Amérique.
Surprisingly, once I passed all the local ferries, the “big one with the wheels” was rather hard to miss. Twice as tall and three times as long as any other boat at the pier, it blocked out all view of the river. I had to crane my neck to see the white sails billowing at either end. Two red smokestacks stood proudly at the center, and most obvious of all were the gigantic paddle wheels, one on each side.
My bonnet ribbons swatted my face as I approached the ship and made my way around the swaggering sailors and ogling passengers. I checked for any olive-clad women, but my mark was nowhere in sight. No doubt she was still by the stacked crates, counting out her newest funds.
A quick scan ahead showed two gangplanks, one near the street and one all the way at the end of the dock. At the closer plank, stacked luggage outnumbered people, and the women’s colorful gowns shimmered like butterflies. Clearly this was the first-class line.
The more distant line, however, showed men and women dressed like me: well-made but well-
worn clothes. So after a final search for the woman in the olive dress and finding she was nowhere about, I trudged on.
But I only made it a few steps before my right hand—my missing hand—started tingling. Then the hair on my neck sprang up.
I froze midstride. Marcus, Marcus, Marcus —he was all I could think of. My eyes slid left and right, but I could find nothing unusual.
Yet the buzz in my hand did not dull, and now my breath was quickening.
Stay calm, Eleanor. Focus. With forced cool, I looked over my shoulder toward land and searched the area. But no light flickered or energy sparkled.
If Marcus or something Dead was nearby, it wasn’t showing itself.
So I made myself turn back around and resume my steps. My movements were clunky and rushed, though, and my heart refused to settle.
Then from nowhere, a gust of wind knocked into me. Hard.
I swayed, and the air flipped around me, tugging at my skirts like a riptide. I spun around and frantically checked the dockers’ and sailors’ reactions. Except that none of them seemed affected by this gale.
Pain burst in my wrist. It was the scene from the bank all over again, and I knew I had to run. Just get on the ship! It was the only shelter around, and though I didn’t believe walls could really stop
Marcus, it was the closest thing to safety I could conjure.
So I thrust myself forward, leaning into the unnatural wind and gulping for air. But the throbbing where my hand once was—it shrieked so loudly, it dulled all my other senses. I shambled forward like one of the Dead.
Then came the first howl, and I froze all over again. It was an unmistakably long and plaintive baying, and with it came a smell. A pungent, dank smell that wasn’t from the river. A smell I knew.
Grave dirt.
The stench of the Dead.
Marcus was here, even if I could not see him. He was here, and I was too late. But I would not go down without a fight.
The wind battered against me as if trying to push me back to shore. I had to fight to stand tall while I scanned every shadow for yellow eyes.
And as each of my heartbeats skittered past, the howling dogs grew louder. Closer. I could not see them, but I could certainly imagine them: rabid, fanged monsters larger than any real dog.
That was when I saw him—not Marcus, but a young man in line for the second-class gangplank.
His slender frame listed like a tree in a tornado, and his head spun about as if he too was searching for these raging hounds. He looked a few years older than me, with wildly flying chestnut curls and a charcoal suit.
He was beautiful—the features and garb of some fairy-tale prince.
And whoever he was, he was as affected by these hounds and this unnatural wind as I was. Perhaps more so.
I stumbled back, too stunned to be scared. Who was this young man? He couldn’t be Marcus, could he?
In the space of two ragged breaths, the wind died down. The howling grew distant and then stopped altogether.
But I barely noticed. My gaze was locked on this young man as I slowly walked toward him—and the more I stared at him, the more familiar he seemed. Yet I couldn’t pinpoint why.
My toe hit something, and I tumbled forward. My arms windmilled, yet just before my face hit the pier, a docker threw out his hands and righted me.
“Th-thank you,” I whispered, painting a grateful smile on my lips. He merely looked at me as if
I’d had too much drink and resumed his work. I used my distracted moment to regain my wits. To gather up my skirts and dash onward to the second-class gangplank.
But by the time I got there, the young man was gone—presumably on board the ship. It wasn’t until after I had waited in the long queue and finally handed the porter my ticket that I realized something.
Both times my right wrist had ignited with pain and I had heard the hounds howling. And both times it had all ended when I turned my concentration elsewhere.
But what the devil that meant, I didn’t know.