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"Move."
Calder's claw closed around my wrist—the one without the cuff—and yanked me into the alley before I could argue. The main street behind us was already filling with smoke, thick and greasy, the kind that meant someone had just torched a evidence cache.
"That's not coincidence," I said.
"No." He didn't slow down. "That's cleanup."
The cuff buzzed against my skin, a low warning hum that meant we were putting distance between us and something it didn't like. Or someone. I dug my heels in.
"Cleanup means we're close. The bellmaker's shop is two blocks that way."
"The bellmaker's shop is ash by now." Calder's wings flared, just enough to block the mouth of the alley. "You want the ledger? Finn has it."
I stared at him. "Finn sold me this job. He didn't mention having the one thing that could actually finish it."
"Because he's not stupid." Calder's eye—the good one, the one that wasn't half-shuttered by scar tissue—locked on mine. "He knew you'd go after it. He knew they'd go after you."
"They."
"The people who paid me to take the core in the first place." His voice dropped. "The ones who are burning their way through every name on that list."
The smoke was getting closer. I could hear boots now, heavy and synchronized. Guard patrol, or something worse.
"Where's Finn?"
"Bolthole under the old chain works. But he won't talk to you."
"Then it's a good thing I brought you."
Calder's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "You think he'll be happy to see me?"
"I think he'll be alive to be unhappy." I grabbed his arm—stone-cold even through the sleeve—and pulled. "Move."
He moved.
---
The chain works had been dead for a decade, ever since the foundry district shifted south and left this part of Brassgate to the scavengers. The entrance Calder led me to wasn't a door. It was a drainage grate, rusted half-shut, that opened onto a ladder slick with something I didn't want to identify.
"Charming," I muttered.
"Finn likes his privacy." Calder dropped through first, wings folding tight against his back. The cuff jerked me forward before I could brace, and I nearly went face-first into the grate.
"Warn me next time."
"There won't be a next time if we don't move."
I climbed down. The air below was colder, damp, and smelled like old copper. At the bottom, Calder was already moving, navigating the narrow tunnel with the ease of someone who'd done this before. I stayed close, one hand on the cuff to keep the pull from throwing me off balance.
"You've been here," I said.
"Once."
"When?"
"When I needed Finn to stop asking questions."
That wasn't ominous at all.
The tunnel opened into a low-ceilinged room lit by a single glowstone lamp. Finn was there, hunched over a table, a bottle in one hand and a knife in the other. He looked up when we came in, and his face went from wary to furious in the space of a heartbeat.
"You brought him here?" Finn's knife didn't waver. "You stupid, suicidal—"
"The ledger," I said. "Now."
"She doesn't ask nice," Calder added.
"Shut up." Finn's knuckles were white around the knife hilt. "You know what happens if they find out I kept it? You know what they did to the last guy who tried?"
"They're burning the bellmaker's shop right now," I said. "If you've got it, they already know."
Finn's face went gray. He set the bottle down, slow and careful, like it might explode. "How close?"
"Two blocks when we left. Maybe less by now."
"Damn it." He turned, grabbed a leather satchel from under the table, and threw it at me. "Take it. Get out. And don't come back."
I caught the satchel one-handed. It was heavier than it looked, the leather cracked and stained. I could feel the edges of something inside—pages, thick and uneven.
"Who hired you to sell me this job?" I asked.
Finn didn't answer. He was already moving, shoving things into a pack—clothes, coin, a second knife.
"Finn."
"I don't know," he said. "I got a name and a drop point. That's it."
"What name?"
"Vale."
The word hit like a fist to the gut. I knew that name. Seraphine Vale. Senior relic officer. The woman who'd signed off on my father's last case before he vanished.
Calder's hand landed on my shoulder, claws pricking through the fabric. "We need to leave."
"Not yet." I turned back to Finn. "What did she want?"
"She wanted you on the job. Specifically you. Said you'd follow it all the way down." Finn zipped the pack shut, slung it over his shoulder. "I didn't ask why. I needed the coin."
"You sold me out."
"I sold you a job. What you do with it is your business."
The tunnel behind us exploded.
Not literally—but the sound was close enough. A low, grinding roar, followed by the crack of stone giving way. Dust rained from the ceiling, and the glowstone flickered.
"They're in the chain works," Calder said.
Finn swore, a long string of words I'd only heard in dockside bars. He grabbed the lamp, killed it, and shoved past us toward a second tunnel I hadn't noticed before. "This way. Move."
I moved. The cuff dragged Calder with me, and for once he didn't fight it. The tunnel was narrower than the first, barely wide enough for his wings, and it sloped down, down, until the air turned cold enough to burn my lungs.
"Where does this go?" I asked.
"Under the river," Finn said. "If we're lucky."
"And if we're not?"
"We drown."
Great.
Behind us, the grinding sound got louder. Closer. And then I heard voices—low, clipped, efficient. Not guards. Something worse.
"They're following," I said.
Calder didn't answer. He was looking at Finn, and his expression was the kind of unreadable that meant he was about to do something stupid.
"Don't," I said.
"Finn," Calder said. "Run."
Finn stopped. Turned. "What?"
"Run. Now. Don't stop until you hit the docks."
"You're insane."
"I'm the one they want. You've still got a chance." Calder's wings spread, blocking the tunnel. "Go."
Finn looked at him. Then at me. Then he ran.
The voices behind us got louder. I could see light now, harsh and white, cutting through the dark.
"You can't fight them," I said.
"I don't need to fight them. I just need to slow them down."
"The cuff won't let you stay here without me."
"I know."
He moved fast—faster than I'd ever seen him move. One claw caught my arm, spinning me around, and then he was between me and the light, wings fully extended, stone scraping stone. The tunnel shook.
"Run," he said.
I didn't. I couldn't. The cuff was pulling, but not toward the exit. Toward him.
"Calder—"
The first spike came out of nowhere. Silver, gleaming, the kind of thing that could punch through stone. It missed him by inches and buried itself in the wall beside my head.
I moved without thinking. Grabbed his arm, yanked him sideways, and the second spike took me in the shoulder instead of his throat.
Pain. White-hot and immediate. I bit down on a scream and kept moving, dragging him with me, the cuff blazing against my wrist.
"You're an idiot," Calder said.
"Shut up and run."
We ran.
The tunnel opened into a wider space—an old cistern, maybe, or a smuggler's cache. The river was above us now; I could hear it, a low rush of water against stone. Finn was gone. Smart.
I leaned against the wall, breathing hard, and looked down at the spike. It was still in my shoulder, lodged deep, and the edges were starting to burn.
"Silver," Calder said. He sounded almost impressed. "They really want me dead."
"They want both of us dead." I set the satchel down, careful not to jar the spike. "Help me with this."
"If I pull it out, you'll bleed."
"If you don't, it'll poison me."
He didn't argue. His claws closed around the spike, gentle despite the stone, and he pulled. It came out clean, and the pain doubled, tripled, until I couldn't breathe through it.
"Here." He pressed something against the wound—cloth, rough and already soaked through. "Hold that."
I held it. My hand was shaking. "The ledger."
"Can wait."
"No. It can't." I reached for the satchel with my good hand, flipped it open, and pulled out the ledger. It was old, the pages yellowed and brittle, but the ink was still clear. Names. Dates. Transactions.
And on the last page, written in fresh ink, still wet enough to smear:
Next core-keeper: Mara Voss.
I stared at it. The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.
"Calder," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine. "What does this mean?"
He looked over my shoulder. His breath stopped.
"It means," he said slowly, "you were always the target."
The cuff flared, hot and bright, and the blood-letters crawled across the metal, burning red:
FIND THE BELLMAKER.
But the bellmaker was dead. Everyone knew that.
Everyone except whoever had just written my name in the ledger.