by Lisa Maxwell
The dive was filled with the type of people Harte had done everything he could to avoid becoming. They represented the most dangerous parts of humanity—if you could even call it that—south of Houston Street, the wide avenue that divided the haves from the have-nots and probably-never-wills. Harte himself might have been a liar and a con man, but at least he was an honest one. Or so he told himself. He’d risked everything to get out of Paul Kelly’s gang three years ago, and he didn’t want the life he’d managed to build for himself since then to get muddied by the never-ending war between the different factions that ruled lower Manhattan.
Yet there he was.
He shouldn’t have come. He was an idiot for agreeing to this meeting, a complete idiot to let Dolph Saunders goad him into being drawn back into this world with an impossible promise—freedom. A way out of the city. It was fool’s dream.
Harte must be a fool, because he knew what Dolph Saunders was capable of and, still, he had agreed to meet him. He’d seen Dolph’s cruelty with his own eyes, and if Harte were smarter, he’d turn tail and leave before it was too late. . . .
But then a familiar voice was calling his name over the crowd, and he knew his chance had passed.
The kid approaching him was probably the skinniest, shortest guy in the room. He wore a pair of spectacles on the tip of his straight nose, and unlike most of the crowd that populated The Devil’s Own, he wasn’t dressed in the bright colors or flamboyant style that characterized the swells of the Bowery. Instead, the kid wore suspenders over a simple collarless shirt, which made him look like an overgrown newsboy. Unlike the barrel-chested men curled around their drinks after a long day of hard labor, Nibsy Lorcan had the air of someone who spent most of his time indoors poring over books.
“Harte Darrigan,” Nibsy said, giving a sharp nod of his head in greeting. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I wish I could say the same, Nibs.”
The kid tucked his hands into his pockets. “We were beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”
“Your boss made it sound like I’d be an idiot not to come and at least listen to what he had to say.”
Nibsy smiled genially. “No one could take you for an idiot, Darrigan.”
“Not sure I agree with you, Nibs, seeing as I’m here and all. Where’s Dolph anyway? Or did he send you to do his dirty work for him like usual?”
“He’s in back, waiting.” Nibsy’s eyes flickered over the barroom. “You know how he is.”
“Yeah,” Harte said. “I know exactly how he is. Just like I should have known better than to come here.”
He turned to go, but Nibs caught him by the arm. “You’re already here. Might as well listen to what he has to say.” He gave an aw-shucks shrug that Harte didn’t buy. “At least have a drink. Can’t argue with a free drink, now, can you?”
He glanced at the doors at the back of the barroom.
Harte might have been an idiot, but he was a curious idiot. He couldn’t imagine what would have made Dolph desperate enough to ask for his help after the falling-out they’d had. And he wanted to know what would possess Dolph—a man much more likely to hold his secrets close—to make such wild promises.
“I’ll listen to what he has to say, but I don’t want any drink.”
Nibs shifted uneasily before recovering his affable-looking smile. “This way,” he said, leading Harte toward the back of the bar and through double saloon doors to a quieter private room.
It might have been years since Harte had seen him, but Dolph didn’t look all that different. Same lean, hard face anchored by a nose as sharp as a knife. Same shock of white in the front of his hair that he’d had since they were kids. Same calculating gleam in his icy eyes. Or at least in the eye Harte could see—the other was capped by a leather patch.
There were four others in the room. Harte recognized Viola Vaccarelli and Jianyu Lee, Dolph’s assassin and spy, respectively. The other two guys were unknowns. From their loud pants and tipped bowler hats, Harte guessed they were hired muscle, there in case things went south. Which meant that Dolph trusted Harte about as much as Harte trusted Dolph.
Fine. Maybe they’d been friends once, but it was better this way.
“Good to see you again, Dare,” Dolph said, using an old nickname Harte had long since given up. Harte didn’t miss that Dolph hadn’t offered his hand in greeting, only gripped the silver gorgon head on the top of his cane more tightly.
“Can’t say the feeling’s mutual.”
The two peacocks in the corner scowled, but Viola’s mouth only twitched. She didn’t reach for her knives and he wasn’t dead yet, so he must be safe for the moment.
“You want something to drink?” Dolph asked, settling himself back in his chair but not offering a seat to Harte.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, Dolph. Why’d you want to see me? You know I’m out of the game.”
“Not from what I’ve heard. Whatever freedom you pretend, Paul Kelly’s still got you on a leash, doesn’t he?”
“I’m not on anybody’s leash,” Harte said, his voice a warning. But he wasn’t surprised that Dolph knew the truth. He always did manage to find out the very things a person wanted to keep hidden. “And I know there’s no way you can do what you hinted at. Getting out of the city? I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Then why did you come?” Dolph asked.
“Hell if I know,” Harte said. He realized he was crushing the brim of his hat and forced himself to relax his fist.
Dolph’s eye gleamed. “You never could resist a challenge, could you?”
“Maybe I wanted to see if the rumors about you were true,” he said coldly. “If you’d really lost it after Leena, like everybody said.”
“I don’t talk about that.” Dolph’s expression went fierce, even as his face went a little gray. “Nobody talks about that if they want to keep breathing.”
“I bet they don’t,” Harte said. He shook his head. “This was a mistake.” He turned to go, but Jianyu stepped in front of the door, blocking his way. “Call him off, Dolph.”
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Dolph said, ignoring Harte’s command.
“I’m not interested.” He turned his attention to Jianyu. “I bet your uncle’s real proud of you right about now, isn’t he? He must love you being a lapdog for that one there.”
Everyone knew that Jianyu Lee was the nephew of Tom Lee, the leader of the On Leong Tong over in Chinatown. The kid could have had his own turf, maybe even run his own crew, but here he was working for Dolph. That was the thing about Dolph Saunders—he had this way of pulling people in. Even people who should’ve had some brains.
Jianyu just smiled darkly, an expression that warned Harte not to push.
“I said call him off, Dolph,” Harte said again, trying not to let his nerves show. He might be a fool, but he wasn’t stupid enough not to realize how dangerous his position was.
“I think you’d be interested if you gave me five minutes,” Dolph said. “Or I can always have one of my boys convince you.”
“Threats?” Harte glanced up at the two rough-looking boys still looming behind Dolph. “That isn’t usually your style, old man.”
Dolph couldn’t have been older than his midtwenties. But with the streak of white hair and the way he’d been born to lead, Dolph had always seemed even older. Once, “old man” had been a term of endearment between friends. Not anymore. Now Harte slung the nickname like an insult.
Dolph’s mouth curved to acknowledge the slight, but he didn’t otherwise react. “Never used to be,” he admitted. “But it turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks.” His mouth went flat. “Sit. Give me five minutes before you go off half-cocked. Or haven’t you grown out of your temper yet?”
The two puffed peacocks behind Dolph shifted, like they were getting ready for their boss’s next order. Harte eyed them warily and measured the inconvenience of a black eye if he left against the sting of his wounded pride if he gave in. It
was damn hard to charm an audience when you looked like a common thug, so he went back to the table and took a seat.
“Five minutes. But I’ll tell you straight off, I’m not interested in any of your scheming. Never was.”
“I won’t call you on that particular lie, but getting out of the city isn’t a scheme,” Dolph said, signaling to Nibsy to pour Harte a glass of whiskey. “It’s a real possibility.”
The fine hairs at the nape of Harte’s neck rose in warning. There was only one way out of the city—through the Brink—and it was a trip Harte had no interest in taking. Not by choice. Not by force, either.
He shifted in his seat. “More threats?” he asked, cautious.
“Not a threat. A proposition. A way out.”
“None of us can get out of the city,” Harte said carefully, wondering what Dolph was up to. “Not without paying the price. Every Mageus in town knows that.”
Dolph took a long, slow drink from the glass in front of him and then motioned for Nibsy to pour another before he spoke. “The Brink hasn’t always been there, Darrigan. Did you ever stop to think that if the Order was able to make it, then there has to be a way to unmake it?”
“Now I know you’re wasting my time.” Harte shook his head. “If you knew how to punch a hole out of this rattrap of a city, you’d have already done it and then started charging admission for the crossing.” He started to push his chair back to go, but Jianyu had moved behind him and pressed his shoulders down. Jianyu’s thumb was firm against a tender spot at the crook of Harte’s neck, keeping him in his seat. “Get your lackey off me, Dolph. I have somewhere else to be.”
“The Ortus Aurea doesn’t have any real magic,” Dolph continued. “Everything they have, everything they can do—it’s counterfeit power. It all comes at a cost. The Brink isn’t real magic, but it’s destroying real magic just the same.”
“It seemed real enough when it took everything my mother was and left her a shell of what she used to be.”
“I’m not saying the Order isn’t powerful. What I am saying is that they can be stopped,” Dolph said. “The men in the Order see magic as some kind of mark of the divine. They can’t bring themselves to believe that the poor, wretched masses who come to these shores could possibly have a stronger connection to divinity than they themselves do. But we both know that magic isn’t anything to do with angels or demons. Old magic, the kind you and I know intimately, is a connection with the world itself. You can’t split affinities into neat categories or elements any more than you can separate fire and air. One needs the other. When the Order tries to divide up the elements and control them through their rituals and so-called science, there’s a cost. It weakens magic as a whole.”
“Funny for you of all people to say that,” Harte said flatly, without so much as blinking. He tested the pressure against his shoulder and found he still couldn’t move.
Dolph frowned, but he didn’t respond to Harte’s implied challenge. “You know I’m right. The power they wield isn’t a natural part of the world, like ours is, and I believe the Brink can be destroyed if we take away the source of their power.”
“You’re talking about taking them head-on,” Harte said. That was a stretch, even for Dolph.
“I’m talking about destroying the one tool they have to control us.”
“You’re talking about a fairy tale.”
Dolph didn’t blink. “Every day people come to this country—to this city—because they believe their children will be safer here than in the places they’re from. They’re lured by the promise of a life away from the superstition and hate in their own countries. All lies. Any Mageus that enters this city is snared like a fish in a net. Once they land on these shores, they can’t leave without giving up the very thing that defines them, and trapped on this island as they are, they’re at the mercy of the Order. Held down, held back, always kept in their place by those in power.”
“I know all that already, Dolph,” Harte said. His stomach churned. Of course he knew. “But there are ways to make a life here, even in this city.”
Dolph gave him a mocking look. “You mean like you have?”
“I’ve done well enough for myself.”
“Sure you have. You’ve managed to get yourself some smart new clothes, a safe apartment in the good part of town, and money in your pocket. You’ve even managed to find yourself some well-connected friends. But do you think you’d last a day in your new life if those new friends of yours knew who you actually are?” Dolph leaned forward. “What you are?”
Harte refused to so much as flinch. “You plan on outing me and destroying the life I’ve built for myself ? I’ve lived through worse.”
“No, Darrigan,” Dolph said. “I’d prefer to use that new life of yours to our advantage.”
“I’m not interested in helping your advantage.”
Dolph ignored his rebuff. “It’s good you’ve managed to do what you have, but you always were scrappier than most. There’s plenty who aren’t. And even scrappy as you are, you can only get so far in this city. You and I were friends once, so I know how it must chafe to always have to hide what you are. As long as the Order has power over our kind, it will always be a liability. But if the Order’s main tool for controlling us was destroyed, you could have a different life. The Brink can be undone, I’m convinced of it.”
“You can’t know that,” Harte challenged. “And I like my life well enough. I’m not about to get myself killed over one of your mad theories.”
“It’s not a theory.” Dolph nodded to Jianyu, and the pressure on Harte’s shoulders eased. Then he pulled a small scrap from his pocket and set it on the table so Harte could read the faded writing on its surface. “Leena died getting that to me.”
Harte read the smeared letters on the scrap and then glanced up at Dolph. “I don’t speak Italian.”
“It’s Latin,” Dolph corrected.
“What’s it mean?”
“Libero Libro. It means that the Order has a book—”
“I’m sure they have lots of books.”
“Probably,” Dolph said, not taking the bait. “But there’s one book in particular they protect more than any other, and getting this book means freeing our kind.”
Harte gave him a doubtful look. “A single book couldn’t do all of that.”
“The Ars Arcana could.”
This gave Harte pause. “You think the Order has the Ars Arcana?”
Dolph tapped his finger against the scrap of fabric. “I do.”
Harte shook his head. “Even if you’re right, even if the Order has the Book of Mysteries, you’ll never be able to get it. Everyone knows that Khafre Hall is built like a fortress. You couldn’t even get through the front door, much less get your hands on any book—Ars Arcana or otherwise.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Dolph said. “With the right team, we can get in and get the Book. Think of it, Dare. . . . We could change everything. No more slums. No more scraping by. Without the Brink standing in your way, you could walk out of this city a free man to go make your fortune. You could do anything, go anywhere, and keep your affinity all the while.”
Harte ignored the lure of that promise. “The only people who can get into the front door of Khafre Hall are members of Ortus.”
“So we’ll have a member let us in,” Nibs said.
For a moment all Harte could do was gape at the boy. “You’re insane too,” he said. “Did you forget that they hate us? There’s no way one of their members is going to help one of us.”
Dolph pinned Harte with a knowing glare. “That life you’ve made for yourself has introduced you to some interesting people. Word is you’ve been seen with Jack Grew, one of J. P. Morgan’s nephews, I believe?”
“So what of it?” Harte said, even more wary than before.
“Morgan’s one of the highest-ranking members of the Order.”
“No,” Harte said, shaking his head as he pushed away from the table and stood.
“No way in hell. No.”
But Jianyu’s strong hands sat him back down roughly and held him in his seat.
“It’s like you said, you’ve managed to make a whole new life for yourself. New name. New suit. New address on the right side of town. If you keep rubbing elbows with the right people, you could get us in.”
Harte choked out a hollow laugh. “I’m not in the market for suicide. Besides, even if what you’re proposing is possible, even if you and your crew could get in and get this book, the Order wouldn’t simply accept defeat. They’d hunt down every Mageus in this town. You’d get hundreds of innocent people killed. Thousands, maybe. No one with magic—or with connections to people with magic—would be safe.”
“We’re already not safe,” Dolph countered. “We already live like rats, fighting each other for whatever the Order leaves us. Everyone’s so worried about getting a little bit more for themselves, they don’t even realize they’re killing one another over the garbage.
“The Order of Ortus Aurea depends on that, Harte. They want us lining up along old divisions, clinging to what we know so that we can’t imagine a bigger future. But I’ve already imagined it. Look at the people in this room right now—Viola, Jianyu. I’ve started putting together a team that could take down the Order once and for all. I need someone to get us in, though. Someone with the right talent for it.” His jaw tightened. “Someone like you.”
Harte knew what it must have cost Dolph to say those words, but it wasn’t enough. Not considering how dangerous the Ortus Aurea was and how much he had to lose.
“You’ve had your five minutes.”
Dolph studied Harte a long minute before lifting his hand and gesturing vaguely for Jianyu to release him. “I’m not taking your answer now,” Dolph said, dismissing him. “You listened and maybe you’ll think about it. We’ll talk again.”
The pressure no longer on his shoulders, Harte stood. “No, we won’t. I’m not interested now, and I won’t be interested ten days from now, so you can just leave me the hell alone.”