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that a fifty-fifty chance of being murdered by his boss were better odds than the thugs in his old life were offering. As it was, joining the L.A. rebels was a shade less dangerous than continuing to hang out with the goblin-fruit gangs. Gangs were no place for a goblin with no taste for rape and torture. His initiation had also been his final assignment. He’d raped the human fruit-junkie as ordered, but he hadn’t been able to pinch and bite her the way he was supposed to. She was just too pathetic. And he’d kind of wanted to see her again.
    So, now he was here. Truth be told, he would rather have signed on with Molybdenum. But L.A.’s hive master had a low tolerance for gang violence and would never let him on staff. And General Anaximander had offered this job as his secretary— perhaps as an apology for strangling Miffith’s father, who had also worked for him? No, more likely because Miffith spoke four human languages and also fey. Anyhow, it had seemed ideal at the time. But now . . .
    Anaximander hissed something into his phone, and Miffith hunched down, trying to make himself invisible. Someone was in trouble. He just hoped it wasn’t him.
    Adora’s small house already looked vacant, as though it could sense that she intended to be gone for a protracted period of time. It was strange and a little sad to think of it muddling along without her, its lights on timers, the plants watered by a sprinkler system. It would miss her, though; she could tell.
    She stood in the yard and looked at the small garden she had coaxed out of the horrid clay soil that plagued their neighborhood. It had been a particularly hard winter by California standards, and the shy flowers were only just beginning to show off their fans and ruffled skirts, and she was leaving the glorious show just as it began. A part of her—a dark part whose existence she usually denied—wondered whenever she left if it would be for the last time. That happened sometimes: People went away one morning and never came back.
    Like Mom. Like Dad.
    â€œIt’s Ben’s fault. I didn’t want this assignment. . . . Look, I’ll miss you too,” Adora said quietly to the house. She sighed. “I can’t lie. I love the idea of travel, and I really need the money, but you know I like you best. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    The stunted lilac sighed back and forgave her. She turned to the house, laying a hand on the doorframe. Perhaps it was the cool breeze, but the wood seemed to shiver. This was her house—her
home
. It was the only place she had ever felt she truly belonged. However, the house loved her unconditionally and knew she had to go. It whispered a fond if sad farewell.
    â€œGood-bye,” Adora replied.
    That done, she gave herself permission to run down her checklist one last time: She had her portable. She had an overnight bag. She had killer shoes—
    And your voice of reason. Don’t leave home without it,
Joy added.
Not that you’ll listen.
    As if I could ever be so lucky as to leave you behind,
Adora replied.
    She sighed again. Voice or no voice, she was ready—or as ready as she would ever be. There was no reason to delay. Shutting the door softly, she set off on her adventure.
    The taxi driver, whose English was sketchy, assured her that she was in the right place before pulling away, but Adora still had doubts about her location. Where was the jet she had been promised? All she could see was a . . . what was that exactly on the runway in front of her?
    Adora inched toward the contraption. Squatting in the middle of the runway where she stood was a giant wooden plane that head-on had the face of a beagle wearing aviator goggles. The canine head was mounted on the body of a somewhat skinny goose with splayed feet. She recognized it now from research she had done for an abandoned book on Mussolini. The plane was called a Fieseler Storch. The outlandish-looking