“Because we have an affinity for the old magic,” Esta said, her voice oddly hollow. “Because we’re different, and they know we have power they can’t ever equal.”
“Yes. Because they’ve forgotten,” Ruth said fervently. “There was once magic throughout the world. Everyone had the ability to call to old magic. But through the ages, people have moved from where their power took root, and they left their memories behind them. Those who had forgotten what they might have been began to fear and to hunt those who kept the old magic close. Do you know what it means to be Sundren?” she asked. “It means to be broken apart, to be split from. Those who have let the magic in their bloodlines die are separated from an essential part of themselves. They’re wounded and broken, and they have no idea what lies dormant deep inside. It’s why they claw at the world, destroying anything in their path to get some relief from the ache they cannot name, the hollow inside themselves.” Ruth paused. “But what if we could awaken that magic? What if we could heal that break? What if we were no longer different, because everyone had the magic that they fear in us?”
“The fog—” Esta’s brows drew together.
“Don’t you see?” Maggie asked, her expression hopeful. “We cured them.”
But Harte wasn’t so sure. He knew the difference between the warm, welcoming natural power that Mageus could touch and the cool warning of ritual magic. Everything he’d seen and experienced in his short life had told him that unnatural magic was a corruption. A danger. Dolph had believed he could use it, and he’d died instead. He’d taken Leena along with him.
“You mean you infected them,” Harte said. “You didn’t ask their permission or give them a chance to refuse.” He couldn’t see how that would turn out well.
North took a step toward him, but Ruth held up her hand. “What we did goes far beyond the individual people in that building tonight.” Her voice carried the tremulous surety of a true believer. “We proved tonight that those ancient connections to the old magic are still there, waiting and latent. We simply woke them up and reminded them of what this world was supposed to be.”
“According to whom?” he wondered. Harte had known people like Ruth, people who were so certain of the path before them. Dolph Saunders, with all his plotting and planning, willing to hurt even those he loved for what he thought was best. Nibsy Lorcan, who saw a different vision but believed it to be no less valid. Even the Order and men like Jack, who thought they knew exactly what the world should be. It was clear to him that Ruth and her Antistasi weren’t so very different.
The mood in the room shifted as Ruth’s eyes went cold. “You think this is my plight alone?” she asked. “The Antistasi are as old as the fear and hatred of magic. Their mission is one that has come down through the centuries. The Thief has proven herself admirably tonight as an ally to that cause. I wonder . . . will you?”
Esta’s expression was pleading with him to keep quiet, but with the unsettled power inside of him, he couldn’t help himself. “I make my own choices. I’m not a pawn, and I won’t be used,” he said, and the moment the words were out. Esta’s jaw went tight, and her gaze dropped to the floor.
Ruth’s mouth curved, but her expression was devoid of any amusement. “Well, then, if I were you, I’d choose quickly, Mr. O’Doherty.”
THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT
1904—St. Louis
Jack had been standing at Roosevelt’s side earlier that evening when word came of the attack. The president had just arrived on the morning train, and they’d gone straight to the fair, where he was presiding over an event in the Agricultural Building of the Exposition. Roosevelt had been examining a bust of his own likeness carved entirely out of butter, of all things, and as he posed for a photograph with his buttery image, Hendricks had come up next to Jack.
“There was an event last night,” the Guardsman whispered into Jack’s ear. “We have it under control now, but I thought you—and the president—would want to know right away.”
“What happened?” Jack asked, leading Hendricks away from where anyone could hear. This could be exactly what he’d been waiting for. He’d known all along that sooner or later, the maggots would go too far and he would be able to use their mistakes against them.
“One of the factories down by the river, sir,” the Guardsman told him. “A group of socialists were having a meeting. Lipscomb was injured in the explosion.”
“Lipscomb?” Jack asked, not really that interested.
“He’s one of ours, from here in St. Louis. A socialist rabble-rouser who works for the SWP. From the evidence we found, it looks as though his group was planning an attack on the parade next week.”
“Did the explosion kill them?”
Hendricks shook his head. “No, sir. But there were . . . other injuries.”
Roosevelt was already looking over at Jack and indicating that it was time to go. “What do I care about the injuries of a few damn socialists?” he asked, impatient at the apparent pointlessness of the interruption.
The Guardsman lowered his voice. “The attack used magic, sir, and the people who were injured, they have very . . . peculiar ailments.”
“Peculiar how?” Jack asked.
“They’ve isolated the ones who’ve been brought into the hospital, but they’re exhibiting some strange symptoms. One keeps setting fire to his bedclothes with nothing but his fingertips. Another makes it rain every time she cries. They reported a cloud of mist after the bomb went off, and the ones who’ve come in so far have said that they started experiencing their symptoms after it touched them.” He hesitated. “They seem to be infected, sir.”
Jack searched Hendricks’ expression for any sign that he might be exaggerating. “Infected?”
The Guardsman’s expression was grave, but there was a look of distaste in his features, like he’d just smelled something rotten. “By magic.”
Roosevelt and his party had left the Exposition immediately, of course. No one was willing to take the chance of another attack until the perpetrators were rounded up and dealt with. Jack had overseen that, too. Roosevelt had left it to him, as he usually did. The president didn’t understand, not really. His politics were nearly as popular as he was. He’d supported the Defense Against Magic Act in private, but he never made a fuss about it publicly. There were still too many who thought the old magic was nothing but a superstition, those who saw the maggots as ordinary people just trying to get by.
But Jack could already sense that the wind was shifting. These attacks were new, different, and infinitely more dangerous. If things kept up like this, the maggots would dig their own graves. And Jack would be there to bury them.
THE CUFF
1904—St. Louis
Ruth looked out over the floor of her brewery and watched the final few women clean up for the night. A total of fifteen had been brought to the hospital showing signs of magic. Fifteen Sundren whose affinities had been awakened—it should have felt like more of a victory, but there certainly had been far more than fifteen people present at Lipscomb’s meeting.