Max’s steps had slowed. His hold on her had loosened—he wasn’t concerned about her escaping. He’s not afraid of being caught, she realized. He hadn’t bound her arms or legs; he probably thought she was still unconscious. But he couldn’t carry her forever. He would have to set her down; at some point he’d stop.

When he does I’ll run. I’ll scream, someone will hear me. Henry will hear me.

I’ll scream now.

“Henry! Henry, help!”

“Shut up, you fucking bitch!” Max squeezed her until she whimpered in pain, and he began to run again. If she struggled, he’d kill her. She had to stay calm, make another plan. Make another plan. Now.

He thought she was a girl. She moved her right leg, and something bit into her ankle. Her shiv. He hadn’t taken it. He didn’t know she had a knife.

She did what she had as a child when she didn’t want to go to bed, and made herself into a dead weight, sagging in his arms. After a few seconds he slowed, his breathing so loud she could hear nothing else. A few feet in front of them was the base of the smokestack. That was where they brought the bodies. The Black Hand. And him, Max. She tried to writhe free as he kicked the door, kicked it again and again until she heard wood split and the roar of flames and an unbearable heat surrounded her. They were inside.

Chapter 98

Chapter 98

HE NEARLY DROPPED her as he battered at the door. Perhaps she was already dead. He didn’t care. He wanted her dress; he should have smothered her back there in the woods and taken it.

He coughed at the stench of scorched stone and burning coal. In the back of the room the kiln’s iron door glowed like those rivers of fire in The Inferno. Broken brick covered the ground, clinkers, coal dust. Smooth patches where sand had fused into glass. In a few minutes she’d be a twist of smoke eaten by the clouds, like the Italian girl. He’d be in time to catch his train.

He set her down, leaning her against the wall so as not to spoil her clothes. She sat there, motionless, and he felt a stab at his heart.

How beautiful she was—like his sister, with her blond curls and blue bow, her sailor blouse and skirt rucked up above her knees. Her skin like the Gypsy girl’s, darker than any doll’s he had ever seen.

But still: a doll, her eyes closed. A doll’s sleep-glass eyes would open, if it were sitting up like this.

Her eyes did. Staring at him, not with fear or mindless dreaming, but fury. Before he could move, she’d pushed herself to her feet. Her head fell away from her body, and he gasped.