When it passed, I was no longer standing; I was crouched low in the alley, massive and coiled, tail thrumming against stone, wings half-furled to avoid brushing the walls.
I exhaled.
A thin streamer of smoke curled out into the night. I picked up the bundle of my clothes with one talon. The dragon's eyes—my eyes—saw Berlin differently from above the ruins. Even hunched, my head brushed the second story. With care, I pressed claws into the stone and launched myself upward, wings unfurling in a heavy, thunderous beat.
For one second, my belly cleared the rooftop by inches. Then I was above it, wings catching a stray gust, rising into the hazy sky. The city spread beneath me like an open wound. Pale scars of half-cleared streets. Black craters where buildings once stood. The skeletal spire of the ruined church, a snapped finger pointing accusingly at the stars. A few pockets of life: a tram rattling along a repaired line, its windows casting a warm yellow glow; a single street musician playing a lonely accordion on a corner; a line of women carrying buckets from a pump, their washing lines strung between broken walls.
I pulled a deep breath into my lungs. Under the coal smoke and river stink and distant engine fumes, scents sharpened into layers. Warm metal from Tempelhof. Cold stone from the government quarter. Old blood from a bombed hospital that would never be rebuilt. Soot, urine, damp plaster.
No Klaus.
Not yet.
But the dragon could smell fear like a storm on the air. And underneath that, the sour tang of Soviet tobacco and cheap spirits, the reek of gasoline and leather from Russian trucks, the faint trace of the grease they used on their rifles.
They were everywhere. But the line between sectors had its own scent too. Three times I wheeled low over the boundary streets, muscles itching to dive, but I held back. If they saw a dragon in their air? That wouldn't just be a provocation.
That would be war.
Information first,I told myself.Then fire.
Reluctantly, I angled toward the American sector, toward a street I had always avoided. A requisitioned townhouse with darker windows than the others. Extra guards. Curtains that never opened fully.
The spook's nest.
I circled once, twice, then dropped low into an alley behind it, claws scraping brick as I pulled in wings and let the bones break backward into a man's shape again. The reverse shift was faster—less fight, more collapse—but it still stole my breath. When I could stand, I grabbed my clothes from the bundle and yanked them on with shaking hands. I didn't bother with the front door.
By the time I reached the corner, the scent was already there: ink, cold tobacco, soap too expensive for this city. The gray suit. I would have recognized it anywhere. I followed it.
He was under a broken gas lamp two blocks away, flame flickering weakly inside the glass like it didn't want to be alive. He stood with his back to me, lighting a cigarette with careful hands, talking to a man who looked like he'd be rather anywhere else than here withhim.
I stepped into the alley, and the spook turned slightly. If he was surprised to see me, he didn't let on. I jerked my chin at the other man, and he was smart enough to recognize my interruption as aget out of jail free cardand took off.
"You're going to tell me where the boy is," I told the spook.
He exhaled smoke and sighed, long-suffering. "You pilots," he said mildly. "So dramatic. Catch me up."
I closed the distance in three steps. Not fast. Not loud. Just inevitable. "Klaus," I clarified. "Six years old. He was taken tonight."
That got him to finally turn. Up close, his calm looked thinner. His eyes flicked once—left, right—measuring exits. The dragon stirred under my skin, pleased.
"You're asking about matters you don't understand, Captain," he shook his head.
I leaned in close enough for him to feel the heat bleed off me. "Try me."
His eyes flickered slightly, then he shrugged. "Children disappear in Berlin every day."
He was right, I'd heard about the Russianscollectingchildren and taking them into the east sector. Still, "Not like this. Not after you threatened her."
It took a good amount of self-control not to grab him by the throat and pin him against the wall. Every second wasted here was time Inga suffered not knowing, and Klaus… God knows what.
"They're usually taken in groups," I went on to make it clear I knew more than he thought I did. "Trucks. Promises. Klaus was targeted."
That's when I remembered the dark shadow a few nights ago when we were taking Hilde to the hospital. I should have listened to my instincts. I should have stopped and demanded what he wanted. I ran a hand through my hair. Too late. Fury weaved through me; it was getting harder to control by the moment. "Where," I repeated softly, "is Klaus?"
He studied me for a long moment, then smiled without humor. "You really would burn the city down for her, wouldn't you."
That wasn't a question.
