But oh, what a ruthless liar she was to herself.
“The train is still fifteen minutes away,” he said. “Perhaps we could wait for it together? Solely for practical reasons, you understand—in case our pursuers turn up?”
“Yes,” she said almost before he finished speaking. Then realizing how daft she was, she flushed and turned away. But Devon turned with her, his arm brushing hers in a devastatingly casual manner.
“Hmm,” he said. “Where can we sit?”
Beth considered the matter calmly, as if the thought of sitting with him was not akin to the memory of dancing with him by candlelight. The station comprised two platforms, dissected by train tracks and overarched by a cavernous roof. The southbound one was empty, the advertisements pasted to its wall fluttering a little in a warm, dusty breeze. But the northbound one, on which they stood, bustled with passengers heading for London. Beth sighted Monsieur Chevrolet and Miss Eliza Wolfe, the former seated at a wrought-iron table dressed with lace cloths and a tiny vase of flowers, the latter perched daintily on a travel trunk beneath a parasol held aloft by a footman. They were casting disdainfully murderous looks at each other while their servants brought them tea, arranged their luggage, and in Monsieur Chevrolet’s case, performed an emergency manicure. Beth tried to determine how she might traverse the platform without being noticed herself.
Devon laid his hand on her back. “Why don’t we find somewhere private—?”
“Aaaahhhhhhh!!!”
It took Beth a second to realize the scream hadn’t come from her, primarily due to its being not excited but terrified. Devon instantly moved to shield her, which wasdelightfullyprotectiveblastedly annoying, as she could not see what had happened. More screams arose, and people began to run. Stepping away from Devon, Beth turned, trying to find the source of the panic.
And came within a wingspan of dying as a deadly frostbird swooped down, a sinuous blur of long white feathers and silvery flares, trailing icy sparks that scorched the morning with a promise of carnage.
Chapter Eleven
Ornithologistis another word forhero.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
The frostbird’s scientificbinomial wasArdea ignis, due to its thaumaturgic emanations being cold enough to burn instantly through muscle and bone, although in Greenlandic it was more colloquially known as—
“Run!”
Devon’s voice broke through Beth’s thoughts in the same moment he began pushing her toward the station’s waiting room. All around them, mayhem reigned. Larger than its cousin, the Kievan firebird, and far more dangerous, the frostbird darted above the panicked crowd, breathing gusts of high-pressure air. Luggage exploded in great bursts of blue-white ice. People shoved and bashed at each other, desperately trying to reach shelter. Just in front of Beth and Devon, a woman fell to her knees, and they stopped to help her up.
“Please,” she cried, clutching at them. “My Louis—I can’t find my Louis!”
Beth’s pulse skipped. “What does he look like? How old is he?”
“Not even two years old!” the woman sobbed. “Green and gold, with—”
“I’m sorry, what?” Beth interrupted confusedly.
“You mean his clothes?” Devon said.
Now the woman was confused. “I mean my suitcase. My Louis Vuitton suitcase. It’s worth a fortune!”
Beth gritted her teeth. Devon’s face looked pained. They propelled the woman toward the waiting room, then dashed to crouch behind an overstacked luggage trolley. Their bodies pressed together in the limited space, but Beth had no time for tingling.
“Frostbirds aren’t normally aggressive,” she said. “It’s not attacking out of malice; it’s frightened. Which means we’ll never get it to land.”
“Agreed,” Devon said. “And the train arriving might scare it away into the city.”
The thought of that disaster darkened their shared glance. Beth opened her satchel, rummaging through its contents, while Devon peered around the trolley, tracking the frostbird as it spiraled toward the apex of the station’s roof.
“Fascinating,” he said mildly, then turned back to her. At the sight of the object she held up, his expression blanked. “What is that?”
“Just something I invented in my spare time.” Unwrapping a web of string from around a narrow metal pipe, she unfolded that pipe at two hinges, gave a brisk flick, and thus transformed it with practiced efficiency into a long-handled net.
“Clever,” Devon said. “What’s your plan?”
“I need some bait.” She scrutinized him in such a way that he leaned back defensively.
At that moment, a voice called out from farther alongthe now-abandoned platform. “Miss Pickering? Are you there?”
