Wax passed among the skyscrapers like a whisper, the motion drying his clothing. He became just another current in the mists, and moving with him in radial spokes was a majestic network of blue lines—like a million outstretched fingers pointing the way to anchors he could use along his path. When even a galloping horse was too slow, Wax had steel. It burned in him, returning to the fire that gave it shape.

From it he drew power. Sometimes that wasn’t enough.

But this night, he exploded through the lit upper windows of the Harms dwelling, rolling and coming up with guns leveled. Lord Harms swiveled in the chair of his writing desk, knocking over his pot of ink. The red-faced older man had a comfortable paunch, an easy manner, and a pair of mustaches that were in competition with his jowls to see which could droop farthest toward the floor. Upon seeing Wax, he started, then scrambled to reach into his desk drawer.

Wax scanned the room. Nobody else there. No enemies in the corners, no moving bits of metal in closets or the bedroom. He’d arrived in time. Wax let out a sigh of relief, standing up as Lord Harms finally got his desk drawer open. The man whipped out a pistol, one of the modern semiautos that were popular with the constables. Harms leaped to his feet and rushed over to Wax, holding his gun in two hands.

“Where are they!” Harms exclaimed. “We can take them, eh, old boy?”

“You have a gun,” Wax said.

“Yes indeed, yes indeed. After what happened last year, I realized that a man has to be armed. What’s the emergency? I’ll have your back!”

Wax carefully tipped the point of Lord Harms’s gun downward, just in case a bullet was chambered—because, fortunately, the man hadn’t locked a magazine into the pistol. Wax glanced behind at the windows. He’d flung them open with a Push as he approached, but they were meant to open outward, not inward. He’d ripped both right off their hinges, toppling one while the other hung by its corner. It finally gave way, crashing to the floor, cracking the glass inside the wooden frame.

Mist poured in through the opening, flooding the floor. Where was Bleeder? In the house somewhere? Impersonating a maid? A neighbor? A constable passing on the street?

Standing in the room with him?

“Jackstom,” Wax said, looking to Lord Harms, “do you remember when you first met me, and Wayne was pretending to be my butler?”

Harms frowned. “You mean your uncle?”

Good, Wax thought. An impostor wouldn’t know that, would she? Rusts… He’d have to suspect everyone.