“Very well,” Roman said, unreadable. He pulled back on the ship’s yoke, shooting them forward. Dorothy noticed, with some interest, that he didn’t turn left to take them back in time. He turned right, toward the future.

Mac, still picking at his teeth, noticed nothing.

44

Ash

MAY 2, 2082, NEW SEATTLE

When Ash came to, he was crouching in the dirt. He had one leg curled beneath him, the other propped in a low lunge, hands braced against the earth to either side of his foot.

Earth, he thought, distantly. Actual, solid, earth. He curled his hands into the ground below, his fingers digging past the dirt to brush against something hard and flat.

Not earth. Wood.

Where was he?

He noticed the cold, next. It seeped into his skin, curling around his bones until his teeth were chattering and he was breathing, hard. He didn’t even realize he’d opened his eyes until he felt the cold press against them, drying them instantly so that he had to blink, rapidly, to keep them from freezing.

He saw nothing. The dark around him was perfect.

Nerves trembled over his skin. He stood, fingers numb with cold as he fumbled in his pocket for the pack of waterproof matches he’d taken from the Dead Rabbit. He pulled a single match loose and struck it against the box—once, twice, three times—clenching and unclenching his hands to keep his blood flowing. Light leaped between his fingers.

It didn’t illuminate much. He appeared to be standing on a small dirt pathway. A single, craggy mountain rose before him, black and decaying and covered in rubble.

Ash made his way to the edge of the pathway, shivering. He was only wearing a wet T-shirt and jeans, and he wouldn’t last long out here if he didn’t find some sort of shelter. The wind was fierce, and it blew him back a step, threatening to knock him over. It carried the smell of fire and dirt and rot. He tried to keep a hand cupped around the match to stop it from blowing out, but the flame flickered, and then died completely. Darkness swallowed him once more.

“Hell,” Ash said out loud. His voice sounded strange. Closer. Like he was speaking directly into his own ear.

He lit another match and, when that one died, he lit another. Slowly, the scene around him began to come into clearer focus. The mountain wasn’t a mountain at all but a building. Weeds had grown up over the walls and threaded through the openings. From the glow of his match, Ash could see that it had been reduced to rock and rubble. He squinted through the flickering light . . .

Oh God. That building was the Fairmont hotel. He recognized the old columns out front, and the architectural details above the windows. Which meant that this was New Seattle and this . . . this rot was all that was left of his home.

A nasty shiver went down his spine.