They crashed through the woods until the undergrowth gave way to an expanse of sand and gravel. Stacks of wooden pallets littered the ground between abandoned buildings, enough fuel to burn for days. In the center of the lot a looming smokestack spewed bright cinders.

“Henry! Henry, help!”

The two men halted as a small figure emerged from the woods and ran wildly toward the kiln.

Chapter 97

Chapter 97

SHE WOKE, BURNING hot and jostled as though she sat in the last car of the Blue Streak. Why was she sleeping? And where? Someone carried her, clutched against his chest like a sack of flour. Her windpipe ached. It hurt to swallow.

She remembered: Max.

She drew a few shallow breaths, afraid to move. If he knew she was awake, he’d choke her again. His shirt reeked of sweat and urine. She’d read about the stink of fear, of being paralyzed by terror, but she’d always believed those were things made up for the magazines.

She cracked her eyes open. Mostly she saw his shirt, but when she cut her eyes, she caught a glimpse of buildings, darkness behind them and a flare of heat lightning in the clouds. The rattle and screams from the Velvet Coaster echoed in the distance. The air had a red tinge like Hell Gate, but there were no lights, not even streetlights. The carnival riot of Riverview sounded the way things sound underwater. Smoke stung her nostrils, and she saw a sliver of gold shoot up against the black sky.

Not lightning. Embers. They were in the brickyard, the one her mother insisted had been dismantled; the one where the Black Hand burned their dead.

She bit down on her tongue to keep from screaming. Held her breath, straining to hear voices or any sound of pursuit, but there was only the grumble of thunder and Max’s heavy panting, the slap of his feet on the ground. Her terror dulled into a numb heaviness.

Where was Henry?

He had gotten lost. Or scared. Or he had simply forgotten, distracted by his imaginary enemies rather than her real one. She would become a name, like Elsie, Maria, Gilda, her sister, and all the others. Only there would be no photo of Pin. No one would remember her except her mother.

Her thoughts spiraled back to where she was now, her face pressed against the folds of a man’s reeking shirt. Her wig had come loose: she rubbed her head against his chest to keep the wig from falling off. He still doesn’t know who I am, she thought, fighting another surge of terror. What would happen when he did?