training combined 

Brazilian jujitsu, boxing, and judo. Their sparring began at five-thirty with a round of grapples and rolls in 

eighty-two degrees and humidity to match. After the second water break Don asked her if she wanted to 

call it. Heat answered with a takedown and a textbook blood choke and release. She seemed to thrive 

on the adverse weather, fed on it, really. Rather than wearing her down, the gasping intensity of morning 

combat pushed out the noise of her life and left her in a quiet inner place. It was the same way when she 

and Don had sex from time to time. She decided if she had nothing going, maybe next week she’d 

suggest another after-hours session to her trainer, with benefits. Anything to get her heart rate up. 

Lauren Parry led Nikki Heat and her reporter tag-along through the autopsy room to the body of 

Matthew Starr. “As always, Nik,” said the medical examiner, “we don’t have the tox work yet, but 

barring lab surprises, I’m writing up cause of death as blunt force trauma due to a fall from an 

unreasonable height.” 

“And what box are you going to check, suicide or homicide?” 

“That’s why I called you down. I found something that indicates homicide.” The M.E. circled to the 

other side of the corpse and lifted the sheet. “We’ve got a series of fist-sized contusions on the torso. 

These tell me he got worked over sometime day of. Look closely at this one here.” 

Heat and Rook leaned in at the same time and she drew away to avoid a repeat of the balcony perfume 

ad. He stepped back and gestured a be-my-guest. “Very distinct bruising,” said the detective. “I can 

make out knuckles, and what’s this hexagonal shape from, a ring?” She stepped out to let Rook in and 

said, “Lauren, I’d like to get a photo of that one.” 

Her friend was already holding out a print to her. “I’ll put it up on the server so you can copy it, and 

what did you do, get in a bar fight?” She was looking at Rook. 

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“Me? Oh, just a little line-of-duty action yesterday. Cool, huh?” 

“Way you’re standing, my guess is intercostal injury right here.” She touched his ribs without pressing. 

“Does it hurt when you laugh?” 

Heat said, “Say ‘line-of-duty action’ again, that’s funny.” 

Detective Heat taped autopsy blowups on the bull pen whiteboard to prep for her unit case meeting. She 

drew a line with a dry-erase marker and wrote the names of the Forensics print matches off the balcony 

doors at the Guilford: Matthew Starr, Kimberly Starr, Matty Starr, and Agda the nanny. Raley arrived 

early with a bag of donut holes and confirmed Barry Gable’s regular hotel bookings at the Beacon. 

Reception and service staff had identified Kimberly Starr as his steady guest. “Oh, and the lab work 

came in on Barry the Beacon Beefcake’s blue jeans,” he added. “No match to those balcony fibers.” 

“No surprise,” Heat said. “But it was fun to see how fast he was willing to drop his pants.” 

“Fun for you,” said Rook. 

She smiled. “Yeah, definitely one of the perks of the job watching sweaty clods shimmy out of their 

knockoff jeans.” 

Ochoa rushed in, speaking as he crossed to them. “I’m late, it was worth it, shut up.” He pulled some 

printouts from his messenger bag. “I just finished the background check on Kimberly Starr. Or shall I say 

Laldomina Batastini of Queens, New Yawk?” 

The unit drew close as he read bits from the file. “Our preppy Step-ford Mom was born and raised in 

Astoria above a mani-pedi salon on Steinway. About as far from the Connecticut girls’ schools and riding 

academies as you can get. Let’s see, high school dropout…and she’s got a rap sheet.” He handed it to 

Heat. 

“No felonies,” she said. “Juvie busts for shoplifting, and later for pot. One DUI…Oh, and, here we go, 

busted twice at nineteen for lewd acts with customers. Young Laldomina was a lap dancer at numerous 

clubs near the airport, performing under the name Samantha.” 

“I always saidSex and the City fostered poor role modeling,” said Rook. 

Ochoa took the sheet back from Heat and said, “I talked to a pal in Vice. Kimberly, Samantha, 

whatever, hooked up with some guy, a regular at the club, and she married him. She was twenty. He was 

sixty-eight and loaded. Her sugar daddy was from Greenwich old money and wanted to take her to the 

yacht club, so he—” 

“Let me guess,” said Rook, “he got her a Henry Higgins,” drawing blank stares from Roach. 

“I speak musical theater,” Heat said. Right up there with animated films, Broadway was Nikki’s great 

escape from her work on the other streets of New York—when she could swing a ticket. “He means her 

new husband got his exotic dancer a charm tutor for a presentability makeover. A class on class.” 

Rook added, “And a Kimberly Starr is born.” 

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“The husband died when she was twenty-one. I know what you’re thinking, so I double-checked. 

Natural causes. Heart attack. The man left her one million dollars.” 

“And a taste for more. Nice work, Detective.” Ochoa popped a victory donut hole, and Heat continued. 

“You and Raley keep a tail on her. Loose one. I’m not ready to show my hand until I see what else 

shakes free on other fronts.” 

Heat had learned years ago that most detective work is grunt work done pounding the phones, combing 

files, and searching the department’s database. The calls she had made the afternoon before, to Starr’s 

attorney and detectives working complaints against persons, had paid off that morning with a file of 

people who’d made threats on the real estate developer’s life. She grabbed her shoulder bag and signed 

out, figuring it was about time to show her celeb magazine writer what fieldwork was all about, but she 

couldn’t find him. 

She had almost left Rook behind when she came upon him standing in the precinct lobby, very occupied. 

A drop-dead-stunning woman was smoothing the collar of his shirt. The stunner barked out a laugh, 

shrieked, “Oh, Jamie!” then pulled her designer sunglasses off her head to shake her raven 

shoulder-length hair. Heat watched her lean in close to whisper, pressing her D-cups right against him. 

He didn’t step back, either. What was Rook doing, making a perfume ad with every damn woman in the 

city? Then she stopped herself. Why do I care? she thought. It bothered her that it even bothered her. So 

she blew it off and walked out, mad at herself for her one look back at them. 

“So what’s the point of this exercise?” Rook asked on the drive uptown. 

“It’s something we professionals in the world of detection call detecting.” Heat picked the file out of her 

driver’s door pocket and passed it to him. “Somebody wanted Matthew Starr dead. A few you’ll see in 

there made actual threats. Others just found him inconvenient.” 

“So this is about eliminating them?” 

“This is about asking questions and seeing where the answers lead. Sometimes you flush out a suspect, 

sometimes you’re getting information you didn’t have that takes you somewhere else. Was that another 

member of the Jameson Rook fan club back there?” 

Rook chuckled. “Bree? Oh, hell, no.” 

They rode another block in silence. “Because she seemed like a big fan.” 

“Bree Flax is a big fan, all right. Of Bree Flax. She’s a freelancer for the local glossy mags, always on 

the prowl for the true crime piece she can up-sell into an instant book. You know, ripped from the 

headlines. That operetta back there was all about getting me to cough up some inside stuff on Matthew 

Starr.” 

“She seemed…focused.” 

Rook smiled. “By the way, that’s F-l-a-x, just in case you want to run a check.” 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

Rook didn’t answer. He just gave her a smile that made her blush. She turned away and pretended to 

watch cross traffic out her side window, worried about what he saw on her face. 

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Up on the top floor of the Marlowe Building there was no heat wave. In the enveloping coolness of his 

corner office, Omar Lamb listened to the recording of his threatening phone call to Matthew Starr. He 

was placid, his palms rested flat and relaxed on his leather blotter as the tiny speaker on the digital 

recorder vibrated with an enraged version of him spouting expletives and graphic descriptions of what he 

would do to Starr, including where on his body he would insert an assortment of weapons, tools, and 

firearms. When it was over, he turned it off and said nothing. Nikki Heat studied the real estate 

developer, his gym-rat body, sunken cheeks, and you’re-dead-to-me eyes. A surplus of refrigerated air 

whispered from unseen vents to fill the silence. She was chilly for the first time in four days. It was a lot 

like the morgue. 

“He actually recorded me saying that?” 

“Mr. Starr’s attorney provided it when he put the complaint on the record.” 

“Come on, Detective, people say they’re going to kill people all the time.” 

“And sometimes they do it.” 

Rook observed from a perch on the windowsill, where he divided his attention between Omar Lamb 

and the lone blader braving the heat in the Trump Skating Rink in Central Park thirty-five stories below. 

So far, Heat thought, thank God he seemed content to follow her instructions not to butt in. 

“Matthew Starr was a titan of this industry who will be missed. I respected him and deeply regret that 

phone call I made. His death was a loss to us all.” 

Heat had known on sight that this guy was going to take some work. He didn’t even look at her shield 

when she walked in, didn’t ask for his lawyer. Said he had nothing to hide, and if he did, she sensed he 

was too smart to say anything stupid. This was not a man to fall for the ol’ Zoo Lockup routine. So she 

danced with him, looking for her opening. “Why all the bile?” she asked. “What got you so lathered up 

about a business rival?” 

“My rival? Matthew Starr didn’t have the skill set to qualify as my rival. Matthew Starr needed a 

stepladder just to kiss my ass.” 

There it was. She’d found an open sore on Omar Lamb’s tough hide. His ego. Heat picked at it. She 

laughed at him. “Bull.” 

“Bull? Did you just say ‘bull’ to me?” Lamb jerked to his feet and hero-strode from behind the fortress 

of his desk to face her. This was definitely not going to be a perfume ad. 

She didn’t flinch. “Starr had title to more property than anyone in the city. A lot more than you, right?” 

“Garbage addresses, environmental restrictions, limited air rights…What does more mean when it’s 

more crap?” 

“Sounds like rival talk to me. Must have felt bad to unzip and flop ’em on the table and come up short.” 

“Hey, you want to measure something?” This was good. She loved it when she rattled the tough boys 

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into talking. “Measure all the properties Matthew Starr stole from under my nose.” With a manicured 

finger, he poked her shoulder to punctuate each item on his list: “He fudged permits, he bribed 

inspectors, he underbid, he oversold, he underdelivered.” 

“Gee,” said Heat, “it’s almost enough to make you want to kill him.” 

Now the developer laughed. “Nice try. Listen. Yeah, I made threats to the guy in the past. Operative 

word: past. Years ago. Look at his numbers now. Even without the recession Starr was a spent force. I 

didn’t need to kill him. He was a dead man walking.” 

“So says his rival.” 

“Don’t believe me? Go to any of his job sites.” 

“And see what?” 

“Hey, you expect me to do all your work?” 

At the door, as they were leaving, Lamb said, “One thing. I read in thePost he fell six stories.” 

“That’s right, six,” said Rook. The first thing he said and it was a shot at her. 

“Did he suffer?” 

“No,” said Heat, “he died instantly.” 

Lamb grinned, showing a row of laminates. “Well, maybe in hell, then.” 

Their gold Crown Victoria rolled south on the West Side Highway, the AC blasting and humidity 

condensing into wisps of fog around the dashboard vents. “So what’s your take?” asked Rook. “Think 

Omar offed him?” 

“Could have. I’ve got him on my list, but that’s not what that was about.” 

“Glad to hear it, Detective. No rush, there’s only, what, three million more people to meet and greet in 

New York. Not that you aren’t a charming interviewer.” 

“God, you’re impatient. Did you tell Bono you were tired of relief stations in Ethiopia? Did you push the 

Chechen warlords to pick up the pace? ‘Come on, Ivan, let’s see a little warlord action?’” 

“I just like to cut through, is all.” 

She was glad for this sea change. It got her off his personal radar, so she ran with it. “You want to 

actually learn something on this ride-along project of yours? Try listening. This is police work. Killers 

don’t walk around with bloody knives on them, and the home invasion crews don’t dress like the 

Hamburglar. You talk to people. You listen. You see if they’re hiding something. Or sometimes, if you 

pay attention, you get insight; information you didn’t have before.” 

“Like what?” 

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“Like this.” 

As they pulled up, the Starr construction site on Eleventh Avenue on the lower west side was dead. 

Almost noon, and no sign of work. No sign of workers. It was a ghost site. She parked off the street, on 

the dirt strip between the curb and the plywood construction fence. When they got out, Nikki said, “You 

hear what I hear?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Yo, miss, this is a closed site, you gotta go.” A guy in a hard hat and no shirt kicked up dust on his way 

to meet them as they squeezed in the chain-link gate. With that swagger and that gut, Heat could picture 

whooping New Jersey housewives sticking dollar bills in his Speedo. “You, too, buddy,” he said to 

Rook.“Adios.” Heat flashed tin and Shirtless mouthed the F-bomb. 

“Bueno,”said Rook. 

Nikki Heat squared herself to the guy. “I want to talk to your foreman.” 

“I don’t think that’s possible.” 

She cupped a hand to her ear. “Did you hear me ask? No, I definitely don’t think it was a question.” 

“Oh, my God. Jamie?” The voice came from across the yard. A skinny man in sunglasses and blue satin 

warm-ups stood in the open door of the site trailer. 

“Heyyy,” called Rook. “Fat Tommy!” 

The man waved them over. “Come on, hurry up, I’m not air-conditioning the Tri-State Area, you 

know.” 

Inside the double-wide, Heat sat with Rook and his pal, but she didn’t take the chair she was offered. 

Although there were no current warrants on him, Tomasso “Fat Tommy” Nicolosi ran enforcement for 

one of the New York families, and caution dictated she not get wedged in between the table and the 

Masonite wall. She took the outside seat and angled it so her back wasn’t to the door. Through his smile, 

the look she got from Fat Tommy said he knew exactly what she was doing. 

“What happened to you, Fat Tommy? You’re not fat.” 

“The wife’s got me doing NutroMinder. God, has it been that long since I saw you?” He took off his 

tinted glasses and turned his pouchy eyes to Heat. “Jamie was doing this article a couple of years ago on 

‘the life’ on Staten Island. We got to know each other, he seemed OK for a reporter, and what do you 

know, he ends up doing me a little favor.” Heat smiled thinly and he laughed. “Don’t worry, Detective, it 

was legal.” 

“I just killed a couple guys is all.” 

“Kidder. Have you noticed he’s a kidder?” 

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“Oh, Jamie? He has me going all the time,” she said. 

“OK,” said Fat Tommy, “I can see this ain’t no social call, so go ahead. The two of us can catch up 

later.” 

“This is Matthew Starr’s project, right?” 

“It was until yesterday afternoon.” The wiseguy had one of those faces that was perennially balanced 

between menace and amusement. Heat could have read his answer as a joke or a fact. 

“Mind if I ask what your role is here?” 

He sat back, relaxed, a man in his element. “Labor consultation.” 

“I notice there’s no labor taking place.” 

“Damn straight. We shut it down a week ago. Starr stiffed us. You know, nonpayment on our, ah, 

agreement.” 

“What sort of agreement was that, Mr. Nicolosi?” She knew full well what it was. They called it lots of 

things. Mostly the unofficial construction tax. The going rate was two percent. And it didn’t go to the 

government. 

He turned to Rook. “I like your girlfriend.” 

“Say that again and I’ll break your knees,” she said. He looked at her and decided she could, then 

smiled. “Not, huh?” Rook affirmed that with a mild shake of his head. 

“Huh,” said Fat Tommy, “fooled me. Anyways, I owe Jamie a solid, so I’ll answer your question. What 

sort of agreement? Let’s call it the expediting fee. Yeah, that works.” 

“Why did Starr stop paying, Tommy?” Rook was asking questions, but she found herself glad for his 

participation, tag-teaming from angles she couldn’t take. Call it good cop/no cop. 

“Hey, man, the guy was strapped. He said he was and we checked. Underwater so deep he was 

sprouting gills.” Fat Tommy laughed at his joke and added, “We don’t care.” 

“Do guys ever get killed for that?” asked Rook. 

“For that? Come on. We just shut it down and let nature take its course.” He shrugged. “OK, 

sometimes guys get dead for that, but not this time. At least not at this early stage.” He crossed his arms 

and grinned. “For real. Not his girlfriend, huh?” 

Overcarnitas burritos at Chipotle, Heat asked Rook if he still felt like they were wheel-spinning. Before 

he answered, Rook slurped the ice cubes with his straw, vacuuming for more Diet Coke. “Well,” he said, 

finally, “I don’t think we’ve met Matthew Starr’s killer today, if that’s what you mean.” Fat Tommy 

drifted in and out of her mind as a possible, but she kept it to herself. He read her though, adding, “And if 

Fat Tommy tells me he didn’t do Matthew Starr, that’s all I need.” 

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“You, sir, are an investigative force unto yourself.” 

“I know the guy.” 

“Remember what I said before? Ask questions and see where the answers lead? For me they’ve led to 

a picture of Matthew Starr that doesn’t fit the image. What did he put out there?” She drew a frame in 

the air with both hands. “Successful, respectable, and most of all, well funded. OK, now ask yourself 

this. All that money and he couldn’t pay his mob tax? The spiff that kept concrete pouring and iron 

rising?” She balled up her wrapper and stood. “Let’s go.” 

“Where to?” 

“To talk to Starr’s money guy. Look at it this way, it’s another chance for you to see me at my charming 

best.” 

Heat’s ears popped on the express elevator to the penthouse floor of Starr Pointe, Matthew Starr’s 

headquarters on West 57th near Carnegie Hall. When they stepped into the opulent lobby, she 

whispered to Rook, “Do you notice this office is one floor higher than Omar Lamb’s?” 

“I think it’s safe to say that, even up to the end, Matthew Starr was acutely aware of heights.” 

They announced themselves to the receptionist. As they waited, Nikki Heat perused a gallery of framed 

photos of Matthew Starr with presidents, royals, and celebrities. On the far wall, a flat screen soundlessly 

looped Starr Development’s corporate marketing video. In a glass trophy case, beneath heroic scale 

models of Starr office buildings and gleaming replicas of the corporate G-4 and Sikorsky-76, stretched a 

long row of Waterford crystal jars filled with dirt. Above each, a photograph of Matthew Starr breaking 

ground from the site that had filled the jar. 

The carved mahogany door opened, and a man in shirtsleeves and a tie stepped out and extended his 

hand. “Detective Heat? Noah Paxton, I am…Rather, I was Matthew’s financial advisor.” As they shook 

hands, he gave her a sad smile. “We’re all still in shock.” 

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said. “This is Jameson Rook.” 

“The writer?” 

“Yes,” he said. 

“OK…,” said Paxton, accepting Rook’s presence as if recognizing there was a walrus on the front lawn 

but not understanding why. “Shall we go to my office?” He opened the mahogany door for them and they 

entered Matthew Starr’s world headquarters. 

Heat and Rook both stopped. The entire floor was empty. Glass cubicles to the left and right were 

vacant of people and desks. Phone and Ethernet cables lay disconnected on floors. Plants sat dead and 

dying. The near wall showed the ghost of a bulletin board. The detective tried to reconcile the posh lobby 

she had just left with this vacant space on the other side of the threshold. “Excuse me,” she said to 

Paxton, “Matthew Starr just died yesterday. Have you already begun to close the business?” 

“Oh this? No, not at all. We cleared this out a year ago.” 

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As the door closed behind them, the floor was so deserted the snap of the metal tongue latch actually 

echoed. 

THREE 

Heat and Rook trailed two steps behind Noah Paxton as he led them through the vacant offices and 

cubicles of Starr Real Estate Development’s headquarters. In stark contrast to the go-go opulence of its 

lobby, the penthouse floor of the thirty-six-story Starr Pointe tower had the hollow sound and feel of a 

foreclosed grand hotel after the creditors had swarmed it for everything that wasn’t nailed down. The 

space had an eerie, post-biodisaster feel. Not merely empty, abandoned. 

Paxton gestured to an open door and they entered his office, the only functioning one Heat had seen. He 

was listed as the corporation’s financial officer, but his furniture was a combo plate of Staples, Office 

Depot, and hand-me-down Levenger. Neat and functional but not the trappings of a Manhattan 

corporate head, even for a midsize firm. And certainly not befitting the Starr brand of swank and 

swagger. 

Nikki Heat heard a small chuckle from Rook and followed the reporter’s line of sight to the poster of the 

kitty dangling from the branch. Under its rear paws was the caption “Hang in there, baby.” Paxton didn’t 

offer coffee from his four-hour-old pot; they just took seats in mismatched guest chairs. He established 

himself in the inner curve of his horseshoe workstation. 

“We came to ask for your help understanding the financial state of Matthew Starr’s business,” said the 

detective, making it sound light and neutral. Noah Paxton was edgy. She was used to that; people got 

spooked by the badge same as they were by doctors’ white coats. But this guy couldn’t hold eye 

contact, a basic red flag. He looked distracted, like he was worried he’d left his iron plugged in at home 

and wanted to get there, and right now. Play it out mellow, she decided. See what tumbles when he lets 

himself relax. 

He looked again at her business card and said, “Of course, Detective Heat,” once more trying to hold 

her look but only half making it. He made a deal of studying the card again. “There’s one thing, though,” 

he added. 

“Go ahead,” she said, alert for the dodge or the call to the bull pen for a shyster. 

“No offense, Mr. Rook.” 

“Jamie, please.” 

“If I have to answer police questions, that’s one thing. But if you’re going to quote me for some expose 

inVanity Fair or First Press—” 

“Not to worry,” said Rook. 

“—I owe it to Matthew’s memory and to his family not to air his business in the pages of some 

magazine.” 

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“I am only here on background for an article I’m doing on Detective Heat and her squad. Whatever you 

say about Matthew Starr’s business will be off the record. I did it for Mick Jagger, I can do it for you.” 

Heat could not believe what she’d just heard. The bald ego of a celebrity journalist at work. Not only 

name-dropping but favor-dropping. And it sure didn’t help get Paxton in the mood. 

“This is a horrible time to do this,” he said, trying her now that Rook had met his terms. He turned away 

to study whatever was on his flat-screen and then brought it back to her. “He hasn’t even been dead 

twenty-four hours. I’m in the middle of…Well, you can imagine. How about tomorrow?” 

“I only have a few questions.” 

“Yes, but the files are, well, I’m saying I don’t keep everything,” he snapped his fingers, “right at hand. 

Tell you what. Why don’t you tell me what you need, and I can have it ready when you come back?” 

All right. She had tried smooth ’n’ soothe. He was still dodgy, and now he had it in his head that he 

could stiff-arm her out of there in lieu of an appointment at his convenience. Time, she decided, to switch 

tactics. 

“Noah. May I call you Noah? Because I want to keep this friendly while I tell you how this is going to 

go. OK? This is a homicide investigation. I am not only going to ask you some questions right here and 

right now, I expect you to answer them. And I’m not worried about whether you have your figures,” she 

snapped her fingers, “right at hand. Know why? I’m going to have our forensic accountants go through 

your books. So you can decide right now how friendly this can be. Do we understand each other, 

Noah?” 

After the smallest pause, the man put it right out there for her in a headline. “Matthew Starr was broke.” 

A calm, measured statement of fact. What else was it Nikki Heat heard behind it? Candor, for sure. He 

was looking her directly in the eye when he said it; there was no aversion now, only clarity. But there was 

something else, like he was reaching out to her, showing some other feeling, and when she struggled to 

grasp the word for it, Noah Paxton said it as if he were in her mind with her. “I feel so relieved.” There it 

was, relief. “Finally, I can talk about this.” 

For the next hour Noah did more than just talk. He unfolded the story of how a personality-branded 

wealth machine had been flown to great heights piloted by the flamboyant Matthew Starr, amassing 

capital, acquiring key properties, and building iconic towers that indelibly shaped the world’s view of the 

New York skyline, and then had rapidly been imploded by Starr’s own hand. It was the tale of a 

boom-to-bust crash in a sharp downward spiral. 

Paxton, who corporate records said was thirty-five, had joined the firm with his newly minted MBA near 

the peak of the company’s upswing. His sure handling of creative financing to green-light construction of 

the avant-garde StarrScraper in Times Square had cemented him as Matthew Starr’s most trusted 

employee. Perhaps because he was forthcoming now, Nikki looked at Noah Paxton and saw a 

trustworthiness about him. He was solid, capable, a man who would get you through the battle. 

She didn’t have much experience with men like him. She had seen them, of course, on the Metro-North 

train to Darien at the end of the day, with ties loosened, sipping a can of beer from the bar car with a 

colleague or neighbor. Or with wives in Anne Klein atprix fixe dinners before curtain on Broadway. That 

might have been Nikki in the candlelight with the Absolut cosmo, filling him in on the teacher conference 

and planning the week at the Vineyard, if things had gone differently for her. She wondered what it must 

be like to have that lawn and the reliable life with a Noah. 

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“That trust Matthew had in me,” he continued, “was a two-edger. I got to know all the secrets. But I 

also got to know all the secrets.” 

The ugliest secret, according to Noah Paxton, was that his Midas-touch boss was driving his company 

into the ground and couldn’t be stopped. 

“Show me,” said the detective. 

“You mean, like, now?” 

“Now or in a more…,” she knew this dance and let her pause do its work, “formal setting. You 

choose.” 

He opened a series of spreadsheets on his Mac and invited them inside the U of his workstation to view 

them on the big flat-screen. The figures were startling. Then came a progression of graphs chronicling the 

journey of a vital real estate developer who was practically laser-printing money until he plummeted off a 

red-ink cliff, well ahead of the mortgage meltdown and ensuing foreclosure debacle. 

“So this isn’t about hard times in a bad economy?” asked Heat, pointing over his shoulder at what 

looked to her like an escalator to the basement painted red. 

“No. And thank you for not touching my monitor. I never understood why people have to touch 

computer screens when they point.” 

“I know. The same people who need to mime telephones with their fingers when they say call me.” 

When they laughed, she got a whiff of something citrus-y and clean off him. L’Occitane, she guessed. 

“How did he manage to stay in business?” asked Rook when they retook their seats. 

“That was my job and it wasn’t easy.” And then, with a disclosure look to Nikki, “And I promise you it 

was all legal.” 

All she said was “Just tell me how.” 

“Simple. I started liquidating and divesting. But when the real estate bust came along, it ate our lunch. 

That’s when we ran into the buzz saw with financing. And then we hit a snag maintaining our labor 

relations. You may not know it, but our sites are not working these days.” Nikki nodded and swept her 

glance to Fat Tommy’s champion. “We couldn’t service our debt, we couldn’t keep construction going. 

Here’s a simple rule: no building, no rent.” 

Heat said, “It sounds like a nightmare.” 

“To have a nightmare, you have to be able to sleep.” On the office couch she noted the folded blanket 

with the pillow resting on it. “Let’s call it a living hell. And that’s just the business finances. I haven’t even 

told you about his personal money problems.” 

“Don’t most CEOs build a firewall between their corporate and personal finances?” asked Rook. 

Damn good question. He’s finally acting like a reporter, thought Nikki, so she jumped aboard. “I always 

thought the idea was to structure things so a failure in business doesn’t wipe out the personal and vice 

Page 244


versa.” 

“And that’s how I built it when I took over his family finances, too. But, you see, both sides of the 

firewall were blazing cash. You see…” A sober look came over him and his young face gained twenty 

years. “Now, I truly need assurance this is off the record. And won’t leave this room.” 

“I can promise that,” said Rook. 

“I can’t,” said Detective Heat. “I told you. This is a homicide investigation.” 

“I see,” he said. And then he took the plunge. “Matthew Starr indulged some personal habits that 

compromised his personal fortune. He did damage.” Noah paused then took the plunge. “First, he was a 

compulsive gambler. And by that, I mean losing gambler. He not only hemorrhaged cash to casinos from 

Atlantic City to Mohegan Sun, he bet the horses and on football with local bookies. He was in debt to 

some of these characters for serious money.” 

Heat wrote a single word on her spiral pad: “Bookies.” 

“And then, there were the prostitutes. Matthew had certain, um, tastes we don’t need to get 

into—unless you say so, I mean—and he satisfied them with very expensive, high-end call girls.” 

Rook couldn’t help himself. “Now, that’s a marriage of terms that always tickles me, ‘high-end’ and ‘call 

girl.’ Like, is that your job status or a sexual position?” He earned their silent stares and muttered, 

“Sorry. Go on.” 

“I can detail the burn rate of the money for you, but suffice it to say these and a few other habits ate 

away at him financially. Last spring we had to sell the family estate in the Hamptons.” 

“Stormfall.” Nikki reflected on Kimberly Starr’s upset that the murder never would have happened if 

they had been away in the Hamptons. Now she understood its depth and irony. 

“Yes, Stormfall. I don’t need to tell you about the bath we took on that property in this market. Sold it 

to some reality show celebrity and lost millions. The cash from the sale barely made a dent in Matthew’s 

debt. Things got so bad he ordered me to stop payments on his life insurance, which he let lapse against 

my advice.” 

Heat jotted two new words. “No insurance.” “Did Mrs. Starr know about that?” In the periphery of her 

vision, she saw Rook lean forward in his chair. 

“Yes, she did. I did my best to shelter Kimberly from the seedier details of Matthew’s spending, but she 

knew about the life insurance. I was there when Matthew told her.” 

“And what was her reaction?” 

“She said…” He paused. “You have to understand, she was upset.” 

“What did she say, Noah? Her exact words, if you remember.” 

“She said, ‘I hate you. You’re not even any good to me dead.’” 

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In the car on the ride back to the precinct, Rook went right to the grieving widow. “Come on, Detective 

Heat, ‘No good to me dead’? You talk about gathering information that paints a picture. What about this 

portrait we’re seeing of Samantha the Lap Dancer?” 

“But she knew there was no life insurance. Where’s the motive?” 

He grinned and needled her again. “Gee, I don’t know, but my advice is to keep asking questions and 

see where they lead.” 

“Bite me.” 

“Oh, are you talking tough with me now that you have other irons in the fire?” 

“I’m talking tough because you are an ass. And I don’t get what you mean by other irons.” 

“I mean Noah Paxton. I didn’t know whether to throw a bucket of water on you or fake a cell phone 

call to leave you two alone.” 

“This is why you’re a magazine writer who onlyplays cop. Your imagination is greater than your grasp of 

facts.” 

He shrugged. “Guess I was wrong.” Then he smiled that smile, the one that made her face flush. And 

there she was again, feeling this torment over Rook for something she should have laughed off. Instead, 

she popped in her earbud and speed-dialed Raley. 

“Rales, it’s me.” She angled her head toward Rook and sounded brisk and formal, so he wouldn’t miss 

her meaning, even though she did radiate subtext. “I want you to run a background on Matthew Starr’s 

financial guy. Name’s Noah Paxton. Just see what kicks out, priors, warrants, the usual.” 

After she hung up, Rook looked amused. This was going nowhere she liked, but she had to say it. 

“What.” And when he didn’t answer, “What?” 

“You forgot to have him run a check on Paxton’s cologne.” And then he opened a magazine and read. 

Detective Raley looked up from his computer when Heat and Rook came into the bull pen. “That guy 

you wanted me to run, Noah Paxton?” 

“Yeah? You got something?” 

“Not so far. But he called for you just now.” 

Nikki avoided the playground look she was getting from Rook and surveyed the stack of messages on 

her desk. Noah Paxton’s was on top. She didn’t pick it up. Instead, she asked Raley if Ochoa had 

checked in. He was on Kimberly Starr surveillance. The widow was spending the afternoon at Bergdorf 

Goodman. 

“I hear shopping is a balm for the bereaved,” said Rook. “Or maybe the merry widow is returning a few 

designer rags for ready cash.” 

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When Rook disappeared into the men’s room, Heat dialed Noah Paxton. She had nothing to hide from 

Rook; she just didn’t want to deal with his preadolescent taunts. Or see that smile that chapped her ass. 

She cursed the mayor for whatever payback made her have to deal with him. 

When Paxton got on the line, he said, “I located those life insurance documents you said you wanted to 

see.” 

“Good, I’ll send someone over.” 

“I also got a visit from those forensic accountants you were talking about. They copied all my data and 

left. You weren’t kidding.” 

“Your tax dollars at work.” She couldn’t resist adding, “You do pay your taxes?” 

“Yes, but you don’t have to take my word for it. Your CPAs with badges and guns look like they’ll be 

able to tell you.” 

“Count on it.” 

“Listen, I know I wasn’t the most cooperative.” 

“You did all right. After I threatened you.” 

“I want to apologize for that. I’m finding I don’t do well with grief.” 

“You wouldn’t be the first, Noah,” said Nikki. “Trust me.” 

She sat alone that night at the center row of the movie theater laughing and munching popcorn. Nikki 

Heat was transfixed, swept up in an innocent story and spellbound by the eye candy of digital animation. 

Like a house tied to a thousand balloons, she was transported. Just over ninety minutes later she carried 

the weight again on her walk home in the mugginess of the heat wave, which brought fusty odors up out 

of subway grates and, even in the dark, radiated the day’s swelter off buildings as she passed them. 

At times like these, without the work to hide in, without the martial arts to quiet it, the replay always 

came. It had been ten years, and yet it was also last week and last night and all of them thatched 

together. Time didn’t matter. It never did when she replayed The Night. 

It was her first Thanksgiving break from college since her parents divorced. Nikki had spent the day 

shopping with her mother, a Thanksgiving Eve tradition transformed into a holy mission by her mom’s 

new singleness. This was a daughter determined to make this not so much the best Thanksgiving ever, but 

as close to normal as could be achieved given the empty chair at the head of the table and the ghosts of 

happier years. 

The two squeezed around each other as they always had in the New York apartment–sized kitchen that 

night, making pies for the next day. Over tandem rolling pins and chilled dough, Nikki defended her 

desire to change majors from English to Theater. Where were the cinnamon sticks? How could they have 

forgotten the cinnamon sticks? Ground cinnamon never flew in her mother’s holiday pies. She grated her 

own from a stick, and how could they have overlooked that on their list? 

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Nikki felt like a Lotto winner when she found a jar of them on the spice aisle at the Morton Williams on 

Park Avenue South. For insurance, she took out her cell phone and called the apartment. It rang and 

rang. When the message machine kicked on, she wondered if her mom couldn’t hear the phone over her 

mixer. But then she picked up. Over the squeal of recorder feedback she apologized but she had been 

wiping butter off her hands. Nikki hated the sharp reverb of the answering machine, but her mother never 

knew how to turn that damn thing off without disconnecting. Last call before closing, did she need 

anything else from the market? She waited while her mom carried the portable to check on evaporated 

milk. 

And then Nikki heard glass crash. And her mother’s scream. Her limbs went weak and she called for 

her mom. Heads turned from the check stands. Another scream. As she heard the phone on the other 

end drop, Nikki dropped the jar of cinnamon sticks and ran to the door. Damn, the in door. She 

brute-forced it open and ran out in the street, nearly getting clipped by a delivery guy on a bicycle. Two 

blocks away. She held the cell phone to her ear as she ran, pleading for her mom to say something, pick 

up the phone, what’s wrong? She heard a man’s voice, sounds of a scuffle. Her mother’s whimper and 

her body dropping next to the phone. Atah-tang of metal bouncing on the kitchen floor. One block to go. 

A clink of bottles in the fridge door. The snap-hiss of a pop top. Footsteps. Silence. And then, her 

mother’s weak and failing moan. And then just a whisper. “Nikki…” 

FOUR 

Nikki didn’t go home following the movie after all. She stood on the sidewalk in the warm, spongy air of 

the summer night looking up at her apartment, the one where she had lived as a girl and that she had left 

to go to college in Boston, and then left again on an errand to buy cinnamon sticks because ground 

wouldn’t do. The only thing up there in that two-bedroom was solitude without peace. She could be 

nineteen again walking into a kitchen where her mother’s blood was pooling under the refrigerator, or, if 

she could bat the image balloons away, she could catch some news on the tube and hear about more 

crimes—heat-related, the Team Coverage would say. Heat-related crime. There was a time when that 

had made Nikki Heat smile. 

She weighed texting Don, to see if her combat trainer was up for a beer and some close-quarter 

bedroom grapples, against the alternative of letting some late night comic in a suit help her escape without 

the crowded bathroom in the morning. There was another alternative. 

Twenty minutes later, in her empty precinct squad room, the detective swiveled in her chair to 

contemplate the whiteboard. She already had it burnished in her head, all the elements-to-date pasted 

and scrawled inside that frame which did not yet reveal a picture: the list of fingerprint matches; the green 

five-by-seven index card with its bullet points of Kimberly Starr’s alibis and prior lives; photos of 

Matthew Starr’s body where he hit the sidewalk; photos from the M.E. of the punch bruising on Starr’s 

torso with the distinctive hexagonal mark left by a ring. 

She rose and walked up to the ring mark photo. More than studying its size and shape, the detective 

listened to it, knowing that at any time any piece of evidence could gain a voice. This photo, above all 

other puzzle pieces on the board, was whispering to her. It had been in her ear all day, and its whisper 

was the song that had drawn her to the squad room in the stillness of night so she could hear it clearly. 

What it whispered was a question: “Why would a killer who tossed a man over a balcony also beat him 

with nonlethal blows?” These bruises weren’t random contusions from any scuffle. They were precise 

Page 248


and patterned, some even overlapping. Don, her combat boxing instructor, called it “painting” your 

opponent. 

One of the first things Nikki Heat had implemented when she took command of her homicide unit was a 

system to facilitate information sharing. She logged on the server and opened the read-only file OCHOA. 

Scrolling through pages, she came to his witness interview with the doorman at the Guilford. Love that 

Ochoa, she thought. His keyboard skills are crap, but he took great notes and asked the right questions. 

Q: Had vic lef bdg anytm drng curse of morng? 

A: N. 

Nikki closed Ochoa’s file and looked at the clock. She could text her boss, but he might not see it. Like 

if he was sleeping. Drumming her fingers on the phone was only making it later, so she punched his 

number. On the fourth ring Heat cleared her throat, preparing to leave a voice mail, but Montrose picked 

up. His hello was not sleepy and she could hear the TV blasting the weather forecast. “Hope it’s not too 

late to call, Captain.” 

“If it is too late, it’s too late to hope. What’s up?” 

“I came in to screen that surveillance cam video from the Guilford and it’s not here yet. Do you know 

where it is?” 

Her boss covered the phone and said something muffled to his wife. When he came back to Nikki, the 

TV sound was off. He said, “I got a call tonight during dinner from the attorney representing their 

residents board. This is a building with wealthy tenants sensitive about privacy issues.” 

“Do they have issues with their fellow tenants hurtling past their windows?” 

“You trying to convinceme? For them to give it up it will take a court order. I’m looking at the clock and 

thinking we’ll wait to find a judge to issue one in the morning.” He heard her sigh because she made sure 

he did. Heat couldn’t stand effectively losing another day waiting for a court order. “Nikki, get some 

sleep,” he said with his usual gentle touch. “We’ll get it for you sometime tomorrow.” 

Of course the skipper was right. Waking a judge to cut a warrant was capital you spent on high-priority 

matters against a ticking clock. To most judges this was just another homicide, and she knew better than 

to push Captain Montrose to squander a chip like that. So she switched her desk lamp off. 

Then she switched it back on. Rook was pals with a judge. Horace Simpson was a poker pal at the 

weekly game she always ducked when Rook invited her. Simpson was not as sexy a name drop as 

Jagger, but last she heard, none of the Stones was issuing warrants. 

But hang on, she thought. Eager was one thing, owing a favor to Jameson Rook was another. And 

besides, she had overheard him boasting to Roach he had a dinner date with that groupie in the halter 

who crashed Nikki’s crime scene. At this hour, Heat might be interrupting the application of his 

autograph to a new and more exciting body part. 

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So she picked up the phone and dialed Rook’s cell. 

“Heat,” he said with no surprise. It was more a shout-out, like onCheers when they’d holler, “Norm!” 

She listened for background noise, but why? Did she expect Kenny G and a champagne cork? 

“Is this a bad time?” 

“The caller ID says you’re at the precinct.” Evasion. Writer Monkey wasn’t answering her question. 

Maybe if she threatened the Zoo Lockup. 

“A cop’s work is never done, and all that. Are you writing?” 

“I’m in a town car. Just had an awesome meal at Balthazar.” Then silence. She had called to screw with 

him, how did her head end up being the one messed with? 

“You can give me your Zagat rating some other time, this is a business call,” she told him, even as she 

wondered if his halter groupie knew not to wear cutoff jeans to a bistro, SoHo hip or otherwise. “I called 

to tell you don’t come in for the morning meeting. It’s off.” 

“Off? That’s a first.” 

“The plan was for us to prep for a sit-down with Kimberly Starr tomorrow morning. That meeting’s in 

question now.” 

Rook sounded beautifully alarmed. “How come? We need to get with her.” She loved the urgency in his 

voice more than she felt guilty for playing him. 

“The whole reason to see her is to screen surveillance pictures from the Guilford yesterday, but I can’t 

get access to the surveillance tape without a warrant, and good luck reaching a judge tonight.” Heat 

envisioned underwater video of a big mouth bass opening wide for the miracle lure on one of those sport 

fishing infomercials she saw too many of on her sleepless nights. 

“I know a judge.” 

“Forget it.” 

“Horace Simpson.” 

Now Nikki was up, pacing the length of the bull pen, trying to keep the grin out of her voice as she said, 

“Listen to me, Rook. Stay out of this.” 

“I’ll call you back.” 

“Rook, I am telling you no,” she said in her best command voice. 

“I know he’s still up. Probably watching his soft-core porn channel.” And then Nikki heard the woman 

giggle in the background just as Rook hung up. Heat had gotten just what she wanted, but it somehow 

didn’t feel like the win-win she’d envisioned. And why did she care? she asked herself yet again. 

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At ten o’clock the next morning, in the stickiness of what the tabloids were calling “The Summer of 

Simmer,” Nikki Heat, Roach, and Rook met under the Guilford canopy holding two sets of twelve still 

frames from the lobby surveillance camera. Heat left Raley and Ochoa to show one array to the doorman 

while she and Rook entered the building for their appointment with Kimberly Starr. 

As soon as the elevator doors closed, he started in. “You don’t have to thank me.” 

“Why should I thank you? I specifically told you not to call that judge. As usual, you do what you 

please, meaning the opposite of what I say.” 

He paused to absorb the truth of that and said, “You’re welcome.” Then he broke out that shit-eater of 

his, “It’s the subtext thing. Oo, the air is thick with it this morning, Detective Heat.” And was he even 

looking at her? No, he was tilted back enjoying the up-count of LED numbers, yet she still felt all 

X-rayed and naked and at a loss for words. The soft bell chimed a rescue signal on six. Damn him. 

When it was Noah Paxton who opened the front door of Kimberly Starr’s apartment, Nikki made a 

mental note to find out if the widow and the accountant were sleeping together. On an open murder case 

everything went on the table, and what belonged more on the “What If” list than a trophy wife with an 

appetite for cash and the man who handled the money hatching a pillow-talk conspiracy? But she let it go 

by saying, “This is a surprise.” 

“Kimberly’s running late from her beauty appointment,” said Paxton. “I was dropping off some 

documents for her to sign and she called to see if I’d keep you entertained until she got here.” 

“Nice to see she’s focused on finding her husband’s killer,” said Rook. 

“Welcome to my world. Trust me, Kimberly doesn’t do focus.” Detective Heat tried to read his tone. 

Was it true exasperation or cover? 

“While we’re waiting, I want you to look at some pictures.” Heat found the same tapestry chair as she 

had on her last visit and took out a manila envelope. Paxton sat opposite her on the sofa, and she dealt 

two rows of four-by-six prints on the red lacquer coffee table in front of him. “Look carefully at each of 

these people. Tell me if any of them looks familiar.” 

Paxton studied each of the dozen photos. Nikki did what she always did during a photo array, studied 

the studier. He was methodical, moving right to left, top row, then bottom, no inordinate pauses, all very 

even. Without any sense of desire, she wondered if he was like that in bed and once again thought about 

her untaken road to the suburbs and more pleasant routines. When Paxton was done, he said, “I’m 

sorry, but I don’t recognize any of these people.” And then he said what everybody said when they came 

up empty. “Is one of these the killer?” And he looked again, as they all did, wondering which one did it, 

as if they could tell by looking. 

“Can I ask an obvious question?” said Rook as Heat slid her photos back in the envelope. As usual, he 

didn’t wait for permission to shoot his mouth off. “If Matthew Starr was so broke, why didn’t he just sell 

off some of his stuff? I’m looking around at all this antique furniture, the art collection…That chandelier 

alone could fund an emerging nation for about a year.” Heat looked at the Italian porcelain chandelier, the 

French sconces, the floor-to-cathedral-ceiling display of framed paintings, the gilded Louis XV mirror, 

the ornate furniture, and thought, Then again, sometimes Writer Monkey came out with a gem. 

“Look, I don’t feel comfortable talking about this.” Then he glanced over Nikki’s shoulder as if 

Kimberly Starr might come walking in. 

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“It’s a simple question,” said the detective. She knew she’d regret giving the props to Rook but added, 

“And a good one. And you’re the money man, right?” 

“I wish it were that simple.” 

“Try me. Because I hear you telling me how broke the man was, company imploding, personal money 

leaking like an Alaskan oil tanker, and then I look at all this. What’s this worth, anyway?” 

“That I can answer,” he said. “I.T.E., forty-eight to sixty million.” 

“I.T.E.?” 

Rook answered that. “In today’s economy.” 

“Even at a fire sale, forty-eight mill solves a lot of problems.” 

“I’ve opened the books to you, I’ve explained the financial picture, I’ve looked at your pictures, isn’t 

that enough?” 

“No, and you know why?” With her forearms on her knees, she leaned forward to him and bored in. 

“Because there is something you’re not wanting to say, and I will hear it here or at the precinct.” 

She gave him space to have whatever his internal dialogue was, and after a few seconds he said, “It just 

feels wrong to dump on him in his own home after he just died.” She waited again and he let go. 

“Matthew had a monster ego. You have to have one to accomplish what he did, but his was off the chart. 

His narcissism made this collection bulletproof.” 

“But he was in financial quicksand,” she said. 

“Which is exactly the reason he ignored my advice—advice hell, my hounding—to piece it off. I wanted 

him to sell before bankruptcy creditors went after it, but this room was his palace. Proof to him and the 

world he was still king.” Now that it was out, Paxton became more animated and paced along the walls. 

“You saw the offices yesterday. No way Matthew would meet a client there. So he brought them here so 

he could negotiate from his throne surrounded by his little Versailles. The Starr Collection. He loved big 

shots standing over one of these Queen Anne chairs and asking if it was OK to sit. Or looking at a 

painting and knowing what he paid for it. And if they didn’t ask, he made sure to tell them. Sometimes I 

hid my face, it was so embarrassing.” 

“So, what happens to all this now?” 

“Now, of course, I can start liquidation. There are debts to pay, not to mention Kimberly’s tastes to 

support. I think she’ll be more prone to lose a few knickknacks to maintain her lifestyle.” 

“And after you pay the debts, will there be enough to make up for her husband not having life 

insurance?” 

“Oh, I don’t think Kimberly will need to throw any telethons,” said Paxton. 

Nikki processed that as she wandered the room. Last time she visited, it was a crime scene. Now she 

was simply taking in its opulence. The crystal, the tapestries, the Kentian bookcase with fruit and flower 

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carvings…She saw a painting she liked, a Raoul Dufy yachting scene, and leaned in for a closer look. 

The Boston Museum of Fine Arts was a ten-minute walk from her dorm when Nikki attended 

Northeastern. Although the hours she spent there as an art lover did not qualify her as an art expert, she 

recognized some of the works Matthew Starr had collected. They were expensive, but to her eye, the 

room was a two-story grab bag. Impressionists hung beside Old Masters; 1930s German poster art 

rubbed elbows with an Italian religious triptych from the 1400s. She lingered before a John Singer 

Sargent study for one of her favorite paintings,Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. Though it was a preliminary 

sketch in oil, one of the many Sargent made before each finished painting, she found herself transfixed by 

the familiar little girls, so wonderfully innocent in their white play dresses, lighting Chinese lanterns in a 

garden in the delicate glow of twilight. And then she wondered what it was doing beside the brash Gino 

Severini, a pricey, no doubt, but gaudy canvas of oil and crushed sequins. “Every other collection I’ve 

seen has a…I don’t know, theme to it, or a common feel or, what am I trying to say…?” 

“Taste?” said Paxton. Now that he’d crossed his line, it was a free-fire zone. Even so, he lowered his 

voice to a hush and looked around as if he would be ducking lightning bolts for speaking ill of the dead. 

But speak ill he did. “If you’re looking to see rhyme or reason to this collection, you won’t, due to one 

unavoidable fact. Matthew was a vulgarian. He didn’t know art. He knew price.” 

Rook came up beside Heat and said, “I think if we keep looking we’ll find aDogs Playing Poker,” which 

made her laugh. Even Paxton indulged himself a chuckle. They all stopped when the front door opened 

and Kimberly Starr breezed in. 

“Sorry I’m late.” Heat and Rook stared at her, barely masking disbelief and judgment. Her face was 

swollen from Botox or some other series of cosmetic injections. Redness and bruising highlighted the 

unnatural swelling of her lips and smile lines. Her brow and forehead were marked with deep pink speed 

bumps that filled wrinkle lines and seemed to be growing before their eyes. The woman looked as if she 

had fallen face-first into a hornet’s nest. “The traffic lights were out on Lexington. Damn heat wave.” 

“I left the papers on the desk in the study,” said Noah Paxton. He already had his briefcase in one hand 

and the other on the doorknob. “I have a lot of loose ends to attend to at the office. Detective Heat, if 

you need me for anything, you know how to find me.” The eye roll he gave Nikki behind Kimberly’s 

back threw water on Heat’s trophy wife/ accountant sleeping together hypothetical, although she would 

still check it out. 

Kimberly and the detective took their identical seats in the living room from the day of the murder. Rook 

avoided the toile wingchair and sat on the couch with Mrs. Starr. Probably so he wouldn’t have to look 

at her, thought Nikki. 

The face work wasn’t the only change. She was out of her Talbots and into Ed Hardy, a black tank 

dress with a large tattoo print of a red rose and the legend “Dedicated To The One I Love” in biker 

scroll. At least the widow was in black. Kimberly came at her brusquely, like this was some intrusion on 

the rest of her day. “Well? You said you have something for me to look at?” 

Heat didn’t personalize. Her style was to assess, not judge. Her assessment was that, personal grief 

modality aside, Kimberly Starr was treating her like the hired help, and she needed to reverse that power 

dynamic and fast. “Why did you lie to me about your whereabouts at the time of your husband’s murder, 

Mrs. Starr?” 

The woman’s swollen face was still capable of registering some emotions, and fear was one of them. 

Nikki Heat liked the look. “What do you mean? Lie? Why would I lie?” 

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“I’ll get to that when I’m ready. First, I want to know where you were between one and twoP.M. since 

you were not at Dino-Bites. You lied.” 

“I didn’t lie. I was there.” 

“You dropped your son and nanny off and left. I already have witnesses. Should I ask the nanny, also?” 

“No. That’s true, I left.” 

“Where were you, Mrs. Starr? And this time I’d advise you to be truthful.” 

“All right. I was with a man. I was embarrassed to tell you.” 

“Tell me now. What do you mean with a man?” 

“God, you’re a bitch. I was sleeping with this guy, OK? Happy?” 

“What’s his name?” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

The face Nikki gave her could still show the full range of expression. It told her she was quite serious. 

“And don’t say Barry Gable, he says you stood him up.” Heat watched Kimberly’s mouth go slack. 

“Barry Gable. You know, the man who assaulted you on the street? The one you told Detective Ochoa 

must have been a purse snatcher and that you didn’t know him?” 

“I was having an affair. My husband just died. I was embarrassed to say.” 

“So if you’re over your shyness, Kimberly, tell me about this other affair so I can verify your 

whereabouts. And, as I’m sure you just figured out, I will check.” 

Kimberly gave her the name of a doctor, Cory Van Peldt. Yes, it was the truth, she said, and yes, it was 

the same doctor she had seen this morning. Heat had her spell his name and wrote it on her pad along 

with his number. Kimberly said she met him when she went in for a facial assessment two weeks ago, 

and they had this magic thing. Heat was betting the magic was in his pants and was his wallet, but she 

knew better than to say so. She prayed Rook had the same sense. 

As long as things were in a hostile vein, Nikki decided to press on. In a few minutes she would need 

Kimberly’s cooperation with the photos and wanted her to think twice about lying, or be so rattled she’d 

do it poorly if she did. “A lot of things can’t be taken at face value with you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You tell me, Laldomina.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“And Samantha.” 

“Hey, don’t you start with that, nuh-uh.” 

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“Wow, that’s cool. You sounded pure Long Island.” She turned to Rook. “See what stress does? All 

that preppy posing falls away.” 

“First of all, my legal name is Kimberly Starr. There’s no crime in changing a name.” 

“Help me out: Why Samantha? I’m picturing you with your natural color and see you more as a Tiffany 

or Crystal.” 

“You cops, you always loved to give us girls a hard time for getting by any way we could. People do 

what they gotta do, ya know?” 

“That’s why we’re having this conversation. To find out who did what.” 

“If that means did I kill my husband…God, I can’t believe I just said that…The answer is no.” She 

waited for some response from Heat, and Nikki didn’t give it. Let her wonder, she thought. 

“My husband changed his name, too, did you know that? In the eighties. He took a branding seminar 

and decided what was holding him back was his name. Bruce DeLay. He said the words construction 

and DeLay weren’t the best selling tool, so he researched names that would be brand-positive. You 

know, upbeat and inspiring confidence. He made a list, names like Champion and Best. He picked Star 

and added the extra r so it wouldn’t sound fake.” 

Much as she had the day before, when she’d crossed from his opulent lobby into his ghost-town offices, 

Heat watched another chunk of Matthew Starr’s public image crack and drop off. “How did he end up 

with Matthew?” 

“Research. He did focus groups to see what name people trusted that went with his looks. So what if I 

changed mine, too? BFD, ya know?” 

Detective Heat decided she had gotten as much as she was going to get out of this line of questions and 

was happy at least to have a fresh alibi to check. She took out her photo array. As she began to lay 

down the pictures and tell her to take her time, Kimberly interrupted her on the third shot. 

“This man here. I know him. That’s Miric.” 

Nikki felt the tingle she got when a domino was tipping, ready to fall. “And how do you know him?” 

“He was Matt’s bookie.” 

“Is Miric a first or last name?” 

“You’re all about names today, aren’t you?” 

“Kimberly, he might have killed your husband.” 

“I don’t know which name. He was just Miric. Polish dude, I think. Not sure.” 

Nikki had her examine the rest of the array, without any other hits. “And you’re positive your husband 

placed bets with this man.” 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be sure of that?” 

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“When Noah Paxton looked at these pictures, he didn’t recognize him. If he’s paying the bills, wouldn’t 

he know him?” 

“Noah? He refused to deal with the bookmaking. He had to give Matthew the cash but looked the other 

way.” Kimberly said she didn’t know Miric’s address or phone number. “No, I only saw him when he 

came to the door or showed up at a restaurant.” 

The detective would double-check Starr’s desk and personal diary or his BlackBerry for some coded 

entry or recent call list. But a name and face and occupation was a good start. 

As she squared her stack of photos to put away, she told Kimberly she had thought she didn’t know 

about her husband’s gambling. 

“Come on, a wife knows. Just like I knew about his women. Do you want to know how much Flagyl I 

took in the last six years?” 

No, Nikki did not care to know. But she did ask her for any names she recalled of her husband’s past 

lovers. Kimberly said most of them seemed casual, a few one-nighters and weekends at casinos, and she 

didn’t know their names. Only one got serious, and that was with a young marketing executive on his 

staff, an affair that lasted six months and ended about three years ago, after which the executive left the 

company. Kimberly gave Nikki the woman’s name and got her address off a love letter she had 

intercepted. “You can keep that if you want. I only held onto it in case we got divorced and I needed to 

squeeze his balls.” With that, Nikki left her to grieve. 

They found Roach waiting for them in the lobby. Both had their coats off, and Raley’s shirt was soaked 

through again. “You’ve got to start wearing undershirts, Raley,” said Heat as she walked up. 

“And how about switching to an Oxford?” added Ochoa. “Those polyester things you’re wearing go 

see-through when you sweat.” 

“Turning you on, Ochoa?” asked Raley. 

His partner jabbed back. “Much like your shirt, you see right through me.” 

Roach reported the same hit off the photo array when they showed it to the doorman. “We had to sort 

of pry it out of him,” said Ochoa. “Doorman was a little embarrassed Miric slipped into the building. 

These guys always call up to the apartment before letting anybody in. He said he was taking a leak in the 

alley and must have missed him. But he did catch him coming out.” Quoting from notes, the doorman 

described Miric as a “scrawny little ferret” who came by to see Mr. Starr from time to time but whose 

visits had become more frequent over the past two weeks. 

“Plus we scored a bonus,” said Raley. “This gentleman was coming out with ferret dude that day.” He 

peeled off another shot from the array and held it up. “Looks like Miric brought some muscle.” 

Of course, Nikki’s instincts had already been crackling about this other guy, the brooder, when she 

screened the lobby video that morning. He was in a loose shirt, but she could tell he was a bodybuilder 

or at least spent a lot of his day at the weight rack. Under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t have 

thought twice and would have assumed he was delivering air conditioners, probably one under each arm, 

from the looks of him. But the serene lobby of the Guilford wasn’t the service entrance, and a grown man 

had been tossed off his balcony there that day. “Did the doorman give a name for this guy?” 

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Ochoa looked at his notes again. “Only the nickname he gave him. Iron Man.” 

While the precinct ran Miric and Iron Man Doe through the computer, digitals of the pair were blast-sent 

to detectives and patrols. It was impossible for Heat’s small unit to canvass every known bookie in 

Manhattan, even assuming Miric was a known, and wasn’t from one of the other boroughs, or even 

Jersey. Plus a man like Matthew Starr might even use an exclusive betting service or the Internet—both 

of which he probably did—but if he was the volatile mix of desperation and invincibility Noah Paxton 

painted him to be, chances were he’d hit the street, as well. 

So they spilt up to concentrate on known bookmakers in two zones. The Roach Coach got the tour of 

the Upper West Side in a radius around the Guilford, while Heat and Rook covered Midtown near the 

Starr Pointe headquarters, roughly Central Park South to Times Square. 

“This is exasperating,” said Rook after their fourth stop, a street vendor who suddenly decided he didn’t 

speak English when Heat showed him her shield. He was one of several runners for the major bookies 

whose mobile food carts were a convenient one-stop for bets and kabobs. They were treated to 

eye-stinging smoke that swirled off his grill and found them wherever they moved, while the vendor 

furrowed his brow at the photos and ultimately shrugged. 

“Welcome to police work, Rook. This is what I call the Street Google. We are the search engine; it’s 

how it gets done.” 

As they drove to the next address, a discount electronics store on 51st, a front specializing more in bets 

than boom boxes, Rook said, “Have to tell you, a week ago, if you told me I’d be hitting the sha-warma 

carts looking for Matthew Starr’s bookie, I never would have believed it.” 

“You mean it doesn’t fit the image? This is where you and I come from different places. You write these 

magazine pieces, you’re all about selling the image. I’m all about looking behind it. I’m frequently 

disappointed but seldom wrong. Behind every picture hides the true story. You just have to be willing to 

look.” 

“Yeah, but this guy was big. Maybe not elite-elite, but he was at least the bus and truck Donald Trump.” 

“I always thought Donald Trump was the bus and truck Donald Trump,” she said. 

“And who’s Kimberly Starr, the truckstop Tara Reid? If she’s the poor little rich girl, what’s she doing 

blowing ten grand on that face?” 

“If I had to guess, she bought it with Barry Gable’s money.” 

“Or she took it in trade with her new doctor boyfriend.” 

“Trust me, I’ll find out. But a woman like Kimberly’s not going to start clipping supermarket coupons 

and eating ramen one night a week. She’s all about prepping her face for her next season ofThe 

Bachelor.” 

“If they’re holding it onThe Island of Doctor Moreau.” She didn’t like herself for it but she laughed. It 

only encouraged him. “Or if she’s doing a remake ofElephant Man.” Rook took guttural breaths and 

slurred, “I am not a suspect, I am a human being.” 

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The radio call came when they were getting in the car after the discount electronics store dead end. 

Roach had spotted Miric in front of the Off Track Betting facility on West 72nd and was making a move, 

calling for back-up. 

Heat slapped the gumball on the roof and told Rook to buckle up and hang on. 

He beamed and actually said, “Can I work the siren?” 

FIVE 

There is very little chance of a high-speed pursuit on any street in Midtown Manhattan. Detective Heat 

accelerated, then braked, eased forward, jerked the wheel hard right, and accelerated again, until she 

was forced to brake again in a matter of yards. As she continued like that, working the avenue uptown, 

her face was set in concentration, eyes darting to all mirrors, then to the sidewalk, then to the crosswalk, 

then to the double-parked delivery guy who swung his van door open and almost became roadkill but for 

her experience and skill at the wheel. The siren and light meant nothing in this traffic. Maybe to the 

pedestrians, but the traffic lanes were so packed even the drivers who cared enough to pull aside and 

make a hole had scant room to maneuver. 

“Jeez, c’mon, move it,” shouted Rook from the passenger seat, at another taxi trunk sitting there in front 

of their windshield. His voice was dry from adrenaline, his words punctuated by air squeezed out against 

his seat belt with each sudden braking, which broke his syllables in two. 

Heat maintained her tense composure. This was the live-action video game cops played every day in this 

borough, a race against the clock through an obstacle course of construction, stalls, jams, daredevils, 

idiots, sons-of-bitches, and the unaware. She knew Eighth would be all-stop south of Columbus Circle. 

Then, for once, gridlock worked in her favor. A stretch Hummer, also heading uptown, was blocking the 

cross-flow at 55th. Nikki gunned it through the sliver of daylight it created and pulled a sharp left. Taking 

advantage of the lighter traffic the Hummer block created, she sped crosstown to Tenth with Rook’s 

expletives and Ochoa’s radio chatter filling her ears. 

Things improved, as she had projected, when she squealed around the corner at Tenth. After a game of 

dodge ’em through the two-way intersection at West 57th, Tenth became Amsterdam Avenue and grew 

wider shoulders and a nice emergency lane up the middle that some drivers even respected. She was 

ripping it north with a little more speed, past the back of Lincoln Center, when the call came from Raley. 

He had custody of Miric. Ochoa was in pursuit of suspect two, on the run west on 72nd. “That would be 

Iron Man,” she said, her first words since her instructions to Rook back in Times Square, to buckle up 

and hang on. 

Ochoa was gasping into his walkie when she shot through 70th where Amsterdam and Broadway 

crossed at an X. “Sus…pect…running…west…approa…Now at Broadway…” 

“He’s heading for the subway station,” Heat said to Rook, but more talking out loud. 

“Crossing…” A loud car horn, and then…“Suspect crossing Broadway…to subway…station.” 

She keyed her radio. “Suspect description.” 

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“Copy…white, male, two-twenty-five…red shirt over cammy…pants…black shoes…” 

To complicate things there were two station houses at the 72nd and Broadway subway: the old stone 

historic building on the south side and the newer glass-and-metal atrium station house just across the 

street to the north. Nikki pulled up to the old stone building. She knew the OTB sat mid-block on the 

north side of 72nd, so a fleeing Iron Man would likely duck into the closest station—the newer one—and 

Ochoa would be following there. Her idea was to cut off him off from escaping up the tunnel of this one. 

“Stay in the car, I mean it,” she called over her shoulder to Rook as she bailed out of the driver’s side, 

hanging her shield around her neck. The MTA tunnels ran ten degrees warmer than street temps, and the 

air that rose up the from underground to greet her as she sprinted past the MetroCard machines toward 

the turnstiles was a mix of garbage funk and oven blast. Heat vaulted a turnstile with a sweaty hand that 

slipped on the stainless steel. She recovered her balance but landed in a low crouch and found herself 

looking up at the hulk in the red tank top and cammies as he crested the stairs. 

“Police, freeze,” she said. 

Ochoa was coming up the steps behind him. Cut off from retreat, the big man broke around Heat for the 

turnstiles. She blocked him and he clawed her shoulder. She brought one hand up to break his grip at the 

wrist and, with the other, grabbed his tricep and pulled his back across the front of her body, so he 

couldn’t reach her to land a punch. Then she grabbed his belt, hooked his ankle with hers, and dropped 

him on his back. He hit hard. As Heat heard the air come out of him, she scissored a leg over his neck 

and yanked his wrist toward her in what a certain ex–Navy Seal called an arm bar. He struggled to rise 

up but found himself staring into her gun. 

“Go ahead,” she said. 

Iron Man laid his head back on the grimy tiles, and that was that. 

“Not very quotable,” said Rook on the drive back to the precinct. 

“I told you to wait in the car. You never wait in the car.” 

“I thought you might need help.” 

“From you?” she scoffed. “Wouldn’t do to reinjure those tender ribs.” 

“You do need help. Writer help. You take down a character like that, and the best you can you do is 

‘Go ahead’?” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“Sorry, Detective, but I’m left sort of hanging. Like ‘shave and a haircut’ minus the all-important ‘two 

bits.’” He glanced over his shoulder into the backseat, at the manacled Iron Man staring out the side 

window at a Flash Dancers ad on a cab top. “Although, plus ten for not saying, ‘Make my day.’” 

“As long as you’re happy, Rook, I’ve done my job.” 

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A column of fluorescent light cut into the dimness of the precinct observation booth as Jameson Rook 

stepped in to join Heat and her two detectives. “Got one for who wrote ‘It’s Raining Men.’ Ready?” 

said Ochoa. Spirits were palpably lighter after the afternoon’s arrests. One part come-down from the 

adrenaline, one part feeling this case would clear if their two prisoners did Matthew Starr. 

Rook crossed his arms and smirked. “Let me hear it.” 

“Dolly Parton.” 

“Oh,” moaned Rook, “I knew I should have put money on this.” 

“Hint,” said Raley. 

“Living.” 

“Bigger hint,” from Ochoa. 

Rook was loving this and announced like a game show host, “This famous cowriter is a he and is on 

network television every day.” 

“Al Roker,” shouted Raley. 

“Excellent guess. No.” 

“Paul Shaffer,” said Heat. 

Rook couldn’t hide his astonishment. “That’s right. Was that a lucky guess, or did you know?” 

“Your turn to guess.” She flashed a smile that dropped as fast as it appeared. “Oh, and my prize for 

winning? You wait here in the Ob Room while I do my work.” 

Detective Heat kept the two suspects separated for their interrogations as a matter of practice. The two 

had been apart since their arrests, to prevent them from co-formulating stories and alibis. Her first session 

was with Miric, the bookie, who indeed had ferretlike qualities. He was a small man, five-four, with thin 

pasty arms that could have gone missing from a Mr. Potato Head. She selected him because he was the 

known person and, if there were such a thing, the brains of the two. 

“Miric,” she said, “that’s Polish, right?” 

“Polish-American,” he said with the lightest trace of accent. “I came to this country in 1980 after this 

thing we called the Gdansk Shipyard strike.” 

“We, as in you and Lech Walesa?” 

“That is right.Solidarnosc!, yes?” 

“Miric, you were nine.” 

“No matter, is in the blood, yes?” 

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Less than a minute and Nikki had this guy down. A time-filler. An amiable who talks and talks but says 

nothing. If she kept up the ballet, she’d be there hours and come out with a headache and no information. 

So corral him as best she could, she decided. 

“Do you know why we picked you up?” 

“Is this like speeding ticket and officer asks you to tell him how fast you are going? I don’t think so.” 

“You’ve been arrested before.” 

“Yes, number of times. I think you have a list in there, right?” He nodded his long nose to the file on the 

metal tabletop in front of her and then looked at her. His eyes were set deep and so close together they 

almost crossed. Calling him a ferret might be complimentary. 

“Why did you go to the Guilford day before yesterday?” 

“The Guilford, on West 77th? Very nice building, that. A palace, yes?” 

“Why were you there?” 

“Was I?” 

She slapped the flat of her hand down on the table and he jumped. Good, she thought, let’s change the 

tempo. “Let’s cut the bull, Miric. I have eyewitnesses and photographs. You and your goon went to see 

Matthew Starr and now he’s dead.” 

“And you think I had something to do with this tragedy?” 

Miric was a slippery one, a true slimebag, and, from her experience, the ripest type for 

divide-and-conquer. “I think you can be helpful here, Miric. Maybe whatever happened to Mr. Starr 

wasn’t your doing. Maybe your pal…Pochenko…got a little more excited than he was supposed to 

when you went to collect your debt. It happens. Did he get too excited?” 

“Whatever you are talking about, I don’t know. I had an appointment to see Mr. Matthew Starr, of 

course. Why else would they allow me in such a wonderful building? But I went to his door and he did 

not answer.” 

“So your statement is that you did not see Matthew Starr that day.” 

“I don’t feel I need to repeat when I say so clearly.” 

This guy had been through the mill too often, she thought. He knew all the moves. And none of his 

priors, though numerous, involved violence. Scams, cons, and bookmaking only. She shifted back to Iron 

Man. “This other man, Pochenko, he came with you?” 

“The day I did not see Matthew Starr? He did come. You know that already, I bet, so there you go. 

You have good answer from me.” 

“Why did you bring Pochenko to meet with Matthew Starr? To show him the wonderful building?” 

Miric laughed, showing a tiny row of ocher teeth. “That’s a good one, I’ll remember that.” 

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“Then why? Why take such a big guy like that?” 

“Oh, you know in this economy many people want to rob you on the streets. I sometimes carry sums of 

money and one can’t be too safe, yes?” 

“You aren’t convincing me. I think you’re lying.” 

Miric shrugged. “Think what you like, is free country. But I say this. You wonder if I killed Matthew 

Starr and I say, Why would I? Bad for business. Want to know my pet name for Matthew Starr? The 

ATM. Why would I pull plug on ATM?” 

He gave her something to think about. Nonetheless, when she rose, she said, “One more thing. Hold out 

your hands.” He did. They were clean and pale, as if he had spent his days peeling potatoes in a 

washtub. 

Nikki Heat compared notes with her crew while they moved Pochenko from his holding cell to 

Interrogation. “That Miric’s a piece of work,” said Ochoa. “You see critters like that covered in sawdust 

in bitty cages when you raid meth dealers.” 

“OK, we agree on the ferret profile,” said Heat. “What do we come away with that’s useful?” 

“I think he did it.” 

“Rook, you say that about everyone we meet on this case. May I remind you of Kimberly Starr?” 

“But I hadn’t seen this guy before. Or maybe it’s his muscle. That is what you guys call them, muscle?” 

“Sometimes,” said Raley. “There’s also goon.” 

“Or thug,” said Ochoa. 

“Thug’s good,” continued Raley. “So’s badass.” 

“Meat,” from Ochoa, and the two detectives alternated euphemisms in rapid-fire succession. 

“Gangsta.” 

“G.” 


“Punk.” 

“Bitch.” 

“Gristle.” 

“Knucks.” 

“Ballbuster.” 

“Bang-ah.” 

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“But muscle works,” said Ochoa. 

“Gets it said,” agreed Raley. 

Rook had out his Moleskine notebook and a pen. “I gotta get some of these down before I forget.” 

“You do that,” said Heat. “I’ll be in with the…miscreant.” 

“Vitya Pochenko, you’ve been a busy boy since you came to this country.” Nikki turned pages in his 

file, silent-reading as if she didn’t already know what was on them, and then closed it. His jacket was full 

of arrests for threats and violent acts, but no convictions. People either shied away from testifying against 

Iron Man or they left town. “You’ve gotten away clean. A lot. People either really like you, or they’re 

really afraid of you.” 

Pochenko sat looking straight ahead with his eyes fixed on the two-way mirror. Not nervously checking 

himself, not like Barry Gable. No, he was fixed and focused on a point of his choosing. Not looking at 

her, not like he was even there with her. He seemed deep in his own mind and nowhere else. Detective 

Heat would have to change that. 

“Your pal Miric mustn’t be afraid of you.” The Russian didn’t blink. “Not from what he just told me.” 

Still nothing. “He had some interesting things to say about what you did to Matthew Starr at the Guilford 

day before yesterday.” 

Slowly, he unhooked his eyes from the ozone and rotated his head to face her. As he did, his neck 

twisted, revealing veins and tendons strung deep into bulky shoulders. He stared at her from underneath a 

thick ginger brow. At this angle in the downcast lighting he had a prizefighter’s face with a telltale nose 

that curved in an unnatural flatness where it had been broken. She decided he had been handsome once 

before the hardness. With the brush cut, she could picture the boy of him on a soccer field or lofting a 

stick in a hockey rink. But the hardness was what Pochenko was all about now, and whether it came 

from doing time in Russia or learning how not to do time, the boy was gone and all she saw in that room 

was what happens when you get very, very good at surviving very, very bad things. 

Something like a smile formed in the deep creases at the corners of his mouth, but it never came. Then 

he spoke at last. “In the subway station when you were on top of me, I could smell you. Do you know 

what I’m talking about? Smelling you?” 

Nikki Heat had been in all sorts of interrogations and interviews with every stripe of lowlife in God’s 

creation and those too damaged to make the list. The wiseguys and the crazies thought because she was 

a woman they could rattle her with some leering porn-movie trash talk. A serial killer once asked her to 

ride in the van so he could pleasure himself on the way to the penitentiary. Her armor was strong. Nikki 

had the investigator’s greatest gift, distance. Or maybe it was disconnection. But Pochenko’s casually 

spoken words, along with the entitled look he was giving her, the intrusion of his casualness and the threat 

carried in those amber resin eyes, made her shudder. She held his gaze and tried not to engage. 

“I see you do know.” And then, most chilling of all, he winked. “I’m going to have that.” Then he made 

wet air kisses at her and laughed. 

Then Nikki heard something she had never heard in the Interrogation Room before. Muffled shouting 

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from the observation booth. It was Rook, his voice smothered by soundproofing and double-pane glass, 

hollering at Pochenko. It sounded like he was shouting through a pillow, but she heard 

“…animal…scumbag…filthy mouth…,” followed by pounding on the glass. She turned over her shoulder 

to look. Hard to be nonchalant when the mirror is flexing and rattling. Then came the dampened shouts of 

Roach and it stopped. 

Pochenko glanced from the mirror to her with an unsettled look. Whatever had gotten into Rook’s pea 

brain and made him slip his leash in there, he had succeeded in undercutting the Russian’s moment of 

intimidation. Detective Heat latched onto the opportunity and flipped the subject without comment. 

“Let me see your hands,” she said. 

“What? You want my hands, come closer.” 

She stood, trying to gain height and distance and, most of all, dominance. “Put your hands flat on the 

table, Pochenko. Now.” 

He decided he would choose when it was time, but he didn’t wait long. The shackles on one wrist 

clacked against the table edge, and then the shackles on the other, as he spread his palms on the cold 

metal. His hands were scuffed and swollen. A few knuckles were plumming into bruises, others were 

missing skin and wept where they had not yet scabbed over. On the middle finger of his right hand, there 

was a thick stripe of blanched skin and a cut. The kind a ring would leave. 

“What happened here?” she said, relieved to feel in charge again. 

“What, this? Is nothing.” 

“Looks like a cut.” 

“Yeah, I forgot to take my ring off before.” 

“Before what?” 

“Before my workout.” 

“What workout at what gym? Tell me.” 

“Who said anything about a gym?” And then his upper lip curled, and she instinctively took a step back, 

until she realized he was smiling. 

Captain Montrose’s office was empty, so Nikki Heat ushered Rook inside and pulled the glass door 

shut. “Just what the hell was that all about?” 

“I know, I know, I lost it.” 

“In the middle of my interrogation, Rook.” 

“Did you hear what he was saying to you?” 

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“No. I couldn’t hear him over the pounding on the observation mirror.” 

He looked away. “Pretty lame, huh?” 

“I’d call it a first. If this were Chechnya, right now you’d be riding down the mountain feet-first on a 

goat.” 

“Will you knock it off about Chechnya? I get one movie option and you pick, pick, pick at it.” 

“Tell me you don’t have it coming.” 

“This time, maybe. Can I say something?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t know how you can 

stand doing this.” 

“You kidding? It’s my job.” 

“But it’s so…ugly.” 

“War zones aren’t so much fun, either. Or so I’ve read.” 

“War, not so good. But that’s just one part. In my job I get to move from place to place. It may be a 

war zone one time or riding in a Jeep with a black hood over my head to visit a drug cartel, but then I get 

a month in Portofino and Nice with rock stars and their toys, or I shadow a celebrity chef for a week in 

Sedona or Palm Beach. But you. This is…this is a sewer.” 

“Is this the equivalent of ‘what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’ Because if it is, I’ll kick 

you in the balls to show you how not nice I can be. I like my job. I do what I do, and deal with the 

people I deal with, and here’s a headline for your article, writer boy: Criminals are scum.” 

“Especially that G.” 

She laughed. “Excellent research notes, Rook. You sound so street.” 

“Oh, and by the way? No goats. Popular misconception. Up in the Caucasus with General Yamadayev, 

it was all horses. That’s how we rolled.” 

When she watched him leave the room, she was surprised not to feel pissed anymore. How angry could 

you be at somebody who acted like he cared a little? 

A half hour later, she sat with Raley, screening the surveillance video from the Guilford. Detective Heat 

did not look pleased. “Run it again,” she said. “And let’s watch every corner of the screen. Maybe we 

missed a piece of them coming back later.” 

“What’s wrong?” Rook arrived behind them, his breath smelling of contraband espresso. 

“It’s the damn time code.” She tapped her pen on the pale gray digital clock embedded on the bottom 

of the surveillance video. “It shows Miric and Pochenko arriving at 10:31A.M. They go up the elevator, 

right? And come back down to the lobby roughly twenty minutes later.” 

“Sure puts a big hole in Miric’s statement that Starr never answered his door. Unless it was a 

twenty-minute knock.” 

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“Ask me, the only thing that got knocked was Matthew Starr,” said Raley. “This had to be when 

Pochenko gave him a boxing lesson.” 

“That’s not our problem, guys,” said Heat. “According to this, our two Elvises left the building at 10:53 

A.M., about two and a half hours before our victim was thrown off his balcony.” She tossed her pen 

onto the desktop in frustration. “So our two primes get cleared by the tape.” 

“And they’ve lawyered up,” added Ochoa, looking at his BlackBerry. “They’re getting sprung now.” 

From outside the security door, Heat stood with Roach and looked across the processing area as Miric 

and Pochenko collected their property. Of course Miric was the one who had the attorney on call, and 

when the lawyer caught Detective Heat’s eye, he didn’t like what he saw, so he got extra busy with 

paperwork. 

“Guess I should cancel that search warrant for torn blue jeans at their apartments,” said Raley. 

“No, don’t,” said Nikki. “I know what the time code says, but what’s the harm in checking? Details, 

gents. You’ll never regret being thorough.” And as Pochenko spotted her, she added, “In fact, add 

another item to Iron Man’s search warrant. A large ring.” 

When Ochoa left to get the warrant processed, she gave an assignment to Raley. “I know it’s drudgery, 

but I want you to screen that lobby video again from the moment those jokers left until a half hour after 

Starr’s time of death. And do it in real time so we’re sure we don’t skip past them at high speed.” 

Raley left to do his screening. Nikki stayed to watch Miric, his lawyer, and Pochenko head for the exit. 

The Russian lagged and split off from the other two, crossing to Heat. A uniform shadowed him so he 

stopped in a safe zone, a good yard away from her. He took his time looking at her head to toe, then 

said in a low whisper, “Relax. You’re gonna like it.” Then, with a shrug, “Or not.” 

And then he left without looking back. Nikki waited until the exit door shut with Pochenko on the other 

side before she went back to work. 

SIX 


Nikki stepped into the rooftop bar of the Soho House and wondered what her friend had been thinking 

when she booked outdoor cocktails during a heat wave. Seven-thirty on a weeknight in summer was too 

light out to feel cool and too early for any action, especially on this stretch of Ninth Avenue. In the 

hipper-than-thou meatpacking district, seven-thirty was beyond outre. It was downright early bird. 

Lauren Parry, who clearly wasn’t bothered by any of that, flagged her from her street-view table where 

the canopy ended and the pool area began. “Is this too hot?” she said when Nikki arrived. 

“No, this is fine.” After they hugged, she added, “Who couldn’t stand to sweat off a few pounds?” 

“Well, sorr-ee. I spend my day in the morgue,” said the medical examiner. “I grab all the warm I can 

get.” 

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They ordered cocktails. Nikki went for a Campari and soda, craving something dry, sparkling, and, 

most of all, cold. Her friend stuck with her usual, a bloody Mary. When it came, Nikki observed that it 

was an ironic favorite for a coroner. “Why don’t you break out, Lauren? This isn’t Sunday brunch. Get 

one of those sake-tinis or a sex on the beach.” 

“Hey, you want to talk ironic drinks, that would be it. In my line of work, sex on the beach is usually 

what led to body under the pier.” 

“To life,” said Nikki, and they both laughed. 

Meeting her friend for a drink after work once a week was more than just cocktails and chill time. The 

two women had hit it off right away over Lauren’s first autopsy, when she started at the M.E.’s office 

three years ago, but their weekly after-work ritual was really fueled by their professional bond. Despite 

cultural differences—Lauren came out of the projects in St. Louis and Nikki grew up Manhattan 

middle-class—they connected on another level, as professional women navigating traditional male fields. 

Sure, Nikki enjoyed her occasional brew at the precinct-adjacent cop bar, but she was never about 

being one of the fellas, any more than she was about quilting bees or Goddess book clubs. She and 

Lauren clung to their camaraderie and the sense of safety they had crafted with each other, to have a time 

and place to share problems at work, largely political, and, yes, to decompress and let their hair down 

without having it be in a meat market or at a stitch and bitch. 

Nikki asked, “Mind a little shop talk?” 

“Hey, sister, on top of being cold all day, the people I hang out with don’t do much talking, so whatever 

the subject, bring it.” 

Heat wanted to discuss Matthew Starr. She told Lauren she now understood how the victim got those 

torso bruises. She bullet-pointed her sessions with Miric and Pochenko, concluding by saying she had no 

doubt the bookie had his muscle man encourage the real estate developer to “prioritize” the repayment of 

his gambling debt. With experience talking, she added that, thanks to lawyers and stonewalling: Good 

luck making a case. What she wanted to know was if Lauren recalled any other marks that might be read 

as a separate event from the Russian’s work-over? 

Lauren Parry was a marvel. She remembered every autopsy the way Tiger Woods could tell you every 

golf shot he made in every tournament—as well as his opponent’s. She said there were only two relevant 

indicators. First, a pair of uniquely shaped contusions on the deceased’s back, an exact match to the 

polished brass flip handles on the French doors leading to the balcony, probably where he was pushed 

outside with great force. Heat recalled Roach’s tour of the balcony crime scene and the powdered stone 

under the spot where the door handles had impacted the wall. And second, Starr had grip marks on both 

upper arms. The medical examiner air-demoed a thumb in each armpit, hands wrapped around the arms. 

“My guess is it wasn’t much of a fight,” said Lauren. “Whoever did this picked up the victim, slammed 

him through those doors and then tossed him backwards to the street. I examined his legs and ankles 

closely and I’m certain Mr. Starr never even touched the railing when he went over.” 

“No other chafing or cuts, no defensive wounds or marks?” 

Lauren shook her head. “Although, there was one irregularity.” 

“Out with it, girl, next to inconsistency, irregularity is the detective’s best friend.” 

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“I was detailing those punch bruises, you know the ones with the probable ring mark? And there was 

one that was an exact match for the others but no ring mark.” 

“Maybe he took it off.” 

“In the middle of a beating?” 

Nikki took a long pull on her drink, feeling the carbonation bite her tongue as she stared through the 

Plexi barrier beside her at the avenue seven floors below. She didn’t know what Lauren’s information 

meant, but she got out her notebook and made a note: “One punch, no ring.” 

They ordered somearancini and a plate of olives, and by the time their finger foods arrived they were on 

to other subjects: Lauren was teaching a seminar at Columbia in the fall; her dachshund, Lola, got picked 

for a dog food commercial when she took her to the dog run last weekend; Nikki had a week off at the 

end of August and was thinking of Iceland and did Lauren want to come. “Sounds cold,” she said. But 

she also said she’d think about it. 

Nikki’s cell phone vibed and she looked at the caller ID. 

“What’s up, Detective,” Laura asked, “are you going to have to deploy or something? Maybe rappel 

down the face of the building and spring into some two-fisted action?” 

“Rook” was all she said and held up the phone. 

“Take it. I don’t mind.” 

“It’s Rook,” she reiterated, as if it required no further explanation. Nikki let his call drop to voice mail. 

“Forward him to my phone,” said Lauren, stirring her bloody Mary. “You could do worse than Jameson 

Rook. That man is doable.” 

“Oh, sure, that’s just what I need. The ride-along isn’t bad enough without putting that in the mix.” When 

her phone pulsed to indicate voice mail, she pressed the button for a fetch and held the phone to her ear. 

“Huh. He says he’s come upon something big about the Matthew Starr case and needs me to see it…” 

She held up a staying palm to Lauren as she listened to the rest and then hung up. 

“What’s the development?” 

“Didn’t say. He said he couldn’t talk now but to come to his place right away, and left his address.” 

“You should go,” said Lauren. 

“I’m almost afraid to. Knowing him, he’s probably made citizen’s arrests of anybody who knew 

Matthew Starr.” 

When the industrial strength elevator reached his loft, Rook was waiting for her on the other side of the 

accordion mesh doors. “Heat. You actually came.” 

“Your message said you had something to show me.” 

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“I do,” he said and strode from the entry and disappeared around a corner. “This way.” 

She followed him into his designer kitchen. At the other end of it, in the great room, as the cable designer 

shows called those open spaces that merged living rooms and dining rooms off an overlooking kitchen, 

there was a poker table, a real poker table with a felt top. And it was surrounded by…poker players. 

She came to a halt. “Rook, there’s nothing you need to show me here about the case at all, is there?” 

“Say, youare a detective, aren’t you?” He shrugged and gave a little impish grin. “Would you have come 

if I had just plain invited you to play poker?” 

Nikki got hit with a major turn-around twinge, but then the poker crowd rose to greet her and there she 

was. 

As Rook escorted her into the room, he said, “If you really, really need a work reason to be here, you 

can thank the man who got you your warrant for the Guilford. Judge, this is Detective Nikki Heat, 

NYPD.” 

Judge Simpson looked a bit different in a yellow polo shirt, hunkered behind tall stacks of poker chips 

instead of his bench. “I’m winning,” he said as he shook her hand. A network news anchor she and the 

rest of America admired was also there, with her filmmaker husband. The anchorwoman said she was 

glad a cop was there because she had been robbed. “And by a judge,” said her husband. Rook placed 

Nikki in the empty seat between him and the newswoman, and before Nikki knew it, the anchor’s 

Oscar-winning husband was dealing her a hand. 

It was a low-stakes game, she was relieved to discover, and then that turned to worry they had lowered 

the ante in deference to her pay grade. But it was clear this was more about fun than money. Although 

winning still mattered, especially to the judge. Seeing him out of his robe for the first time, the overhead 

light shining on his bald head, the manic obsession he brought to his play, Nikki couldn’t shake the 

comparison to another Simpson. She would have given up a whole pot just to hear the judge say “D’oh!” 

After the deal of the third hand, the lights dipped out and came back up. “Here we go,” said Nikki. 

“Mayor said we’d have rolling brownouts.” 

“How many days is it for this heat wave?” asked the filmmaker. 

“This is day four,” said his wife. “I interviewed a meteorologist and he said it’s not a heat wave unless 

it’s three consecutive days above ninety degrees.” 

A woman appeared in the kitchen and added, “And if the heat lasts more than four days, consult your 

doctor immediately.” The room burst into laughter, and the woman stepped from behind the counter, 

taking a deep, theatrical bow, complete with a graceful upward arm sweep. Rook had told her about his 

mother. Of course, she already knew who Margaret was. You don’t win Tony Awards and show up in 

theStyle section andVanity Fair party collages as often she did and go unnoticed. In her sixties now, 

Margaret had gone from the ingenue to the grand dame (although Rook once confided in Nikki that his 

spelling was grand d-a-m-n). The lady exuded every bit of the joyful diva, from her opening line to the 

way she entered the great room to take Nikki’s hand and fuss about how very much she had heard about 

her from Jamie. 

“And I’ve heard a lot about you,” Nikki replied. 

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“Believe it all, darling. And if it’s not true, when I get to hell, I’ll sort it out there.” Then she swept—no, 

there was no more accurate way to describe it—she swept back into the kitchen. 

Rook smiled at Nikki. “As you can see, I believe in truth in advertising.” 

“So I’m learning.” She heard ice plinking in a rocks glass and saw Margaret uncapping a bottle of 

Jameson. Yes, she thought, I’m learning a lot, Jameson Rook. 

The news anchor appealed to Rook’s sense of civic responsibility and he killed his air-conditioning. 

Nikki looked up from her cards, and her eyes followed his shorts andU-2 3D T-shirt as he moved 

barefoot across the oriental rug to the far wall. He bent to open the sash windows that gave onto his 

penthouse view of Tribeca, and when Nikki’s eyes drifted off him, it was to the hulk of a distant building, 

RiverStarr on the Hudson, backlit by Jersey City. The structure was dark, except for the red aviation 

lamp atop an idle crane balanced above girders awaiting skin. They’d wait a long time. 

Margaret took her son’s chair beside Nikki and said, “It is a very good view.” And as Rook bent to 

open the next window, the doyenne leaned in to whisper, “I’m his mother and even I think it’s a great 

view. But that’s just me taking credit.” And then, just to be clear: “Jamie got my ass. It got a marvelous 

review inOh! Calcutta!” 

Two hours later, after Rook, then the news anchor, and then her husband folded, Nikki won yet another 

hand against the judge. Simpson said he didn’t care, but judging from his expression, she was glad she 

got the court order out of him before the poker game. “Guess the cards aren’t falling my way tonight for 

some reason.” She really wanted him to just say “D’oh!” 

“It isn’t the cards, Horace,” said Rook. “For once, somebody at this table can read your tells.” He got 

up and crossed to the counter to peel a tepid slice of Ray’s out of the box and fish another Fat Tire from 

the ice in the sink. “Now, to me, tonight, anyway, you’ve got a great poker face. I can’t see what’s going 

on behind the taciturn judicial mask. It could be woo-hoo or yay-boo. But this one here, she’s gotcha.” 

Rook took his seat again, and Nikki wondered if the whole pizza-and-beer run had been a ruse to move 

his chair closer to hers. 

“My face gives nothing away,” said the judge. 

“It’s not about you giving it away, it’s what she’s taking,” said Rook. He turned to her as he spoke to 

the judge. “I’ve been with her weeks now, and I don’t think I’ve ever known someone so adept at 

reading people.” He held that look to her, and although they were nowhere close to breathing each 

other’s exhalations like they had on Starr’s balcony that day, she felt a flutter. So she turned away to 

rake in the pot, wondering what the hell she was playing with here, and she didn’t mean the cards. “I 

think I should call it a night,” she said. 

Rook insisted on walking her down to the sidewalk, but Nikki stalled until they were embedded in the 

group departure of the other guests, so she could get away clean. A group seemed the perfect place to 

fulfill that. Because the truth of it, she reflected on the ride down, was that she didn’t want so much to be 

alone as not to be paired up. 

Not tonight anyway, she thought. 

The news anchor and her husband lived in walking distance and made their exit just as Simpson flagged 

Page 270


a cab. The judge was heading uptown near the Guggenheim and asked if Nikki wanted to share the ride. 

She sorted her feelings about leaving Rook hangdogging on the sidewalk versus staying and having to 

deal with the awkwardness of the good-night moment, or worse, the come-back-up moment, and 

answered yes. 

Rook said, “Hope you don’t mind I sort of Punk’d you into coming over.” 

“Why would I mind? I’m leaving with money, jokey boy.” Then she slid way across the taxi seat to 

make room for Simpson. Ten minutes later, she was unlocking her lobby door in Gramercy Park, 

thinking about a bath. 

Nobody would accuse Nikki Heat of leading a life of indulgence. “Delayed gratification” was a phrase 

that came to her mind often, usually invoked as a means to talk herself down off some rare flash of anger 

at what she was doing instead of what she would rather be doing. Or saw other people doing. 

So as she ran the tap to revitalize the bubbles in her tub, allowing herself one of her few indulgences, a 

bubble bath, her mind ran back to thoughts of the road not taken. To Connecticut and a yard and the 

PTA and a husband who took the train to Manhattan, and having the time and resources to get a 

massage once in a while or maybe take a yoga class. 

Yoga class instead of close-quarter combat training. 

Nikki tried to imagine herself in bed with a ropy tofu advocate with a Johnny Depp beard and a 

“Random Acts of Kindness” bumper sticker on a rusted-out Saab, instead of sheet grappling with the 

ex-Seal. She could do worse than Johnny Depp. And had. 

A couple of times that evening she had thought about calling Don but didn’t. Why not? She wanted to 

boast about her perfect arm-bar takedown of Pochenko at the subway station. Quick and easy, take a 

seat, sir. But that wasn’t why she wanted to call him, and she knew it. 

So why didn’t she? 

It was an easy arrangement with Don. Her trainer with benefits never asked her where she was or when 

she’d be back or why she didn’t call. His place or hers didn’t matter; it was logistical, whichever was 

closer. He was looking neither to nest nor to get away from anything. 

And the sex was good. Once in a while he would get a bit too aggressive, or a bit too into task 

completion, but she knew how to work with that and get what she needed. And how much different was 

that from the commuter guys, the Noah Paxtons of the world? The Don thing wasn’t the be-all, but it 

worked fine. 

So why didn’t she call? 

She shut off the tap when the bubbles tickled her chin, and inhaled the scent of her childhood. Nikki 

thought about the delays, tried to imagine fulfilling purpose instead of needs, and wondered if this was 

what it would be like in, say, eleven years, when she hit forty. That used to seem like such a long way off, 

and yet the last ten years, a full decade of rearranging her life around the end of her mother’s, had 

blipped along like a TiVo on forward. Or was that for the lack of savoring? 

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She went from convincing her mother she should be a Theater Arts major to transferring to the College 

of Criminal Justice. She wondered if without realizing it she was getting too tough to be happy. She knew 

she did less laughing and more judging. 

What had Rook said at the poker game? He called her adept at reading people. Not what she wanted 

on her tombstone. 

Rook. 

OK, so I was checking out his ass, she thought. Then the flutter came over her, probably embarrassment 

at being transparent enough to be caught in the act by The Grand Damn. Nikki submerged under the 

bubbles and held her breath until the pounding of her flutter got lost in the pounding of oxygen debt. 

She broke the surface and palmed the suds off her face and hair, and floated, weightless in the cooling 

water, and let herself wonder what it would be like with Jameson Rook. What would he be like? How 

would he feel and taste and move? 

And then the flutter hit her again. What would she be like with him? It made her nervous. She didn’t 

know. 

It was a mystery. 

She unstopped the drain and got out. 

Nikki had her air-conditioning off and walked her apartment naked and wet, not bothering to towel off 

in the humidity. The die-hard soap bubbles felt good on her skin, and besides, once she dried off, she’d 

be damp in no time in the soggy air, so why not be damp and smell like lavender? 

Only two of her windows gave views to facing neighbors, and since there was no breeze to obstruct 

anyway, she drew the shades down on them and went to the utility closet off the kitchen. Detective Nikki 

Heat’s miracle time- and money-saver was to press her own clothes the night before. Nothing stopped 

the crooks in their tracks more than defined pleats and sharp creases. She drew the board down on its 

hinge and plugged in the iron. 

She hadn’t overdone the alcohol that night, but what she had drunk had made her thirsty. In the fridge 

she found her last can of lemon-lime seltzer. It was quite ungreen of her, but she held open the 

refrigerator door and moved herself close to it, feeling the cool air cascade out against her naked body, 

chilling her skin into gooseflesh. 

A small click turned her away from the open door. The red light had popped on, indicating the iron was 

ready. She set the can of seltzer on the counter and hurried to her closet to find something relatively clean 

and, above all, breathable. 

Her navy linen blazer only needed a touch-up. Walking up the hall with it, though, she noticed that a 

button on the right sleeve was cracked and she paused to look at it, to remember if she had a match. 

And then, from the kitchen, Nikki heard the seltzer can open. 

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SEVEN 

Even as she stood frozen in her hallway, Nikki’s first thought was that she hadn’t really heard it. Too 

many replays of her mother’s murder had embedded that pop-top sound in her head. How many times 

had that snap-hiss jolted her out of nightmares or made her flinch in the break room? No, she could not 

have heard it. 

That is what she told herself in the eternal seconds she stood there, cotton-mouthed and naked, straining 

to hear over the damned night noise of New York City, and her own pulse. 

Her fingers hurt from digging the broken sleeve button into herself. She relaxed her grip but did not drop 

the blazer for fear of making noise that would give her away. 

To whom? 

Give it one minute, she told herself. Stay still, be a statue for a count of sixty and be done with this. 

She cursed herself for her nakedness and how vulnerable it made her feel. Indulged in the bubble bath 

and now look. Stop that and focus, she thought. Just focus and listen to every square inch of the night. 

Maybe it was a neighbor. How many times had she heard lovemaking, and coughing, and dishes 

stacking, come across the air space into her open windows? 

The windows. They were all open. 

A mere fraction through her minute, she lifted one bare foot off the runner and set it down one step 

closer to the kitchen. She listened. 

Nothing. 

Nikki chanced another slo-mo step. In the middle of it, her heart skipped when a shadow moved across 

the slice of floor she could see in the kitchen. She didn’t hesitate or stop to listen again. She bolted. 

Racing past the kitchen door to the living room, Nikki hit the light switch, killing the one lamp that was 

on, and lunged for her desk. Her hand landed inside the large Tuscan bowl that lived there on the back 

corner. It was empty. 

“Looking for this?” Pochenko filled the archway, and he was holding up her off-duty piece. The bright 

kitchen light behind him cast him in silhouette, but she could see that the Sig Sauer was still in its holster, 

as if the arrogant bastard wouldn’t be needing it, at least not yet. 

Confronted by facts, the detective did what she always did, pushed fear aside and got practical. Nikki 

ran a checklist of options. One: She could scream. The windows were open, but he might start shooting, 

which, for the moment, he didn’t seem inclined to do. Two: Get a weapon. Her backup gun was in her 

handbag in the kitchen or the bedroom, she wasn’t sure which. Either way she would have to get past 

him. Three: Buy time. She needed it to improvise a weapon, to escape, or to take him out. If she had 

been confronting a hostage situation, she would have used conversation. Engage, humanize, slow the 

clock. 

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“How did you find me?” Good, she thought, to her ear she didn’t sound afraid. 

“What, you think you’re the only ones who know how to tail somebody?” 

Nikki took a small step backward to draw him into the room and away from the hall. She retraced the 

places she had been since she had left the precinct—Soho House, Rook’s poker game—and got a chill 

realizing this man had been watching her each stop. 

“It’s not hard to follow someone who doesn’t know they have a tail. You should know that.” 

“And how doyou know that?” She took another step backward. This time he moved with her a step. 

“Were you a cop in Russia?” 

Pochenko laughed. “Sort of. But not for police. Hey, stay there.” He took the Sig out and tossed the 

holster aside like litter. “I don’t want to have to shoot you.” And then he added, “Not till I’m through.” 

Game changer, she said to herself, and prepared for the worst option. Nikki had drilled the handgun 

disarm only a million times. But always on a mat with an instructor or cop partner. Still Heat thought of 

herself as an athlete, in constant training, and had run it only two weeks ago. As she choreographed the 

moves in her head, she kept talking. “You’ve got balls coming here without your own gun.” 

“I won’t need it. Today, you tricked me. Not so tonight, you’ll see.” 

He reached for the light switch when he turned, and this time she took a step toward him. When the 

lamp came on he looked at her and said, “Daddy like.” He made a show of looking her body up and 

down. Ironically, Nikki had felt more violated by him that afternoon in Interrogation when she had her 

clothes on. Still she folded her arms over herself. 

“Cover all you want. I told you I’d have it, and I will.” 

Heat took stock. Pochenko was one-handing her gun, a plus since he had strength on her. He also had 

size, but she knew from his subway takedown that he was big but not quick. But then, he had the gun. 

“Come here,” he said and took a step to her. The conversation phase was over. She hesitated and took 

a step toward him. Her heart thudded and she could hear her own pulse. This would all be a blink if it 

came off. She felt like she was on a high dive about to initiate a plunge, and the thought made her heart 

race more. She remembered the uniform in the Bronx who’d botched this last year and lost half his face. 

Nikki decided that wasn’t helping and focused herself again, visualizing her moves. 

“Bitch, when I say come here, come here.” He brought the gun up level with her chest. 

She moved the step closer that he wanted and that she needed, and as she did, she raised her hands in 

submission, quaking them slightly so their small movements would not telegraph the big one when it came. 

And when it came, it had to be lightning. “Just don’t shoot me, OK? Please, don’t shoo—” In one 

motion, she brought her left hand up and clamped it on top of the gun, wedging her thumb on the hammer 

while she pushed it away and slipped in and to his right. She hooked her foot between his and threw her 

shoulder against his arm while she wrenched the gun up and around toward him. As she yanked it to 

point at him she heard his finger break as it twisted in the trigger guard and he cried out. 

Then it got messy. She tried to pull the gun away, but his broken finger was hung up in the guard, and 

when it finally jerked free the gun had such momentum it slipped out of her hand and across the rug. 

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Pochenko grabbed her by the hair and threw her toward the foyer. Nikki tried to gain her feet and get to 

the front door, but he lunged for her. He grabbed one of her forearms but it didn’t hold. His hands were 

sweaty and she was slick from the bubble bath. Nikki slid out of his grip and twirled, shooting the heel of 

her other hand up into his nose. She heard a crack and he swore in Russian. Torquing herself, she raised 

her foot to chest-kick him back into the living room, but he had his hands up to the twin trails of blood 

coming from his broken nose, and her kick glanced off his forearm. When he reached for her, she fired 

two rapid lefts to his nose, and while he dealt with that, she turned to flip the deadbolts on her front door 

and screamed, “Help, fire! Fire!”—sadly the surest way to motivate citizens to make a 911 call. 

The boxer in Pochenko came alive. He landed a hard left to her back that smacked her flat against the 

door. Her advantage was speed and movement, and Nikki used it, dropping so that his next shot, a left 

to her head, missed and he smashed his fist into the wood. While she was down, she rolled right through 

his ankles, sweeping his legs from under him and sending him face-first into the door. 

While he was down, she broke for the living room, looking for the fallen gun. It had taken a bounce 

under the desk, and the time it took her to find it was too much time. Just as Nikki bent for it Pochenko 

bear hugged her from behind and picked her up off the floor, kicking and punching air. He put his mouth 

to her ear and said, “You’re mine now, bitch.” 

Pochenko carried her to the hallway leading to the bedroom, but Nikki wasn’t done. At the passage to 

the kitchen, she splayed out her arms and legs and hooked them on the corners. It was like hitting the 

brakes, and as his head whiplashed forward, she shot hers back and felt a sharp pain when his front teeth 

broke against the back of her skull. 

He cursed again and flung her onto the kitchen floor, where he pounced on top of her, pinning her with 

his body. This was the nightmare outcome, letting him get his full weight on her. Nikki jerked and twisted, 

but he had gravity working for him now. He let go her left wrist, but it was only to free the hand without 

the broken finger to clamp around her throat. With one hand free, she pushed at his chin, but he didn’t 

budge. And his grip tightened on her neck. Blood dripped off his nose and chin onto her face, 

waterboarding her. She flailed her head side to side and took swipes at him with her right hand, but his 

choke was sapping her strength. 

Fog crept into the edges of her vision. Above her, Pochenko’s determined face became dappled by a 

shower of tiny shooting stars. He was taking his time, watching her lungs slowly lose oxygen, feeling her 

weaken, seeing her head flails become less rapid. 

Nikki rolled her face to the side so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She thought of her mother, 

murdered three feet away on this very floor, calling her name. And as blackness drew over her, Nikki 

thought how sad that she had no name to call for. 

And that is when she saw the cord. 

Lungs searing, strength draining, Nikki fumbled for the dangling wire. After two failed swipes, she 

snagged it and the iron crashed down off the board. If Pochenko cared, he didn’t show it, and probably 

took it as the last thrashing of the bitch. 

But then he felt the hot sear of the iron on the side of his face. 

His scream was like no animal Nikki had heard. As his hand came off her neck, the air she gulped tasted 

of his burning flesh. She brought the iron up again, this time in a hard swing. The hot edge of it hit his left 

eye. He screamed again, and his scream mixed with the sirens pulling up to her building. 

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Pochenko struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the kitchen door, holding his face, bouncing off the 

corner of the entryway. He recovered and lumbered out. By the time she pulled herself up and made it to 

the living room, Nikki could hear his heavy footsteps clanging up the fire escape toward the roof. 

Heat grabbed her Sig and climbed the metal steps to the roof, but he was long gone. Emergency lights 

strobed off the brick fronts on her street, and another approaching siren triple-burped through the 

intersection at Third Avenue. She remembered she had no clothes on and decided she had better go 

back down and put something on. 

When Nikki came into her bull pen the next morning, after her meeting with the captain, Rook and 

Roach were waiting there for her. Ochoa was leaning back in his chair with his ankles crossed on his 

desk and said, “So. Last night I watched the Yankees win and had sex with the wife. Can anybody top 

that?” 

“Beats my night,” said Raley. “What about you, Detective Heat?” 

She shrugged, playing along. “Just some poker and a little workout at home. Not as exciting as you, 

Ochoa. Your wife actually had sex with you?” Cop humor, dark and laced with sideways affection only. 

“Oh, I see,” said Rook. “This is how you people deal. ‘Attempt on my life? No biggie, too cool for 

school.’” 

“No, we pretty much don’t give a shit. She’s a big girl,” Ochoa said. And the cops laughed. “Put that in 

your research, writer boy.” 

Rook approached Heat. “I’m surprised you came in this morning.” 

“Why? This is where I work. Not going to catch any bad guys at home.” 

“Clearly,” said Ochoa. 

“Nailed it,” Raley said to his partner. 

“Thank you for not high-fiving,” she said. Even though the precinct, and by now most of the cop shops in 

five boroughs, knew about her home invasion, Nikki recapped her firsthand highlights for them and they 

listened intently, with sober expressions. 

“Bold,” said Rook, “going after a cop. And in her own home. Guy must be psycho. I thought so 

yesterday.” 

“Or…,” said Heat, deciding to share the feeling she’d been harboring since she saw Pochenko in her 

living room holding her gun. “Or maybe somebody sent him to get me out of the way. Who knows?” 

“We’ll bag this bastard,” said Raley. “Spoil his day.” 

“Damn straight,” from Ochoa. “On top of the all-points, we’ve notified hospitals to be on alert for 

anybody whose face is only half-pressed.” 

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“Cap said you guys already gave Miric an early wake-up call.” 

Ochoa nodded. “At oh-dark-thirty. Dude sleeps in a nightshirt.” He shook his head at the vision, and 

continued. “Anyway, Miric claims no contact with Pochenko since they got sprung yesterday. We’ve got 

surveillance on him and a warrant for his phone records.” 

“And a tap on his incomings,” added Raley. “Plus we have some blue jeans from both Miric’s and 

Pochenko’s apartments in the lab now. Your Russian pal had a couple of promising rips on the knees, 

but it’s hard to know what’s fashion and what’s wear and tear. Forensics will know.” 

Nikki smiled. “And on the upside, I may have a match for those grip marks on Starr’s upper arms.” She 

opened her collar and showed the red marks on her neck. 

“I knew it. I knew it was Pochenko who threw him off that balcony.” 

“For once, Rook, I’d take that guess, but let’s not jump there yet. The minute you start closing doors 

this early in an investigation is the minute you start missing something,” said the detective. “Roach, go run 

a check on overnight retail robberies. If Pochenko’s on the run and can’t go to his apartment, he’ll be 

improvising. Pay special attention to pharmacies and medical supply stores. He didn’t go to an ER, so he 

might be doing some self-care.” 

After Roach left for their assignment and as Nikki was downloading a report from the forensic 

accountants, the desk sergeant brought in a package that had been delivered to her, a flat box the size 

and weight of a hallway mirror. 

“I’m not expecting anything,” said Nikki. 

“Maybe it’s from an admirer,” said the sergeant. “Maybe it’s Russian caviar,” he added with a deadpan 

look and then left. 

“Not the most sentimental crowd,” said Rook. 

“Thank God.” She looked at the shipping label. “It’s from the Met Museum Store.” She got scissors 

from her desk, opened the box, and peeked inside. “It’s a framed something.” 

Nikki drew the framed something out of the box and discovered what it was, and when she did, 

whatever darkness she had carried into that morning-after gave way to soft, golden sunlight, breaking 

across her face in the reflected glow of two girls in white play dresses lighting Chinese lanterns in the 

gloaming ofCarnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. 

She stared at the print and then turned herself to Rook, who stood frowning beside her. “There should 

be a card somewhere. It says, ‘Guess who?’ By the way, you’d better guess me, or I’ll be massively 

pissed I sprung for next-day delivery.” 

She looked back at the print. “It’s…just so…” 

“I know, I saw it on your face yesterday in Starr’s living room. Little did I know when I called in my 

order it would be a get well gift…. Well, actually more like a glad-you-didn’t-get-killed-last-night gift.” 

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She laughed so he wouldn’t notice the small quiver that had come to her lower lip. Then Nikki turned 

away from him. “I’m getting a little glare right under this light,” she said, and all he saw was her back. 

At noon she shouldered her bag, and when Rook stood to go with her she told him to get himself some 

lunch, she needed to go on this one by herself. He told her she should have some protection. 

“I’m a cop, I am the protection.” 

He read her determination to go solo and for once didn’t argue. On her drive to Midtown Nikki felt 

guilty for ditching him. Hadn’t he welcomed her to his poker table and given her that gift? Sure he bugged 

her sometimes on the ride-alongs, but this was different. It could have been the ordeal of her night and 

the aching fatigue she was carrying, but it wasn’t. Whatever the hell Nikki Heat was feeling, what the 

feeling needed was space. 

“Sorry about the mess,” said Noah Paxton. He threw the remains of his deli tossed salad into the trash 

can and wiped off his blotter with a napkin. “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

“I was in the neighborhood,” said Detective Heat. She didn’t care if he knew she was lying. In her 

experience, dropping in on witnesses unexpectedly brought unexpected results. People with their guard 

down were less careful and she learned more. That afternoon she wanted a couple of things out of Noah, 

the first being his unguarded reaction to seeing the photo array from the Guilford again. 

“Are there new pictures in here?” 

“No,” she said as she dealt the last one in front of him. “You’re sure you don’t recognize any of them?” 

Nikki made it sound casual, but asking if he was sure put pressure on. This was about cross-checking 

Kimberly’s reason he hadn’t identified Miric. As he had the day before, Paxton gave a slow and 

methodical pass over each shot and said he still didn’t recognize any of them. 

She took away all the photos but two: Miric and Pochenko. “What about these. Anything?” 

He shrugged and shook no. “Sorry. Who are they?” 

“These two are interesting, that’s all.” Detective Heat was in the business of getting answers, not giving 

them, unless there was an advantage. “I also wanted to ask you about Matthew’s gambling. How did he 

pay for that?” 

“With cash.” 

“Money you gave him?” 

“His money, yes.” 

“And when he went in the hole to bookmakers, how did that get repaid?” 

“Same way, with cash.” 

“Would they come to you for it, the bookies, I mean?” 

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“Oh, hell no. I told Matthew, if he chose to deal with that level of person, that’s his business. I didn’t 

want them coming here.” He shivered for emphasis. “No thanks.” She’d back-doored him but had her 

answer. Kimberly’s reason the money man didn’t know the bookie checked. 

Heat then asked him about Morgan Donnelly, the woman whose name Kimberly had given her. She of 

the intercepted love letter. Paxton verified Donnelly had worked there and was their top marketing 

executive. He also verified that the two had a hidden office affair that was hidden to no one and 

described at great length how the staff would refer to Matthew and Morgan as “Mm…” Morgan earned 

a few nicknames of her own, he said. “The two that won the office pool were Top Performer and Chief 

Asset.” 

“One more piece of business and I’ll get out of your hair. I got the report this morning from the forensic 

accountants.” She took the file out of her bag and watched his brow fall. “They told me you were no 

Bernie Madoff, which is, I guess, what we needed to make sure of.” 

“Makes sense.” Quite nonchalant, but the detective knew guilt when she saw it, and it was clinging to his 

face. 

“There was one irregularity in your accounting.” She handed him the page with the spreadsheet and 

summary and watched him tense. “Well?” 

He put the page down. “My attorney would advise me not to answer.” 

“Do you feel you need an attorney to answer my question, Mr. Paxton?” 

She could see her squeeze work on him. “It was my only ethical breach,” he said. “All these years, the 

only one.” Nikki just looked and waited. Nothing screamed louder than silence. “I hid money. I created a 

series of transactions to funnel a large sum to a private account. I was hiding a portion of Matthew 

Starr’s private funds for his son’s college education. I saw how fast it was going—to gambling and 

hookers—I’m just a functionary, but I was heartsick about what was happening to that family. For their 

own good, I hid money so Matty Junior could go to college. Matthew discovered it, same way drunks 

can find bottles, and raided it. Kimberly is almost as bad as he was. I think you have a good idea how 

she likes to spend.” 

“I got that impression.” 

“The wardrobe, the jewelry, the vacations, the cars, the surgeries. Plus she was hiding money. Of 

course, I spotted it. Much like your forensics guys—the numbers talk if you know what you’re looking 

for. Among other things, she had a love nest, a two-bedroom spot on Columbus. I told her to get rid of 

it, and when she asked why, I told her because they were broke.” 

“How did she react?” 

“Devastated doesn’t begin to cover it. I guess you could say she freaked.” 

“And when did you tell her all this?” 

He looked at the calendar under the glass on his desktop. “Ten days ago.” 

Detective Heat nodded, reflecting. Ten days. A week before her husband was murdered. 

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TEN 


Nikki led him wordlessly into her bedroom and set the candle on her dresser, in front of the trifold 

mirror, which multiplied its light. She turned to find Rook there, close to her, magnetic. She folded her 

arms around his neck and drew his mouth to hers; he wrapped his long arms around her waist and tugged 

her body to him. Their kisses were deep and urgent, familiar all at once, her tongue finding the depth and 

sweetness of his open mouth while he explored hers. One of his hands began to reach for her blouse but 

hesitated. She clutched it and placed it on her breast. The heat of the room was tropical, and as he 

touched her, Nikki felt his fingers ride the slick of perspiration above the dampness of her bra. She 

lowered her hand and found him and he moaned softly. Nikki began to sway, then he did, too, both 

doing a slow dance in some sort of delicious vertigo. 

Rook walked her backward toward her bed. When her calves met the edge of it, she let herself do a 

slow fall back, pulling him with her. As they both floated down, Heat pulled him closer and twisted, 

surprising Rook by landing on top of him. He looked up at her from the mattress and said, “You’re 

good.” 

“You have no idea,” she said. They dove into each other again, and her tongue picked up the faint acid 

tang of lime and then salt. Her mouth left his to kiss his face and then his ear. She felt the muscles of his 

abdomen flex hard against her as he curled his head upward, nibbling the soft flesh where her neck met 

her collarbone. Nikki stirred and began to unbutton his shirt. Rook was making a project out of her 

blouse button so she rose up, straddled him on both knees and ripped the blouse open, hearing one of 

her buttons skitter against the hardwood floor near the baseboard. With one hand, Rook unhooked the 

front clasp of her bra. Nikki shook her arms out of it and made a frenzied dive onto him. Their wet skin 

made a slap as her chest landed on his. She reached down and unhooked his belt. Then undid his zipper. 

Nikki kissed him again and whispered, “I keep protection in the nightstand.” 

“You won’t need a gun,” he said. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” 

“You’d better not.” And she pounced on him, her heart pounding high in her chest with excitement and 

tension. A wave crashed over Nikki and washed away all the conflicted feelings and misgivings she had 

been wrestling with, and she was simply, mightily, powerfully swept up. In that instant, Nikki became 

free. Free of responsibility. Free of control. Free of herself. Swirling, she clung to Rook, needing to feel 

every part of him she could touch. They held on with a fury, his passion matching hers as they explored 

each other, moving, biting, hungry, reaching and reaching to satisfy what they ached for. 

Nikki couldn’t believe it was morning already. How could the sun be so bright when her watch alarm 

hadn’t gone off yet? Or did she sleep through it? She squinted her eyes open enough to recognize she 

was seeing the Nightsun beam from a police helicopter against her window shears. She listened. No 

sirens, no bullhorns, no heavy Russian footsteps on her fire escape, and soon, the spotlight was 

extinguished and the drone of the chopper grew silent as it flew on. She smiled. Captain Montrose may 

have kept his word and pulled the patrol car, but he didn’t say anything about air surveillance. 

She rolled her head to her alarm clock, but it was flashing 1:03 and that couldn’t be right. Her watch 

said 5:21, so Nikki calculated that the difference was how long the blackout had lasted. 

Page 280

Rook drew a long, slow breath, and Nikki felt his chest expand against her back, followed by the chill of 

his exhale against the dampness of her neck. Damn, she thought, he’s actually spooning me. With the 

windows closed, the bedroom was stifling, and there was a film of sweat fusing their naked bodies. She 

considered moving to get some air between them. Instead, Nikki settled herself back against his chest 

and thighs and liked the fit. 

Jameson Rook. 

Now, how did this happen? 

Since the day she got stuck with him for this research ride-along business, he’d been a daily annoyance 

to her. And now here she was in bed with him after a night of sex. And great sex at that. 

If she had to interrogate herself, Detective Heat would end up signing a sworn statement that there was a 

spark of attraction from their first meeting. He, of course, had no qualms about voicing that every chance 

he had, a trait that may have had something to do with his high annoyance factor. May have? But his 

certainty was no match for a greater force, her denial. Yeah, there was always something there, and now, 

in hindsight, she realized that the more she’d felt it, the more she’d denied it. 

Nikki wondered what other denials she had been dealing with. 

None. Absolutely none. 

Bull. 


Why else did Matthew Starr’s mistress strike such an uncomfortable chord with her, talking about how 

staying in a going-nowhere relationship was just a way of avoiding relationships, and asking her—asking 

her —if she knew what she meant. 

Nikki knew from her therapy after the murder that she wore a lot of armor. Like she needed the shrink 

to tell her that. Or to warn her about the emotional peril of constantly deferring her needs, and yes, her 

desires, by packing them too safely inside her no-go zone. Those shrink sessions were long past, but how 

often lately had Nikki wondered—scratch that—worried, when she threw up her barriers and put herself 

in full Task Orientation Mode, if there might be this tipping point at which you can lose something of 

yourself you have been sheltering and never get it back. For instance, what happens when that hard 

coating you’ve developed to protect the most vulnerable part of you becomes so impenetrable that that 

part can’t even be reached by you? 

The Sargent print Rook gave her came to mind. She thought about those carefree girls lighting paper 

lanterns and wondered what became of them. Did they keep their innocence even after they stopped 

wearing play dresses and lost their soft necks and unlined faces? Did they lose the joy of play, of 

knowing what it was like to romp barefoot on damp grass simply because it felt good? Did they hold 

onto their innocence or had events invaded their lives to make them wary and vigilant? Did they, a 

hundred years before Sting wrote it, build a fortress around their hearts? 

Did they have sport sex with ex–Navy Seals just to get their heart rates up? 

Or with celebrity journalists who hung with Mick and Bono? 

Not to compare—oh, why not?—the difference with Rook was that he got her heart rate up first and 

that’s what made her want him. From that initial blood rush her pulse had only beat faster. 

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What was it that made sex with Jameson Rook so incredible? 

Hm, she thought, he was passionate, for sure. Exciting and surprising, uh huh. And tender, too, at the 

right times, but not too soon—and not too much, thank God. But the big difference with Rook was that 

he was playful. 

And he made her playful. 

Rook gave her permission to laugh. Being with him was fun. Sleeping with him was anything but solemn 

and earnest. His playfulness brought joy into her bed. I still have my armor, she thought, but tonight, 

anyway, Rook got in. And brought me with him. 

Nikki Heat had discovered she could be playful, too. In fact, she rolled toward him and slid down the 

bed to prove it. 

Her cell phone startled them awake. She sat up, orienting herself in the blinding sunlight. 

Rook lifted his head off the pillow. “What’s that, a wake-up call?” 

“You had your wake-up call, mister.” 

He dropped back on the pillow with his eyes closed, smiling at the memory. “And I answered.” 

She pressed the cell to her ear. “Heat.” 

“Hi, Nikki, did I wake you?” It was Lauren. 

“No, I’m up.” She fumbled for her watch on the nightstand. 7:03. Nikki worked to clear her head. 

When your friend from the medical examiner’s office calls at that hour, it’s generally not social. 

“I waited until after seven.” 

“Lauren, really, it’s fine. I’m already dressed and I’ve had my exercise,” Nikki said, looking at her 

naked reflection in the mirror. Rook lifted himself up and his smiling face appeared in the mirror with her. 

“Well, that’s half-true,” he said in a hushed voice. 

“Oh…Sounds like you have company. Nikki Heat, do you have company?” 

“No, that was the TV. Those ads come on so loud.” She turned to Rook and put a finger to her lips. 

“You have man company.” 

Nikki pressed for a change of subject. “What’s going on, Laur?” 

“I’m working a crime scene. Let me give you the address.” 

“Hang on, I need something to write with.” Nikki crossed to the dresser and grabbed a pen. She 

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couldn’t find a pad or paper, so she flipped over her copy ofFirst Press with Rook and Bono on the 

cover and wrote on the vodka ad on the back. “OK.” 

“I’m at the impound lot near the Javits.” 

“I know the impound. That’s West, what, 38th?” 

“Yes, at 12th,” said Lauren. “A tow driver found a body in a car he was hauling. First Precinct’s got 

jurisdiction, but I thought I’d give you a call because you’re definitely going to want to come by for this. I 

found something that might relate to your Matthew Starr case.” 

“What? Tell me.” 

Nikki could hear voices in the background. The mouthpiece rustled as Lauren covered it and spoke to 

someone, then she came back on. “Detectives from the First just got here all hot to trot, so I’ve got to 

go. See you when you get here.” 

Nikki hung up and turned to see Rook was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Are you ashamed of me, 

Detective Heat?” He said it with a theatrical air. Nikki could hear a bit of the Grand Damn in his posh 

accent. “You bed me, but you hide me from your high-class friends. I feel so…cheap.” 

“Comes with the territory.’” 

Rook thought a moment and said, “You could have told her I was here for security.” 

“You?” 

“Well…I did cover you.” He took her hand and pulled her closer, so that she stood between his knees. 

“I’ve got an appointment with a corpse.” 

He looped his legs behind hers and rested his hands on her hips. “Last night was great, don’t you think?” 

“It was. And you know what else last night was? Last night.” And she strode to her closet to get dressed 

for work. 

Rook did the cab fishing on Park Avenue South and hooked a northbound whopper, a minivan-cab. He 

held the door for Nikki, who got in with one last glance over her shoulder, harboring the concern that 

Captain Montrose had left a blue-and-white on her and she’d be spotted on her morning after with 

Jameson Rook. “Looking for Pochenko?” asked Rook. 

“Not really. Old habit.” 

She gave the cabbie Rook’s address in Tribeca. 

“What’s going on?” he said. “Aren’t we going to the impound lot?” 

“One of us is going to the impound lot. The other is going to go home and change his clothes.” 

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“Thanks, but if you can stand me, I’ll wear this again today. I’d rather hang with you. Although, checking 

out a body isn’t exactly our best denouement. After a night like that, the New York thing would be to 

take you to brunch. And pretend to write down your phone number.” 

“No, you’re going to go change. I can’t think of a worse idea than for the two of us to show up in the 

same cab at my friend’s crime scene first thing in the morning with bed hair and one of us in yesterday’s 

clothes.” 

“We could show up wearing each other’s clothes, that would be worse.” He laughed and took her hand. 

She withdrew hers. 

“Have you noticed I don’t do a lot of hand holding on the job? Slows down my fast draw.” 

They rode in silence for a while. As the cab cut across Houston Street, he said, “I’m trying to figure 

out…did I bite my own tongue when you kicked me in the face, or did you do it?” That earned a fast 

check from the driver in the rearview mirror. 

Heat said, “I want to lean on Forensics to cough up that report on Pochenko’s blue jeans.” 

“I can’t recall getting bitten either time,” said Rook. 

“Blackout probably set the lab behind schedule, but it’s been long enough.” 

“Things were happening fast and, dare I say, furious.” 

“I’m betting those fibers match,” she said. 

“But still, you’d think I’d remember a bite.” 

“Surveillance video be damned, somehow he got in there, I’d bet on it. I know he likes his fire escapes.” 

“Am I talking too much?” Rook asked. 

“Yes.” 

Two blessedly chatter-free minutes later, Rook was out of the cab, standing in front of his building. 

“When you’re done, go to the precinct and wait for me. I’ll meet you there after I finish at the impound.” 

He sulked like a rejected puppy and started to close the door. She held it open and said, “By the way? 

Yes. I did bite your tongue.” Then she slid the door closed. Nikki watched him grinning on the sidewalk 

through the back window as her cab drove on. 

Detective Heat badged herself through the gate of the city impound, and after she signed in, the guard 

stepped out of his tiny office into the hot sun to point out the medical examiner van on the far end of the 

lot. Nikki turned to thank him but he was already inside filling his shirtsleeves with air from the window 

AC. 

The sun was still low in the sky, just clearing the top of the Javits Convention Center, and Heat could 

feel its bite on her back as she paused to take her long, deep breath, her ritual remembering breath. 

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When she was ready to meet the victim, she walked the long row of dusty parked cars with 

grease-penciled windshields to the investigation scene. The M.E. van and another from Forensics were 

parked close to a tow truck still hooked up to a newish, green metallic Volvo wagon. Technicians in 

white coveralls were dusting the outside of the Volvo. As Nikki got closer, she could see the body of a 

woman slumped in the driver’s seat, the top of her head pointed out the open car door. 

“Sorry to interrupt your morning workout, Detective.” Lauren Parry stepped around the rear of the M.E. 

van. 

“Not much gets by you, does it?” 

“I told you Jameson Rook was doable.” Nikki smiled and shook her head, she was so busted. “Well, 

was he doable?” 

“And doable.” 

“Good. Glad to see you enjoying life. Detectives just told me you had a close call the other night.” 

“Yeah, after SoHo House it was all downhill.” 

Lauren stepped to her. “You all right?” 

“Better than the bad guy.” 

“My girl.” Then Lauren frowned and tugged aside the collar of her friend’s blouse to look at the bruising 

she saw on her neck. “I’d say it was a very close call. Let’s take it easy, all right? I have enough 

customers, I don’t need you, too.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Nikki. “Now, you dragged me out of bed for this, it better be worth it. 

What are you working here?” 

“Jane Doe. Like I said, found in her car by the tow truck driver when he dropped it off here this 

morning. He thought it was heat asphyxiation.” 

“A Doe? In a car?” 

“I hear you, but no driver’s license. No purse. No plates. No registration.” 

“You said you found something connected to my Matthew Starr case.” 

“Give a girl a little sex and she gets very impatient.” 

Nikki cocked an eyebrow. “A little?” 

“And boastful.” The M.E. handed Nikki a pair of gloves. While she put them on, Lauren turned to the 

back of her van and came out with a clear plastic bag. She pinched it at the corner and held it up so that 

it dangled in front of Nikki’s eyes. 

Inside was a ring. 

A ring shaped like a hexagon. 

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A ring that was a good match for those bruises on Matthew Starr’s torso. 

A ring that could have put that cut on Vitya Pochenko’s finger. 

“Worth the drive?” said Lauren. 

“Where did you find this?” 

“I’ll show you.” Lauren took the ring back to her evidence locker and led Heat to the open door of the 

Volvo. “It was there. On the floor under the front seat.” 

Nikki looked at the woman’s body. “It is a man’s ring, isn’t it?” 

The medical examiner gave her a long, sober look. “I want you to see something.” The two leaned in 

through the open car door. Inside it was humming with blowflies. “OK, we have a female, aged fifty to 

fifty-five. Hard to get an accurate postmortem interval without labbing the rate test because she’s been in 

that car so long in this heat. My guess—” 

“Which is always damn close.” 

“Thank you—based on the state of putrefaction is four, four and a half days.” 

“And cause?” 

“Even with the discoloration that’s taken place over the last few days, it’s pretty clear to see what 

happened here.” The woman had a thick curtain of hair across her face. Lauren used her small metal ruler 

to pull the hair aside and reveal her neck. 

When she saw the bruising, Nikki swallowed dryness and relived her own choking. “Strangulation” was 

all she said, though. 

“Looks like from someone in the backseat. See where the fingers would have laced together?” 

“Looks like she put up a hell of a fight,” said the detective. One of the victim’s shoes was off and her 

ankles and shins were mottled by scrapes and bruises where she had kicked the underside of the dash. 

“And look,” said Lauren, “heel marks on the inside of the windshield over there.” The missing shoe 

rested broken on the dash above the glove compartment. 

“I think that ring belongs to whoever strangled her. It probably came off in the struggle.” 

Nikki thought of the woman’s desperate last moments and her brave fight. Whether she had been an 

innocent victim, a criminal getting a payback, or something in between, she was a person. And had she 

ever battled to live. Nikki made herself look at the woman’s face, if for no other reason than to honor 

that struggle. 

And when Nikki looked at her, she saw something. Something death plus time couldn’t obscure. Images 

played hazily in the detective’s mind. Grocery clerks, and bank loan officers, and photos of women from 

society pages, an old schoolteacher, a bartender in Boston. Nothing came to her. “Could you…” Nikki 

pointed at the woman’s hair and waved her forefinger. Lauren used her ruler to gently draw all the hair 

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off the face. “I think I’ve seen her before,” said the detective. 

Heat shifted her weight on her heels, leaned back from the woman about a foot, and tilted her own head 

to match the angle of hers. And pondered. And then she knew. The grainy photo, at a three-quarters 

angle with the expensive furniture in the background and the framed lithograph of a pineapple on the wall. 

She would have to look it up to be sure, but damn it, she knew. She looked at Lauren. “I think I’ve seen 

this woman on the surveillance tape from the Guilford. The morning Matthew Starr was killed.” 

Her cell phone rang and she jumped. 

“Heat,” she said. 

“Guess where I’m standing.” 

“Rook, I’m not up for this right now.” 

“I’ll give you a clue. Roach got a call about a burglary last night. Guess where.” 

A cloud of dread gathered around her. “Starr’s apartment.” 

“I’m standing in the living room. Guess what else. Every single painting in the room is gone.” 

ELEVEN 

Thirty minutes later, Detective Heat stepped off the Guilford’s elevator on six and strode the hall to 

where Raley stood with a uniform outside the open door to the Starr apartment. The door frame bore a 

crime scene posting and the requisite yellow tape. Stacked on the luxurious hallway carpet by the door 

were plastic snap-lid tubs labeled “Forensics.” 

Raley nodded hello and held up the police line tape for her. She ducked under and entered the 

apartment. “Holy shit,” said Nikki, turning a circle in the middle of the living room. She craned her neck 

upward to the take in the full height of the cathedral ceiling, believing what she was seeing, yet stunned at 

the sight. The walls were stripped bare, and all that was left were the nails and mountings. 

That living room had been Matthew Starr’s self-proclaimed Versailles. And even if it hadn’t been an 

actual palace, as a single room it most certainly qualified as a museum chamber with its two stories of 

wall space graced by some valuable, if not cohesively collected, works of art. “Amazing what happens to 

the size of a room when you strip everything off the walls.” 

Rook stepped over beside her. “I know. It looks bigger.” 

“Really?” she said. “I was going to say smaller.” 

He flicked his eyebrows. “Guess size is a matter of personal experience.” 

She shot Rook a furtive cool-it look and turned her back on him. When she did, Nikki was certain she 

caught a fast glance darting between Raley and Ochoa. Well, she thought she was certain, anyway. 

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She made a forceful show of getting down to business. “Ochoa. We’re absolutely sure Kimberly Starr 

and her son weren’t here when this went down?” The detective needed to know if a kidnapping was 

rolled into this. 

“Daytime doorman said she left yesterday morning with the kid.” He flipped back through his spiral pad. 

“Here it is. Doorman got a call to help her out with a rolling suitcase. That was about tenA.M. Her son 

was with her.” 

“Did she say where they were going?” 

“He hailed her a cab to Grand Central. From there, he didn’t know.” 

“Raley, I know we have her cell phone number. Dig it out and see if she picks up. And go easy when 

you break the news, she’s had a hell of a week.” 

“On it,” said Raley, who then head-nodded to the pair of detectives on the balcony. “Just to be clear, 

are we working this, or is Burglary?” 

“Heaven forbid, but we may actually have to cooperate. Sure it’s a twenty-one, but we can’t rule it out 

as part of our homicide investigation. Not yet, anyway.” Especially with the discovery of the Jane Doe 

from the surveillance tape and the ring at her death scene likely belonging to Pochenko, even a rookie’s 

cop sense would tie it all together. What remained was to uncover how. “I expect you to play nice with 

them. Just don’t give away our secret handshake, OK?” 

The pair from Burglary, Detectives Gunther and Francis, were cooperative but didn’t have much 

information to share. There were clear signs of forced entry; they used power tools, obviously 

battery-operated, to compromise the front door of the apartment. “Beyond, that,” said Detective 

Gunther, “it’s all pretty much neatsy tidy. Maybe the lab rats will pick up something.” 

“Something’s not lining up for me,” Nikki said. “Moving this haul would take time and manpower. 

Blackout or not, somebody had to see or hear something.” 

“Agreed,” said Gunther. “I had a thought we should split off now and knock on a few doors, find out if 

anyone heard anything go bump in the night.” 

Heat nodded. “Good thought.” 

“Is there anything else missing?” asked Rook. Nikki liked his question. Not only was it smart, but she 

felt relieved he had dropped the seventh-grade innuendos. 

“Still checking,” said Francis. “Obviously we’ll know more when the resident, Mrs. Starr, gives it a 

once-over, but so far, it appears to be just the art.” 

Then Ochoa did what they all kept doing, looking at the blank walls. “Man, how much did they say this 

collection was worth?” 

Nikki answered, “Fifty to sixty mil, give or take.” 

“Looks definitely more like take,” said Rook. 

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While Forensics examined the apartment and the Burglary detectives peeled off to canvass residents, 

Nikki went downstairs to talk with the only eyewitness, the night-shift doorman. 

Henry was waiting quietly with a patrol officer on one of the sofas in the lobby. She sat beside him and 

asked him if he was all right, and he said yes, like he would have said it no matter how bad he felt. The 

poor old guy had answered these same questions for the first responders, and then again for the Burglary 

cops, but he was patient and cooperative with Detective Heat, glad to tell someone his story. 

The blackout came during his shift, at about nine-fifteen. Henry was supposed to get off at midnight, but 

his relief called in about eleven and said he couldn’t make it on account of the power outage. Nikki 

asked the man’s name, made a note, and Henry continued. It was mostly quiet at the door because with 

the elevator out and all the heat, people who were in were staying in, and many of those who were out 

were stuck someplace. The stairwell and halls were equipped with low-level emergency lighting, but the 

building didn’t have a backup generator. 

At about three-thirty in the morning, a big van pulled up out front and he thought it was ConEd, because 

it was big like one of theirs. Four men in coveralls got out all together and jumped him. He didn’t see any 

guns, but they had big five-cell flashlights and one of the men gave him a punch in the solar plexus with his 

when Henry challenged them. They got him off the street and into the lobby then used plastic zip cords to 

bind his hands behind his back and hold his feet together. Nikki could still see some flecks of pale gray 

adhesive on his deep brown skin where they had duct taped his mouth. Then they took his cell phone and 

carried him into the tiny mail room and closed the door. He couldn’t give very good descriptions because 

it was dark and they all wore baseball hats. Nikki asked if he heard any names or could pick out anything 

unusual in their voices, like if they were high, or low, or perhaps had accents. He said no, because he 

never heard their voices, not one of them ever spoke. Not even a word. Professionals, she thought. 

Henry said he heard them all walk out later and take off in the truck. That’s when he struggled to get free 

and kick at the door. He was bound too tight, so he had to stay like that until the assistant super came in 

and found him. 

“And do you know about what time they left?” 

“I couldn’t tell the time, but it felt like it was about fifteen, twenty minutes before the lights came back 

on.” 

She wrote, “Left before end of blackout. 4A.M., approx.” 

“Think a moment. Is it possible you’re confused about these times you’ve given me, Henry?” 

“No, Detective. I know it was three-thirty when they got there because when I saw that truck pull up out 

front, I checked my watch.” 

“Sure, sure. That’s good, very helpful to us. But the part that puzzles me is their time of departure. The 

blackout ended at four-fifteen. If you say they left about fifteen minutes before that, that means they were 

only here a half hour.” He processed what she was saying and then nodded agreement. “Is it possible 

you fell asleep or were unconscious during that time? Maybe they left later than fourA.M. ?” 

“Oh, believe you me, I was awake the whole time. Trying to think of a way to get out.” The old 

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doorman paused and his eyes began to rim with tears. 

“Sir, are you all right?” Her eyes darted to the patrolman standing behind him. “Are you sure you don’t 

want medical help?” 

“No, no, please, I’m not hurt, it’s not that.” He turned his face from hers and said in a low voice, “I have 

been a doorman at this building for over thirty years. I have never seen a week like this one. Mr. Starr 

and his poor family. Your detective talked with William, you know, the day-shift doorman, about that 

day. He’s still afraid he’ll be fired for letting those fellows slip in that morning. And now here I am. I 

know it’s not the fanciest work, but this job means something to me. We’ve got some characters living 

here, but most folks are very good to me. And even if they aren’t, I’m always proud of my service.” He 

said nothing for a moment and then looked up to Nikki and his lip was quivering. “I’m the gatekeeper. 

More than anything else I do, it’s my responsibility to make sure bad people don’t get in here.” 

Nikki rested a hand on his shoulder and spoke gently. “Henry, this is not your fault.” 

“How is it not my fault? It was my watch.” 

“You were overpowered, you’re not responsible, can you see that? You were the victim. You did 

everything you could.” She knew he was only half-buying it, knew he was replaying the night, wondering 

what else he could have done. “Henry?” And when she had his attention again, Nikki said, “We all try. 

And try as we might to control things, sometimes bad things get in and it’s not our fault.” He nodded and 

managed a smile. At least the words Nikki’s therapist had once used with her made someone feel better. 

She arranged for a patrol car to drive him home. 

Back in the precinct, Detective Heat drew a vertical red line on the whiteboard to create a separate but 

parallel case track for the burglary. Then she sketched in the timeline of events beginning with the 

departure of Kimberly Starr and her son, the time of the blackout, the phone call from the relief doorman, 

the arrival of the van and its crew, and their departure just before the end of the blackout. 

She then drew another red vertical to delineate a new space for the Jane Doe murder. “You’re starting 

to run out of whiteboard,” said Rook. 

“I hear you. The crimes are getting ahead of the solves.” Then she added, “For now, anyway.” Nikki 

taped up the lobby surveillance photo of the Doe. Beside it, she taped the impound lot death shot Lauren 

had taken of her an hour before. “But this one is leading us to something.” 

“Too weird she was in the lobby the same morning Starr got killed,” said Ochoa. 

Rook rolled a chair over and sat. “Quite a coincidence.” 

“Weird, yes. Coincidence, no,” said Detective Heat. “You still taking notes for your article about 

Homicide? Get this one down. Coincidences break cases. You know why? Because they don’t exist. 

Find the reason it’s not a coincidence, and you can pretty much get out your handcuffs, because you’re 

going to be slapping them on somebody damn soon.” 

“Any ID yet on the Doe?” said Ochoa. 

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“Nope. All her personal effects were gone, car registration, license plates. A squad from the Three-Two 

is Dumpster diving for her purse in a radius around West 142nd and Lenox, where they towed her car 

from. When we break here, see how they’re doing on the VIN.” 

“Got it,” said Ochoa. “What’s keeping our fiber test?” 

“It’s the blackout. But I asked the captain to roll an M-80 under somebody’s lab stool at Forensics.” 

Nikki posted on the board a photo of the hexagonal ring Lauren found. She taped it beside the matching 

bruise pictures of Matthew Starr’s body and wondered if it was Pochenko’s. “I want those results like 

yesterday.” 

Raley joined the circle. “I made contact with Kimberly Starr on her cell phone up in Connecticut. She 

said the city was suffocating so she and her son spent the night at a friend’s summer cottage in Westport. 

Some place called Compo Beach.” 

“Alibi that, OK?” said Heat. “In fact, we’re going to split the list of everyone we’ve interviewed for the 

homicide and alibi-check all of them. And be sure to include that relief doorman who missed his shift last 

night.” Nikki crossed that item off her pad and turned back to Raley. “How did she react to the 

burglary?” 

“Freaked. I’m still waiting for the hearing to return to this ear. But like you told me, I didn’t say what got 

taken, just that there was a break-in during the blackout.” He said Mrs. Starr was hiring a car service to 

bring her to the Guilford and that she would call when she was near so they could meet her there. 

“Good going, Rales,” said Heat. “I want one of us to be there when she sees it.” 

“Whoever it is, take earplugs,” he said. 

“Maybe she won’t be so upset,” said Rook. “I assume the collection was insured.” 

“I have a call in to Noah Paxton right now,” said Nikki. 

“Well, assuming it was, she might be happy about this. Although, with all her face work, I don’t know 

how you’ll be able to tell.” 

Ochoa confirmed what they suspected, that there was no security video of the burglary because of the 

blackout. But, he said, Gunther, Francis, and their team from Burglary were still knocking on doors at the 

Guilford. “Hopefully, it won’t be an infringement on anybody’s privacy issues to ask a few questions, 

what with bodies flying by their windows and sixty million bucks’ worth of art getting hauled out of their 

building.” 

Detective Heat didn’t want to take a chance Kimberly Starr would get to her apartment before she did, 

so she and Rook went there to wait at the perennial crime scene. “You know,” said Rook as they 

entered the living room again, “she should just keep a supply of yellow tape on hand in the hall closet.” 

Nikki had another reason for arriving early. The detective wanted to have some face time with the 

Forensics geeks, who never seemed to mind conversation with actual people. Even if they always stared 

at her chest. She found the one she wanted to talk to on his knees, tweezing something usable off the 

living room rug. “Find your contact lens?” she said. 

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He turned to look up at her. “I wear glasses.” 

“That was a joke.” 

“Oh.” He stood up and stared at her chest. 

“I noticed you worked the homicide here a few days ago.” 

“You did?” 

“I did…Tim.” The techie’s face pinked around his freckles. “And I’ve been wondering something maybe 

you can answer for me.” 

“Sure.” 

“It’s about access to the apartment. Specifically, could someone have gained entry by the fire escape?” 

“On that, I can answer empirically. No.” 

“You sound so certain.” 

“Because I am.” Tim led Nikki and Rook to the bedroom hall, where the fire escape met a pair of 

windows. “It’s standard to examine all possible points of entry. See here? It’s a code violation, but these 

windows are painted shut, and have been for years. I can tell you how many years if you want me to run 

it in the lab, but for our purposes, say during the past week, there’s no way these have been opened.” 

Nikki leaned in to the window frame, just to check for herself. “You’re right.” 

“I like to think science isn’t about right, it’s about thorough.” 

“Well said.” Nikki nodded. “And did you dust for prints?” 

“No, it seemed unproductive given that it couldn’t be opened.” 

“I mean on the outside. In case somebody trying to get in didn’t know that.” 

The technician’s jaw fell and he looked at the window glass. Whatever pink was in his cheeks bled out, 

and Tim, with his face of freckles, looked positively lunar. 

Nikki’s cell phone vibrated, and she stepped away to take the call. It was Noah Paxton. “Thanks for 

getting back to me.” 

“I was beginning to wonder if I upset you. It’s been how long since we last spoke?” 

She laughed. “Yesterday when I interrupted your take-out lunch.” Rook must have heard her laughter, 

and he appeared from the hallway to hover. She turned and took a few steps away from him, not needing 

that layer of scrutiny, but she could see him hanging close by in her periphery. 

“See? Almost a full twenty-two hours. A guy could get paranoid. What’s the occasion this time?” 

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Heat told him about the theft of the art collection. Her news was followed by a long, long silence. She 

said, “Are you still there?” 

“Yeah, I—You wouldn’t joke. I mean, not about something like this.” 

“Noah, I’m standing in the living room now. The walls are absolutely bare.” 

Another long silence and she heard him clear his throat. “Detective Heat, can I get personal?” 

“Go on.” 

“Did you ever get hit with a big shock, and then, when you think you can’t deal with it, you work 

through it, and then—ahem, excuse me.” She heard him sip something. “And so you man-up and work 

through it, and just when you do, out of nowhere comes another crushing blow, and then another, and 

then you reach a point where you just say, What the hell am I doing? And then you fantasize about 

chucking it all. Not just the job but the life. Be one of those guys down on the Jersey Shore who make 

sub sandwiches in a hut or rent hula hoops and bikes. Just. Chuck. It.” 

“Do you?” 

“All the time. Especially this minute.” He sighed and swore under his breath. “So where are you with 

this? Do you have any leads?” 

“We’ll see,” she said, adhering to her policy of being the sole interrogator in an interview. “I assume you 

can account for your whereabouts last night?” 

“Jeez, you cut right to it, don’t you?” 

“And now I’d like you to.” Nikki waited, knowing his dance steps by now: resist then cave to pressure. 

“I shouldn’t be pissed, I know it’s your job, Detective, but come on.” She let her cold silence push him 

and he surrendered. “Last night I was teaching my weekly night course at Westchester Community 

College up in Valhalla.” 

“And that can be verified?” 

“I was lecturing twenty-five continuing ed students. If they run true to form, one or two may have noticed 

me.” 

“And after that?” 

“Home to Tarrytown for a big night of beer and Yankees-Angels at my local hang.” 

She asked the name of the bar and wrote it down. “One more question, and I’ll be out of your life.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Were the paintings insured?” 

“No. They had been, of course, but when the vultures started circling, Matthew canceled the policy. He 

said he didn’t want to keep shelling out a small fortune to protect something that would just go to the 

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bankruptcy creditors.” Now it was Nikki’s turn to be silent. “Are you still there, Detective?” 

“Yes. I was just thinking Kimberly Starr is going to be here any minute. Did she know the insurance was 

canceled on the art collection?” 

“She did. Kimberly found out the same night Matthew told her he canceled his life insurance.” Then he 

added, “I don’t envy you the next few minutes. Good luck.” 

Raley wasn’t kidding about the earplugs. When Kimberly Starr came into the apartment, she flat-out 

screamed. She already looked ragged getting off the elevator and began a low moan when she saw the 

door hardware on the hallway rug. Nikki tried to take her arm when she entered her home, but she 

shook the detective off and her moan revved up into a full-blown 1950s horror film shriek. 

Nikki’s gut twisted for the woman as Kimberly dropped her purse and screamed again. She wanted no 

part of anybody’s help and held up a straight arm when Nikki tried to approach her. When her screaming 

subsided, she sat hard on the sofa moaning, “No, no, no.” Her head rose up and swiveled to take in the 

entire room, all two stories of it. “How much am I supposed to take? Will somebody tell me how much I 

am supposed to take? Who goes through this? Who?” Her voice raspy from screaming, she went on like 

that, moaning the rhetoricals that any sane or compassionate person in the room would have been foolish 

to answer. So they waited her out. 

Rook left the room and returned with a glass of water, which Kimberly took and gulped. She had gotten 

half of the water down when she started to choke on it and gagged it onto the rug, coughing and 

wheezing for air until her cough became weeping. Nikki sat with her but didn’t reach for her. After a 

moment, Kimberly pivoted away and buried her face in her hands, shaking with deep sobs. 

Ten long minutes later, without acknowledging them, Kimberly reached across the floor to her bag, took 

out a prescription bottle, and downed a pill with the remains of her water. She blew her nose to no effect 

and sat kneading the tissue as she had just days before when she was digesting the news of her 

husband’s murder. 

“Mrs. Starr?” Heat spoke just above a whisper, but Kimberly jumped. “At some point I’ll want to ask 

you some questions, but that can wait.” 

She nodded and whispered, “Thank you.” 

“When you feel up to it, hopefully sometime today, would you mind looking around to see if anything 

else was taken?” 

Another nod. Another whisper. “I will.” 

In the car on their short drive back to the precinct, Rook said, “I was only half kidding this morning 

about taking you to brunch. What would you say if I asked you about having dinner?” 

“I’d say you’re pushing it.” 

“Come on, didn’t you have a good time last night?” 

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“No, I didn’t. I had a great time.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“There is no problem. So let’s not create one by letting it creep into the job, OK? Or haven’t you 

noticed, I’m working not one, but two open homicides, and now a multimillion-dollar art theft.” 

Nikki double-parked the Crown Victoria between two double-parked blue-and-whites in front of the 

precinct on 82nd Street. They got out and Rook spoke to her over the hot metal roof. “How do you ever 

have a relationship in this job?” 

“I don’t. Pay attention.” 

Then they heard Ochoa call out, “Don’t lock it up, Detective.” Raley and Ochoa were hustling from the 

precinct lot to the street. Four uniforms were playing catch-up. 

“What have you got?” said Heat. 

Roach arrived at her open door. Ochoa said, “Burglary squad got a score on their door knock at the 

Guilford.” 

“Eyewitness coming in from a business trip saw a bunch of guys leaving the building about four this 

morning,” continued Raley. “He thought it was weird so he made a note of the plate on the truck.” 

“And he didn’t call it in?” said Rook. 

“Man, you are new at this, aren’t you?” said Ochoa. “Anyway, we ran it and the truck’s registered to an 

address over in Long Island City.” He held up the note and Heat plucked it from his hand. 

“Pile in,” she said. But Raley and Ochoa knew this was big and each already had a leg in a door. Nikki 

fired the ignition, lit the gum ball, and floored it. Rook was still closing his backseat door when she 

reached Columbus and hit the siren. 

TWENTY 

“Stop squirming,” said Noah Paxton. Rook started to turn his head to say something to his assailant, but 

Paxton jammed the muzzle of the gun hard into his skull. 

“Ow. Hey.” 

“I said hold still, damn it.” 

“Do as he says, Rook.” Nikki still had her Sig Sauer up, keeping a bead on the small sliver of Noah 

Paxton that was showing behind his human shield. She didn’t need to turn to know that Raley and Ochoa 

were doing the same thing with their weapons behind her. 

Rook raised his eyebrows contritely and looked at her like a kid who’d broken a living room lamp with 

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a baseball. “I am really sorry about this.” 

“Rook, be quiet,” said Nikki. 

“From now on, I’ll do what I’m told.” 

“Start now by shutting up.” 

“OK.” Then he realized he was not shutting up. “Oops, sorry.” 

“I want you to drop your guns,” said Paxton. “All of you.” 

Heat didn’t say no because a direct verbal confrontation could heighten tensions. Instead she maintained 

her isosceles stance and let that be her answer. She spoke in a calm tone. “You’re smart enough to know 

you’re not getting out, Noah, so why don’t you let him go and end this peacefully.” 

“You know, she makes sense,” said Rook. Heat and Paxton told him to shut up at the same time. 

Paxton’s left hand held a handful of the back of Rook’s shirt in a bunch to keep him close. He gave it a 

tug. “Back up.” When he didn’t move, Noah gave a sharp pull. “I said move. That’s right, go with me, 

easy, easy.” He led Rook backward, taking baby steps to the elevator. When he saw that the three 

detectives were moving forward, matching his pace, he stopped. “Hey, stay back.” 

Heat and Roach stopped but didn’t retreat. 

“I’m not afraid to use this,” Paxton warned. 

“Nobody said you were.” She was calm but sounded in command. “But you don’t want to.” 

Paxton moved the gun away slightly to adjust his grip, and Rook slid forward, only to get jerked back. 

“Don’t be stupid.” Noah again pushed the muzzle hard against the soft bone behind Rook’s ear. “All it 

takes is one. Do you have any idea what this will do to you?” 

Rook nodded as much as he dared. “Scrambled eggs.” 

“What?” 

“Like a hammer hitting a plate of—Never mind, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Paxton tugged his shirt again and they continued to back toward the elevator. And again the detectives 

advanced with them. As they all drew closer to the elevator, Nikki looked at the panel above the door. It 

indicated that the car was waiting there on six. 

Heat spoke in a barely audible voice. “Rales.” 

“Yo.” 

“Lose that car.” 

Behind her, Raley keyed his mic and spoke quietly. “Lobby, call elevator down from six immediately.” 

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Paxton heard the elevator softly kick into motion right behind him. “What the hell do you think you’re 

doing?” He turned quickly over his shoulder, in time to see the 6 digit go dark and the 5 light up. He 

didn’t move enough for Nikki to get a clear shot, but while he was distracted, she took two steps closer. 

He turned back and saw her. “Stop right there.” 

Heat stopped. She had closed the gap and he was ten feet away. Not close enough yet, but closer. She 

couldn’t see Paxton’s face, just his eye, looking wild peeking out from the gap between the gun barrel 

and Rook’s head. His voice was building to a rage. “Now you boxed me in.” 

“You’re not leaving. I told you that.” She worked to keep the calm in her tone to counter his fury. 

“I’m going to shoot.” 

“It’s time to put your gun down, Noah.” 

“His blood will be on you.” 

Rook made eye contact with her and mouthed, Shoot. Him. 

She had no shot and said so with the smallest head shake. 

“You screwed up everything, Detective, you know that? I wish Pochenko had finished the job on you.” 

Nikki’s eyes fluttered and a weight sank in her gut. 

“You did that?” said Rook. 

“Let it go, Rook,” said Nikki, struggling to let go of it herself. Behind her she heard F-bombs muttered 

by Raley and Ochoa. 

“You sent that animal to her apartment?” Rook’s nostrils flared. “You sent him to her home?” His chest 

expanded with each breath as his outrage grew more heated. “You son of a…bitch.” He spun his body 

away from the pistol, hurling himself. A loud gunshot echoed in the hall as Rook dropped hard to the 

floor. 

Paxton fell to one knee beside him, moaning, with blood streaming from his shoulder onto Rook. His gun 

was on the rug beside them and Noah grabbed for it. 

Nikki lunged and body-tackled him. She slammed Paxton onto his back and pinned him down with her 

knees on his chest. He had the gun in his hand, but he hadn’t had time to raise it. She held her Sig Sauer 

inches from his face. His eyes flitted to his gun hand, calculating. 

“Go ahead,” said Detective Heat. “I need a new blouse anyway.” 

At La Chaleur, the sidewalk cafe outside the Guilford, the after-work crowd was craning to watch the 

police activity. The sun had just gone down, and in the quieting darkness, the flashing lights from the 

cruisers and ambulances reflected in their cosmos and eighteen-dollar glasses of Sancerre. 

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Over between the cafe and the front steps of the apartment building, the lights strobed on the backs of 

two plainclothes cops facing Detective Heat. One of them put away his notebook. They each shook her 

hand. Nikki leaned back against the warm stone facade of the Guilford and watched the shooting 

investigation team cross away to their black Crown Victoria. 

Rook stepped over and joined her. “‘Go ahead, I need a new blouse anyway’?” 

“I think that was cool for short notice.” She tried to read him. “What, too girly?” 

“Got Noah’s attention.” He followed her gaze to the incident investigation pair as they drove off for 

downtown. “Nobody told you to hand in your badge and gun, I hope.” 

“No, they expect this will clear just fine. They were actually amazed I didn’t kill him.” 

“Didn’t you want to?” 

She thought a beat and said, “He’s alive.” The detective let that simple fact provide all the details. “If I 

need vengeance kicks, I just Netflix Charles Bronson. Or Jodie Foster.” She turned to him. “Besides, I 

was aiming at you. You’re the one I wanted to kill.” 

“And I even signed that liability waiver.” 

“Lost opportunity, Rook. It’s going to haunt me.” 

Roach stepped out of the building and came over. Ochoa said, “Paramedics are bringing him out now.” 

Nikki waited until they carried Paxton’s gurney down the steps and rolled it up to the curb before she 

walked over followed by Raley, Ochoa, and Rook. In the harsh utility light shining down from above the 

ambulance door, Noah’s face was the color of an oyster. She checked with the paramedic standing with 

him. “Is he OK for a quick chat?” 

“A minute or two, but that’s it,” said the EMT. 

Heat stood so she loomed over him. “Just want you to know one good thing came out of that little 

hostage drama up there. Your gun. It’s a twenty-five. Same caliber that killed Pochenko. We’re running 

ballistics on it. And giving you a paraffin test for gunpowder residue. What do you think we’ll find?” 

“I have nothing to say.” 

“What, no spoilers? Fine, I can wait for the results. Do you want me to call you with them, or would you 

rather wait to hear them at your arraignment?” Paxton looked away from her. “Tell me, when you raced 

over here to get your hands on those paintings, were you going to use it on Kimberly Starr, too? Is that 

why you had the gun with you?” 

When he didn’t answer, she spoke to her team. “Kimberly owes me.” 

“Big-time,” said Raley. 

Ochoa added, “You probably saved her life when you arrested her.” 

Noah rolled his head back to face her. “You already arrested her?” 

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Heat nodded. “This afternoon, right after I found the paintings in the basement.” 

“But that phone call to me. The one you wiretapped…” 

“She was already in custody. Kimberly made that call for me.” 

“Why?” 

“Why else? To get you to come to my art show.” Nikki gave the sign to the paramedics and stepped 

away so the last picture the detective saw was the look on Noah Paxton’s face. 

The heat wave broke late that night, and it did not go quietly. As a front from Canada bullied its way 

down the Hudson, it collided with the hot, stagnant air of New York and spawned an aerial show of 

lightning, swirling winds, and sideways rain. TV meteorologists patted themselves on the back and 

pointed to red and tangerine splotches on Doppler radar as the skies opened and the thunder ripped like 

cannon fire through the stone and glass canyons of Manhattan. 

On Hudson in Tribeca, Nikki Heat slowed down to avoid splashing the diners huddled under umbrellas 

outside Nobu, praying in vain for open cabs to get them uptown in the downpour. She turned onto 

Rook’s street and pulled the police car into an open space in a loading zone up the block from his 

building. 

“You still pissed at me?” he said. 

“No more than usual.” She put the car in Park. “I just get quiet after I clear a case. It’s like I’ve been 

turned inside out.” 

Rook hesitated, something on his mind. “Anyway, thanks for the ride in all this.” 

“No problem.” 

Frankenstein lightning hit so close that the strobe flash lit their faces the same time as the thunder crack. 

Tiny hailstones began to pepper the roof. “If you see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” said Rook, 

“duck.” 

She gave up a thin laugh that turned into a yawn. “Sorry.” 

“Sleepy?” 

“No, tired. I’m way too cranked to sleep.” 

They sat listening to the storm rage. A car crept past with water up to its hubcaps. 

At last, he broke the silence. “Look, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I just don’t know how to play 

this. We work together—well, sort of. We slept together—most definitely. We have smoking hot sex 

one time, but soon afterwards, don’t try holding hands, not even in the relative privacy of a taxicab. 

“I’m trying to figure the rules. This isn’t yin and yang, it’s more like yin and yank. The past few days I’ve 

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been going, OK, she doesn’t mix the hot sex and romance so well with the single-mindedness of the 

police work. So it gets me wondering, Is the solution for me to give up our working relationship? Stop 

my magazine research so we can—?” 

Nikki grabbed him into a deep kiss. Then she pulled away and said, “Will you shut up?” Before he could 

say yes, she grabbed Rook again, throwing her mouth back onto his. He wrapped his arms around her. 

She undid her seat belt and drew closer to him. Their faces and clothes became drenched in sweat. 

Another flash of lightning lit up the car through windows fogged by the heat of their bodies. 

Nikki kissed his neck and then his ear. And then she whispered to him, “Do you really want to know 

what I think?” 

He didn’t speak, he only nodded. 

The low rumble of thunder finally reached them. When it tailed off, Nikki sat up, reached for the keys, 

and killed the ignition. “Here’s what I think. I think after all this, I’ve got energy to burn. Do you have any 

limes and salt and anything fun in a bottle?” 

“I do.” 

“Then I think you should invite me up and see what we can get going tonight.” 

“Bite your tongue.” 

“Just wait.” 

They got out of the car and made a dash toward his building. Halfway there, Nikki took his hand and 

ran alongside him, giggling as they raced together up the sidewalk. They stopped at his front steps, 

breathless, and kissed each other, two lovers for the night getting soaked in the cooling rain. 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

When I was an impressionable young latchkey lad, I had the good fortune of stumbling onto a National 

Geographic special on the accomplishments of Sir Edmund Hillary, the legendary New Zealand climber 

who was the first to scale Mt. Everest’s snowy and mysterious heights. To say the show made an 

impression on me would be an understatement. For two glorious weeks of my tenth summer, I was fully 

committed to becoming the world’s greatest mountain climber (never mind that at the time I had never 

seen a mountain in person, let alone left the urban canyons of New York City). 

In my drive to surpass Sir Edmund, I enlisted my good friend Rob Bowman, whose older brother played 

Pop Warner football. I borrowed Rob’s brother’s cleats and swiped a hammer from the building super, 

believing I could use its claw-end as my pick-axe. I was halfway up the drywall when my mother arrived 

home. The treacherous and punishing slopes of Everest had nothing on my mother, and my distinguished 

climbing career ended well before I reached the summit…or the ceiling. 

It wasn’t until much later in life that I learned about Tenzing Norgay. And though Edmund Hillary is 

widely known as the first man to conquer Everest, he would never have reached the summit without Mr. 

Norgay. For those of you unfamiliar with that first historic climb, Tenzing Norgay was Sir Edmund 

Page 300


Hillary’s Sherpa. 

Whenever I come to the acknowledgments section of a book, I often think of Tenzing Norgay, that 

unsung hero of Hillary’s climb. 

Like Sir Edmund, I, as this book’s author, will receive just about all of the acclaim for whatever 

achievement lies within these pages. However, along the way I’ve had a lot of my own personal Tenzing 

Norgays to counsel me, guide me, lift my spirits, and carry my baggage (both emotional and physical). 

They have been there to keep me going, to inspire me, and to remind me not to look at the imposing 

summit, but at my own feet. As I take one step at a time, they have shown me the way. 

The point is there are a number of people that I have to thank. 

First and foremost on that list are my daughter Alexis, for always keeping me on my toes, and my 

mother, Martha Rodgers, for always keeping me grounded. In the extended Castle family, very special 

thanks goes to the lovely Jennifer Allen, my first reader always, and to Terri E. Miller, my partner in 

crime. May you, dear reader, be lucky enough to know women such as these. 

Thanks are grudgingly due to Gina Cowell and the group at Black Pawn publishing, whose threats of 

legal action first inspired me to put pen to paper. And also to the wonderful folks at Hyperion Books, 

especially Will Balliett, Gretchen Young, and Elizabeth Sabo. 

I’d like to thank my agent, Sloan Harris at ICM, and remind him that if this book is a smash hit I expect 

him to improve my contract considerably. 

A debt is due to Melissa Harling-Walendy and Liz Dickler in the development of this project, as well as 

to my dear friends Nathan, Stana, Jon, Seamus, Susan, Molly, Ruben, and Tamala. May our days, no 

matter how long, continue to be filled with laughter and grace. 

And finally, to my two most loyal and devout Sherpas, Tom and Andrew, thank you for the journey. 

Now that we’ve reached the top, in your company it feels as though the stars are within my reach. 

RC 

July 2009 

Copyright 

HEAT WAVE.Castle © ABC Studios. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American 

Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, 

non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be 

reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into 

any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or 

mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion 

e-books. 

Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-1-4013-9476-9 

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 

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TWELVE 

The three detectives and Rook maintained a tense silence as Nikki gas ’n’ gunned through crosstown 

traffic to the bridge at 59th Street. She had Ochoa radio ahead, and when they rolled up to the approach 

under the Roosevelt Island sky tram, Traffic Control had blocked feeder lanes for her and she roared 

onward. The bridge belonged to her and the two patrol cars running convoy with her. 

They killed their sirens to avoid advertisement after they blew out of Queensboro Plaza and turned off 

Northern Boulevard. The address was an auto body shop in an industrial section not far from the LIRR 

switching yard. Under the elevated subway line at Thirty-eighth Avenue, they located the small group of 

patrol cars from the Long Island City precinct that were already waiting a block south of the building. 

Nikki got out and greeted Lieutenant Marr from the 108th. Marr had a military bearing, precise and 

relaxed. He told Detective Heat this was her show, but he seemed eager to describe the logistics he had 

put in place for her. They gathered around the hood of his car and he spread out a plan of the 

neighborhood. The body shop was already circled in red marker, and the lieutenant marked blue Xs at 

intersections in the surrounding blocks to indicate where other patrol cars were staged, effectively 

choking off any exit the suspects might attempt from the location once they rolled. 

“Nobody’s getting out of there unless they sprout wings,” he said. “And even then I’ve got a couple of 

avid duck hunters on my team.” 

“What about the building itself?” 

“Standard issue for this neck of the woods.” He laid out an architect’s blueprint from the NYFD 

database. “Single-story, double-height brick box, basically. Office up front here. Machine shop and lavs 

in the back here. Storage here. Don’t need to tell you storage can be tricky, nooks and crannies, bad 

lighting, so we’ll just have to keep our heads on a swivel, right? Door here in front. Another off the 

machine shop. Three steel roll-downs, two jumbos off the car park, one leading to the yard in the back.” 

“Fence?” she asked. 

“Chain-link with vinyl cover. Razor wire all around, including the roof.” 

Nikki ran her finger along a boundary line on his neighborhood plan. “What’s over this back fence?” 

The lieutenant smiled. “Duck hunters.” 

They fixed five minutes as the time for the raid, suited up in their body armor, and got back in their cars. 

Two minutes before go, Marr appeared at Heat’s window. “My spotter says the near rolling door is up. I 

assume you want in first?” 

“Thanks, yeah, I do.” 

“I’ll have your back then.” He checked his watch as casually as if he were waiting for a bus and added, 

“Spotter also tells me the truck with your plate is in the yard.” 

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Nikki felt her heart pick up a few BPMs. “That’s a break.” 

“Those paintings pretty valuable?” 

“Probably enough to pay a day’s interest on the Wall Street bailout.” 

The lieutenant said, “Then let’s hope nobody puts any holes in them today,” and got in his car. 

Ochoa popped his knuckles in the seat beside her. “Don’t worry. If the Russian’s in there, we’ll get 

him.” 

“Not worried.” In her rearview mirror, Raley’s eyelids were half-closed, and she wondered, as she 

always did with Rales, if he was that relaxed or was, perhaps, praying. She turned around to Rook, who 

was sitting beside him back there. “Rook.” 

“I know, I know, stay in the car.” 

“Actually, no. Out of the car.” 

“Aw, come on, you want to leave me standing here?” 

“Don’t make me count three, mister, or you’re grounded.” 

Ochoa checked his watch. “Rolling in fifteen.” 

Heat gave Rook an insistent glare. He got out and slammed his door. Nikki glanced into the car beside 

her as Lieutenant Marr brought his microphone up. On her TAC frequency she heard his relaxed “All 

units green light.” 

“Let’s go to an art show,” she said and hit the gas. 

Nikki felt her diaphragm cinch when she turned the corner and sped up the block. Long ago she had 

learned that you could calm-talk your brain all you want, your adrenal glands pretty much had charge of 

the control panel. One conscious deep breath compensated for the shallow ones she had been taking, 

and after she took it, Nikki found that sweet spot between nerves and focus. 

Ahead, a formation of cop cars rolled down the street toward her, Marr’s pincer movement in action. 

Coming up fast on her right, the auto body shop. Its nearest rolling garage door was still wide open. Heat 

braked and cranked the wheel. The Crown Vic took a hard bounce on the steep slope of the driveway 

and was still rocking on its suspension when she roared into the middle of the garage and screeched to a 

stop. The flashing of her gum ball reflected on the startled faces of the handful of men in the shop. 

Nikki had already done her count by the time she was yanking the door handle. “Clock five,” she said. 

“Roger five,” answered Roach in tandem. 

“Police, nobody move, hands where I can see them,” she shouted, coming around her car door. She 

heard the backup arriving behind her but didn’t turn. 

On her right, two laborers in dusty coveralls and white painter’s masks dropped the belt sanders they 

were using on an old LeBaron and raised their hands. Across the garage to her left, at a patio table just 

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outside the storage room, three men rose from a card game. They looked anything but submissive. 

“Watch the card players,” she said low to Roach. Then loudly, to the group, “I said hands. Now.” 

It was as if her “Now” were a starting pistol. All three men scattered in different directions. In her 

periphery, Heat could see uniforms already patting down the two sanders. Free of that pair, she started 

off toward the biker dude who was running along the wall toward the front office. As she took off after 

him, Nikki called out, “Ochoa,” and pointed to the one breaking for the exit to the rear yard. 

“On the green shirt,” said Raley, chasing the man booking it for the side door. By the time Raley finished 

his sentence, the guy had pulled the side door open. Heat was past the point where she could see it, but 

she heard a ragged chorus of “Police, freeze!” from the uniforms in Marr’s flank group who were waiting 

in the alley. 

The biker she was chasing was all muscle and beer gut. Fast as Nikki was, he had the clear path; she 

had to dodge rolling tool lockers and a crushed fender. Ten feet from the office his swaying gray ponytail 

was the last thing she saw before the door slammed. She tried the knob but it wouldn’t turn. She heard a 

deadbolt thrown. 

“Stand aside, Detective.” Marr, cool as can be, was behind her with two uniforms in helmets and 

goggles holding a battering ram. 

The detective slid out of their way and the two cops swung the head of the Stinger into the lock. The 

ram hit with the shudder of a small explosion and the door popped wide. 

“Cover,” said Heat. She started into the office with her piece drawn. Two gunshots cracked the air in 

the small room and a bullet embedded low in the door frame opposite her. She rotated out again, putting 

her back prone against the brick wall. 

“You hit?” asked Marr. She shook no and closed her eyes to study her eidetic image of that brief 

instant. Muzzle flashes from high up. Window along the wall. But biker dude was standing on the desk. 

Reaching up high with his other arm. Dark square in the ceiling above him. 

“He’s going for the roof,” she said and ran through the garage to the rear yard, where Ochoa had his 

man down and cuffed. “Eyes high, Detective,” she said. “We’ve got a monkey.” 

Heat walked the perimeter of the building, her head tilted up as she went. In the gap between the body 

shop and the auto glass place next door, she stopped. A small piece of torn cloth waved from the razor 

wire on the rooftop. Nikki stood on the concrete directly under the flag of cloth and looked down. 

Between her shoes were two bright red spatters of blood. 

She turned and caught Raley’s eye from the yard, then hand signaled the arc of the biker’s jump to the 

next-door roof before she trotted out the gate to the corner of the building. Heat peeked around it and 

pulled back. The sidewalk was clear. She figured her dude would not exit down the front but would stay 

up there as far as he could get before coming down. 

As she ran along the facade of the auto glass shop, she told herself to be grateful that this was an 

industrial area and that there was a heat wave, both of which made it so she didn’t have to deal with 

pedestrians. The end of the building marked the corner of the side street. She flattened her back against 

the concrete and felt it warm the back of her neck above her vest. Nikki peeked around the building’s 

edge. Halfway up the block, the biker was climbing down a gutter drain. Her backup was coming but 

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was a building’s length away. Biker dude was using both hands to shimmy. If she waited, he’d be on the 

sidewalk with a free gun hand. 

Heat pivoted around the corner, gun up. “Police, freeze!” She couldn’t believe it. Rook was strolling up 

the sidewalk between her and the biker. 

“Whoa, it’s me,” he said. 

“Move,” she yelled, and waved him to the side. Rook turned behind him. For the first time, he saw the 

man climbing down the pipe and dashed out of the way behind a parked oil delivery truck. But by then 

the biker was holding onto the pipe with only one hand and drew. Heat pivoted behind the wall and his 

shot went wide, punching into a stack of wooden pallets at the curb. 

Then she heard boots landing hard on pavement, a loud curse, and the clatter of something metal on 

concrete. The gun. 

Heat fast-peeked again. The biker was standing on the sidewalk, ass to her, bending to pick up his fallen 

gun. She stepped out, Sig braced. “Freeze!” 

And that was when Rook flew in from the side and blind-tackled him. Nikki lost her clear shot as the 

two struggled on the ground. She ran to them with Raley and the rest of her backup following close 

behind. Just as she arrived, Rook flipped on top of the guy and held the gun to his face. 

“Go ahead,” he said. “I need the practice.” 

After they loaded the biker into the rear of a patrol car for transport to the precinct in Manhattan, Heat, 

Raley, Rook, and the backup officers herded around the corner toward the auto body shop. On the 

walk, Rook tried to speak to Nikki, but she was still fuming about his interference and strode to the head 

of the group, showing him her back. 

Lieutenant Marr was making notes for his report when they entered the garage. “Hope you don’t mind 

me using your vehicle as a desk,” he said. 

“It’s been used for lots worse. Everybody tucked in?” she asked. 

“You bet. Our two rabbits are cuffed and loaded. These other two,” he said with a side nod to the pair 

who had been working on the LeBaron, “they seem all right. I think their biggest problem is no job here 

tomorrow. Congrats on nailing your biker.” 

“Thanks. And thanks for the setup. I owe you one.” 

He shrugged it off. “What makes me happy is the good guys are all going home safe for supper tonight.” 

He set his clipboard on the car hood. “Now, Detective, I don’t know about you, but I want a look inside 

that truck.” 

Marr and Heat led the others out to the side yard, where the sun-bounce off the truck came at them like 

a pizza oven. The lieutenant gave the word, and one of his patrol officers mounted the rear bumper and 

opened the double doors. When the doors parted, Nikki’s heart sank. 

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Except for a pile of quilted mover’s blankets, there was nothing in the truck. 

THIRTEEN 

In the precinct interrogation room, the biker, Brian Daniels, seemed more interested in the gauze on the 

back of his upper arm than in Detective Heat. “I’m waiting,” she said. But he ignored her, contorting 

himself by hooking his chin on his shoulder and twisting himself to see the bandage under the ripped 

sleeve on the back of his T-shirt. 

“This sucker still bleeding?” he asked. He shifted his angle to get a look at it in the mirror, but it was too 

far away to work for him and he gave up, flopping back in the plastic chair. 

“What happened to the paintings, Brian?” 

“Doc.” He shook his iron gray hair. When they processed him, they’d taken the elastic off of his 

ponytail, and his hair hung like a polluted waterfall down his back. “Brian’s for the IRS and the DMV, 

call me Doc.” 

She wondered when the last time was this piece of shit paid any taxes or a driver’s license fee. But 

Nikki held the thought and stayed on message. “After you left the Guilford last night, where did you move 

that art collection?” 

“I have no idea what the hell you are talking about, lady.” 

“I’m talking about what was in that truck.” 

“What, blankets? All yours.” He snorted a laugh and pretzeled his body to look at his razor-wire cut 

again. 

“Where were you last night between midnight and four?” 

“Damn, this was my favorite shirt.” 

“Know something, Doc? You’re not only a lousy shot, you’re stupid, too. After your little circus act this 

morning, you have enough charges against you to make your stretch up in Sing Sing feel like a weekend 

at the Four Seasons.” 

“And?” 

“And…you want to see this prosecuted to the max? Keep acting like an asshole.” The detective rose. 

“I’ll give you some time to think about that.” She hefted his file. “Judging from this, you know what time 

is.” Then she left the room so he could sit there and contemplate his future. 

Rook was alone in the bull pen when she came in, and he wasn’t happy. “Hey, thanks for ditching me in 

picturesque Long Island City.” 

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“Not now, Rook.” She brushed past him to her desk. 

“I had to ride all the way over here sitting in the backseat of a blue-and-white. Do you know what that’s 

like? People in other cars kept looking in at me like I was in custody. A couple of times I waved just to 

show I wasn’t in handcuffs.” 

“I did it for your own protection.” 

“From what?” 

“From me.” 

“Why?” 

“Let’s start with not listening.” 

“I got tired of standing around by myself. I figured you’d be done, so I came to see how it was going.” 

“And interfered with my suspect.” 

“You bet your ass I interfered. That guy was trying to shoot you.” 

“I’m the police. People shoot at us.” She found the file she was looking for and slammed the drawer. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t get shot.” 

“I had a vest. And by the way, how can you stand those things? Very confining, especially in this 

humidity.” 

Ochoa came in, tapping his notebook on his upper lip. “We’re not catching a single break anywhere. I 

ran alibis on our majors. They’re all checking out.” 

“Kimberly Starr, too?” asked Heat. 

“That was a two-fer. She was in Connecticut with her doctor of love at his beach cottage, so they both 

clear.” He closed his notebook and turned to Rook. “Hey, man, Raley told me what you said when you 

got the drop on that biker.” 

Rook eyed Nikki and said, “We don’t need to talk about that.” 

But Ochoa continued in a hoarse whisper, “‘Go ahead. I need the practice.’ Is that cool, or what?” 

“Oh yeah,” said Heat. “Rook is like our very own Dirty Jamie.” Her desk phone rang and she picked 

up. “Heat.” 

“It’s me, Raley. He’s here.” 

“On my way,” she said. 

The old doorman stood with Nikki, Rook, and Roach in the observation booth, looking through the 

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glass at the men in the lineup. “Take your time, Henry,” said Nikki. 

He walked a step closer to the window and took off his glasses to clean them. “It’s hard. Like I said, it 

was dark and they wore hats.” In the next room, six men stood facing a mirror. Among them, Brian 

“Doc” Daniels, plus the two other men from that morning’s body shop raid. 

“No hurry. Just let us know if anyone clicks for you. Or doesn’t.” 

Henry slid his glasses back on. Moments passed. “I think I recognize one of them.” 

“You think, or you know for sure?” Nikki had seen it many times where the urge to help or to take 

revenge forced good people to make bad choices. She cautioned Henry again. “Be certain.” 

“Uh-huh, yes.” 

“Which one?” 

“You see the scruffy guy with the arm bandage and the long gray hair?” 

“Yes?” 

“It’s the one to the right of him.” 

Behind him, the detectives shook their heads. He had identified one of the three cops who were shills in 

the lineup. 

“Thank you, Henry,” said Heat. “Appreciate you coming down.” 

Back in the bull pen, the detectives and Rook sat with their backs to their desks, tossing a Koosh Ball 

around the horn at a lazy pace. This is what they did when they were stuck. 

“It’s not as if this biker is going to go anywhere,” said Rook. “Can’t you hold him for assault on 

Detective Heat alone?” 

Raley put his hand up and Ochoa lobbed the Koosh into his palm. “It’s not about holding the biker.” 

“It’s getting him to give up the paintings.” Ochoa held up his hand and Raley returned the Koosh to it. 

They had this down so well, Ochoa didn’t have to move. 

“And who hired him,” added Heat. 

Rook held his hand up and Ochoa tossed it to him. “So how do you get a guy like that to talk when he 

doesn’t want to?” 

Heat held up her hand and Rook lobbed it over for an easy catch. “That’s always the question. It’s 

finding the spot where can you apply pressure.” She jostled the Koosh in her palm. “I may have an idea.” 

“Never fails. It’s the power of Koosh,” said Raley. 

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Ochoa echoed that, “Power of Koosh,” and held up his hand. Nikki threw the ball and it smacked Rook 

in the face. 

“Huh,” she said. “Never did that before.” 

Nikki Heat had a new customer in the interrogation room, Gerald Buckley. “Mr. Buckley, do you know 

why we asked you to come in to talk with us?” 

Buckley’s hands were folded together in a tight lace on the table in front of him. “No idea at all,” he said 

with a look of hard study. Heat noticed he dyed his eyebrows black. 

“Did you know there was a burglary at the Guilford last night?” 

“No shit.” He licked his lips and ran a knuckle backhand across his drinker’s nose. “Probably the 

blackout, huh?” 


“Well, I dunno. You know. Not politically correct to say it, so I’ll just say ‘certain types’ like to run wild 

the minute the fences come down.” He felt her eyes on him and couldn’t come up with a safe place to 

look, so he concentrated on picking at an old scab in the back of his hand. 

“How come you called in off your shift at the Guilford last night?” 

His eyes rose slowly and met hers. “I don’t understand the question.” 

“It’s a simple question. You’re a doorman at the Guilford, right?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Last night you called in to the doorman on duty, Henry, and said you wouldn’t be in for your overnight 

shift. Why did you do that?” 

“What do you mean why?” 

“I mean just that. Why?” 

“I already told you, there was a blackout. You know how this city turns into a friggin’ insane asylum 

when the lights go out. You think I was going out in that? No way. So I called in off my shift. Why are 

you making such big deal?” 

“Because there was a major burglary, and whenever things happen out of the ordinary like routines 

getting broken, like employees who work on the inside not showing up, I get very interested. That, 

Gerald, is the big deal.” She stared at him and waited. “Prove your whereabouts last night and I’ll shake 

your hand and open that door for you.” 

Gerald Buckley pinched his nostrils twice and snapped in air the way she had seen so many coke users 

do it. He closed his eyes a full five seconds, and when he opened them he said, “I want my lawyer.” 

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“Of course.” She had an obligation to acknowledge his request, but she wanted him to talk some more. 

“Do you have something you feel you need a lawyer for?” This guy was stupid and a cokehead. If he 

would just keep talking, she knew she could get him to box himself in. “Why did you beg off the shift? 

Were you on the truck with the burglary crew, or were you too scared that if it came down on your shift 

you couldn’t playact your innocence the next morning?” 

“I’m not saying anything more.” Damn, so close. “I want my attorney.” At that, he crossed his arms and 

sat back. 

But Nikki Heat had a Plan B. Ah, the power of Koosh. 

Five minutes later she was in the observation booth with Ochoa. “Where did you and Raley put him?” 

she asked. 

“You know the bench by the Community Affairs desk near the staircase?” 

“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll do this in two minutes.” 

Ochoa left the booth to take his position while Nikki returned to Gerald Buckley inside Interrogation. 

“You get me my lawyer?” 

“You’re free to go.” He looked at her suspiciously. “Really,” she said. 

He got up and she held the door for him. 

When Nikki emerged with Buckley into the outer office of the precinct, she didn’t look at the 

Community Affairs desk but could make out the forms of Ochoa and Raley blocking Gerald Buckley’s 

view of Doc the biker, who was sitting on the bench there. The idea was for Doc to see Buckley, not the 

other way around. At the head of the stairs, Nikki positioned the doorman so that his back was to Doc 

and then stopped. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Buckley,” she said, just loudly enough. Over Buckley’s 

shoulder came the parting of the Roach. She pretended not to notice the biker’s head crane to see if she 

was talking tothe Gerald Buckley. 

As soon as Heat saw alarm on the biker’s face, she took Buckley by the elbow and led him down the 

steps out of sight. As he continued on to the bottom of the stairs, Nikki stepped back up onto the landing 

and called off to him, “And thank you for your cooperation. I know it’s difficult, but you did the right 

thing.” 

Buckley looked up at her like she was nuts and left in a hurry. 

Things were quite a bit different with Brian “Doc” Daniels when he returned to the Interrogation Room. 

Nikki made sure she was already seated when Roach brought him in, and the Iron Ponytail was scoping 

her out, trying to read some sign off her face before he sat down. “What’s going on, what did that guy 

say to you?” 

Heat didn’t answer. She gave a nod to Raley and Ochoa and they left the room. It was a very silent 

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place when they went. 

“Come on, what did he say?” 

Nikki made a show of opening a file and scanning the top page. She looked up over the top of the file at 

Doc and said, “So just to be clear, you consider Gerald Buckley to be a friend of yours?” She shook her 

head and closed the file. 

“Friend? Hah. He’s a liar, is what he is.” 

“Is he?” 

“Buckley’ll say anything to save his ass.” 

“That’s kind of what happens when things start going bad, Doc. People start shoving friends and family 

off the lifeboat.” When she was good and ready, Nikki crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. 

“Question I guess is, Which one of you is going to be treading water with the sharks?” 

The biker was running odds in his head. “Tell me what he said, and I’ll tell you if it’s bull.” 

“Like I’m going to do that.” 

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Confess?” 

She shrugged. “Let’s call it cooperate.” 

“Yuh, right.” 

“Hey, your call, Doc. But the smart man would get out ahead of this. Prosecutors are going to want a 

head on a pole. Whose is it going to be, yours or Buckley’s?” She picked up the file. “Maybe Buckley’s 

the smart man today.” Then Nikki stood. “See you at the arraignment.” 

The biker thought that one over but not for very long. He shook his mane of hair and said, “All right, 

here’s the God’s truth. We didn’t steal any paintings. When we broke into that apartment, they were 

already gone.” 

“I believe the dude,” said Raley. He was slouched back in his chair with his feet up on a two-drawer 

filing cabinet in the middle of the bull pen. 

Heat was standing at the whiteboard tossing a marker from hand to hand. “Me, too.” She uncapped it 

and circled the arrival of the truck and its departure on the burglary timeline. “No way they could move 

out all that art in a half hour. Let’s suppose Henry is off in his timing and it’s an hour. Still no way.” She 

tossed the marker into the aluminum sill on the bottom of the board. “And not be seen or heard doing it in 

a building full of people? Un-uh.” 

From his seat, Rook raised his hand. “May I ask a question?” 

Heat shrugged. “Go ahead.” 

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“I need the practice,” added Raley, chuckling. Nikki suppressed her own smile and nodded for Rook to 

continue. 

“Do Penn and Teller have a burglary crew? Because somebody sure as hell took all those paintings.” 

Across the bull pen Detective Ochoa hung up his phone and said,“Madre de Dios.” Then he shoved off 

his desk with his foot, launching himself the length of the room on his chair rollers, coming to a stop at the 

group. “This is big. Got back the VIN result off that Volvo from the impound.” He looked down and 

read from his notes, which is what Ochoa did when he had news and wanted to get it right. “The vehicle 

was registered to a Barbara Deerfield. I made some calls including Missing Persons. Barbara Deerfield 

was reported missing by her employer four days ago.” 

“Who was her employer?” said Heat. 

“Sotheby’s” 

Nikki cursed. “The art auction house…” 

“That’s right,” said Ochoa. “Our dead woman was an art appraiser.” 

FOURTEEN 

Raley came back into the bullpen dangling his sport coat on one finger. His powder blue shirt was 

two-tone from sweat. “Brought you a present from Sotheby’s.” 

Nikki rose from her desk. “I do love presents. What is it, a Winslow Homer? The Magna Carta?” 

“Better.” He handed her a folded sheet of paper. “They let me print out a page from Barbara Deerfield’s 

Outlook calendar. Sorry it’s all buckled and everything. Humidity’s a bear out there.” 

Nikki held the page like she would catch something from it. “It’s damp.” 

“It’s only perspiration.” 

While she unfolded the sheet and read it, Ochoa swiveled in his desk chair and covered his phone. 

“Never saw a dude sweat like you, man. Shaking your hand is like squeezing Sponge Bob’s ass.” 

“Ochoa, I believe that’s a think, not a say.” Rook stepped over to surf the page over Nikki’s shoulder. 

“All right, we have our…” Nikki seemed to feel that Rook was standing a little too close, so she handed 

him the page and created some distance. “We have our confirmation that Barbara Deerfield had an art 

appraisal booked at Matthew Starr’s apartment the morning he was killed.” 

“And the morning she was killed,” added Rook. 

“Likely. We still need confirmation on time of death from the M.E., but let’s call it a safe assumption.” 

Nikki used the fine tip of the marker to squeeze Barbara Deerfield’s appraisal appointment with Starr 

into the timeline on the whiteboard, then capped the pen. 

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Rook said, “Aren’t you going to put her death on the board, too?” 

“No. Safe or not, it’s still an assumption.” 

“Right.” And then he added, “For you, maybe.” 

Raley filled her in on what he had learned about the victim from her coworkers. The whole Sotheby’s 

office was distraught and shocked by the news. After someone goes missing, you hope for the best, but 

this was confirmation of their worst fears. Barbara Deerfield had a good relationship with her colleagues, 

was by all appearances stable, loved her work, seemed to enjoy a happy home life, with kids in college, 

and was excited about planning a vacation to New Zealand with her husband. “Sounds good to me,” said 

Raley. “It’s winter there. No unsightly perspiration.” 

“Well, check out the family and friends and lovers angles to cover the bases, but my instincts aren’t 

taking me there, how about you?” 

Raley agreed and said so. 

Ochoa hung up his phone. “That was Forensics. Do you want the news or the news?” He read 

Detective Heat’s look and wisely decided this wasn’t the time for screwing around. “Got two sets of 

results for you. First, the fiber on the balcony is a match for a pair of Pochenko’s jeans.” 

“I knew it,” said Rook. “Scumbag.” 

Nikki ignored his outburst. Her heart was gaining speed, but she acted as if she was merely sitting 

through the day’s Tokyo Stock Exchange average while waiting for the traffic report on news radio. She 

had learned over the years that every case had a life. This one was not near a solve yet, but it was 

entering the phase where she finally had hard data to sift through. Each piece needed to be listened to, 

and excitement, especially her own, just made noise. 

“And second, you were right. There was a set of prints outside those windows off the fire escape. And 

we know whose.” 

“Duh,”said Rook. 

The detective sat and reflected a moment. “OK. So we have one piece of evidence that points to 

Pochenko tossing Matthew Starr over that balcony, and we have another piece that tells us at some point 

he tried unsuccessfully to get in a window.” She went back to the whiteboard and wrote Pochenko’s 

name beside “fibers.” In a blank space, she printed “access?” and circled it. 

While she stood there, tossing the marker hand to hand, a new habit she noticed, her gaze went to the 

photo of the hexagonal ring and then to the bruises on Matthew Starr’s torso. “Detective Raley, how sick 

are you of screening surveillance video from the Guilford?” 

“Like totally?” 

She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Then you are going to hate your next assignment.” Then she 

removed her hand and discreetly wiped it on her thigh. 

Ochoa chuckled to himself and hummed the SpongeBob theme. 

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While Raley dug out and loaded the surveillance video, Heat made her usual phone and computer 

rounds to check petty thefts, assaults, and ATM robberies to see if the latest reports lit up any Pochenko 

radar for her. There had been no sign of him since his drugstore grab. A friend of Nikki’s, an undercover 

vice cop who was tapped into the Russian neighborhoods in Brighton Beach, had come up with nothing, 

either. Heat told herself these compulsive checks were good detective work, so much of success was 

just donkey-level diligence. But in her true heart she just didn’t like the idea that there was a dangerous 

man out there who’d made it personal with her and slipped off the grid. This challenged Detective Heat’s 

cherished ability to separate herself from the emotional aspects of her work on a case. After all, she was 

supposed to be the cop, not the victim. Nikki allowed herself her momentary trespass onto the turf of the 

fully human and then got back on the path. 

Where did he go? A man like that, big and obvious, injured, on the run, cut off from his apartment, 

would have to convert into scavenger mode at some point. Unless he had a support system and/or 

money stashed, his presence should be felt somewhere. Maybe he had those things. Maybe. It didn’t feel 

right. She hung up her last call and stared out of focus at nothing. 

“Maybe he got on one of those reality shows where they sequester the competitors on some desert 

island to eat bugs and berate each other,” said Rook. “You know, likeI’m a Mouth-Breathing Killer, Get 

Me Outta Here.” 

“Black with one Equal, right?” Nikki set a coffee down on Raley’s desk. 

“Oh…thanks, yeah, appreciate it.” Raley scanned forward in the surveillance video of the Guilford 

lobby. “Unless that means I’m pulling another all-nighter on this.” 

“No, this won’t take long. Roll up to Miric and Pochenko and slow it down for me.” Raley had plenty of 

experience with this section and found the exact spot where they came in from the street. “OK, when you 

hit just Pochenko, stop there.” 

Raley froze the picture and manipulated it to zoom in on the Russian’s face. “What are we looking for?” 

“Not that,” she said. 

“But you wanted to stop on this frame.” 

“That’s right. And what have we been doing? Focusing only on his face for the ID array, right?” 

Raley looked at her and smiled. “Ah, I getcha.” He pulled out from the zoom of Pochenko’s face and 

reconfigured the shot. 

Nikki liked what he was going for. “Exactly, there you go. Rales, you catch on quick. Keep this up, I’m 

going to let you screen all the surveillance vid from now on.” 

“You’ve seen through my plan to become the precinct video czar.” He moused over to the other part of 

the freeze frame and worked a drag and zoom. When he had what he wanted, he sat back and said, 

“How’s that?” 

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“No more calls, please. We have a winner.” 

Filling the computer screen was Pochenko’s hand. And on it, a not-bad shot of his hexagonal ring, the 

same one Lauren had shown her at the impound. “Do a save and print that for me, Czar Raley.” 

Minutes later, Heat added the shot of Pochenko’s ring to the gallery that was growing on the 

whiteboard. Rook stood leaning against the wall, taking it in, and raised his hand. “Am I allowed to ask a 

question?” 

“Rook, I’ll take a question over one of your open-mic-night comedy attempts any day.” 

“I’ll mark that down as a yes.” He stepped up to the board and pointed to the autopsy shots of Matthew 

Starr’s torso. “What exactly was it your M.E. ghoul friend said about the punch bruises and the ring?” 

“She has a name, it’s Lauren, and she said all of the bruises on the torso had the telltale ring mark except 

one. Have a look.” She indicated each. “Bruises with the ring: Here, here, here, and here.” 

Rook pointed to one of the bruises. “But this one here, one punch, same hand, no ring mark.” 

“Maybe he took it off,” said Nikki. 

“Pardon me, ah, Detective, who’s the speculator here?” Nikki shook her head. She hated it that he was 

so cute. Sort of hated it. He continued. “Pochenko had the ring on when he and Miric came by to 

‘encourage’ Starr to pay up his debt, right?” Rook shadowboxed. “Boom, boom, and boom. Get Raley 

to rack up that video again and I’ll bet you anything Pochenko’s still wearing the ring on his way out.” 

Heat called across the room. “Raley?” 

Raley answered, “I hate you,” and reloaded the video to check. 

“After they go, the art appraiser comes for her meeting and leaves. My speculation is this,” said Rook. 

“This bruise here, the one without the mark, came later, when Pochenko returned in the afternoon to kill 

Matthew Starr. Pochenko didn’t have the ring on then because he lost it in the car fight when he was 

strangling Barbara Deerfield.” 

Heat sucked in her lips, thinking. “That’s all fine, very likely in fact.” 

“So don’t you think I’ve made my case for the time of death for Barbara Deerfield?” 

“Oh, I’m already with you there. But you’re missing an even bigger point, Mr. Reporter.” 

“Which is?” 

“Which is a big why,” said the detective. “If there is a connection between these two murders, why did 

Pochenko kill Barbara Deerfield first? That’s a motive question. Work backwards from the motive and 

you usually find a killer.” 

Rook looked at the board and then back to her. “You know, Mick Jagger never made me work this 

hard.” 

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But she didn’t seem to hear him. Heat was focused on Ochoa, who was coming into the room. 

“Did it come in?” she asked. Ochoa held up some folded papers. “Excellent.” 

“What’s going on?” said Rook. 

“Some people wait for ships to come in, I wait for warrants.” Heat stepped to her desk and picked up 

her shoulder bag. “If you promise to be a good boy this time, I’ll let you come watch me arrest 

someone.” 

Heat and Rook walked up the stairs of the dingy apartment building and turned onto the second floor at 

the landing. It was an old brownstone gone duplex in Hell’s Kitchen that somebody must have thought 

could use some paint because everything was painted instead of repaired. At this hour of the day, the air 

was ripe with a combo of disinfectant and cooking odors. The stifling heat only made it a more tactile 

experience. 

“Are you sure he’s here?” said Rook in a whisper. Even then, his voice echoed like a cathedral rotunda. 

“Positive,” she said. “We’ve had him under surveillance all day.” 

Nikki stopped at apartment 27. The brass numerals had long ago, and many times, been painted over. A 

fossilized drip of pale green enamel formed a tear off the 7. Rook was standing right in front of the door. 

Nikki put her hands on his waist and placed him to the side. “In case he shoots. Don’t you ever watch 

Cops?” She stood to the opposite side. “Now, you stay out in the hall until I give the all clear.” 

“I could have waited in the car for this.” 

“You still can.” 

He weighed that and took a half step back and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Heat 

knocked. 

“Who is it?” came the muffled voice inside. 

“NYPD, Gerald Buckley, open the door, we have a warrant.” Nikki made a short count of two, 

pivoted, and kicked the door down. She drew and entered the apartment, catching the door on the 

rebound and giving it her shoulder as she went through. “Freeze, now!” 

She caught a glimpse of Buckley disappearing into the hall. She made sure the living room was clear 

before she followed, and in the brief lag before she entered the bedroom, he had time to get a leg out the 

window. Through the curtains she could see Ochoa waiting on the fire escape for him. Buckley stopped 

and started to come back inside. Nikki gave him a surprise assist, holstering her gun and yanking him 

backward by the collar. 

“Whoa,” said Rook with awe. 

Nikki turned to see him standing in the bedroom behind her. “I thought I told you to wait outside.” 

“It smells out there.” 

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Turning her attention back on Buckley, who was facedown on the floor, Heat pulled his hands behind 

him. 

Gerald Buckley, dishonored Guilford doorman, sat a few minutes later with his hands cuffed at his own 

dinette. Nikki and Rook sat on either side of him while Roach searched his place. 

“I don’t know why you’re bugging me,” he said. “This what you do every time there’s a rip-off 

somewhere, hassle the guys who happen to work there?” 

“I’m not hassling you, Gerald,” said Heat, “I’m arresting you.” 

“I want a lawyer.” 

“And so you shall have one. You’re going to need one, too. Your biker pal, Doc? He…I don’t want to 

say “dropped the dime,” that’s so Starsky and Hutch.” Nikki’s digressions were pissing him off, which 

made her want to do them all the more. Get him rattled, loosen his tongue. “Let’s be more civilized, let’s 

say he implicated you in a sworn statement.” 

“I don’t know any bikers.” 

“Interesting. Because Doc, a biker, by the way, says you were the one who hired him to pull the art theft 

at the Guilford. He says you made a rush call to him when the blackout hit. You asked him to get a crew 

together to break into the Starr apartment and steal all the artwork.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“It’s tough to put a crew together for a big job like that on short notice, Gerald. Doc says he came up 

short and asked you to be his fourth on the job. Which, I guess is why you had to call in and tell Henry 

you couldn’t make your shift. I love the irony. You had to call in and say you couldn’t work so you could 

come in and pull a job. Do you appreciate irony, Gerald?” 

“Why are you tearing my place up? What are you looking for?” 

“Anything that can make your life difficult,” Heat said. Raley appeared in the doorway, held up a 

handgun, and continued his search. “That might do. Hope that’s got a permit, or this could be a 

troublesome visit.” 

“Bitch.” 

“You know it,” she said with a smile. He turned his head away and just sat there. “So much to talk 

about.” 

Ochoa spoke from the living room. “Detective Heat?” Raley came in to take her place with the prisoner 

as Nikki excused herself. 

Buckley looked at Rook and said, “What are you staring at?” 

“A man in deep doo-doo.” 

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Ochoa stood at the far end of the couch, where the liquor cabinet door was open. He pointed inside and 

said, “I found this stashed in here behind the peppermint schnapps and gin bottles.” With his gloved hand, 

he held up a camera. An expensive, high-quality digital SLR. 

“Check it out.” He turned the camera body upside down so she could read the tiny rectangular inventory 

label with the bar code and serial number on the bottom. And the print above the code read, “Property 

of Sotheby’s.” 

FIFTEEN 

Jameson Rook stood in the precinct Observation Room staring in at Interrogation, where Gerald 

Buckley waited, fully involved in picking his nose. The door opened and closed behind Rook. Nikki Heat 

glided up to his elbow and looked through the window with him. “Charming,” she said. 

“Know what’s worse? I can’t look away.” Indeed, Rook kept watching as he said, “Don’t they know 

people are watching them on the other side of that mirror? And the guy’s got to want it, manacled like 

that.” 

“Are you quite done?” 

“Yes.” 

“Sotheby’s confirms the serial number as Barbara Deerfield’s camera. The memory chip is full of shots 

she took of Starr’s art collection.” 

“Taken that morning?” he asked. “The shots will be time stamped.” 

“Ooo, scary good. Somebody’s catching on.” He took a small bow and she continued. “Yes, from the 

morning of. Raley’s copying all the photos to his hard drive.” 

“Raley, the new king of all media.” 

“I believe that would be czar.” 

“So that means Buckley was either there when she was killed, or he got her camera from Pochenko 

after.” He turned to her. “Or am I offending your methodical ways with my reckless speculation?” 

“No, actually, I’m right there with you this time, writer boy. Either way, that camera connects Buckley 

and Pochenko.” She moved toward the door to Interrogation. “Let’s see if I can get him to say how.” 

She was just reaching for the door when Ochoa came in from the hall. “His lawyer just got here.” 

“You know, I thought I heard the garbage truck.” 

“You may have a little time. Somehow her briefcase got lost when she was coming through security.” 

“Ochoa, you dog.” 

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“Woof.” 

Buckley sat upright when Detective Heat came in, a sign he knew this wasn’t the foreplay interview he’d 

had in that very room earlier. He tried to wear a look of defiance, but his concentration on her, trying to 

get a reading of how deep this shit was, told Nikki he could be had at some point. Maybe not in this 

meeting, but he’d fall. Once she saw that look, they all toppled, eventually. 

“The bitch is back,” she said and then eased into her chair. Nikki was in a hurry. The lawyer would be 

there too soon, she knew that. But she had to play the poker game. Buckley’s tell gave him away; she 

wasn’t about to level the playing field by letting her impatience show. So she sat back with her arms 

crossed like she had all the time in the world. He did his nervous mouth lick. Soon as she saw the dry 

tongue squeegee across the gums, she began. 

“Would you be offended if I said you don’t strike me as the art thief type? I could see you doing a lot of 

things, dealing drugs, stealing a car, dine-and-dash. But masterminding a multimillion-dollar art heist? 

Sorry, I’m just not seeing it.” The detective sat up and leaned toward him. “You put out the call for Doc 

the Biker to get a crew up for the burglary, but somebody had to call you first, and I want to know who 

that was.” 

“Where’s my lawyer?” 

“Gerald. You ever watch those infomercials where they say special limited time offer, so act now? With 

the shit storm you’re facing, we’re in that zone now, you and I.” His eyes were flicking but he wasn’t 

budging yet. She pressed him from another angle. “Of course, you don’t see a lot of those infomercials. 

Mostly, they’re on late at night and that’s your usual door shift.” 

He shrugged. “You know that, everybody knows that.” 

“But it leads me to wonder. As we went over the surveillance video from the Guilford the day of 

Matthew Starr’s murder, we saw you were there in the early afternoon.” 

“So, I work there.” 

“That’s what I thought when I saw you on video the other day. But recent events have me looking at 

your presence in a whole new light.” 

“Hey, I did not kill Mr. Starr.” 

“I’ll make a note of that.” She flashed a smile and dropped it. “I’m wondering about something else, and 

you’re just the guy to ask. You didn’t by any chance help anybody into the building during your 

off-the-clock visit, did you? I know there’s a locked access door on the roof. Is it possible you opened it 

up for somebody when you were hanging around at about 12:39P.M. ?” 

There were two light knocks on the door. Damn, Ochoa signaling the attorney. 

“Gerald? Limited time offer.” 

A woman’s muffled rant seeped through from the Ob Room. “Sounds like my lawyer,” said Buckley. 

Sounds like a dental drill, thought Nikki. “Well? Did you let someone in from the roof?” 

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There was an air suck as the door opened. Ochoa came in with a brittle woman in a mud-colored suit. 

She reminded Nikki of someone who would hold up the grocery line insisting on a price check for 

parsley. The woman said, “This is not appropriate.” 

Nikki ignored her and pressed on. “Where did you get the camera?” 

“Don’t answer that.” 

“I’m not.” 

With the attorney as room monitor, Heat shifted to a new tack. She stopped looking for answers and 

started planting seeds. “Did Pochenko give it to you as a gift in exchange for the favor?” 

“My client has nothing to say.” 

“Or did you rip the camera off from him? Pochenko’s not the kind of guy you rip off, Gerald.” 

“Detective, this interview is over.” 

Nikki smiled and stood up. “There’ll be others.” And she stepped out. 

Shortly after Roach clocked out for the day, Nikki heard Rook amble up behind her chair and watch her 

computer slide show of the pictures from Barbara Deerfield’s camera. The photography was not the 

best. Straight-on flat shots of every painting snapped in pairs, one in natural light followed by a twin but 

using flash. 

“Clearly these were for internal reference only. You wouldn’t put them in a brochure or on the Web 

site,” she said. 

“So these were like her notes from the meeting with Matthew Starr.” 

“Right. And Lauren, my, what did you call her—my ghoul friend—called and confirmed her time of 

death as sometime around noon that same day.” Nikki continued to click through each of the shots. 

Rook must have read her mood, because instead of a victory gloat, he watched silently for a while. But 

only a while, before he said, “Are you free tonight?” 

She continued to click the mouse, maintaining a cadence, enjoying her private art show, or looking for 

clues, or both. “I’m going to be working tonight.” 

“This is work. How would you like to meet New York’s greatest art thief? Well, retired art thief.” 

A tiny thrill buzz hit Nikki and she spun around to face him. “Casper?” 

“You know him?” 

“I know of him. I read the profile you did on him forVanity Fair a few years ago.” She regretted it the 

moment she said it. But it was out there now. 

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“You read my article?” 

“Rook, I read. I read a lot of stuff. Don’t get yourself in a lather.” She was trying to downplay it, but 

she’d shown her hand. 

“Anyway,” he said, “I was thinking if someone’s trying to move art in this city, Casper would know.” 

“And you can arrange for me to meet him?” 

Rook hit her with a faceful of mock disdain. 

“Right,” she said, “what was I thinking? You’re Mr. First-name-basis.” 

He got out his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts. Without looking up at Nikki, he said, “That 

Vanity Fair piece was five years ago. And yet you remembered it?” 

“It was good. Informative.” 

“And you remembered I wrote it?” 

“…Yes.” 

Then he looked up at her. “Informative.” 

In the ghetto of antiques galleries south of Union Square, a dictionary’s toss from the Strand Bookstore, 

Heat and Rook approached a single glass door between a Shaker furniture house and a rare maps shop. 

An eye-level door sign in 1940s style gold leaf read, “C. B. Phillips—Fine Acquisitions.” Nikki reached 

to press the buzzer embedded in the metal frame. “I wouldn’t do that,” said Rook. 

“Why not?” 

“Don’t insult the man.” He held up a forefinger to say, Wait a sec. It was actually two seconds before 

the buzzer sounded. Rook said, “He’s Casper. He knew, he always knows,” and pushed the door open. 

They climbed a flight of polished blond hardwood stairs through a mellow downdraft, the ghost scent of 

an old public library. At the landing, Nikki took in the room and was reminded of one of the Truths of 

New York City: You can never tell from the door what’s behind a door. 

The hushed showroom of C. B. Phillips Fine Acquisitions sat one flight of stairs from Broadway but was 

a time journey across latitudes, to a vast drawing room empty of people and teeming with dark, heavy 

furniture in velvets, and needlepoints lit low below the tasseled maroon shades of small table lamps and 

muted ochre wall sconces. Clubby artworks of maritime scenes, bulldogs in military dress, and cherub 

architects adorned walls and carved mahogany easels. Nikki looked up and was staring at the pattern of 

the vintage stamped tin ceiling, when the soft voice right beside her made her jump. 

“It’s been too long, Jameson.” His words were whiskey soft, carried on candle smoke. In it, there was a 

hint of Euro-somewhere she couldn’t pinpoint but found pleasant. The dapper old man turned to her. “I 

apologize if I startled you.” 

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“You came out of nowhere,” she said. 

“A knack that has served me well. Leaving as quietly, that’s a diminishing talent, I’m sorry to say. It has 

led to a comfortable retirement, though.” He gestured to his showroom. “Please, after you.” As they 

crossed the thick oriental rug, he added, “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a police detective.” 

Nikki paused. “I never said I was a detective.” The old man simply smiled. 

Rook said, “Wasn’t sure you’d see me if I told you that, Casper.” 

“I probably wouldn’t have. And it would have been my loss.” From anyone else it would have been a 

laughable bar pickup line. Instead, the dashing little man made her blush. “Have a seat.” 

Casper waited until she and Rook took places on a navy corduroy sofa before he folded into his green 

leather wing chair. She could see the outline of a sharp kneecap through his linen trousers when he 

crossed his legs. He wore no socks and his slippers looked custom-made. “I have to say, you’re every 

bit what I pictured.” 

“She thinks my article made you sound debonair,” said Rook. 

“Oh, please, that old label.” Casper turned to her. “It’s nothing, trust me. When you reach my age, the 

definition of debonair is that you shaved this morning.” She noticed that his cheeks gleamed in the 

lamplight. “But one of New York’s finest doesn’t have time to come here simply to visit. And since I’m 

not wearing bracelets and being read my rights, I can safely assume my past hasn’t caught up with me.” 

“No, it’s nothing like that,” she said. “And I do know you’re retired.” He answered with a little shrug 

and opened a palm, perhaps hoping she’d believe he was still an art thief and cat burglar. And, in fact, he 

convinced her at least to wonder. 

“Detective Heat is investigating an art theft,” Rook said. 

“Rook tells me you’re the one to talk to about major art sales in the city. On or off the books.” Again, 

he answered with the shrug and hand wave. Nikki decided the man was right, she didn’t have the 

inclination to sit and visit, and dove in. “During the blackout someone burglarized the Guilford and stole 

the entire Matthew Starr collection.” 

“Ho, I love it. Calling that glorified hodgepodge a collection.” He shifted and recrossed his bony knees. 

“Good, then you are familiar with it,” she said. 

“From what I know, it’s not a collection at all so much as a Cobb salad of vulgarity.” 

Heat nodded. “Similar comments have been made.” She handed him an envelope. “These are copies of 

photos of the collection made by an appraiser.” 

Casper shuffled through the prints with undisguised disdain. “Who collects Dufy together with Severini? 

Why not add a toreador or a clown on black velvet?” 

“You can keep those. I was hoping you could look them over or show them around, and if you hear of 

anyone trying to sell any of the pieces, let me know.” 

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“That’s a complex request,” said Casper. “One side of that equation or another could involve friends of 

mine.” 

“I understand. The buyer doesn’t interest me so much.” 

“Of course. You want the thief.” He turned his attention to Rook. “Times haven’t changed, Jameson. 

They still want the one who took all the risk.” 

Rook said, “Difference here is that whoever did this probably did more than steal art. There’s a 

possibility of a murder, maybe two.” 

“We don’t know that for a fact,” Heat said. “Just to be honest.” 

“My, my. A straight shooter.” The elegant old thief gave Nikki a long look of appraisal. “Very well. I 

know an unorthodox art merchant or two who might be of service. I’ll make some inquiries as a favor to 

Jameson. Plus it never hurts to pay forward a bit of goodwill with the gendarmerie.” 

Nikki bent over to pick up her bag and started to thank him, but when she looked up he was gone. 

“What’s he talking about?” said Rook. “I think he still makes a great exit.” 

Nikki stood in the precinct break room staring through the observation window of the microwave at the 

spinning carton of barbecued pork fried rice. Not for the first time, she reflected on how much time she 

spent in that building observing through windows, waiting for results. If it wasn’t into interrogation rooms 

at suspects, it was into microwave ovens at leftovers. 

The chirp sounded and she took out the steaming red carton with Detective Raley’s name Sharpied on 

two sides, triple exclamation points included. If he really meant it, he would have taken it home with him. 

And then she thought about the glamour of the cop’s life. Finishing off the workday with more work, 

eating a dinner of leftovers that aren’t even your own. 

Of course, Rook had tried to press for an evening. The obvious advantage of his generous offer to 

engage Casper was that the meeting ended at dinnertime, and even on a humid, uncomfortable night, 

there was nothing like sitting outdoors at the Boat Basin Cafe with some baskets of char-grilled burgers, 

a galvanized bucket of Coronas planted in shaved ice, and a view of the sailboats on the Hudson. 

She told Rook she had a date. When his face started to rearrange, she told him it was in the bull pen 

with the whiteboard. Nikki didn’t want to torture him. Yes, she did, just not like that. 

In the after-hours quiet of the bull pen, without phones or visits to interrupt her, Detective Heat once 

again contemplated the facts laid out before her on the landscape of the jumbo porcelain enamel board. 

Just half a week ago she had sat in this very chair with the same late night view. There was more 

information for her to look at this time. The board was filled with names, timelines, and photographs. 

Since her previous night of silent deliberation two more crimes had gone down. Three, if you counted the 

assault on her by Pochenko. 

“Pochenko,” she said. “Where did you Pochenk-go?” 

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Nikki went meditative. She was anything but mystical, but she did believe in the power of the 

subconscious. Well, at least hers. She pictured her mind as a whiteboard and erased it. Clearing herself, 

she became open to what sat before her and whatever patterns formed in the evidence so far. Her 

thoughts floated. She batted stray ones away and stuck to the case. She wanted an impression. She 

wanted to know what spoke to her. And she wanted to know what she’d missed. 

She let herself travel, gliding above the days and nights of the case using the big board as her Fodor’s. 

She saw Matthew Starr’s body on the sidewalk and revisited Kimberly surrounded by art and opulence 

in her faux-preppie grief, saw herself interviewing the people in Starr’s life: rivals, advisors, his bookie 

and Russian enforcer, his mistress, doormen. The mistress. Something the mistress said pulled her back. 

A nagging detail. Nikki paid attention to nags because they were the voices God gave to clues. She 

stood and went to the board and faced the mistress info she had posted there. 

Office romance, love letter intercepted, top performer, left the company, muffin shop, happy, no motive. 

And then she looked to the side. Nanny affair? 

The former mistress had seen Matthew Starr in Bloomingdale’s with a new mistress. Scandinavian. 

Nikki found Agda personally inconsequential and, more importantly, properly alibied for the murder. Yet 

what was that nag? 

She put the empty Chinese take-out carton on Raley’s desk and slapped a Post-it note to it, thanking 

“Raley!!!” and taking perverse glee in her triple exclamations. Underneath, she wrote another note to 

bring in Agda for a 9A.M. chat. 

There was a blue-and-white from the One-Three parked outside her apartment when she got there. 

Detective Heat said hi to the officers inside it and went upstairs. She didn’t call her captain to wave it off 

that night. Barbara Deerfield’s neck bruises were fresh in her mind. Nikki was exhausted and ached for 

sleep. 

No indulgence for her. She showered instead of bathing. 

Nikki got into her bed and smelled Rook on the pillow beside her. She pulled it to her and breathed 

deeply, wondering if she should have called him to come over. Before she could answer, she was asleep. 

It was still dark when her phone rang. The sound reached her through a depth of slumber she had to 

claw her way up from. She reached for her cell phone on the nightstand with sleep-dead hands and it fell 

to the floor. By the time she got to it, the ringing had stopped. 

She recognized the number and did a voice-mail fetch. “Hey, it’s Ochoa. Call me right away, all right? 

Soon as you get this.” He vibed a breathless urgency not like him. The sweat on Nikki’s naked skin 

chilled when his message continued, “We found Pochenko.” 

SIXTEEN 

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Nikki was tucking in her blouse as she sailed down her front steps, raced to the cruiser, and asked the 

cops for a lift. They were glad to have their monotony broken and roared off with her in back. 

At 5A.M. the northbound traffic was light on the West Side Highway and they hauled ass. “I know the 

area, there’s no vehicle access from this direction,” Nikki told the driver. “Instead of killing time looping 

back from 96th, hop off at the next exit. When you get to the bottom of the ramp, I’ll get out and hoof it 

the rest of the way.” 

The officer was still braking at the bottom of the 79th Street off-ramp when Heat told him she was good 

to go. She called over her shoulder to say thanks for the ride. Soon Nikki was running under the 

highway, scuffing over dried pigeon droppings on her way to the river and the police lights in the distance. 

Lauren Parry was working Pochenko’s body when Nikki jogged up, panting and sweaty from her 

sprint. “Catch your breath, Nik, he’s not going anywhere,” said the M.E. “I was ready to call about our 

man here, but Ochoa beat me to it.” 

Detective Ochoa joined them. “Looks like this guy won’t be bothering you anymore.” 

Heat circled around to look at the corpse. The big Russian was slumped to one side on a park bench 

facing the Hudson. It was one of those picturesque rest stops on the slope of grass between the bike path 

and the bank of the river. Now it was Pochenko’s final rest stop. 

He had changed clothes since the night he tried to kill her. His cargo shorts and white T-shirt looked 

brand-new, which was how criminals on the run dressed, using stores as their closets. Pochenko’s outfit 

was right off the shelf, except it was covered in blood. 

“The homeless outreach patrol found him,” said Ochoa. “They’ve been making rounds trying to get guys 

into the cooling shelters.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Looks like he’s gonna stay nice and cool.” 

Nikki understood Ochoa’s dark humor, but seeing the body didn’t put her in a sporting mood. 

Whatever he had been, Vitya Pochenko was a dead human now. Any personal relief she felt about the 

end of his threat was just that, personal. He was now in the category of crime victim and was owed 

justice like anyone else. One of Nikki Heat’s talents for The Job was her ability to put her own feelings in 

a box and be a professional. She looked at Pochenko again and realized she was going to need a bigger 

box. 

“What do we have?” she asked Lauren Parry. 

The M.E. beckoned Nikki around behind the bench. “Single gunshot to the back of the head.” 

The sky was starting to brighten, and the buttermilk light gave Nikki a clearer view of the bullet hole in 

Pochenko’s brush cut. “There’s muzzle burn,” she said. 

“Right. So it was extremely close range. And look at his body position. Big bench, he had the whole 

damn thing to himself, but he’s all the way on one end.” 

Heat nodded. “Someone was sitting with him. No sign of struggle?” 

“None,” said the M.E. 

“So it’s most likely a friend or associate to get that close.” 

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“Close enough for a sneak attack,” said Ochoa. “Bring it up behind, and pop.” He gestured behind them 

at the West Side Highway, which was already filling with morning commuters. “No witnesses, traffic 

noise covered the shot. Don’t see a D.O.T. cam aimed this way, either.” 

“What about the gun?” Nikki asked the M.E. 

“Small-caliber. I’d call it a twenty-five if you put a gun to my head.” 

“Lauren, honey, you need to get out more.” 

“I would, but business is too good.” Then she pointed at the dead Russian. “This facial burn and the 

broken finger. Your work?” Heat nodded. “Anything else I should know about?” 

“Yeah,” said Ochoa. “Don’t mess with Nikki Heat.” 

Rook was waiting back at the precinct when she and Ochoa came in. “I heard about Pochenko.” He 

bowed his head grandly. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Ochoa laughed. “Hey, writer monkey’s catching on.” 

Again, Nikki ignored the gallows humor. “Ochoa, double-check the tail we have on Miric. He’s 

Pochenko’s known associate. I want to know where his bookie pal was when he was shot.” 

Detective Ochoa hit the phones. Rook brought a Dean & DeLuca cup to Heat’s desk. “Here, I got you 

your usual. A nonfat, no-foam, double-pump vanilla latte.” 

“You know how I feel about frou-frou coffees.” 

“And yet you have one every morning. Such a complex woman.” 

She took it from him and sipped. “Thanks. Very thoughtful.” Her phone rang. “And next time remember 

the chocolate shavings.” 

“So complex,” he said. 

Nikki picked up. It was Raley. “Two things,” he said. “I’ve got Agda waiting in the outer.” 

“Thanks, I’ll be right there. And the other?” 

“Before I went home last night, I hocked one in that Chinese.” 

Agda Larsson had dressed up for her interview. She wore vintage wear from the East Village 

accessorized with a pink and white Swatch Beach Volleyball watch on one wrist and a knotted twine 

bracelet on the other. She pinch-rolled one of the knots between her thumb and finger and said, “Am I in 

some sort of trouble?” 

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“No, this is just a formality.” That was only partially true. Nikki was basically crossing Ts with this 

interview; however, she did want to satisfy one question, the nagging one. She would work it in at the 

right time. “How are you coping with all this? Between the murder and the burglary, you must be ready to 

go right back to Sweden.” 

Agda wagged her head in disbelief at it all. “Oh, it is quite upsetting, yes? But we have murder in my 

country, too. Almost two hundred last year, they say.” 

“In the entire country?” 

“Yes, isn’t that terrible? It is everywhere.” 

“Agda, I want to ask you some questions about life inside the Starr family.” 

She nodded slowly. “Mrs. Kimberly said you would want to do that when I told her I was coming here.” 

Nikki’s antenna went up. “Did she caution you against talking about those things?” 

“No, she said to say what I wanted.” 

“She said that?” 

The nanny chuckled and shook her blond hair so it fell straight. “Actually, she said it did not matter 

because the police are incompetent and they could eat it.” Agda read Nikki’s lack of amusement and 

frowned, a futile attempt to look serious. “She says what she likes, Mrs. Starr.” 

And gets what she wants, thought Heat. “How long have you worked for her?” 

“Two years.” 

“How is your relationship with her?” 

“Oh, she can be tough. Out of nowhere, she’ll snap at me, ‘Agda get Matthew out of here to the park,” 

or she knocks on my bedroom door in middle of the night, ‘Agda, Matthew got sick and threw up, come 

clean it.’” 

“Day before yesterday Mrs. Starr and her son went out of town.” 

“That’s right, they went to Dr. Van Peldt’s beach cottage in Westport. In Connecticut.” 

“You didn’t leave with them. Did you meet them up there, or possibly at Grand Central?” 

Agda shook no. “I did not go with them.” 

“What did you do?” 

“I stayed the night with a friend at NYU.” 

Heat jotted “NYU” in her notebook. “Is that unusual? I mean, if Mrs. Starr is knocking on your door at 

night with child care issues, I’m betting she takes you along on her out-of-town trips.” 

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“This is true. Usually, I go on vacations and trips so she can enjoy herself and not be bothered with her 

son.” 

“But not that day.” Nikki got to what was nagging her. “Was there a reason she didn’t want you to be 

with her?” The detective eyed her keenly and continued, “Like some reason Mrs. Starr didn’t want you 

around?” 

“No, I only stayed behind so I could handle the piano delivery. She wanted Matty to get off the 

computer and get some culture, so she bought him a grand piano. It is gorgeous. When they took it out of 

the crate I almost fainted. Must have cost a fortune.” 

Grief takes many forms, thought Nikki. “Tell me about your relationship with Matthew Starr.” 

“Oh, much what you would expect. He likes me but calls me names when I tell him to go to bed or to 

turn offThe Suite Life of Zack and Cody for dinner.” She raised questioning eyebrows to Nikki. “You 

mean like that?” 

Detective Heat made a mental note that she was not sitting across the table from the poet laureate of 

Sweden. “Thank you, now let me ask you about Matthew Starr, Sr. What kind of relationship did you 

have with him?” 

“Oh, that was a very good one.” 

“In what way?” 

“Well, he was very kind to me. Mrs. Starr, she snaps her fingers and she’s all like, ‘Agda do this,’ or 

‘Agda keep him quiet, I am having my yoga time.’” 

“Agda? About Mr. Starr?” 

“Mister was always sweet. He would comfort me after she yelled at me. Mr. Starr would give me some 

extra money and treat me to a dinner out on my night off. Or take me shopping for clothes or…See, he 

gave me this Swatch.” 

“Was Mrs. Starr aware of this?” 

“Oh,tvartom, no. Matthew said to keep it only to us.” 

Nikki was amazed by her guileless sharing, and decided to keep that ball rolling. “Was your relationship 

with Mr. Starr ever physical?” 

“Of course.” 

“To what extent?” 

“He would rub my shoulders to comfort me after I got yelled at. Sometimes he would hug me or stroke 

my hair. It was very soothing. He was so gentle.” 

“How old are you, Agda?” 

“Twenty-one.” 

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“Did you and Matthew Starr ever sleep together?” 

“You mean have sex?Skit nej! That would not be appropriate.” 

There had obviously been some raucous laughter and jock snapping going on in the Observation Room 

during her interview with the nanny to the Starrs. It carried back to the bull pen when Roach and Rook 

followed her there. 

“What’s your take on Agda?” asked Raley. 

Rook considered and said, “She’s like Swedish furniture. Beautiful to look at but pieces missing.” 

“My favorite part,” added Ochoa, “was hearing how this guy was basically horndogging her under his 

wife’s nose and she says she didn’t have sex with him because it would be inappropriate.” 

“That’s calledhorndogus interruptus,” said Raley from over at the coffeepot. “I think Agda’s just one of 

the deals Matthew Starr never got a chance to close before he was killed.” 

Rook turned to Nikki. “Hard to believe she’s from the same land that brought us the Nobel Prize. Did 

she tell you anything useful?” 

“You never know until you know,” said Heat. 

The theme fromGhostbusters by Ray Parker, Jr., started to play. “Rook, please tell me that’s not coming 

from your pants,” she said. 

“Custom ringtone. Like it?” He held up his cell phone. The caller ID read “Casper.” “Ghostbusters, get 

it? Excuse me, Detective Heat, my source may have information related to this case.” Rook strode off to 

take his call with an air of smugness. 

In less than a minute, he returned, still on the phone but stripped of arrogance. “But I was the one who 

introduced you to her…. Can’t you just tell me?” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Fine.” Rook extended 

his phone to Nikki. “He says he’ll only share this with you.” 

“This is Nikki Heat.” 

“A pleasure, Detective. First, assure me that Jameson Rook is in anguish.” 

She looked at Rook, chewing his lower lip, straining to eavesdrop. “Quite.” 

“Good. If ever anyone needed a swift dismount from a high horse, it is he.” The old man’s soft, smoky 

tone warmed her ear. Hearing Casper without seeing him isolated his voice and she heard David Bowie 

with notes of Michael Caine’s mellowness. 

“To business,” he said. “After your visit, I burnt some midnight oil because I could tell time was pressing 

on you.” 

“Never had a case where it wasn’t,” said the detective. 

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“And although you downplayed it, you do believe there is a murder connected to this art theft.” 

“Yes, I downplayed it, and yes I believe it. Perhaps two murders.” 

“A wonderful art appraiser, a fine woman who knew her business, was killed this week.” 

Nikki jumped to her feet. “Do you know anything about that?” 

“No, I only knew Barbara from occasional meetings years ago. But she was among the best. Let’s say 

knowing her death might be part of this only engages me more in your investigation.” 

“Thanks for that. Please call me with anything you find out.” 

“Detective, I have information right now. Trust me, I wouldn’t have wasted either of our time unless I 

could provide substance.” 

Nikki flipped open her pad. “Has someone already tried to fence the paintings?” 

“Yes and no,” answered Casper. “Someone did sell just one of the paintings, the Jacques-Louis David. 

But that sale took place two years ago.” 

Nikki began to pace. “What? And you’re absolutely sure of this?” 

There was a pause and a half before the dapper art thief replied. “My dear, think of what you know 

about me and consider if you truly require an answer to that question.” 

“Point made,” said Nikki. “I’m not doubting you, I’m just confused. How can a painting be in Matthew 

Starr’s collection if it was sold two years ago?” 

“Detective, you’re smart. How good are you at math?” 

“Pretty good.” 

“Then your answer is to do some.” 

And then Casper hung up. 

SEVENTEEN 

The receptionist at Starr Real Estate Development popped back on and told Detective Heat that Paxton 

would be right with her. Nikki felt like she was straining at a leash. Even hearing Anita Baker on the hold 

music didn’t soothe her. It wasn’t the first time in her life she seemed to be moving at a different pace 

than the rest of the world. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time that day. 

At last, a ring-through. “Hi, sorry about the wait. I’m buttoning up a lot of Matthew’s affairs.” 

That could have so many meanings, she thought. “Last call, I promise.” 

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“It’s no bother, honest.” Then he laughed and said, “Although…” 

“Although what?” 

“I wonder if it would be easier if I just set up my office over there at your precinct.” 

Nikki laughed, too. “You could. You have the better view, but we have nicer furniture. How sad is 

that?” 

“I’ll stick with the view. So tell me how I can help you, Detective.” 

“I was hoping you could look up the name of the company that insured Matthew’s art collection.” 

“Sure thing.” He paused. “But you recall I told you he had me cancel that policy.” 

“Yes, I know. I just want to ask them if they kept documentary photos of the collection I can use to hunt 

it down.” 

“Oh, oh, pictures, right. Never thought of that. Good idea. Got a pen?” 

“Ready.” 

“It’s GothAmerican Insurance here in Manhattan.” She heard sharp keystrokes and he continued, 

“Ready for the phone number?” 

After she took it down, Nikki said, “May I ask you one more question? It will save me a call later.” 

She could hear the smile in his voice when Noah answered, “I doubt that, but go ahead.” 

“Did you cut a check for Kimberly Starr to buy a piano recently?” 

“A piano?” And then he repeated, “A piano? No.” 

“Well she bought one.” Heat looked at the CSI photo in her hand of the Starr living room. “It’s a beaut. 

A Steinway Karl Lagerfeld edition.” 

“Kimberly, Kimberly, Kimberly.” 

“These list for eighty thousand. How could she afford that?” 

“Welcome to my world, Detective. Not the craziest thing she’s done. Want to hear about the speedboat 

she bought last fall in the Hamptons?” 

“But where did she get the money?” 

“Not from me.” 

Nikki checked her watch. She might be able to get to the insurance folks before lunch. “Thanks, Noah, 

that’s all I need.” 

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“Until next time, you mean.” 

“Sure you don’t want to set up a desk over here?” she said. They were both laughing when they hung 

up. 

Heat punctuated her “Yesss!” with a fist-pump when Raley finished his call to the archives manager at 

GothAmerican. They not only routinely maintained photographic documentation of insured art collections, 

they held them for seven years following the cancellation of a policy. “How soon can we get them?” 

“Faster than you can microwave my leftovers,” said Raley. 

She pressed her detective. “Exactly how soon?” 

“The archive manager is e-mailing them to me as an attachment now.” 

“Forward it to Forensics as soon as it comes.” 

“Already had GothAmerican do a cc to them,” he said. 

“Raley, you are the czar of all media.” Heat clapped him on the shoulder. She grabbed her bag and 

hurried out to Forensics, brushing past Rook on his way in without seeming to notice him. 

The world still hadn’t caught up to Heat speed. When Nikki was closing in, it had little chance. 

Detective Heat returned to the bull pen from Forensics an hour and a half later wearing the game face 

Rook had seen when she was staging for the body shop raid. 

“What did you learn?” he asked. 

“Oh, just that Matthew Starr’s art collection was all forgeries.” 

He sprang to his feet. “The whole collection?” 

“Fakes.” She slung her bag on the back of her chair. “The ones in the insurance pictures are real. The 

ones in Barbara Deerfield’s camera? Not so much.” 

“That’s big.” 

“It sure provides a motive for someone to murder an art appraiser.” 

He gestured, punctuating with his forefinger. “I was thinking the same thing.” 

“Oh, you were, were you?” 

“I am a trained journalist. I’m capable of reading clues, too, you know.” 

He was getting cocky and she decided to have some fun with him. “Great. Then tell me who had the 

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motive.” 

“You mean who murdered Barbara Deerfield? Pochenko.” 

“On his own initiative? Doubt that.” 

He pondered and said, “What do you think?” 

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s too early to go shooting my mouth off.” She went to the board and 

put a check mark beside her notation to screen the insurance photos. He followed her like a puppy and 

she smiled to herself. 

“But you’re on to something, aren’t you?” he said. She just shrugged. “Do you have a suspect in mind?” 

Nikki flashed a grin and walked back to her desk. He trailed her and said, “You do. Who is it?” 

“Rook, aren’t you doing this whole ride-along so you can get into the mind of a homicide detective?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Just telling you wouldn’t be helping you. Know what would help you? For you to think like a homicide 

detective and see what you come up with on your own.” Nikki picked up her desk phone and pushed a 

speed-dial button. 

Rook said, “That sounds like a lot of work.” 

She held up a staying palm while she listened to a ring at the other end of the line. He brought his 

knuckle up and pushed it to his lips, agonized. She loved driving Rook crazy like this. It was fun, and 

besides, if she was wrong, she didn’t want him to know. 

Finally, someone picked up. “Hi, it’s Detective Heat at the Two-Oh. I want to arrange for transport of a 

prisoner you’re holding. His name’s Buckley, Gerald Buckley…. Yeah, I’ll hold.” 

While she was waiting, Rook said, “Aren’t you beating a dead horse? That guy’s not going to tell you 

anything. Especially with that ambulance chaser of his.” 

Nikki beamed a smug grin. “Ah, but that was yesterday in Interrogation. Today, we’re going to stage a 

little theater.” 

“What kind of theater?” 

“A play. As in,” she switched to an Elizabethan accent, “‘The play’s the thing, Wherein I’ll catch the 

conscience of the king.’” Then she added, “That would be Buckley.” 

“You really wanted to be an actress, didn’t you?” 

“Maybe I am,” said Nikki. “Come along and see.” 

Heat, Roach, and Rook were waiting in the hallway at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Kips 

Bay when the corrections officers delivered Gerald Buckley with his attorney in tow. 

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Nikki looked him up and down. “Coveralls flatter you, Mr. Buckley. Rikers all it’s cracked up to be?” 

Buckley turned his head away from Heat the way dogs do when they’re pretending they didn’t deliver 

the nearby turd to the new carpet. His lawyer stepped between them. “I’ve advised my client not to 

answer any further questions. If you have a case, bring it. But no more interviews unless you have lots of 

time to waste.” 

“Thanks, Counselor. This isn’t going to be an interview.” 

“No interview?” 

“That’s right.” The detective waited as his lawyer and Buckley traded confused looks, then she said, 

“Step this way.” 

Nikki led the entourage, Buckley, his lawyer, Roach, and Rook, into the autopsy room where Lauren 

Parry stood beside a stainless table with a sheet over it. 

“Hey, what are we doing in here?” said Buckley. 

“Gerald,” said the lawyer, and he pursed his lips. Then she turned to Nikki. “What are we doing in 

here?” 

“They pay you to do that? Repeat what he says?” 

“I demand to know why you dragged my client down here to this place.” 

Nikki smiled. “We have a body that needs identification. I believe Mr. Buckley may be able to provide 

it.” 

Buckley leaned toward his attorney’s ear and got as far as muttering, “I don’t wanna see any—” when 

Heat signaled Lauren Parry, who whipped the sheet off the table and revealed the corpse. 

Vitya Pochenko’s body was still clothed as they had found him. Nikki had phoned ahead to debate the 

subject with her friend, who felt that naked-for-the-autopsy was an impactful display that was tough to 

beat. Heat managed to persuade her that the Great Lake of dried blood on his white T-shirt told a better 

story, and so that was the presentation the M.E. made. 

The Russian lay on his back, eyes left open to make the maximum impression, the irises fully dilated, 

leaving only pupil, the effect exhibiting the darkest window to his soul. All color was gone from his face 

except for blotches of deep empurplement near one jaw, where gravity had pooled blood in the direction 

of his bench slump. Then there was that gruesome butterscotch and salmon burn welt covering one side 

of his face. 

Nikki watched the color drain from Gerald Buckley’s cheeks and lips until he was only about two 

hardware-store paint chips from matching Pochenko. 

“Detective Heat, if I may interrupt,” said Lauren, “I may have a determination on the caliber of the 

weapon.” 

“Excuse us just one moment,” Nikki said to Buckley. He took a hopeful half step to the door, his 

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disbelieving eyes still riveted on the body. Ochoa stepped to corral him and he stopped without contact. 

Gerald Buckley stayed put, staring. His lawyer had found a chair and was sitting sideways, at a right 

angle to the play. Nikki snapped on a pair of gloves and joined the M.E. at her table. Lauren placed 

expert fingertips on Pochenko’s skull and gently rotated it to expose the bullet hole behind his ear. A 

small puddle of brain fluid pooled on the gleaming stainless steel under the wound, and Buckley moaned 

when he saw it. “I did critical measurements and ballistics comparisons after our on-site angle-of-entry 

reconstruction.” 

“Twenty-five?” asked Nikki. 

“Twenty-five.” 

“Mighty small caliber to bring down such a big man.” 

The medical examiner nodded. “But a small-caliber round delivered to the brain can be remarkably 

effective. In fact, one of the highest one-shot-stop ratings is the Winchester X25.” In the metal pan of the 

hanging scale, Heat could see Buckley’s reflection, craning to hear every bit as Lauren continued. “That 

round is fabricated like a hollow point, but the hollow is filled with a steel BB to aid expansion inside the 

body once the slug is delivered.” 

“Whoa. When that puppy hit his brains, it must have been like taking a hammer to a plate of scrambled 

eggs,” said Raley. Buckley was regarding him with fearful eyes, so the detective added for good 

measure, “Like the front row of a Gallagher concert in there.” 

“Quite,” said Lauren. “We’ll know more once we cut open his brain for the treasure hunt, but one of 

those slugs would be my guess.” 

“But such a small gun would mean whoever did this knew they’d get a chance to work close.” 

“Sure,” said Lauren. “Definitely knew what they were doing. Small-caliber mouse gun. Easy to conceal. 

Victim never sees it coming. Could be anytime, anywhere.” 

“Pop,” said Ochoa. 

Buckley yipped and flinched. 

Heat crossed over to him, making sure to leave an unobstructed view of the dead Russian. The doorman 

was a fish on a dock. His lips opened and closed but no sound came. “Can you positively identify this 

man?” 

Buckley belched and Nikki was afraid he’d ralph on her, but he didn’t, and it seemed to help him locate 

his voice. “How could somebody…get to Pochenko?” 

“People involved in this case are dying, Gerald. Are you sure you don’t want to give me a name to help 

stop this before you join them?” 

Buckley was incredulous. “He was a wild animal. He laughed when I called him Da Terminator. Nobody 

could kill him.” 

“Somebody did. Single shot to the head. Bet you know who.” She waited a three count and said, “Who 

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hired you to steal that art collection?” 

The lawyer got to her feet. “Don’t answer that.” 

“Maybe you don’t know who,” Heat said. Her tone was all the more intimidating because she was so 

casual. Instead of shouting or grilling him, she was washing her hands of him. “I’m thinking we’re chasing 

our tails. We should spring you. Bail you out on your own recognizance. Let you think things over out 

there. See how long you last.” 

“Is that abona fide offer, Detective?” asked the attorney. 

“Ochoa? Get the keys to unlock his handcuffs.” 

Behind him, Ochoa rattled a set of keys and Buckley recoiled, hunching his shoulders at the sound as if it 

was a bullwhip cracking. 

“Isn’t that what you want, Gerald?” 

The man was swaying where he stood. White saliva strings connected the roof of his mouth to his 

tongue. 

“What…” Buckley swallowed. “What’s happened to his…?” He gestured up and down his own face to 

indicate the burn area on Pochenko. 

“Oh, I did that,” said Nikki, sounding casual. “Burned his face with a hot iron.” 

He looked to Lauren, who nodded affirmation. Then he looked at Heat and then Pochenko and back to 

Heat. “All right.” 

“Gerald,” the lawyer said, “shut up.” 

He turned to her. “You shut up.” Gerald Buckley then looked at Nikki and spoke gently, resigned. “I’ll 

tell you who hired me to steal that art.” 

Nikki turned to Rook. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you? I need you to wait outside while Mr. Buckley and 

I talk.” 

EIGHTEEN 

On their drive back from the M.E.’s office, Nikki didn’t need to turn around to know Rook was pissed 

off in the backseat. She was dying to, though, because seeing his torment would have added to her 

wicked pleasure. 

Ochoa was sitting back there with him and said, “Hey, homes, you carsick or something?” 

“No,” said Rook. “Unless I caught a chill when I got sent out in the hall when Buckley was going to 

talk.” 

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Heat wanted to turn around so bad. 

“Some play. You kicked me out during the last scene.” 

Raley braked at the light on Seventh Avenue and said, “Hey, when a subject’s about to open up, the 

fewer the better. You especially don’t want a reporter there.” 

Nikki leaned back on the headrest and scoped the digital temperature on the JumboTron outside 

Madison Square Garden. Ninety-nine degrees. “You probably know who Buckley named anyway, right, 

Rook?” 

“Tell me and I’ll let you know.” 

That brought a round of chuckles inside the Crown Vic. 

Rook snorted. “When did this become a hazing?” 

“It’s not a hazing,” she said. “You want to be all with the detectives, right? Do what we do and think like 

one.” 

“Except Raley,” said Ochoa. “He doesn’t think right.” 

“I’ll even help you out,” said Heat. “What do we know? We know the paintings were fake. We know 

they were gone when Buckley’s crew got there. Shall I go on, or do you have it figured?” 

The light changed and Raley drove on. “I’m developing a theory,” Rook said. 

At last, she hooked her elbow over the seat to face him. “That doesn’t sound exactly like naming a 

name.” 

“All right, fine.” He paused and blurted, “Agda.” Rook waited for a response and just got stares, so he 

filled the silence. “She had full access to that apartment that day. And I’ve been thinking about her 

interview. I don’t buy the naive nanny pose and the innocent shoulder rubs. That girl was doing Matthew 

Starr. And I think he dumped her like he did all his mistresses, only she got pissed enough to want some 

payback.” 

Heat said, “So Agda had him killed?” 

“Yes. And stole the paintings.” 

“Interesting.” She thought a moment. “And I guess you also figured out why Agda killed the art 

appraiser. And how she got the paintings out.” 

Rook’s eyes lost contact with hers and fell to his shoes. “I haven’t plugged every hole, this is still a 

theory.” 

She looked around to poll her colleagues. “It’s a process. We get it.” 

“But am I right?” 

“I don’t know, are you?” Then she turned all the way around so he wouldn’t see her smile. 

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Rook and Detectives Raley and Ochoa had to hustle to keep stride with Heat when they got back to the 

precinct. As soon as she entered the bull pen, Nikki beelined for her desk and pulled open the file 

drawer. 

“All right, now I’ve got it,” said Rook as he arrived in her wake. “When did Agda start working for the 

Starr family?” 

“Two years ago.” Heat didn’t bother to face him. She was occupied sorting through pictures in a file. 

“And when did Casper say that painting was fenced? That’s right, two years ago.” Rook waited, but she 

just kept shuffling her deck of pictures. “And Agda got the paintings out of the Guilford because she 

doesn’t work alone. I think our Swede could be part of some art theft ring. An international art theft and 

forgery ring.” 

“Uh-huh…” 

“She’s young, she’s pretty, she gets into the homes of wealthy people and has access to their artwork. 

She’s their inside man. Woman. Nanny.” 

“And why would an international forgery ring be dumb enough to steal a bunch of fakes?” 

“They weren’t fakes when she stole them.” He crossed his arms, quite satisfied with himself. 

“I see,” said the detective. “And you don’t think they’d notice their nanny going out of the apartment 

with a painting? Or the space gaping on the wall?” 

He reflected then shut down. “You have a question for everything, don’t you?” 

“Rook, if we don’t poke holes, the defense attorneys will. That’s why I need to build a case.” 

“Didn’t I just do that for you?” 

“Notice I’m still building.” She found the picture she was looking for and slipped it into an envelope. 

“Roach.” 

Raley and Ochoa stepped over to her desk. “You’re taking the Roach Coach on a short drive out of 

town with this photo of Gerald Buckley. Go to that place he mentioned back at the M.E.’s. Shouldn’t be 

hard to find. Show the picture, see if you get any hits, and then I want you back here, pronto.” 

“Going out of the city, how’d I miss that? Oh, right, Buckley freeze-out again,” said Rook. “Let me 

guess. You’re going to see if Agda lied about NYU and was really somewhere else with the paintings?” 

“Raley, do you have a map?” 

“I don’t need a map.” 

“No, but Rook does,” said Heat. “He’s been all over his.” 

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After Raley and Ochoa left, she put the file away in her desk. Rook was still lurking. “What are we going 

to do?” 

Nikki indicated a chair. “We? We, which is to say you, are going to park your Pulitzer Prize–winning 

butt and stay out of my way while I scare up some warrants.” 

Rook took a seat. “Arrest warrants? Plural?” 

“Search warrants, plural. I need two of them plus a warrant for a wiretap.” She looked at her watch and 

whispered a curse. “Day’s half-shot and I need them like now.” 

“Um, I believe I can be of service if you’re in a hurry.” 

“No, Rook.” 

“It’s cake.” 

“I said no. Stay out of this.” 

“I did it before.” 

“Ignoring my instructions.” 

“And getting you your warrant.” He glanced around to make sure the bull pen was empty and lowered 

his voice. “After the other night, aren’t we past this?” 

“Don’t. Even.” 

“Let me help you.” 

“No. Do not call Judge Simpson.” 

“Give me one good reason.” 

“Because now that the judge and I are poker buddies,” she grinned and picked up her phone, “I can call 

him myself.” 

“You sleep with me, then you make fun of my theories and steal all my friends.” Rook leaned back and 

crossed his arms. “Just for that, you’re not meeting Bono.” 

Horace Simpson came through with the warrants, accompanied by a judicial warning that Heat had 

better get her heinie back to Rook’s poker table so he could win back his losses. And to think all these 

years the detective had been going through channels to reach judges. 

Getting the search warrants in hand turned out to be the easy part. Her wiretap required time to set up, 

meaning several hours of waiting. Not Nikki Heat. She strode into the bull pen from Captain Montrose’s 

office and grabbed her bag. 

“What now?” asked Rook. 

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“Cap sprung a team off patrol for me. We’re rolling to execute my search warrants.” When he stood up 

to join her, she said, “Sorry, Rook, we’re at a critical phase. This is police-only.” 

“Come on, I’ll stay in the car, I promise. It’s hot, but just leave the window open a crack for me. They 

say that’s dangerous, but I’m tough, I’ll bring water.” 

“You’re better off right here reviewing your evidence. You’ve got the whiteboard to study, you’ve got 

air-conditioning, and you’ll have time, lots of time.” As she crossed the room with her back to him, she 

said, “Remember, think like a detective.” 

“You might as well take me, I know where you’re going.” That stopped her. When she turned to face 

him from the doorway, he said, “The Guilford and to a personal storage place on Varick.” 

She looked down at her bag. “You snooped my warrants, didn’t you?” 

His turn to grin. “Just thinking like a journalist.” 

Two hours later, Heat returned to find Rook staring at the whiteboard. “Come up with any more 

theories while I was out?” 

“In fact, yes.” 

She went to her desk and checked her voice mail. Her mailbox was empty. Nikki tossed the handset 

onto the cradle in frustration and looked at her watch. 

“You all right? Trouble with your search warrants?” 

“Au contraire,”she said. “I’m just stressing my wiretap. The other stuff went great. Better than great.” 

“What did you find?” 

“You first. What’s your new theory?” 

“Well. I’ve been thinking it all over and now I know who it is.” 

“Not Agda?” 

“Why? Is it Agda?” 

“Rook.” 

“Sorry, sorry. OK. This is off-the-wall. I’m off Agda. But I’m thinking about something she said about 

the new piano.” This piqued Nikki’s interest. She sat against the edge of her desk with her arms folded. 

“Am I getting warmer?” he asked. 

“I know I’m not getting younger. Get to it.” 

“When you interviewed her, Agda said something like the new piano was so gorgeous, she almost 

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fainted when it came out of the crate.” He paused. “Who delivers pianos in crates anymore? Nobody.” 

“Interesting, go on.” In fact, these were waters she was fishing in, and Nikki was curious to hear his 

take. 

“We know the piano came in because we saw it there after the theft. So I got to wondering, why bring in 

a crate unless something is going to go out in it after you remove the piano from it?” 

“And so now you are saying it’s who?” 

“Obviously. The piano company is a front for art thieves.” 

“Is that your final answer?” The flat expression she showed him made Rook backpedal so fast, Nikki 

wanted to burst out laughing. But she held her poker face. 

“Or…,” he said, “let me finish. You served a warrant at the Guilford and at a personal storage place. 

I’m sticking with my piano crate scenario, but I say it’s…Kimberly Starr.” Although her face remained 

neutral, Rook became animated. “I’m right, I know it. I can see it all over you. Tell me I’m wrong, then.” 

“I’m not telling you squat.” Raley and Ochoa came into the bull pen. Heat started over to them. “Why 

spoil the fun?” 

“Raley and I showed around Buckley’s picture,” said Ochoa. “We scored two positive hits. That 

doesn’t suck.” 

“Doesn’t suck at all.” Nikki dared to let herself feel the thrill of gathering momentum on the case. “And 

they’ll testify?” 

“Affirm,” said Raley. 

Nikki’s desk phone rang and she lunged for it. “Detective Heat.” She kept nodding as if the caller could 

see her, and said, “Excellent. Great. Excellent. Thanks much.” When she hung up, she turned to her 

team. “Wiretap’s up. We’re going to the dance.” For once things were moving at Heat speed. 

Nikki and Rook sat wedged into a corner of the tiny room, knee-to-knee on metal folding chairs behind 

the police technician who was recording the calls. The AC vent whistled, so Heat had had the air turned 

off to let her hear without that distraction, and it was suffocating in there. 

A blue LED meter spiked on the console. “Picking up,” said the technician. 

Heat put on her headphones. The ring purred on the line. Her breathing became shallow the way it had 

on the raid in Long Island City, only this time she couldn’t calm herself. Her heart thunked at a disco 

cadence until Nikki heard the click of the answer and one of the beats skipped. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m using your direct line because I don’t want the receptionist knowing I’m calling you,” said Kimberly 

Starr. 

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“OK…” Noah Paxton sounded wary of her. “I don’t understand why not.” 

Nikki hand-signaled the technician to ensure he was recording. He nodded. 

Kimberly continued, “You’re about to understand, Noah.” 

“Is something wrong? You sound strange.” 

Nikki closed her eyes into a tight squint of concentration, wanting only to hear. With headphones on, the 

fidelity was iPod-quality. She clocked every nuance. The air hiss of the office chair Noah was sitting in. 

The hard swallow that came from Kimberly. 

Now Nikki waited. Now she wanted words. 

“I need your help with something. I know you always did things for Matthew, and now I want you to do 

the same for me.” 

“Things?” His tone was still guarded. 

“Come on, Noah, cut the shit. We both know Matt pulled a lot of crap that was shady and you handled 

it. I need some of that from you now.” 

“I’m listening,” he said. 

“I have the paintings.” 

Nikki caught herself making tension fists and loosened her grip. 

Paxton’s office chair creaked. “Excuse me?” 

“Am I not speaking English? Noah, the art collection. It wasn’t stolen. I took it. I hid it.” 

“You?” 

“Not me personally. I had some guys do it while I went out of town. Forget all that. The thing is, I have 

them and I want you to help me sell them.” 

“Kimberly, are you nuts?” 

“They’re mine. I didn’t get insurance. I deserve something out of all those years with that son of a bitch.” 

Now it was Heat’s turn to swallow hard. It was starting to come together. Her heart was punching to get 

out. 

“What makes you think I’d know how to sell them?” 

“Noah, I need help. You were Matthew’s fixer, now I want you to be mine. And if you’re not going to 

help me, I’ll find someone who will.” 

“Whoa, whoa, Kimberly, slow down.” Another pneumatic hiss, and Heat pictured Noah Paxton rising 

up behind his horseshoe-shaped desk. “Don’t call anybody. Are you listening to me?” 

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“I’m listening,” she said. 

“We should talk this out. There’s a solution to all this, you just need to keep your head.” He paused and 

asked, “Where are these paintings?” 

A swell of anticipation gathered up Nikki and carried her until she felt suddenly weightless at its crest. A 

trickle of sweat curved around the vinyl ear seal of one of her headphones. 

“The paintings are here,” said Kimberly. 

“And where’s here?” 

Say it, thought Nikki, say it. 

“At the Guilford. Pretty cool, huh? All the searching they’ve been doing and they never left the building.” 

“All right, listen to me. Don’t call anybody, just relax. We need to work this out face-to-face, OK?” 

“OK.” 

“Good. Stay there. I’ll be right over.” And then he hung up. 

Nikki took off her headphones. When Rook removed his, he said, “I called it. I was right. It was 

Kimberly. Ha-ha, where’s my five?” He held up his palm to her. 

“Uh, we don’t do fives.” 

Rook stood. “Listen, we’d better get over there before Noah. If this woman killed her husband, who 

knows what she’ll do next.” 

Nikki rose. “Thanks for the pointer, Detective Rook.” He held the door for her and they strode out. 

NINETEEN 

Heat, Raley, Ochoa, and Rook crossed through the lobby of the Guilford to the elevators. When the 

doors opened, Nikki put the palm of her hand on Rook’s chest. “Whoa, whoa, where do you think 

you’re going?” 

“With you.” 

She shook her head. “No way. You stay down here.” 

The automatic doors kept trying to close. Ochoa braced them open with his shoulder to keep them from 

bouncing. 

“Come on, I did what you said. I thought like a detective and I deserve to be there when you take her 

down. I’ve earned that.” When all three of the detectives broke into laughter, Rook walked it back a 

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hair. “How about I just wait in the hall?” 

“You told me you’d wait in the hall when I arrested Buckley.” 

“OK, I got impatient once.” 

“And on our raid in Long Island City, what did you do after I told you to stay behind?” 

Rook kicked the toe of his shoe against the lip of the rug. “Look, this is starting to sound more like an 

intervention than an arrest.” 

“I promise, we won’t make you wait long. After all,” she said with mock solemnity, “you’ve earned 

that.” She got in the elevator with Roach. 

“Just for that I may do my whole article about someone else.” 

“Break my heart,” she said as the doors shut on him. 

When Detective Heat entered through the front door of the apartment, she found Noah Paxton by 

himself in the living room. “Where’s Kimberly?” 

“She’s not here.” 

Raley and Ochoa stepped in behind Nikki. “Check all the rooms,” she said. Ochoa disappeared with 

Raley down the hallway. 

“Kimberly’s not back there,” said Paxton. “I already checked.” 

Heat said, “We’re do-it-yourselfers. We’re funny that way.” Her gaze went to the room full of artwork, 

hanging as it always had been, floor to ceiling. Nikki marveled at the sight. “The paintings. They’re back.” 

Noah seemed to share her bewilderment. “I don’t understand it, either. I’m just trying to figure out 

where the hell they came from.” 

“Relax, you don’t have to playact anymore, Noah.” She watched the furrows crease his brow. “They 

never left the Guilford, right? We tapped her phone call to you not twenty minutes ago.” 

“I see.” He thought a few seconds, no doubt sorting through his side of the conversation, wondering if he 

could be an accessory after the fact. “I told her she was nuts,” he said. 

“Now, that’s a good citizen.” 

He opened his palms to her. “I apologize, Detective. I knew I should have called you. Guess I still have 

my protective instinct for the family. I came over here to talk sense into her. Too late now.” Nikki just 

shrugged. “When did you find out she stole them? During that phone call?” 

“No. The alarm bells sounded for me when I heard our widow-in-mourning bought a piano and left town 

for the delivery. Does Kimberly strike you as someone who’d leave rearranging her precious antiques to 

a work crew and a dimwit nanny?” Nikki ambled to the Steinway and tinkled one key. “We checked 

with the building super. He confirmed the piano movers came here in the morning with a huge crate, but 

didn’t recall them leaving with one. It fell off his radar, I guess, after all the confusion around the 

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blackout.” 

Noah smiled and shook his head. “Wow.” 

“I know, pretty sneaky, huh? They never left the building.” 

“Ingenious,” said Paxton. “And not a word I associate with Kimberly Starr.” 

“Well, she wasn’t as smart as she thought.” 


Nikki had run this over and over in her head so that it was crystal clear to her. Now she would bring 

Noah along on the ride. “Did you know Matthew had changed his mind about selling his collection?” 

“No, I didn’t know anything about that.” 

“Well, he had. The same day he was killed, a woman from Sotheby’s named Barbara Deerfield came 

over here to appraise it. She was murdered before she got back to her office.” 

“That’s horrible.” 

“I believe her murder was connected to Matthew’s.” 

His brow darkened. “It’s tragic, but I don’t understand the connection.” 

“Neither did I. I kept wondering, Why would anyone kill an art appraiser? Then I discovered that 

Starr’s entire art collection was made up of forgeries.” Nikki watched a pallor wash out Noah Paxton’s 

face. 

“Forgeries?” He let his gaze wander the walls. Nikki saw his eye fall upon a piece of art near the 

archway. The one covered by a shroud. 

“Fakes, Noah.” His attention snapped back to her. “The whole collection.” 

“How can that be? Matthew paid top dollar for these paintings, and from reputable dealers.” Paxton’s 

color was coming back and then some as he grew more agitated. “I can assure you when we bought 

these they were not fakes.” 

“I know,” said the detective. “The insurance documentation pictures bore that out.” 

“Then how could they now be fakes?” 

Nikki sat on the arm of a sofa that cost more than most people’s cars. “The appraiser took her own set 

of photos of the collection as notes. We found her camera and her pictures didn’t match the insurance 

shots. She had documented a roomful of forgeries.” Heat paused to let that sink in. “Sometime between 

the purchase and her appraisal, someone switched the art.” 

“That’s unbelievable. You’re sure of this?” 

“Absolutely. And Barbara Deerfield would have come to the same conclusion if she had lived to study 

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her pictures. In fact,” said Nikki, “I’d say that the reason Barbara Deerfield was killed was because 

somebody didn’t want it to get out that the sixty-million-dollar Starr Collection was bogus.” 

“Are you saying Matthew was trying to palm off fakes?” 

Heat shook her head no. “Matthew never would have hired an appraiser if he knew they were fakes. 

And after all the money and ego he invested in his Little Versailles? He’d have had a meltdown if he ever 

found out.” 

Noah’s eyes widened in revelation. “Oh my God. Kimberly…” 

Nikki rose and strolled over to the John Singer Sargent oil of the two innocents, enjoyed it for just a 

glance, and said, “Kimberly beat someone else to stealing that art collection. I arrested a second crew 

that broke in here later, during the blackout, and they found nothing but empty walls.” 

“Everyone went to a lot of trouble just to steal something that’s worthless.” 

“Kimberly didn’t know the paintings were worthless. The grieving Mrs. Starr thought she was scoring 

her multimillion-dollar Lotto hit for a shitty marriage.” 

“Obviously the other burglars thought it was valuable, too.” Paxton gestured to the art. “Otherwise why 

would they try to steal it?” 

Nikki stepped away from the painting and faced him. “I don’t know, Noah. Why don’t you tell me?” 

He took his time before he answered, looking at her to gauge if she was asking a rhetorical question or 

something with more stink on it. He couldn’t have liked the way her eyes were boring into him, but he 

went for rhetorical. “I could only guess.” 

If her session at the medical examiner’s that morning was theater, for Nikki this was Brazilian jujitsu and 

she was done boxing. On to the grappling. “Do you know a Gerald Buckley?” 

Paxton squeezed his mouth into an upside-down U. “Doesn’t sound familiar.” 

“Curious, Noah. Gerald Buckley knows you. He’s the overnight doorman here.” She watched him work 

his earnest face. Nikki found him almost convincing; he wasn’t bad. She was better. “Here’s a refresher. 

Buckley’s the man you hired to set up the second burglary during the blackout.” 

“That’s a lie. I don’t even know him.” 

“Now that is truly weird,” said Ochoa from the archway. Paxton was edgy. He hadn’t seen the other 

two detectives return, and he flinched when Ochoa spoke. “Me and my partner took a drive up to 

Tarrytown this afternoon. To a bar there.” 

Raley said, “Place called the, uh, Sleepy Swallow?” 

“Whatever,” said Ochoa. “Guess that’s your regular hang, right? Everybody knows you. And the 

bartender and a waitress both ID’d Mr. Buckley sitting at your table for a very long time a few nights 

ago.” 

“During the blackout,” added Raley. “About the time Buckley should have been in for that shift he 

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canceled.” 

“Buckley is not your strongest point man,” said Heat. Noah’s eyes were getting less focused and he 

whipped his head from detective to detective as each spoke, like he was following the ball at a tennis 

match. 

“Dude caved like a sandcastle,” added Ochoa. 

“Buckley also says you called him up and told him to hurry over here to the Guilford and let Pochenko in 

the rooftop door. That was just before Matthew Starr was murdered,” said Nikki. 

“Pochenko? Who’s Pochenko?” 

“Smooth. Not going to trip you up, am I?” said Heat. “Pochenko’s somebody whose picture you didn’t 

recognize in my photo array. Even though I showed his picture to you twice. Once here, once at your 

office.” 

“You’re fishing. This is all speculation. You’re putting everything on hearsay from a liar. An alcoholic 

who’s desperate for money.” Paxton was standing in a direct sun ray from one of the high windows, and 

his forehead glistened in the light. “Yes, I’ll admit I met this Buckley guy at the Swallow. But only 

because he was shaking me down. I used him a couple of times to arrange hookers for Matthew and he 

was trying to extort hush money out of me.” Paxton raised his chin and thrust his hands in his pockets, 

body English for that’s my story and I’m sticking to it, thought Nikki. 

“Let’s talk about money, Noah. Remember that little transgression of yours my forensic accountants 

uncovered? That time when you fudged the books to hide a few hundred grand from Matthew?” 

“I already told you that was for his kid’s college.” 

“Let’s pretend that’s the truth for now.” Nikki didn’t believe him but was applying another rule of jujitsu: 

When you’re closing in for a takedown, don’t get faked into a sucker hold. “Whatever your reason, you 

managed to cover your tracks by putting that money back two years ago, right after one of the paintings 

from this collection, a Jacques-Louis David, got fenced for that exact amount. A coincidence? I don’t 

believe in coincidences.” 

Ochoa shook his head. “No way.” 

“The detective is definitely not coincidence-friendly,” said Raley. 

“Is that how you started, Noah? You needed a few grand so you had one of his paintings forged and 

then swapped it for the real one, which you sold? You said yourself that Matthew Starr was a philistine. 

The man never had a clue the painting you put on his wall was a fake, did he?” 

“That’s bold,” said Ochoa. 

“And you got bolder. After you saw how easy it was to get away with that, you tried it with another 

painting, and another, and then started flipping the whole collection like that, piece by piece, over time. 

Do you know Alfred Hitchcock?” 

“Why, is he accusing me of the Great Train Robbery?” 

Page 347


“Somebody asked him once if the perfect crime had ever been committed. He said yes. And when the 

interviewer asked him what it was, Hitchcock said, ‘We don’t know, that’s what makes it perfect.’” 

Nikki joined Ochoa and Raley near the archway. “I have to hand it to you, swapping the real paintings 

for the fakes was the perfect crime. Until Matthew suddenly decided to sell. Then your crime no longer 

would be secret. The appraiser had to be silenced first, so you had Pochenko kill her. And then you had 

Pochenko come here and throw Matthew over that balcony railing.” 

“Who is this Pochenko? You keep talking about this guy like I’m supposed to know who he is.” 

Nikki beckoned him to her. “Come here.” 

Paxton hesitated, eyeing the front door, but he came over to stand near the archway with the detectives. 

“Take a look at these paintings. Any one you like, Noah, take a good long look.” He leaned closer to 

one, gave it a cursory examination, then turned to her. 

“OK, so?” he said. 

“When Gerald Buckley gave you up, he also gave up the address of the storage facility where you 

instructed him to deliver the stolen paintings. Today, I got a search warrant for it. And guess what I found 

there.” She gestured to the collection hanging there in the glow of the orange light of the setting sun. “The 

original Starr Collection.” 

Paxton tried to keep his cool, but his jaw dropped. He twirled to look again at the painting. And then the 

one beside it. 

“That’s right, Noah. These are the originals you stole. The forgeries are still in the piano crate in the 

basement.” 

Paxton was coming unglued. He stepped from painting to painting, shaken, his breath rasping. 

Detective Heat continued, “I must say that storage facility you rented is first-rate. Climate-controlled, 

state-of-the-art fire technology, and very secure. They have the highest definition surveillance cameras 

I’ve seen. Look at one of the freeze-frames I got off it. It’s a small picture but quite sharp.” 

Paxton held out an unsteady hand. Nikki gave him a still-frame print from the storage security camera. 

He became even more ashen. 

“We’re still going over their archives. So far, they have video of you bringing one piece of Matthew 

Starr’s art into your storage unit about every eight weeks. This particular shot of you was taken a month 

ago, carrying a very big painting.” She pointed across the room to a large-format canvas. “It’s that one 

over there.” Paxton didn’t even bother to turn; he just gaped at the photo in his hands. “But that’s not my 

favorite picture. This is my favorite.” 

She nodded to Ochoa, who yanked the shroud off the frame on the wall beside him, revealing a blow-up 

of another security still. “Time code says it was taken one-point-six seconds after the picture in your 

hands. That is one jumbo canvas, Mr. Paxton. Too unwieldy and too valuable for one man to risk 

carrying it by himself. And look who that is coming around the corner helping you by holding the back 

end.” 

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Paxton forgot all about the photo in his hands and let it flutter to the floor. He stared in disbelief at the 

framed surveillance picture on the wall of him carrying the painting, assisted by Vitya Pochenko. 

He dropped his head and his body sagged. He fumbled to brace himself on the back of a sofa. 

“Noah Paxton, you’re under arrest for the murders of Matthew Starr and Barbara Deerfield.” Nikki 

turned away from him to Raley and Ochoa. “Cuff hi—” 

“Gun,” shouted Roach in tandem. Raley and Ochoa went for their hips. Nikki already had her hand on 

her Sig in its holster. But when she whirled back to Paxton, he was holding his gun on her. 

“He got it from the couch cushion,” said Raley. 

“Drop it, Paxton,” said Heat. She didn’t draw but took a step closer, trying to position herself for a 

disarm. He took two steps back, well out of reach. 

“Don’t,” he said. “I’ll do it, I will.” His hand was quaking and Nikki worried he’d fire by accident, so 

she stayed put. Plus Raley and Ochoa were behind her. If she went for him, she would take the risk that 

a wild shot might hit one of them. 

Her plan was to buy time by keeping Paxton talking. “This isn’t going to work, Noah. It never does.” 

“It’s only gonna be ugly,” said Ochoa. 

“Don’t be stupid,” added Raley. 

“Quiet.” Paxton took another backward step toward the front door. 

“I know what you’re doing, you’re trying to think of a way out, but there isn’t one.” Behind her, Nikki 

could hear the soft rug steps of her two detectives slowly spreading out to flank Paxton. She engaged him 

to give them time. “You should know there’s a cruiser out front and cops in the lobby. It’s the same 

detail that’s been tailing you since this morning when Buckley tagged you.” 

“You two. Stop. I swear if you move, I’ll start shooting.” 

“Do what he says.” Heat turned around to face them and said, “You guys hear me? I mean it.” Nikki 

used her rotation to block Paxton from seeing her unholster her Sig. She let her hand drop to her side 

and held the gun tight against the back of her thigh when she faced Paxton again. 

Meanwhile, he had retreated another step. His free hand rested on the doorknob. “Everybody back up.” 

They held their positions. Nikki continued trying to talk him down, even as she gripped her weapon 

behind her. “You’re the expert with numbers, right? What do you think your odds are of making the 

street?” 

“Shut up, I’m thinking.” 

“No, you’re not thinking.” 

His hand started to shake even more. “What’s it matter? I’m screwed.” 

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“But you’re not dead. Would you rather leave this to your lawyer or your undertaker?” 

He pondered a brief moment, moving his lips in some silent inner dialogue. And just when Nikki thought 

he might have come to his senses, he threw the front door open. She brought her piece up, but Paxton 

had already lunged behind the door and run out into the hallway. 

Everything that happened next happened fast. The door slammed hard as Nikki scrambled for it. Behind 

her she heard guns clearing holsters, footfalls, and Raley on his walkie-talkie. “Suspect is ten-thirty-two. 

Suspect is armed, repeat armed, with handgun on sixth floor. Detectives in pursuit.” 

Heat slammed her back flat to the wall, shoulder even with the door frame, and her Sig Sauer up in an 

isosceles stance. “Cover,” she said. Ochoa performed like clockwork. He went low, crouching on one 

knee, fisting his Smith & Wesson in his right hand and grabbing the knob with his left. “On yours,” he 

said. 

Without pause, Detective Heat calmly said, “Go.” 

Ochoa pulled the door and held it open for her. Nikki pivoted around the jamb, squaring her aim up the 

hall. She stopped, still holding her combat stance, shook her head, and mumbled, “Mother…” 

Ochoa and Raley rolled out behind her and stopped, too. Raley spoke quietly into his radio, “All units, 

we have a hostage.” 

Rook was standing halfway up the hall with Paxton snugged behind him holding the gun to his head. He 

looked at Nikki sheepishly and said, “So, I’m gonna guess it’s Noah.” 

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