Only the man in cell four can hear you, and the police say he pushed you off Pier Nine.
You are a bar pilot in Astoria, Oregon, guiding ships over the sandbar at the river mouth. Since last night, nobody can see or hear you. Nobody but Jude, the stranger jailed for pushing you off Pier Nine.
6 a.m. in Cell Four of the county jail. Your clothes are soaked through, and you are not cold.
Last night someone pushed you off Pier Nine. All night you walked the wet streets, and nobody saw you. A guard walks right through you.
The man on the bunk looks at you, not past you. "You're the pilot. They told me you were dead." His name is Jude, and the police say he pushed you.
Down the hall, Arvo Salmela, the pilot who taught you the sandbar, points at Jude: "That's the man I saw on Pier Nine." Jude will be charged within the hour.
You guide big ships over the sandbar where the river meets the sea. When your father lost his pilot's license, Arvo took you in that same week.
A welder from Spokane, held in Cell Four: broad shoulders, burn freckles on his forearms, short dark hair, a gray jail sweatshirt, a cut lip, tired green eyes.
The oldest pilot at the station: a white beard, ruddy wind-cut skin, a navy pilot's jacket with a faded patch, a brass pocket watch on a chain.
A detective with a stir stick in her teeth is writing down what Arvo saw. Keep reading.
Someone in town is about to print a name. Keep reading.
At the pilot station, someone is still calling you on the radio. Keep reading.
A buzzing light that never turns off, and rain ticking on the wire glass.
Only Jude sees and hears you, and only while he is awake. Every truth you find must be spoken by the accused.
Each dawn you are fainter: your reflection first, then your voice, then the cold he feels near you. You never know which day is your last clear one.
You cannot leave Astoria. Past the middle of the bridge, the fog pulls you back.
Four hundred years undead. One sleeping draught. Now his heart beats, and he has fifty days.
Every monster in the kingdom bows to you. Your guild wants to know why. So do you.
The chip you put in a wounded wolf last night beeps in a stranger's shoulder. Hunting season opens in fourteen days.
At dawn the whole city's magic is in your hands, and the strongest warlock in Boston wants his share back by the new moon.
