“Jagger is dead,” the pixie-like one said. She looked up at him. He was at least a forearm taller. When he didn’t respond, only continued to stare at the spot where the girl had been, the pixie-like one said, “You’re free.”
Finally, the solemn one tore his gaze from the distance and looked down. “I don’t feel free,” he said, touching his chest. “Why is that?”
The pixie-like one tilted her head and pressed her palm to his heart. The solemn one flinched, and she took her hand away.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “Maybe it’s because you’ve lost hope.”
The solemn one finally smiled, but it was a smile devoid of warmth or humor. “I thought you’d say it’s because I’ve lost my good.”
“No.”
He laughed, and the wind rode on the chill of it. “Are you done with me yet, Winnie?” When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Where’s Griff?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
The solemn one nodded. “I’m going to find him.”
“Don’t. You know who his father is. Griff’s probably in hell.”
The wind moaned, but the solemn one gave the same grin he’d given right before stabbing the rocklike one in the gut. “Who better to go after him then?”
The pixie-like one looked skyward and muttered something about passenger pigeons.
The solemn one stalked out of her shadows, and the pixie-like one hurried after him. One of his steps took two of hers.
“Wait!”
“Following me, Winnie?” He smiled, and the wind left them, rushing across the forest of metal spires.
It dove through shadows and raced over splashes of sunlight, veering east and then north, along the river. It caught the flash of gray fur and the hulking muscles of the trickster in jackaltooth form right before he leaped down into the sewers.
The wind brushed over his fur, tapping the tiny cricket perched on the trickster’s shoulder.
Then it raced free of the dark tunnels and swept over the river toward Wards Island.
It slowed outside Little Hell Gate, screeching in surprise at the creature standing outside the asylum.
It was the mine. The terrifying, nameless, old-as-granite mine who’d made the dream bargain with the solange-eyed one.
He stood next to the figment of the one-eyed woman who remained forever in the asylum’s shadow, staring at its missing edifice. The wind rushed by, and when it did, the mine turned and smiled chillingly at the figment.
Then the wind was past him. It was free of Wards Island. It swept over the glossy, sunlit waves, riding on their golden froth. It soared on an updraft and caught the underside of a cormorant’s wing.
It clung to the soft feathers and screamed as the cormorant dove toward the water. It plunged into the cold, and the wind shrieked as air bubbles burst around it. The water shot past, and the cormorant swam deeper. Then, grasping the flashing silver arrow of a perch in its mouth, the cormorant streaked toward the surface.
It raced through the black water. It kicked wildly through the current. Up. Up. Up.
The wind rode the air bubbles, clinging to the cormorant’s water-slick feathers. It was closed in the river’s watery grave—the black lid of it had shut the wind inside. It was drowning in a coffin beneath the cormorant’s black wing.
But then—up—up—always up—the cormorant burst free. It shattered the water’s surface, and the wind screamed as the waves broke around them, and sunlight fell over it in a blinding, brilliant white.
The cormorant rocketed toward the sky, and the wind flew with it. The cool air ripped the dark water away and bathed it in morning light. The wind shouted, dizzy from the rushing air and the acrobatic spirals of the cormorant.
It launched free of the bird, crying as it flew across the city.
Oh, to be a bird.
To fly.
