But before Neville could get up—before Houndstooth made it across the bar—the door burst open. A woman walked in and stood, silhouetted in the doorframe until the door swung closed behind her.

She took a few steps forward, into the light, and took in the crew assembled around the scarred old table.

“Well,” Adelia Reyes said. “Well, well, well.” The most brutal contract killer of the late nineteenth century folded her hands over her distended belly and winked at Calhoun Hotchkiss, before settling her gaze on Houndstooth. “I’d be willing to bet you’re looking for me, Mr. Houndstooth.”

The crew assembled at the table watched as the outline of a tiny foot pressed at Adelia’s shirt. She pressed a hand to it. “Shhh, mija. Mama’s working.”

Calhoun slid sideways off his chair and fell to the sawdust on the floor, unconscious.

“Hello, Adelia,” Houndstooth said. “How would you like to make eight thousand dollars?”

Adelia pulled out a chair, not minding too closely whether the chair’s legs smacked into Cal’s head. She sat with her legs spread wide to accommodate her belly, resting a foot on Cal’s neck. She smiled at Houndstooth, her hands stroking the shifting mass of her stomach.

“Well,” she said softly, “what’s the job?”

Chapter 7

IT WAS QUIET IN THE SWAMP. Deep quiet—the kind that’s defined by the buzz of insects and the lapping of water and the thick wet heat of the day. The shade of the willow and sycamore trees that grew along the edge of the water dappled the golden light, but their shade wasn’t enough to cut through the weight of the heat. The hoppers rode slowly, easily—they shared an unspoken need to enjoy the calm of the swamp. It would be their last peaceful day. Soon, they’d reach the Mississippi Gate, and the chaos would begin.

Adelia rode Stasia, her heavily armored Arnesian Brown, without a saddle. She rode cross-legged, one hand wrapped around her belly; the other gripped the pommel of Stasia’s harness. Stasia, an exemplar of her breed, snapped at birds that flew too close to her snout. She grumbled at sticks that bumped into her legs, and squinted suspiciously at the other hippos. And yet, for all her aggression, she seemed devoted to Adelia—Adelia, who swayed with Stasia’s rolling gait, occasionally singing nonsense to her in lilting tones. “Stasia, my Anastasia, Ana Aña, Aña-araña . . .”

Neville rode next to her on her second hippo, Zahra. He knelt awkwardly in the borrowed saddle, but Zahra—an aging Standard Grey, nearly identical to Abigail save for the livid bolt of white across her brow—followed Stasia gamely, ignoring the way the boy pitched to and fro in the saddle.

“Miss Adelia, this is so hard,” he said, out of breath from struggling to maintain his balance. “How come you can do it without even a saddle?”