The harmonic hall doors slammed and Spark hurtled out and over the low balustrade to the pavement, rolling to a stop and barely catching himself from going over the edge into the clouds below the floating city of Sonata. It was a two-mile drop
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“Champagne.” The steward places my order on the tray table. “Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff, Miss Windthorn?”
“Chocolate.” I give him a winning, closed-lipped smile.
“Of course, Miss Windthorn.”
Lifting my flute high, I whisper toward the window, “Harrison, may you rot.”
I’m determined to enjoy every possible convenience
Sixteen floors up the sheer glass face of Pitfall Industries’ main tower, I cling to Sticky Kitten’s back as she climbs. Suction fluid seeps through the sapphire Spandex of her skin-tight super suit, adhering me to her and her forearms and shins to the building. My purple cape snaps in the wind against
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Samuel T. Clemens stared down the white sugar slope. He had a task before him that would cause many a man’s knees to melt. Not him though; he wasn’t some soft butterscotch cookie. No, his was a legacy of proud, hard, gingerbread men.
Samuel’s piercing green frosting eyes measured the distance. “Come on!”
Nobody knew precisely where the relics came from nor how those with the money and power to assemble such collections managed to locate them in the first place.
Yet Hal was certain of one thing—at some point he had robbed and swindled them all.
“Let me guess. You see yourself as…
His meticulously planned caper at Footsie Rolls Novelty Sock Emporium was off to a poor start. Crouched behind a sneaker deodorant display, Achilles and two other sock gremlins stared down the aisle to where a pair of guards waved flashlights back and forth.
Achilles smacked Shin-Splint across the back of his head.
Her target would arrive any minute.
Tatum Albright emerged from the portal dressed in the usual style of 1922—a travel suit comprised of a gray skirt, blouse, and coat—blending in with the bustling Paris travelers as Gare de Lyon’s clock tower chimed the top of the hour.
The train station hummed
The Taxman’s Cull could lay easy claim to being the seediest bar in the country—and the country itself was no picnic. It was a loose confederation of drug kingpins, mobsters, and pirates—barely stately enough to call itself a nation. Police and military tried in vain to keep order, but the city of Oryphon overwhelmed them.
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