Miles to Go Read Online Free PDF Page A

felt bad, dragging Shadow everywhere, but I didn’t even suggest her staying back in the office. First, I was under orders to keep her safe, and while I didn’t think anything was going to go down in my office – I’d been working there for six years now and the most excitement we’d ever had was when a rabid squirrel decided to take up residence in the bathroom down the hall – I couldn’t say for sure trouble wasn’t going to suddenly show up.
    And anyway, she wasn’t going to stay put, not when we might have a lead on the missing kids. I knew that already. She might be a mouse, but if you poked her, she roared.
    We took the 5 line downtown. It was the start of rush hour, so we didn’t catch seats, but there was room to railhang without getting squashed up against other people. I’m a New Yorker through and through but I hate the subway, especially when it’s crowded. People tend to cluster toward me, not even realizing it, and I’ve got a touch of clausto to begin with. My mom might’ve spent most of her career before me on a ship, but my fatae genetics were geared more to open hillsides and relative solitude. I never did understand why I stayed in New York, except I couldn’t quite wrap my horns around leaving.
    Shadow swayed a bit, swinging toward me, then catching herself. She had that slightly dreamy look on her face, one I recognized from long exposure: she was jamming with the current that ran through the underground tracks, looping around the electricity that powered the trains, the lights, streaming through stone-carved tunnels, winding in around itself and just waiting for a Talent to come siphon it off, just a little bit, a hit to sooth the stress of a long day.
    Or so I’d been told. All I could feel was the rackety-clack of the rail under us, the occasional hitching scream of the brakes, and random cold bursts of the train’s straining air conditioning. But it was nice to watch her face, see the tiny stress lines around her mouth ease. She had a nice mouth, wide, and full, but not pouty or posed. You could describe it in crude terms, yeah, but my mother did her best to raise me to not be a dick. Anyway, all I could think was that she probably had an awesome smile. If she ever smiled.
    “What are we – where are we going?” she asked, not opening her eyes.
    “What, you’re not going to just trail after me like a good shadow, trusting my decision-making?” The moment the words fell out of my mouth I wished I could recall them, remembering how badly she’d reacted before. Her eyes opened then, and she stared at me, judging something.
    I guess I passed, because she shook her head, and closed her eyes again, letting her body sway as we slid around a curve in the tunnel. “I don’t trust anybody anymore,” she said. “But I’m good at following.”
    There was something in that, some depth in her words that lost me. I’m usually pretty good at sounding the depths, too. I decided to focus on the hunt, and worry about my shadow later.
    “Yeah, you proved that earlier,” I admitted. “We’re going to talk to some people, best you stay quiet and just pay attention. If you see anything, or you remember anything, tuck it into your brain and tell me when we’re alone.”
    She clearly remembered her earlier promise, because she just nodded once, and followed me up out of the station at our stop, down John Street and into the chaos of the South Street Seaport. Home to some of the most comprehensive kitsch in all Manhattan, outdoing even Times Square on summer afternoons when half the world and three-quarters of Wall Street were there for the view, the booze, and the mingling. I’d spent more than a few hours here himself, killing time and a few beers, watching the tall ships and the tourist boats.
    This time, I bypassed the flurry of the Seaport itself, dodging buskers, tour-hawkers, and tourists, Ellen at my heel. Under the overhang, and down past the old fish market, where the East River