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Back Four Roads Cross Save as PDF
Chapters (75)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. Acknowledgments
  73. Also by Max Gladstone
  74. About the Author
  75. Newsletter Sign-up

“Very well,” Ramp said. The red envelope burned. The stink of hot wire filled the conference room. In seconds only ash remained on the undamaged tabletop, beside the bone-white envelope. “A pleasure as always, Your Excellencies. We’ll see you in court.”

39

39

Cat lay in bed, head gummed and teeth filmed and most of her hurting. Sun and shadow from slatted blinds striped her slantwise. Healing wounds pulled when she stretched, and she yowled. Her hand explored her ribs, all gauze and tape, ridged stitches and regrown flesh. She sat up. You never realized how well your skin fit your body until it didn’t anymore.

Swing legs over the bed’s edge, lean forward, stand. Dirty clothes crumpled underfoot. She picked up a stained shirt with her toes, transferred it to her hand, and tossed it to the hamper, where it rolled down the heap of dirty laundry already there and wedged against the wall. Cat felt more satisfied than she should have. The shirt’s disposal left a gap in the layer of clothes that otherwise carpeted her floor.

Always felt strange to sleep late on a workday. Justice—Seril—brooked no argument on the subject. Go home. Sleep until you wake up. Heal. She hoped she’d get paid for the downtime. Last night was easily a double shift.

Of course, that assumed there was anything left to pay her.

Barefoot in bra and pajama pants, she padded into the living room. Dark here, too, blackout curtains drawn. How long had she slept, anyway? Seventy-seven demons from seven hells did the can-can on the right side of her head. Fuck. Cursing felt good—relieved the something or other. The cat-shaped clock hanging over her sink ticked its tail back and forth and showed a time she did not want to believe.

She opened the blackout curtains, pulled up the slat blinds, and leaned her forehead against the window. Eight floors down, a woman pushed a baby carriage along the broken sidewalk. A train passing two blocks over rattled the window, and Cat felt-heard the rattle in her skull. It didn’t hurt. And she smelled—burning?

Behind her, someone screamed.

She turned just in time to see a reddish blur streak from her couch to bedroom. By the time the bedroom door slammed, the rest of the night had caught up with her: the trip to the hospital, the pain of healing, endless tests, after-action report, the order to go home, staggering back as dawn blued and pinked the east between skyscrapers. And with her that whole time—

She opened the window to let out the smell of burning skin, and tugged the blackout curtains shut. “Raz?” She ran to the bedroom door. “Shit, Raz, are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I forgot you were here. Say something!”