by Lisa Maxwell
But the voice was seething with anticipation.
Her voice came soft and breathy. “What are you—”
“See how many there are,” he whispered close to her ear, testing his self-control even as the power inside of him surged at her nearness.
He felt the moment she realized what he was doing. Her body went pliant against his and her arms reached up to wrap around his neck, joining in on the ruse. It’s just an act, he told himself, ignoring the fact that he didn’t care if it was.
She must have used the French-milled soap she’d found in a shop earlier that afternoon, when they’d purchased the evening wear, because she smelled different than she usually did. The scent was something darkly floral, but beneath the heady, flowery scent was still Esta, clean and real and so familiar that it took all of Harte’s strength to not move closer.
The voice within him purred its encouragement, and he could feel the unnatural heat of it gathering and shifting, ready for the moment when he would be at his weakest. The moment he would forget to hold its power in check.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
He thought of the vision he’d had at the train station—Esta with her eyes replaced by an endless darkness—and he vowed that he would never be that weak. If the power inside of him grew too strong, he’d leave. He would protect her, even if it meant losing all hope of reclaiming himself. He’d been willing to destroy himself once to quiet the Book. He would be willing to do it again, if it came to that.
But with Esta in his arms and the soft music in the distance and the scent of her surrounding him, thoughts of death faded. He couldn’t quite stop himself from brushing his lips lightly against the warm column of her neck.
Her breath hitched again, and Harte felt the voice urging him on. So he pulled back, refusing both himself and the power any measure of real satisfaction.
“There are six, maybe seven in the lobby,” she told him, sounding steady and sure. But this close, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest, and if nothing else, he knew she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended—he wasn’t alone in how he felt.
“You’re sure it’s the police?” he asked.
“I’m pretty sure,” she told him, her voice a low rasp. “The Jefferson Guards who were at the theater were all wearing armbands—they weren’t hiding what they were.”
“Maybe, whoever these men are, they aren’t here for us,” Harte said hopefully, pushing his luck and his self-control as he nuzzled his nose gently into her hair. The strands felt cool against his skin, like silk, and the voice hummed in anticipation. Instead, he pulled back again, proving to the power inside of him—and to himself—that he could. That he was in control—not his desire and certainly not the voice that was now ever-present in the recesses of his mind.
“Oh, they’re here for us,” Esta assured him. “Or maybe they’re just here for me. . . . The one by the fern keeps throwing glances our way.” She let out a sigh, her breath warm against his neck. “I can’t believe how stupid I was to let you talk me into this place. Even with false names, it was too much of a risk. It’s too big, too central.”
“I know,” he told her, feeling the guilt tug at him. She’d suggested somewhere more out of the way, but after the flea-ridden room in Brooklyn, he’d wanted hot running water and a bed without anything crawling in it. “But it’s too late to go back. We need a way out of here now.”
“Well, it’s not going to be the way we came in,” she said, leaning into him even more.
He couldn’t tell if she was doing it on instinct or if it was part of the ruse, but he held himself back just the same. He could feel the power within him preparing itself, anticipating the moment he would cease to hold it back, and he could not let it win.
“There are too many of them,” she said.
He wondered if she realized how perfectly they fit together, her softness against his own lean lines, or if she knew what it did to him to have her so close and not be able to let himself go any further. His heart pounded in his ears, but he kept himself composed. “Maybe there’s a service exit?”
“Probably,” she murmured, pulling back a bit. “But they’ll be watching it, too.”
He felt her shift in his arms. “What is it?” he asked.
“We have to go,” she whispered. “They’re starting to move. Just . . . act natural. We’ll have at least some advantage if they don’t know we’ve realized they’re here.”
Esta let out an airy laugh that he wouldn’t have expected she had in her. Then she ducked her head away, a show of coyness that was all a display for those watching, before tucking her arm through his and starting to lead him away from their spot among the palms.
Harte saw immediately that it was hopeless. If the men hadn’t looked like police before, they did now, arranged as they were across the room. There was no mistaking what they were doing—covering the exit, so the two of them had nowhere to go. “Now what?”
“I have an idea,” she told him. “The elevator.”
Again they started walking in the direction of the bronze cages, but now Harte was even more aware of how the men in the lobby were able to track them without so much as moving their heads. “Are you mad?” he said, slowing his steps and pulling her back. “If we get into an elevator, we’ll be trapped.”
“We’ll also be out of their sight,” she said. “That will buy us some time. . . . Unless you have a better plan?”
The elevator bank was only a few yards away. “We could run for it. If you think you can control your affinity, you could slow things down and give us a chance to slip out of here.”
“Maybe . . .” Her focus was on the elevators just ahead of them. “But if I can’t control it, we could be in worse trouble.”
Before Harte was ready, they’d arrived at the elevator bank, and before he could stop her, Esta had reached out and pressed the button to call the elevator. Above them, the hand of the elevator’s dial moved steadily toward the bottom, like a clock winding down their time as the men in the lobby began their approach.
THE POCKET WATCH
1904—St. Louis
Jericho Northwood—North to most people who knew him—startled a couple of pigeons when he reappeared against the lamppost a few hours past when the Guard had come tearing in after him, but it was late enough that no one much was around to notice. His eyes were still looking in the direction where the girl had been, but she was long gone.
He still couldn’t quite believe she’d been there. She’d just been standing in line for tickets to the theater, like any of the other nobs in town. Like she wasn’t one of the most wanted Antistasi in the country.
The sketches the newspapers had published back when the first train accident happened made her look like a wild harridan, an avenging demon set to destroy all Sundren who offended her. The girl he’d seen was every bit as tall as the reports claimed, but she was younger than any of the pictures made her seem, and softer looking too. North had recognized her just the same, though. There was no mistaking it. Esta Filosik—the Devil’s Thief—was in St. Louis.
North looked at his pocket watch again, the one his daddy had given him when he’d turned eleven. Who knew where his daddy had gotten it from—he’d always known, somehow, that he wasn’t supposed to ask. It was dangerous enough living with a secret like magic, even back before they passed the Defense Against Magic Act right after the Great Conclave of aught-two. But the trade in objects that could bolster a dying affinity? Well, asking questions about that could be damn near deadly if the wrong person caught wind of it. Even as a boy he’d known that.
The watch was a scratched-up bronze piece that might have once looked like gold, but the years had worn away the lie. The glass that covered its simple face had already been cracked when he’d received it, but seeing as how he didn’t use it to tell time, that hadn’t ever worried him none. He’d had it for near seven years now, and he hadn’t bothered to fix it. Why should he, when it worked just fine? When he used it, he
thought of his daddy, and for all the other moments, he kept his thoughts about his father and everything that had happened put away, where they belonged.
North tucked the watch back into his vest pocket—and the memories along with it—next to the package Maggie had given him a few minutes before. He didn’t have to examine it to know what it was—a key to the chemist’s down the block. He’d cursed Mother Ruth three times over for sending Maggie in to do such a dangerous job. The girl didn’t have any business stealing keys when Ruth had plenty of others who could do it just as easily and with less risk. But North always had the suspicion that Ruth liked to test her baby sister—to make sure of where Maggie’s loyalties lay and to keep her sharp.
From North’s perspective, Maggie was more than sharp enough. The girl was a miracle of a genius when it came to creating serums and devices, and he would have thought Ruth would want to keep her out of harm’s way, considering how important she was for their next deed.
They’d borrowed the idea of “propaganda of the deed”—using direct actions to inspire others—from the anarchists, but the Antistasi weren’t sloppy enough to use bombs. They used magic instead. In the year since North had come into town and found Ruth, he’d helped with plenty of the Antistasi’s deeds—including the one last October—but the one they were currently planning was different. It was more than a statement for attention; it was a demand for recognition. A deed so monumental, so dramatic, that it would transform the country.
It was also coming too soon. From North’s view, there were still too many variables and too many unanswered questions. They had only a few more weeks to get them answered, because they would have only one chance to hit the biggest target of all.
But North was just a foot soldier. He wasn’t the general. He didn’t particularly want to be the general either.
Taking the packet from his pocket, North unwrapped the key it contained. The slip of paper had a list of items in Maggie’s crooked scrawl. He knew Maggie needed the materials for her tests, but he also knew that Ruth would want to know about what he’d seen. He wasn’t sure if having Esta Filosik in town was a good omen or not. Maybe she could help them. . . . But then, if anyone else knew of her appearance, it could mean trouble. The Guard would be more alert, and the whole town would be on edge.
Well, there wasn’t a reason he had to do a thing about it right then. Maggie had a list of items for him to obtain, and he wasn’t about to disappoint her.
North pulled his hat down low over his eyes as he turned into the alley next to the chemist’s shop, making sure no one saw as he used the key to slip inside. When he was done, he’d have plenty of time to tell Ruth everything. He had his watch, after all.
DUST AND METAL
1904—St. Louis
While Harte watched the dial of the elevator creep steadily downward, he had the clear sense that their time was running out. Each second that ticked by was one closer to the moment when the police in the lobby would reach them. But after a string of seconds, nothing had happened.
“They’re not coming,” he said, when he realized the plainclothes officers had stopped approaching.
“If they already knew we were here, they probably have people stationed in our rooms,” she told him, sounding far calmer than he was feeling. “There’s no reason to create a public scene if they can get to us there.”
Which didn’t make him feel one bit better. “If we can’t go to our rooms, where are we going?”
She glanced at him. “We’re in a hotel, Harte. It’s filled with rooms. We don’t need our own.”
Inside, the power of the Book felt unsettled, as though it were a caged animal pacing. “They’ll be able to see which floor we stop at,” he argued, his chest feeling tight as the hand of the dial reached the bottom and the elevator groaned to a stop.
“That’s the idea,” she said, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against his lips.
It was over before he’d realized what had just happened. He barely registered the shocking warmth and the softness of her mouth against his. If it weren’t for the absolute torment of the voice’s realization that he’d let her slip away again, he might have thought he’d imagined the whole thing.
The elevator doors opened, revealing an interior empty except for the operator. “What’s the plan?” he murmured as they stepped inside the close quarters of the elevator.
Earlier that day, he’d admired the polished wood and gleaming mirrors of the interior. When they’d first checked in, Harte had thought the elevators were sleek and modern, a marvel of the age, but now the mirrored cage felt as airless and constricting as a prison cell. Once the doors closed and the elevator started moving, they would be even farther from any chance of escape.
“Seven, please,” Esta told the operator, an older man with deep brown skin who was dressed in the pristine uniform of the hotel porters.
Harte realized that she had spoken loudly enough for the men in the lobby to hear.
“Yes, ma’am,” the operator said as he set to closing the gate.
The moment the doors were closed and the operator had pressed the lever forward, causing the elevator to rise, Esta leaned over and whispered in his ear, “It would probably be better if he doesn’t remember any of this, but we need the elevator to keep moving. Maybe a little more slowly.” She nodded toward the operator. “Have him stop at seven . . . nicely.”
Harte gave her a small nod to let her know that he understood, even if he had no idea how she planned to get them out of the mess they were in once they reached the seventh floor.
The operator perched on a small stool, silent and stoic, facing the switch and monitoring the elevator’s rise, ignoring the passengers in the car, as he’d presumably been trained to. If he’d heard any of their exchange, he pretended not to. If he sensed that anything was amiss, he didn’t show it. But his uniform presented a problem. The operator was buttoned up to his neck, his hands and wrists covered with white gloves. Because Harte’s affinity needed skin-to-skin contact, the only option he had was the strip of exposed skin between the high collar of the man’s jacket and the straight edge of his hairline, a gap caused by the way his shoulders were hunched, probably the effect of the long hours he spent on shift.
Harte felt guilty for taking advantage of him, but he couldn’t see any other way out of the mess they were in. He took a deep breath, focusing his affinity and preparing himself—he’d have only one chance to pull this off without having to resort to other, more violent measures. As the elevator passed the second floor, the bell in the car rang and the car itself vibrated slightly. Harte took the opportunity to reach forward and gently touch two fingers against the nape of the man’s neck, pushing his affinity toward the boundary between flesh and soul all at once.
The operator went stiff for a moment, but he kept his hand on the lever, releasing the pressure only a little so the path of the elevator slowed slightly. Harte withdrew his fingers a moment later, and the operator didn’t so much as flinch. The elevator kept climbing, though now more sluggishly, and the operator kept staring at the dial. He and Esta might have been two ghosts for all the poor man knew or cared.
“Boost me up,” Esta said, staring at the wood paneling on the ceiling.
He realized then her intention—above them, the soft light thrown by the glass globe exposed a panel. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered, but he didn’t bother to argue. It wasn’t as though he had a better plan.
Girding himself against the usual rumbling excitement of the voice, he offered his hands so Esta could step into them and then lifted her toward the low ceiling. It took her only a moment to swing the panel open and pull herself up through it.
“Come on,” she said, reaching her hand back for him.
The elevator was still progressing slowly and steadily upward. The bell dinged again as they passed the fourth floor.
“I can get it myself,” he told her, and with a short leap, his fingertips grasped the edge of the opening. As th
e elevator continued to move, he pulled himself up into the darkness of the shaft. It smelled of dust and metal, and the moment Esta replaced the ceiling hatch, the only light they had to see by were the narrow beams that came through the brass grates marking each floor. The hotel had a bank of three elevators, and together the sound of the machinery driving the cables echoed around them as the individual cars stopped at the various floors.
“Now what?” he asked, reaching out to hold the cable of the still-moving lift to steady himself. The movement of the elevator reminded him too much of the swaying of the train. He took a deep breath and held on more tightly.
Esta didn’t seem bothered by the movement, since she wasn’t holding on to one of the cables. “With any luck, those guys from the lobby are running toward the seventh floor right now. But we won’t be in the elevator when it stops.”
“We can’t stay here, either,” he said. “Even if that operator can’t tell them where we went, they’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Eventually,” Esta agreed, speaking loudly enough that he could hear her over the mechanical clicks and groans. “I’m betting on that, too. They’ll waste manpower and time stopping the elevators and looking for us. But we won’t be here by then, either.” She was peering over the edge of the car, far enough that he wanted to pull her back. “Give me your hand.” She reached back without looking to see if he’d comply.
“What?” he hesitated.
“Your hand. Now!” She looked back at him then, determination flashing in her eyes. “Trust me, Harte.”
Before he could think of all the reasons he shouldn’t, Harte slipped his hand into hers.
Satisfied, she turned back to the edge. “Ready?” she asked, not looking back at him. “One . . .”
“No, Esta—”
“Two . . .” She wasn’t listening.
The contents of his stomach were quickly working their way up his throat. “Don’t—”
“Three!”
