by Lisa Maxwell
Esta refused to let that happen.
Together, she and Harte ran past the transportation building and then cut deeper into the fair, where the paths were narrower and the landscaping provided more cover. They dodged a cluster of families watching a puppet show and then weaved through a group of young men who were taking in the sights. All the while, the Guard was gaining on them, but when she heard hoofbeats, she knew that they couldn’t outrun a horse.
Harte glanced back over his shoulder. “We need to get out of here,” he told her. “You need to get us out of here. We need time.”
He was right, but she was still reeling from a few minutes before when she’d gotten them out of the chamber. The darkness had been so immediate, so strong when she’d pulled the seconds apart to stop the gate from closing.
“I’ll control it,” he told her as though he understood her hesitation. “You have to—”
The riders were gaining on them. She could practically feel the thunderous pace of the horses telescoping each hoofbeat through the ground beneath her feet, like the earth had a heartbeat all its own. They rounded a bend and past the clock made of flowers that was the size of a carriage before they headed toward a smaller lagoon, but the horses were gaining on them. Their hoofbeats were like thunder, and she could practically smell the sweat of horseflesh and angry human.
“Now, Esta . . . Now!”
Never slowing, she clenched her jaw and found the spaces between the seconds, pushing her magic into them, pulling them apart so that the noise of the fair died away. They didn’t stop running as the birds in the trees went silent and everyone around them went still, suspended in the moment. She glanced over her shoulder to find the horses frozen in an impossible tableau, like the statues that dotted the fairgrounds. Their mouths were open, pulled back violently by the bits between their teeth, and their manes looked like fingertips grasping at the air. And above the whole scene, a darkness was seeping into the world like a trail of black ink splattered across the page of reality, following them.
Following her.
The power sliding against her skin went hot as a brand, and the darkness lurched, growing until it blotted out everything. For a moment there was only the darkness, only emptiness, and at the sight of it—the feel of it—she ripped her hand from Harte’s. The world slammed back into motion without warning, and the darkness that had threatened to obliterate everything just a second before faded, like a fog burned off by the sun.
“Esta?” Harte was reaching back for her, but his eyes lifted to something behind her, and from the fear in his expression, she felt suddenly wary.
She turned back, expecting to see the Guard, but instead she saw madness. A deep chasm had opened in the ground, like an enormous sinkhole. It almost looked as though the path they’d just come down had been ripped in two. The horses stopped short at the gaping wound in the earth, tossing the riders from their backs.
Esta let out a strangled sound and her feet started to slow, but Harte took her hand again and tugged her onward. She ran blindly, until she realized they’d stopped because they’d made it to the wall of the fair, where the exit she’d unlocked earlier waited. Her mind raced with the implications of what had just happened. It was the Book—there was no question of that. When Harte touched her, she could feel it as clear and true as she could feel the warmth of his skin. But what was it doing to her? To her affinity? The train and the elevator at the hotel, and now this gaping hole she’d—they’d—somehow created here at the fair . . . Her affinity was for time, not for the inert, so why was the Book having such an effect?
She was dazed from the reality of what had happened as she stumbled through the doorway, so she didn’t see the people waiting on the other side until it was too late. Harte came through a moment later, and at the sight of them, his eyes met hers, and she thought she saw the colors flash in them.
The cowboy from before stepped out of the shadow of a waiting wagon and pushed his broad-brimmed hat back a bit as he came toward them. He had a gun in one hand, and the click of its hammer was clear as the peal of a bell, even over the distant noise of the fair.
Together Esta and Harte lifted their hands in surrender. If it had just been her, she could have pulled time still and ran, but Harte and the number of their opponents complicated things.
“Well, well . . . We meet at last,” the cowboy said with a self-satisfied expression. “The Devil’s Thief, in the flesh.”
He knew. “Who are you?” Esta asked, lifting her chin as though she had cornered them and not the other way around.
“You can think of us as the cavalry,” the cowboy said, touching the brim of his hat. “Unless you’d rather take your chances with the Guard.”
Esta exchanged a silent, questioning look with Harte, but he only gave a small shake of his head.
“What do you want with us?” Harte asked.
“Me? I personally don’t want anything at all,” the cowboy said. “But there’s someone who does want to make your acquaintance, and it’s my job to make that happen. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but either way, it’s gonna happen. So what will it be?”
“You’re not exactly giving us much of a choice,” Harte said.
“There’s always a choice to make,” the cowboy drawled. “There’s always a side to take. At the moment we’re taking yours.” He shrugged. “We could have just as easily not have. Give us a reason, and we’re liable to change our mind.”
Esta glanced at Harte, whose expression had gone flinty, but whose skin still had an unhealthy-looking pallor from whatever had happened in the Nile. Behind them the noise of the fair was growing closer. They had to get out of there. Now.
When she looked back to the cowboy, she straightened her spine and cocked her head to one side, making a show of confidence. “I suppose we could use a ride if you’re offering.”
“That’s what I thought.” The cowboy’s mouth twitched as he lowered the gun and stepped aside to open the back of the wagon. As she approached to climb in, he held out a limp burlap sack. “I’m sure you’ll understand that we need to take certain precautions?”
“I thought you were taking our side,” Harte challenged. “We’re not a threat to you.”
“With all due respect, I have a hole in my pocket from one of your smoke devices that says otherwise,” the cowboy told him. “If you’re not a threat, then you shouldn’t mind proving it.”
They were wasting time. Without waiting for Harte’s reply, Esta took the sack from the cowboy and shot Harte a determined look before she put it over her own head. A moment later her hands were being secured, and she felt herself being lifted as strong hands tossed her into the wagon. Not long after she heard Harte land next to her—he gave a small groan as the air went out of him—and then the door slammed shut.
The wagon lurched, and they were moving.
“Are you okay?” Harte asked, the hood over his head muffling his voice. She could hear him moving, probably already maneuvering his wrists and working at the ropes like this situation wasn’t anything more than one of his magic tricks.
“I think so,” she said, relieved that he’d made the choice to follow her without a fight.
“I’ll be out of this in a second,” Harte told her as the wagon lurched around a bend. “I can’t imagine what you were thinking.”
“I was thinking we needed a quick getaway, and they were offering. They’re Antistasi,” she added, as though that wasn’t painfully obvious.
“Clearly. And they knew who you were,” he said, his voice a combination of frustration and smugness.
“I know. I figured we can use that to our advantage,” she said, hoping that she was right.
“They’ve certainly used you enough,” he muttered. She could hear Harte still struggling against his own restraints. “Almost got it . . .”
Suddenly she heard the pop and the hiss of something close by.
“What was that?” Harte asked just as she began to smell something
musty and sweet.
Esta didn’t even have time to answer him before everything went dark.
THE PRESIDENT’S MAN
1904—St. Louis
Jack choked down the bland, overcooked chicken and sipped at a watery cocktail as he pretended to be interested in the plans Francis and Spenser were detailing about the ball that would occur at the end of the month. It was to be the first meeting of the Brotherhoods since the Conclave of 1902, an event that had gone a long way to solidifying the Order’s power among its brethren and to coalescing Jack’s own power as well. He would have gladly left before the second course had even been served, but he wasn’t there on his own behalf. He was there on behalf of Roosevelt, so he called for another glass of scotch and pretended to be interested in the plans their committee was making for the president’s visit.
Francis and Spenser were still tripping over themselves to impress Jack. It was pointless, really, considering that their suits were at least a season out of date and the food they’d selected had been out of fashion in Manhattan since before Jack left for his grand tour. But Jack understood. The men who populated the Veiled Prophet Society, including these two, believed that their little parade and subsequent ball would change things for their city. They thought that if they kissed Roosevelt’s ass, they could bend his ear and accumulate the same power and influence the Order enjoyed.
What they didn’t seem to understand was that Roosevelt was a New Yorker first and foremost, and the men of St. Louis would always be nothing more than merchant stock in fancy shoes. And they couldn’t comprehend the future that was flying down the tracks to greet them at the speed of a steam train. What would matter in the years to come wasn’t the squabbles among regions, but the country as a whole, and Jack would put himself in position to elicit any advantage he could when that time came.
He was finishing his drink when the door of their private dining room opened and a figure appeared in the doorway wearing a white lace veil over its face. Jack nearly snorted scotch through his nose at the sight of it, but the other men at the table went silent and stood in a respectful welcome, so he choked back the laugh that had almost erupted and followed suit.
The veiled figure—it must have been this Prophet the Society was always going on about—had another man with him, a dark-haired fellow who didn’t look any happier to be there than Jack himself felt. Behind them came two Guardsmen, one of whom was Hendricks.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the Prophet said, directing them all to take their seats. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Julien Eltinge. Some of you might be aware that he’s been gracing the stage down at the Hippodrome for a few months now. He’s graciously agreed to help us with the parade by wearing the necklace until it arrives at the ball.”
Jack set the glass he was holding back onto the table, his interest piqued. He’d been considering the easiest way to get to the necklace, and this presented a possibility. Whatever the men from the Society thought of this Julien Eltinge, the man didn’t look all that impressive. In fact, he looked damn uncomfortable about the whole situation, which was just fine with Jack. Discomfort was something he could certainly exploit.
THE RETURN
1902—New York
Cela called again from her hiding place in the alleyway across from Evelyn’s building, hooting into the night like some sort of deranged owl to warn Jianyu about the boy who’d gone into the building looking like all kinds of trouble. But the building across the street was dark and quiet. There was still no sign of Jianyu.
Maybe the boy was simply going home. Maybe he wasn’t a danger after all. But Cela had been around long enough to know that her feeling about him was probably right. He was with a small group of other boys, a ragtag bunch that looked like they belonged on the streets of the Bowery—their brightly colored outfits and cocky strutting were out of place in the neighborhood where Evelyn lived.
Cela waited a moment longer and then made up her mind. She didn’t want to return to her uncle’s apartment with its cramped rooms and the family in it looking at her as though Abel’s death had been her fault. Just the thought of the way they traded glances when they didn’t think she was looking made her chest feel hollow, but it was nothing compared to the twisting vines of grief around her heart. If that boy was trouble, as she suspected, it might mean danger for Jianyu. She wasn’t going to let the people who killed Abe have even one more victory.
Resolute, she took a breath and started out from her hiding place, but she hadn’t even made it to the halo of the streetlight’s glow before she was grabbed from behind and pulled back into the shadows.
Cela tried to scream, but a broad hand was clamped over her mouth, just as tight and unyielding as the one that was wrapped around her waist.
“Shhhhh,” a voice hissed, close to her ear. “It’s me.”
If she hadn’t been supported by the strength of the arm that held her, Cela would have been on the ground. Her legs went liquid beneath her, because she recognized that voice. And it was impossible.
“I’m gonna let you go now, but keep quiet, okay?”
She nodded, tears pricking her eyes. A moment later, the hand came away from her mouth and she spun to find her brother, Abel, standing there behind her, alive and whole and every bit as real as he’d ever been. For the first time in days, it felt like she could actually breathe.
Her arms were around his neck in an instant, and she couldn’t stop the sob that welled up from inside of her.
“Shhhh,” he repeated, his strong hands patting her back. “I told you, you have to keep quiet.”
She pulled back and looked at him again, just to be sure he wasn’t some terrible trick her mind was playing on her. Her hands cupped his cheeks. “Abe. You’re dead.”
“Do I look dead?” he asked, giving her the same doubtful look he’d given her a hundred times before when she’d tried to follow him and his friends through the city, nothing but a tiny girl tagging after boys who didn’t want her.
“But how?” Her head was spinning and the vines around her heart were trading thorns for blooms. “They shot you.”
Abe gave her a look like she should have known better. “Nobody shot me, Rabbit.”
Her heart nearly broke to hear that stupid nickname on his lips again. “But I heard them,” she said, her voice cracking without her permission. “I heard the gunshot, and then your body hit the floor.”
“They tried awful hard, but I wasn’t the one who got himself killed,” he said, his expression going dark.
Abe isn’t dead. Which meant . . . for the last week, he hadn’t been dead. “Then where have you been?” she asked, realization hitting her. She’d been at her uncle’s for nearly a week, and he’d never once come for her. He’d left her to think the worst. He’d left her to deal with their family on her own. He’d left her. She smacked at his chest. “I thought you were dead. I’ve been crying myself to sleep every night over you.” She slapped his chest again. “And every morning I woke up not remembering for a second, and every morning I had to re-remember,” she said, her voice breaking. And then, because it hadn’t felt half as good as she’d wanted it to, she raised her hand to slap him again.
He caught her wrist gently. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come, but I didn’t want to lead the people who were after me to Desmond’s place,” he said, taking her by the hand. “I’ve been watching, though. Waiting for you to get far enough away for me to talk to.”
“What do you mean, the people after you?” she asked, hesitating. “They were after me. Because of Darrigan’s mother.” And the ring.
Abe shook his head. “They were from the railroad.”
“Why would the railroad come after you?” she asked.
“They were just trying to scare me off. A few of us guys have been talking with the Knights of Labor about unionizing the Pullman porters so they’d have to pay us a better wage and give us better shifts. That’s about the last thing the company wants, so they thought they could convince me to
stop, but their convincing looked an awful lot like forcing.”
“So you shot them?” she asked, not understanding how the person in front of her could also be the brother she knew would never have hurt anyone intentionally.
“Things got heated, and they threatened you,” he told her, his voice as dark as the shadows around them. “Look, I have a safe place uptown to stay with some guys from the Freeman. It’ll be okay. We can talk about all the rest later.”
“Abe—”
“I promise I’ll tell you everything, but right now we have to go,” he said, starting to tug her back toward the alley.
She took three steps before she stopped and pulled her hand out of his. “But Jianyu is still in there.”
Abe nodded. “Which is why we need to go now, before he comes back.”
He reached for her again, but she held her hand out of reach. “You don’t understand. He’s a friend of mine, and—”
A carriage had just rattled to a stop across from the alley, and with a sinking weight in her stomach, Cela recognized the woman who got out of it. She walked to the mouth of the alley as Evelyn started toward the building.
No. As soon as Evelyn had closed the entry door behind her, Cela stepped out of the alleyway and started hooting again. Abe tried to pull her back, but she shrugged him off.
“What are you doing?” he asked, looking at her like she had lost her mind.
“If that woman who just got out of the carriage finds him, there’s gonna be trouble. I’m not going to just leave him.”
“His trouble doesn’t concern us,” Abe said, putting his arm around her.
“It concerns me,” she said, allowing herself a moment to enjoy her brother’s warmth and strength. Abe. Alive. “Jianyu saved my life when you were off hiding without sending me so much as a word,” she told him, her voice clipped and her nerves feeling like live wires. Abe is alive. He was into more than she’d understood, but he was alive.