his post. The man was in his late fifties with graying hair visible below the hat he wore. He looked at her as she approached the door and raised an eyebrow.
“Hello,” Rayna said with a slight nod, acknowledging him the way wealthy people do and acting as if she belonged there.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the doorman said. “We haven’t met.”
“Shh,” she said, giving him a wink. “I was supposed to leave last night, but Mr. Jones was a bit energetic.” She handed him a silver dollar, and he gave her a quick nod before opening the door for her.
“Mr. Jones?” he asked.
“A lady never tells,” she said and left the building.
Outside the temperature was in the high eighties. People moved along the sidewalk, and Rayna joined the flow of traffic. She’d visited New York back in 2010, but things were a lot different in 1926. She didn’t know the city well enough to figure out where she was. She also didn’t know where to start looking for Henry Winslow. As Jonathan and Kelly were going to be in Egypt for a time before joining Brand in the 1870s, Rayna knew she’d have to live in the city for a time. How long, she couldn’t say. It could be weeks, months, or even years, depending on how things went in the past.
She had plenty of money, so the first order of business was to find a place to stay for a few days while she got the lay of the land. Cars rolled by on the street, and people brushed past her without meeting her eyes. Most things had changed dramatically in the intervening years, but some things had not changed at all.
Rayna started looking for a hotel.
BRAND EASTON
Brand felt as if he were falling inside himself. His stomach flipped and he fought to keep from throwing up. Then he hit solid ground, dropped to his knees, and waited a moment for the room to stop spinning. The worn stone floor was filthy, and Brand felt his stomach dance again as the pervasive odor of rotting garbage and human waste assaulted him. “Who died in here?” Brand said.
“What the hell?” a voice said. “Where’d you come from?”
Brand looked up and saw a large man in his early forties with long, oily, brown hair streaked with silver. The man wore tattered old clothes stained with sweat. He stared at Brand from a dirty bunk. Bars crisscrossed the window above him. Brand glanced around the small room and saw a cell door also with crisscrossing metal bars. An oil lamp burned in the hallway outside, and the corridor was lined with cell doors.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brand said. He rose and stared at the man on the bunk. “Where am I?”
“You don’t know where you are? Hell, lad, I’m still trying to figure out where you came from!”
“Denver,” Brand said.
“From the new state of Colorado?”
“New to you,” Brand said. “Now where are we?”
“New York.”
Brand didn’t expect to arrive in New York. He expected to show up in California. He was looking forward to playing cowboy.
“Where in New York?” Brand asked.
“The Tombs.”
Brand shook his head. “Well, that sucks ass through a straw. I’ve gotta get out of here.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t belong in here.”
“Neither do I.”
Brand moved to the door. “Right. You’re a fine, upstanding citizen and all that. What’s your name?”
“Joseph. And you?”
“Brand.” He checked the door. The metal was strong, and the lock was engaged, of course. He shook the door, and it rattled a bit, but it wasn’t going to open. He turned back to Joseph, who still sat on the bunk, watching him with amusement. “Something funny?”
“Just been a while since I had company.”
Brand could have sworn he’d read something about The Tombs and how they were overcrowded. It didn’t make sense that a criminal would get a cell to himself. “Why’s that?”
“Because I like to skin my roommates. Folks in these parts don’t like that, so they keep me here alone.”
“Right. When will they make their
“Hello,” Rayna said with a slight nod, acknowledging him the way wealthy people do and acting as if she belonged there.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the doorman said. “We haven’t met.”
“Shh,” she said, giving him a wink. “I was supposed to leave last night, but Mr. Jones was a bit energetic.” She handed him a silver dollar, and he gave her a quick nod before opening the door for her.
“Mr. Jones?” he asked.
“A lady never tells,” she said and left the building.
Outside the temperature was in the high eighties. People moved along the sidewalk, and Rayna joined the flow of traffic. She’d visited New York back in 2010, but things were a lot different in 1926. She didn’t know the city well enough to figure out where she was. She also didn’t know where to start looking for Henry Winslow. As Jonathan and Kelly were going to be in Egypt for a time before joining Brand in the 1870s, Rayna knew she’d have to live in the city for a time. How long, she couldn’t say. It could be weeks, months, or even years, depending on how things went in the past.
She had plenty of money, so the first order of business was to find a place to stay for a few days while she got the lay of the land. Cars rolled by on the street, and people brushed past her without meeting her eyes. Most things had changed dramatically in the intervening years, but some things had not changed at all.
Rayna started looking for a hotel.
BRAND EASTON
Brand felt as if he were falling inside himself. His stomach flipped and he fought to keep from throwing up. Then he hit solid ground, dropped to his knees, and waited a moment for the room to stop spinning. The worn stone floor was filthy, and Brand felt his stomach dance again as the pervasive odor of rotting garbage and human waste assaulted him. “Who died in here?” Brand said.
“What the hell?” a voice said. “Where’d you come from?”
Brand looked up and saw a large man in his early forties with long, oily, brown hair streaked with silver. The man wore tattered old clothes stained with sweat. He stared at Brand from a dirty bunk. Bars crisscrossed the window above him. Brand glanced around the small room and saw a cell door also with crisscrossing metal bars. An oil lamp burned in the hallway outside, and the corridor was lined with cell doors.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brand said. He rose and stared at the man on the bunk. “Where am I?”
“You don’t know where you are? Hell, lad, I’m still trying to figure out where you came from!”
“Denver,” Brand said.
“From the new state of Colorado?”
“New to you,” Brand said. “Now where are we?”
“New York.”
Brand didn’t expect to arrive in New York. He expected to show up in California. He was looking forward to playing cowboy.
“Where in New York?” Brand asked.
“The Tombs.”
Brand shook his head. “Well, that sucks ass through a straw. I’ve gotta get out of here.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t belong in here.”
“Neither do I.”
Brand moved to the door. “Right. You’re a fine, upstanding citizen and all that. What’s your name?”
“Joseph. And you?”
“Brand.” He checked the door. The metal was strong, and the lock was engaged, of course. He shook the door, and it rattled a bit, but it wasn’t going to open. He turned back to Joseph, who still sat on the bunk, watching him with amusement. “Something funny?”
“Just been a while since I had company.”
Brand could have sworn he’d read something about The Tombs and how they were overcrowded. It didn’t make sense that a criminal would get a cell to himself. “Why’s that?”
“Because I like to skin my roommates. Folks in these parts don’t like that, so they keep me here alone.”
“Right. When will they make their
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