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  They continued in silence for a while, while Hattie fumed over the unfairness of his upbringing. He never had a gift. Not once. It twisted something inside her to think that.

  Vincent lifted his face to the sky and unexpectedly laughed. “Actually, I do remember something special. One year one of the boys got a chess set. No one knew how to play it, so it just sat under his bed in a box. I stole a piece and used to carry it around in my pocket. One of the horses.”

  “Knight,” she breathed.

  He lifted a brow. “What?”

  “It’s called a knight. The chess piece.”

  “Yeah, well, I loved that darned thing. Kept that chess piece for years, carrying it around like a good-luck charm or something. Lost it when I was moved to Baltimore. I think maybe it fell out of a hole in my pocket.” His eyes drifted to the deck, overtaken with pensive memories.

  A knight. It was fitting that Vincent would choose that as his talisman. She glanced over at him, deciding in that moment to get him a gift. Something special. Something that might make up for all those years without. Something to show him that someone cared, that she cared.

  He smiled over at her. “Now that we’re done baring our childhood souls to each other, mind if I ask you another question? Where are we going?” He nodded to the Western Shore, which had nearly disappeared at the horizon. “We’re moving away from the shoreline.”

  Hattie shook her head. “You like to keep your eyes open, don’t you?”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. I just want to check on something. I hope you don’t mind. It won’t take long.”

  He shrugged in acquiescence, but Hattie felt he deserved a bit more.

  “I want to look in on Bimini.”

  “Bimini? What for?”

  “You remember Capstein’s ruse? All those free pinchers looking for a magic man? I want to be sure the legend’s dead.”

  “Checking for refugee pinchers, huh?”

  “Can I trust you with that?”

  Vincent grinned. “I already have two pinchers on the wing. That’s more than enough for me to handle right now.” He nodded toward the bow. “If we find any free pinchers on that island, I’ll help you bring them home.”

  Hattie relaxed her grip on the helm, not realizing she’d grasped it so tightly. Hearing Vincent commit to helping her lifted a weight off her soul. More than ever before, she felt like he was actually on her side.

  They found Bimini a half hour later. The desolate ribbon of beach and tall marsh grass sat low in the churning gray waves. Hattie pulled the boat as shallow as she dared then dropped anchor. Everything had grown up around the cabin and the winter cold hadn’t knocked down the tall grasses enough to truly see. Hattie eyed the engine house, wondering if she could see well enough climbing up there or if she’d have to risk the freezing waters wading to shore.

  “Looks abandoned, but I can’t really tell from here,” Vincent told her. “You wanna get out and take a look?”

  She peered over the edge, judging the depth of the grass-strewn waters to be just over the top of her boots. Sucking in a breath, she prepared to climb over the side. As she hesitated, Vincent hopped over, gasping a curse word as the freezing water soaked his pants halfway to the knees.

  She giggled, then stifled a shriek as he grabbed her off the boat. Tucking her snug in his arms, he waded toward the shore.

  “What…what are you doing?” Hattie wrapped an arm around his shoulder for balance, her cheek brushing against his shirt collar. The freshly pressed smell of his clothes combined with the citrus of his aftershave made her want to lean closer, to bury her face against his neck and inhale.

  “Being a gentleman. No sense in both of us getting our feet soaked.”

  “But your shoes,” she protested.

  “Are probably ruined,” he finished.

  She laughed but made no attempt to wiggle free. “This is quite forward of you, boy-o. I’m fairly certain my mother wouldn’t approve.”

  Vincent shivered, tightening his grip on her. “Trust me there is no threat to your virtue right now—not with me knee-deep in icy water.”

  He carried her a few feet past the waterline, into a spot where the grasses were thick and tall before gently setting her down.

  She eyed his shoes. “I’m tempted to say ‘I told you so.’”

  “How about you don’t.” Shaking his feet, Vincent sighed at the muddy water streaming from what had been spit-shined leather wingtips.

  They crept forward, halting where the grasses thinned out and an overgrown fire pit stood between them and the cabin.

  “Looks abandoned,” Hattie whispered. It didn’t seem as if anyone had been here since May, but something about the place raised the hair on the back of her neck. Memories, most likely. Very bad memories.

  Vincent pulled his revolver from the holster under his jacket and handed it to her. “You stay here and watch my back. I’m going in to look. Pretty sure it’s safe enough, but no sense in taking chances.”

  She nodded, checking the gun and testing its heft only to look up and see him watching her, a peculiar expression on his face.

  “What?”

  “I could use a kiss for good luck.” He told her with that cocky grin she’d become so familiar with.

  A million emotions ran through her. To hide them, she did a slow glance around then raised her eyebrows. “Well, I don’t see Fern anywhere nearby, so guess you’re out of luck there, boy-o.”

  “We don’t know what danger might be inside that cabin. I could die in there.” His voice was solemn, but his eyes danced with a wicked amusement. “Die, I tell you.”

  She bit back a smile. “You’re a gangster. You look death in the face every day. Don’t tell me you’re in the habit of grabbing women off the street each time and askin’ for a kiss?”

  “Die. And you’d feel guilty that you let me walk in there without a kiss for luck first.”

  She rolled her eyes. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He smelled of citrus and spice, his freshly shaved skin warm and smooth against her lips. It was just a quick kiss, but it felt like a jolt of electricity searing through her. She had to fight the urge to reach her hand up to touch where her lips had just been.

  “There.” She cleared her throat in an attempt to remove the sudden huskiness from her voice. “Now get in there before I die of old age.”

  His gaze dropped and lingered on her lips for just a moment, then he tipped his hat and with that signature grin, made his way through the grasses and toward the cabin, bold as could be.

  Good thing there was probably nothing in that old shack, as she was hardly in any condition to focus on any threat. Lord forbid she had to shoot the gun, because Hattie’s aim wasn’t something she wanted to rely on right now. All she could think about as she watched Vincent enter the open doorway of the cabin was how it would feel to have him kiss her—really kiss her.

  She was in it deep now. And if he pulled some stunt like that letter again, she was going to track him down and do more than hit him upside the arm with a bag of turnips.

  “Hattie?” Vincent’s voice held amazement rather than alarm. “Come see this.”

  She trotted across the clearing and into the cabin, stifling a sneeze from the dirt and dust. The whole place had been trashed, a hatchet taken to the walls and all the furniture reduced to kindling. Scorch marks were on the ceiling and floor, and the entire back wall was charred.

  “Think our friend from Deltaville called down the fury of God on this place?” she asked.

  He shook his head, looking around. “There aren’t any of those symbols like in the other place, and these burns look more like they were from a torch than any demon.” He looked over at her and grimaced. “And I realize how strange it sounds that I know what torch burns look like and what demon burns look like.”

  “Not pointing fingers on that one, boy-o,” she told him. “What’s this though?”

  He
came to stand next to her, the sleeve of his coat brushing against hers. “Glass.”

  It was. Glass shaped into broad knives lay splintered and broken on the floor.

  “I think Betty needs to stick to stabbing weapons,” Vincent commented, nudging the glass with his toe.

  “This is personal.” Hattie glanced around at the damage. “It’s like she was taking out a lot of anger and frustration here, not really making an attempt to actually demolish the place.

  He nodded. “Can’t blame her for that. Capstein said she was one of the pinchers he’d captured here. She’d been free before that. He brought her into the service of the U.C.”

  “And the service of his bedroom,” Hattie growled. “I know that woman is crazy, but I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for her here.”

  “She’d bought into Capstein’s plan, she just sees a different path to it.” He turned to her. “She’s a part of the system already, we’re just quibbling over which family she works for. Being a free pincher isn’t an option she wanted any more by her own admission.”

  Hattie bit her lip. “Maybe because free meant always being on the run, hiding who she was, and worrying about where the next meal was coming from.”

  He took her arm. “Are you going to hate me for this? If I take her from Richmond and bring her in, are you going to hate me?”

  Would she? Hattie glanced up at him. “No. I did my thinking last night, and I’m not about to change my mind. I’m going to help you. And I won’t think less of you for any of this.”

  A smile full of relief crossed his face. They headed back to the shore, Vincent once more insisting on carrying her to the boat. This time he didn’t refuse when she motioned him over toward the engine house to dry off as she fired up the engine.

  Well, one thing was certain, Bimini wasn’t being actively used as a pincher trap and hadn’t been since Capstein’s death from the look of it.

  She took one last look around. “This place is dead. I don’t think we need to worry about it anymore.”

  Vincent shook his pants legs and eyed his drenched, muddy shoes. “Were you really expecting anyone to be here?”

  “I didn’t know what to expect, to tell you the truth.”

  He shot her a quick questioning glance. “So, was this really just spur-of-the-moment curiosity? Or were you planning to stop here all along?”

  She held her breath for a moment. Vincent deserved the truth, but exactly how much truth was the question.

  “Aye, I was of a mind to check this place out this week. This just seemed the best opportunity.”

  “Any specific reason?” he asked, his face genuine.

  Here it was. She’d either have to lie or deflect.

  “If I told you I had a reason, but spelling it out would put some very nice people at risk…would you be upset with me?”

  Vincent crossed his arms with a mocking smirk. He seemed cocked and loaded with a smartass remark, but then his demeanor eased. “Maybe we both have our little secrets. I can respect that.”

  “Then let this be one of those secrets. For now anyway.” She wound around him toward the helm. “Be a dear and hoist anchor.”

  As he cranked the anchor out of the few feet of water, he asked, “Where to next? What’s the quietest way into Richmond?”

  Hattie replied, “Straight down the James, most likely. This time of year, river traffic’s light. Might get as far as the city without a soul passing us.”

  “And if a soul does pass us, you can make that go away. Right?”

  “I suppose, but we’re in broad daylight. We look for all the world like we belong here. I’ve learned to pick my fights, don’t you know.”

  He rejoined her, nodding. “Wish I could get that through my thick skull. Save me some grief.”

  “Watch and learn.”

  They returned to the Western Shore, sidling along the coast as they passed countless inlets and estuaries. The bitter chill eased as she piloted the craft close enough to shore so that the denuded forests offered some windbreak. As they rounded a craggy sound, a wide cape opened up to the south.

  Hattie eased up on the throttle, bringing the boat to a slow stop. She killed the engine and stared in silence.

  As did Vincent.

  Deltaville.

  “Would you look at that,” she whispered.

  “What happened here?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  From their position in the water, the gently sloping mudflat that had once housed a tiny fishing village had been completely razed. No more shacks. Even the shanty that the Deltaville demon had occupied was gone.

  “I might get my feet wet for this,” Hattie muttered.

  She piloted the boat as close as she could to the beach, then killed the engine again. Before she could swing over the side rail to splash into the knee-deep water, Vincent reached for her arm. “Wait.”

  She hesitated, feeling a bit lightheaded at the thought of being in his arms again. “As much as I appreciate your being a gentleman, I’m not letting you carry me this time,” she protested reluctantly.

  “Hang on a second. I have a trick that might keep both our feet dry this once. We’re close enough to the shoreline, and it’s not full of marsh grass like at Bimini, so I think it will work.”

  She eyed him curiously.

  “Just follow my lead. Kick at the water like a skipping stone.”

  He lifted his fingers and snapped, pinching time. The sound of lapping waves fell into muddy silence. Vincent reached for Hattie’s hand.

  As she gripped his palm, he shoved off the boat. They launched into the time-stiffened air, hurtling in unnatural lethargy toward the water. With a piston-pump of his leg, Vincent jabbed the top of the water with his shoe. His body lurched into a new arc rising into the air.

  Hattie followed suit, surprised at how solid the water felt beneath her boot. Two more skips, and they’d landed on the beach. Vincent returned time to its normal flow, and the waves resumed their grumpy chop against the stones under her feet.

  “Could you always do that?” Hattie asked.

  Vincent smirked. “You’re not the only one who’s been practicing. It doesn’t work for more than a few feet, and it’s got to be shallow water without a lot of vegetation, or you’ll end up face-down in the muck.”

  She shook her head, wondering how many times Vincent had wound up “face down in the muck” before he’d perfected that.

  Together they marched up the mud flat to take in the scene. Vincent found the skeletal remains of the demon’s shanty, a series of posts just beneath the sandy dirt. They appeared to have been burned away.

  “Do you think the demon did this?” she asked.

  Vincent eyed the clearing up the slope. The sparseness was remarkable, as if someone had razed it all to the ground and hauled the rubbish away—all except for the posts on that last shanty.

  “I don’t think the demon would be quite this…tidy. He struck me as more of a wholesale destruction type.”

  “Well, if not the demon, then who? Or what? What could displace a monster like that in the first place?”

  “A fine question. I don’t think we’ll find the answer here, though.”

  They stood in silence a while, the moment adopting a sort of funereal air. Was the demon, in fact, dead? And why did that prospect fill Hattie with such sorrow?

  As the enormity of the scene leeched into her understanding, Hattie whispered, “Do you think whoever did this also scorched Bimini? That it was Betty or some of the Upright Citizens?”

  “It’s possible,” Vincent answered in similar hushed tones. “Even likely.”

  “I want to leave now.”

  “Me, too.”

  They made their way to the boat. Vincent’s time-frozen water jumps proved less effective from the shore, and they both had sopping wet shoes by the time the boat had renewed its southerly journey. The mouth of the James River arrived just as the gloom shared between the two had reached its zenith.

/>   “Should you shroud us?” Vincent asked. “With an illusion?”

  “Not unless it’s necessary. Better to save magic for the right moment.”

  “You’ve become very economical with your powers.”

  “It comes from running for my life every odd month,” she replied with a smirk.

  She piloted the boat up the river. As predicted, there was little water traffic. One craft passed them outbound. Simple fishermen, by the look of their gear and clothing. Hattie let them pass with a wave of her hand and no illusions.

  “Fuel depot is just ahead. Might let in there and see if we can drum up some river gossip.”

  “Is that friendly territory?”

  “Well, the whole outfit was sold back in May after our little dust up with Capstein. The new owner’s a simple fellow, but honest. Just smart enough to keep the depot running, but aside from that?” She made an unsteady gesture with her hand.

  “Well, with Capstein out of the picture now, he won’t have those Bianco Fiore gorillas making life a hassle.”

  As the curve of the river eased away to reveal the three piers of the fueling station, Hattie shook her head. “Or perhaps not.”

  Two of the piers were crowded with various boats. Shrimpers, tugs, speedboats. All painted white with the words “Bianco Fiore” painted in various states of quality.

  Vincent whistled. “What, are they having a fire sale on lynch mobs?”

  “What’s the plan here, boy-o?”

  “If your driver had come along, I’d say we turn back now. But he didn’t, and we need information.”

  Hattie nodded and slipped around the far side of the last pier. Vincent hopped out onto the wood planks to catch the mooring line. When Hattie joined him, she whispered, “Think any of these lunatics remember us?”

  “It’s a gamble, I guess. Let’s not borrow trouble.”

  Hattie led Vincent down the pier toward the pump house. As they passed the Bianco Fiore boats, onlookers cast indifferent glances in their direction. One seemed interested in Hattie, but likely for reasons more scurrilous than dangerous.

  At the pump house a slender man with an olive complexion and a thick black beard lifted a hand to Hattie.

  “Ah, it’s you Malloy!”