by Lisa Maxwell
He took Viola’s blade from his jacket.
“Come, Carina, we’re going to play a little game.” He would send Esta a message through time and space and the impossible world. He would tell her he was waiting.
Using the blade named for the goddess of funerals, he began to cut.
THE DROP
1904—St. Louis
The carriage rattled onward through the night, carrying Esta toward some unknown destination. On the bench across from her, sprawled with a lazy confidence, North took up too much room. He had a revolver in his hand, a clear threat that she shouldn’t try anything.
“Best not jostle that too much,” he said, when she shifted the notebook that was resting on her lap. It looked like an average-size leather-bound notebook that anyone might carry with them, but it weighed more than an ordinary book should. Whatever was between the pages was dense and heavy—and dangerous. “We don’t want it going off before you deliver it.”
His warning made her sit a little straighter. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“You’ll see,” North said.
“I think I have a right to know who I’m going to kill,” she told him, trying to affect a bored indifference. In reality, her hands were damp with nervous sweat as she tried to keep the book as still as she could while the carriage bumped along. Considering the roughness of the roads that led from the edges of town, where the brewery was, into the center of St. Louis, it had been a challenge.
“Who said anything about killing anyone?” North asked. His eyes were shadowed by the brim of his hat, but his thin mouth hitched up in the moonlight that shone through the carriage’s window.
“It’s a bomb, isn’t it?” she asked, not yet allowing herself to feel any relief.
North’s lips flattened, a thin scar at the edge of them flashing white with his annoyance. “Bombs are for Sundren. They’re messy and sloppy. Nobody’s gonna die tonight,” he told her. “Except maybe you, if that package doesn’t get to where it needs to be. And definitely your friend, back at Mother Ruth’s, if you do anything to cause a problem.”
Esta frowned, ignoring his bluster. If the Antistasi wanted her and Harte dead, they would have already tried to kill them. “If it’s not a bomb, what is it?”
“It’s a gift,” he told her. Then he turned to watch out the window, signaling the end of the conversation.
A gift? Like hell.
The woman she’d heard the others call Mother Ruth had made it clear that whatever was in the parcel was dangerous. None of the Antistasi wanted to be anywhere near it when she handed it over to Esta with the warning not to open it until she was ready to make the drop. Ruth’s instructions had been simple: Don’t leave it anywhere but the center of the building, as close to the target as she could. And don’t do anything to betray the mission, or Harte will die.
If Esta got caught? Well, that wasn’t Ruth’s problem. The people she was delivering the book to wouldn’t take kindly to an intruder. Esta would be on her own and at their mercy, but no one had told her who the target was.
“At least tell me who I’m up against,” she said, trying to draw North’s attention back to her. The open road had given way to the stacked buildings of the outskirts of town, the factories and warehouses that lined the river.
“Does it matter?” he asked with a mocking smile. “You’re the Devil’s Thief, aren’t you?”
“I like to be prepared,” she said with a shrug in her tone. “And I like to be the one who decides whether the risk to my life is really worth the cost of theirs.”
North looked at her, his odd, uneven-colored eyes piercing her unease. “Who are you to make that judgment?” he said softly. “This isn’t the first deed done in your name, and it certainly won’t be the last. Now’s not exactly the time to be getting all high and mighty about things.”
His words rattled something inside of her. He was right. The Antistasi had used her name who knew how many times before. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been the one to perpetrate any of the attacks; a choice she had made had set all of this into motion.
“That’s what I thought.” North turned to the window, scratching at the scruff on his jawline as he watched the passing city. Eventually, the carriage rumbled to a stop and North checked the window to see where they were. “We’re here.” He pushed his hat back so he could look her dead in the eye. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
Esta considered the options before her. She didn’t doubt that the notebook she was carrying, whatever North said, was something dangerous. She could still say no. She could drop the notebook here, pull time around her, and run.
But then what?
Mother Ruth and the rest of the Antistasi back at the brewery still had Harte. They’d taken him away not long after he’d opened his big mouth, and Esta had no idea where they’d put him. By the time she figured it out, he might already be dead—she couldn’t hold on to time that long, especially lately.
And even if she found Harte before they hurt him, she had no idea what they’d done with Ishtar’s Key. She hadn’t asked, because she didn’t want to alert them to its importance if they hadn’t already realized. But if they had already realized what kind of power the stone had . . .
She couldn’t worry about that. For now she had a job to do. And if her choice was between Harte and the person this delivery was set for, there wasn’t really a choice. Dakari, Dolph . . . Esta had lost too many people to lose another.
But there was one other thing, a point that kept niggling at her like an itch she couldn’t reach. She knew she was being used. Esta’s name had been thrown around for nearly two years now without her ever knowing, and if Ruth had her way, the Antistasi would continue to use it. But she’d had enough of being a pawn in someone else’s game. She’d been led like a marionette on a string her entire life by Professor Lachlan. She wasn’t about to allow Ruth the same power over her now.
No, Esta had seen the mood in the building when Ruth talked, and she’d heard the fear in Frank’s voice when Ruth accused him of cowardice. The Antistasi might follow Ruth, but that didn’t mean that they liked her or trusted her. Which gave Esta an opening. But to gain their trust, she had to start by proving that she was one of them—beginning with North. Which meant that she had to go through with this.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” she told North. “Who’s my mark?”
He studied her for a second or two, as if trying to figure out whether this was just another trick. “Just remember, you’re not the only one who can pull a disappearing act. If you try anything, your friend dies.”
“I’m aware.” She gave him a bored look. “Are we going to sit here all night,” she asked when he continued to stare at her, “or are you going to tell me who this package is meant for?”
“Just making sure we’re clear,” he said. “You’re looking for Caleb Lipscomb. You can find him at number four thirty-two. It’s just down this row of warehouses and then to the right. Once you’re inside, go up to the second floor.”
Caleb Lipscomb. She’d never heard of him, but that didn’t necessarily mean much. “How will I find him?”
North’s strange eyes flashed with amusement. “You’ll know him when you see him. He likes to be in the center of things. Off you go now,” he said, unlatching the door.
Outside the carriage, the air was cooler, but it carried the scent of the river, a muddy, earthy smell layered over with the heaviness of machine oil and coal from the factories that lined its banks. Esta readjusted the parcel under her arm, making sure to keep it steady and the pages tightly closed. They’d told her that the fuse inside would activate when she pulled a loose sheet out of the center, and she didn’t need that happening before she found the person it was intended for.
Her chest felt tight. She didn’t believe North’s claim that it wasn’t a bomb, and even as she walked toward her destination, she had her doubts about whether she could go through with it. It was one thing in theory, but it w
as another when her feet were steadily moving her toward the moment she’d have to decide.
True, she’s been ready to kill Jack back at the station. She’d had the gun in her hands and the resolve to end him—because he’d deserved it. Because she knew that he would hurt countless people if she’d let him live. And she’d been right. From what she’d learned, Jack had been one of the proponents of the Act. He was the reason that magic was now illegal and that Mageus could be hunted openly, oppressed legally. But this felt different somehow. Esta didn’t know this Caleb Lipscomb, whoever he was. He was a faceless name, an unknown who had done nothing to her.
Still, she couldn’t see a way out of the situation, not unless she wanted the Antistasi as another enemy. And not unless she was willing to risk Harte’s life.
The building labeled 432 was a long warehouse that ran the length of a block—a factory or machine shop of some sort. A single dull yellow bulb lit the door. Everything about it felt like a trap. She looked back, considering her options, and saw that North was still watching her.
He gave a nod. Go on, the motion seemed to say, and she took the final steps into the sallow light of the bulb. Opening the door of the building as silently as she could, she stepped inside.
THE BETHESDA FOUNTAIN
1902—New York
Viola pulled the shawl up over her head and tucked it around her chin, keeping her face turned away from the other people riding the streetcar as it traveled north, toward Central Park. Paul thought she was going to the fish market over on Fulton Street, so she’d have to be sure to stop there—or somewhere—before she returned. She couldn’t chance him becoming any more suspicious than he already was. Not when she was getting so close to the information she needed.
She got off the streetcar near Madison Avenue and walked along East Drive through the park until she came to the large open piazza where the enormous fountain stood, topped by a winged angel. She didn’t come to the park much on her own—there wasn’t really a need to. Most days, seeing people lounging about in the grass and enjoying a stroll through the wooded pathways only served to remind her of what she would never have. But on the occasions that she did pass through it, she made sure to take a path that would bring her past this fountain. It depicted the story in the Bible of an angel healing people with the waters of Bethesda.
In a family of Sundren, Viola had been an anomaly. The magic she’d been born with had felt like a mark that meant her life had been damned from the very beginning. So the story of the angel who healed with nothing but some water had always struck something inside of her, as though there were a chance her own soul might be cleaned someday, just the same.
But Viola was not a dreamer. She’d learned long ago that fairy tales were for other people. She lived in the body she’d been given and was gratified with the life she’d made for herself. She didn’t imagine other lives, and she didn’t yearn for impossible things, so it was doubly troubling when her chest felt tight at the sight of the pink muslin and ivory lace on the girl sitting by the fountain.
Ruby was waiting where her note had promised she would be. Next to her was a pile of packages all tied up with string and her fiancé, Theo. He was leaning back on the bench, his hands cradling his head as though he owned the world, and Ruby was writing in a small tablet, her face bunched in concentration. Gone were the sleek dark skirt and high-buttoned shirt finished with a tie, as she’d worn the day Viola had taken the pointless ride in their carriage. Today Ruby’s gown looked like something designed for an innocent debutante. It was the palest pink, with softly puffed sleeves and a delicate flounce of lace at her throat. She looked like a picture, sitting there by the water. She looked untouchable. Impossible.
Some days it seemed as though the pearls Ruby had been wearing the night of Delmonico’s—the delicate strand of ivory beads, and the way they had lain perfectly against the dip at the base of her throat—were seared into Viola’s memory. She had a feeling that this moment would join that memory.
Bah! She shook off the thought and the heat she felt. The weather was changing—that was all. The sun was high and bright, and the warmth she felt brushing against the skin beneath her blouse had nothing to do with the stupid, stupid little rich girl who had been brainless enough to send a note by messenger to the New Brighton—right under Paul’s nose. Ruby was going to get them both killed, but then, what did the rich care about a little thing like dying? They probably thought they could give the angel of death a few dollars and send a servant instead.
Theo saw Viola first and nudged Ruby, who looked up from her writing and squinted across the piazza. The girl’s entire expression brightened the moment she saw Viola coming toward them, and she put the tablet of paper and pencil back into the embroidered clutch hanging from her wrist.
“You came!” Ruby said, and before Viola knew what was happening, she found herself enveloped in the rich girl’s arms and in a cloud of flowers and amber and warmth.
When Ruby released her, Viola’s legs felt weak, and she stumbled backward, her shawl falling from her head as she caught herself. At the sound of Ruby’s gasp, she pulled the fabric back up, covering her head and the side of her face. But Ruby wouldn’t let well enough alone. Silently, her delicate features twisting in concern, she reached up to move it away from Viola’s face.
“Who did this?” Ruby asked, her voice so soft that Viola could barely hear it over the rushing of the fountain’s water.
“No one. It’s nothing,” Viola said, hitching the shawl back up. She knew what Ruby was seeing—the purple-green bruise on the side of her jaw, the cost of slipping out to take the carriage ride without telling Paul where she was going. She’d missed saying good-bye to her mother, and he’d decided to beat some manners into her.
She could have killed him, but instead she’d taken the punishment without fighting. It had seemed to appease him well enough. What else could she do? She couldn’t very well have told him where she’d been. But every time she spoke or took a bite of food, the bruise throbbed, and every time it ached, she promised herself that she’d pay him back tenfold.
Still, Viola felt somehow wrong for being here, with these people. They would hurt Paul if they could—especially the girl. They would break him, destroy him. She should want that—she did want that—and yet, he was still family. Still her blood. She didn’t know anymore if that word meant anything, or if it was just another lie, like happiness and freedom.
“That is not nothing,” Ruby said, reaching for her. “Someone hurt you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Viola said, brushing away her concern. People hurt other people all the time. Why should she be exempt?
Ruby’s manicured fingertips reached to touch her cheek. “We can help you, you know. You don’t have to—”
“Basta!” She pushed away Ruby’s hand again. “What are you going to do? Take me home like some stray dog?”
Ruby blinked, clearly surprised at the tone of Viola’s voice. Probably because no one else had ever dared talk to her in such a way. Ruby Reynolds was the type of girl who’d grown up without hearing the word “no,” and Viola had been born with the taste of it in her mouth.
“Don’t pretend you understand my life,” Viola said, a warning and a plea. “Don’t pretend you can do a thing to change it. And don’t imagine that I want you to.” She raised her chin. “I’ll take care of it myself.” It was a declaration and a promise all at once. “I don’t need some little rich girl’s charity.”
She saw Ruby flinch, but the girl didn’t back down. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to help.”
“I came like you asked,” Viola said, ignoring the hurt in Ruby’s voice. “Now, what is it that you wanted?”
“I thought we could talk.” Ruby worried her pink lower lip with the edge of one of her straight white teeth.
“So talk,” Viola told her.
“Maybe we could go somewhere more private,” Ruby said, glancing around as though she were worried someone mig
ht see her talking to a woman as common as Viola.
Viola’s chest felt tight, like when she’d been trussed up in stays that night at Delmonico’s. She shouldn’t have come.
She could still leave. She should, before she allowed this bit of rich fluff to make her start doubting herself or the life she’d chosen. But leaving would mean that Ruby had won, and Viola couldn’t have that, either.
“Fine,” she said, the word coming out even sharper than she’d intended. “Where do you want to go?”
“Perhaps we could take out one of the boats?” Theo said. “It’s a pleasant enough day, and I could use the exercise.”
Viola swallowed the sigh that had been building inside of her. She couldn’t imagine a life so easy, so filled with luxury, that Theo needed to find work. Pointless work, rowing in circles and getting nowhere at all. Ridiculous. But the sooner they were done with it, the better. “Fine,” she said, not quite looking at Ruby. “Let’s go.”
A BIDDABLE GIRL
1902—New York
Viola was mad at her for sending the note. Viola hadn’t said anything specifically, but Ruby knew that the fire in the other girl’s eyes had everything to do with being summoned. It wasn’t what Ruby had intended to do, and yet now she could see that it was what she’d done just the same. She’d summoned Viola, the way she might call for her maid or ring for the cook to make her some tea. And somehow Theo had just made it worse by suggesting that they take one of the rowboats out onto the lake.
But Ruby found that no matter how quick her brain or how smart her tongue might be in any other situation, whenever she was around Viola, they both failed her. With Viola’s violet eyes glaring at her, she hadn’t been able to do much more than nod weakly.
“This is a terrible idea,” she whispered as she walked next to Theo, with Viola trailing behind them.
“Why’s that?” Theo asked, glancing over at her.