Cazria turned the box over in her hands, admiring the silver wrapping and sapphire bow. She shook it. No sound. She placed it back on the pedestal and chewed her fingernail. Jewelry. It had to be. Earrings or necklace? Her father had called
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Amy steeled herself at the base of the wall, tucked just out of sight at the perfect sniping point. Below her, a labyrinth of platforms and staircases sprawled outward in a confusing maze.
If only she had ammo.
She swallowed hard and scanned for movement. Above her, the strip of neon yellow lining the ceiling pulsed,
Maisie swings her feet on the faded green bench as she waits for the school bus to arrive. She tries to focus on the birds singing, instead of on her heart thumping in her chest.
“You’ll rule middle school,” she tells herself as a yawn escapes her. Maisie wipes sweaty palms on her skirt
The metal hallways flash red as my team and I dash toward the control room. Security alerts reverberate through the corridors, muffling the sounds of our footsteps.
“Attention,” a voice blares. “Intruders detected in Hallway B3. Deploying security measures. Attention. Intruders detected in hallway B3…”
I grin. “They’re onto us, boys.”
Since their arrival in Engine 26, Girard Avenue Northeast had descended into chaos. Beyond the hulking pumper and unraveling hoses, onlookers had gathered at the perimeter established by the DCFD to watch the Brentwood colonial burn. Justine Buchowski was rounding out her initial site survey,
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Kaloa headed for the water, surfboard in hand. The crashing waves roared the truth he refused to hear: he kept trying to prove he was the same rider from fifteen years ago.
He duck-dived through the break and surfaced in a prime spot. One, two, three paddles—he was up.
“The King is dead!”
Thunderous roaring from the crowd called for the king’s head, deafening me and chilled me to the bone. Only one thing had satisfied them: the King’s blood. My blood.
Did my people really loathe me that much?
If they thought the king was dead… A sickening knot formed in my stomach.
Janitor. Maid. Hygienic maintenance specialist. All these job descriptions were technically accurate. But none of them alluded to the truly unique skillset required to be a member of the staff cleaning crew at C.A.P.E Quarters—that is, the headquarters of the Crimefighting Association of Powered Entities.
She was Dee Dalsey … The Cleaning Lady.
Pearlescent light envelops me when I slide from the vent and brush the dust from my tattered dress. A groan parts my lips as my spine uncurls, limbs stretching. I glance around, anxious that I have given myself away. But the airship’s Grand Hall is empty, silent.
Trying to ignore the tempting shape at the end of the room,
Lazy, swinging jazz filtered in my window from the music school on the floor below my office. I swirled my glass, listening to how the clinking ice joined the quick staccato melody from the saxes and the rain outside. Every once in a while, a rumble of thunder or bright flash of lightning added some excitement to my personal concert.
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The river was endless.
It stretched like a vein of black glass through the dark, wide enough to swallow sky and shore alike. The air smelled of iron and salt. Each pull of the oar echoed like a heartbeat too slow to belong to the living.
I leaned against one of the many freestanding pillars around the edges of the ballroom, pretending to sip the violet liquid in my cup. Pairs of dancers whirled across the dance floor, feet moving perfectly in rhythm with the string ensemble’s arrangement of a popular tune.
Behind me, trios and quartets mingled at tables
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