exactly.â âYou hear that whooming? The Honeycomb changes all the time so they have to have some sort of beacon. Itâs probably at the entrance, which should be guarded by somebody. Weâre going to go there and ask nicely where Esmeralda lived.â âWhat makes you think theyâll tell us?â âBecause Iâll pay them.â âOh.â And because if they donât tell me, I will pull out my Order ID and my saber and make myself very hard to ignore. I wasnât wild about heading into the Honeycomb with a little girl in tow, but considering the neighborhood, she was safer with me than without me. I wondered how she got down there in the first place⦠âHow did you get down into the Gap?â âWe hiked from the Warren. Thereâs a trail.â A little light went off in her eyes. âBut I probably canât find it now. So if you send me back, Iâll just wander around without any water or food.â Why me? The street turned slightly, bringing us into view of wide-open chain-link gates. Just in front of them a man in faded jeans and a leather vest worn over his bare chest sat on an overturned oil drum. An unlit cigarette drooped from his lips. To the left of him sat an old military truck, its back end pointing toward the gate. Despite rust stains and dents, the truckâs tires and canvas top looked to be in good condition. The canvas probably hid some heavy-duty hardware, a Gatling gun or a small siege engine. On the other side of the man sat a huge rectangular tank. Soft emerald-green algae stained the glass walls, obscuring the murky water within. A long section of metal pipe stretched from the tank and disappeared beneath the twisted remains of a trailer. The man on the drum leveled a crossbow at me. The crossbow looked a lot like a good old-fashioned, flat-sided Flemish arbalest. The prong gleamed with the bluish-gray shade particular to steel, not the brighter, pale aluminum of cheaper bows, meaning the bowâs draw weight probably ranged to two hundred pounds. He could put a bolt into me from seventy-five yards away and he wanted me to know that. Whoom. Whoom. An arbalest was a decent weapon, but slow on reload. The man eyed me. âYou want something?â The cigarette remained stuck to his lower lip, moving as he spoke. âIâm an agent of the Order investigating the disappearance of witches belonging to the Sisters of the Crow coven. I was told the head witch lived in the Honeycomb.â âAnd who is that?â He pointed to Julie behind me. âDaughter of a witch in Esmeraldaâs coven. Her momâs missing. You wouldnât know anything about that, would you?â âNo. You got an ID on you?â I reached for the leather wallet I carried on a cord around my neck and took out my Order ID. He motioned me closer. I approached and passed it to him. He turned it over. The small rectangle of silver in the lower right corner of the card gleamed, catching a stray ray of the sun. âIs that real silver?â he asked. The cigarette drew an elaborate pattern in the air. âYes.â Silver took enchantment better than most metals. The man gave me a quick glance and rubbed at the silver through the clear plastic coating. âHow much is it worth?â Here we go. âYouâre asking the wrong question.â âOh yeah?â âYou should be asking if your life is worth a square inch of enchanted silver.â He gave the card another cursory glance. âYou talk big.â I snapped my hand at his face. He shied back and I handed his cigarette back to him. âThese things can kill you.â He stuck the cigarette back into his mouth and returned my ID. âNameâs Custer.â âKate Daniels.â The canvas shielding the truck shifted, revealing a lean Latino woman next to a black cheiroballista. Built like a giant crossbow, the cheiroballista