He’d understood what Ruth’s goal was in giving these people magic, but seeing it up close like this—it wasn’t what he’d expected. Ruth had talked about freeing something inside these people, but they didn’t look free. They looked worn and tired and like they’d been dragged through the mud and back. And they looked scared.
The last one out was a young woman who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Her blond hair hung limp around her face, and the smattering of freckles across her nose gave her the look of someone much younger. Like the rest, she had a stunned look to her, but unlike the others, she stopped to speak to North.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Where are you taking us?”
“We’re friends,” North assured her. “And we’re here to take you somewhere safe.”
She frowned at him, her eyes still glassy from the drug. “The hospital isn’t safe?”
North sighed, feeling every minute of the sleep he was missing. He didn’t have time to explain the reality of the girl’s new world to her. “What’s your name?” he asked instead.
“Greta,” the girl said, frowning sleepily at him.
“Do you know what’s happening to you, Greta?”
She shook her head. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “I don’t mean to do it, but I can’t stop it. . . .”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Something inside you’s woken up, that’s all. The old magic is yours now.” He tried to infuse his voice with the same reverence that Ruth used, but it didn’t come out right, and the girl only frowned at him more.
“Mr. Lipscomb—Caleb. There was an explosion. Is he—”
“He’ll be just fine,” North assured her.
“They wouldn’t tell us anything. They kept us locked up but wouldn’t tell us what was going on.”
Of course. Now that these poor souls had the old magic, they’d be treated like the pariahs they’d become. “We’re here to free you,” he said gently.
But her chin trembled, and the next thing North knew, the girl’s cheeks were wet. He thought it was from tears, but a moment later North realized his cheeks were wet too.
“It’s raining,” Ben said, looking up. “There’s not a cloud in the sky, and it’s raining.”
“I’m sorry.” Greta sniffed. “I don’t know why that keeps happening. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
North didn’t know what to tell her. He’d imagined the people they’d given magic to as reborn, but these poor souls looked more like they were ready to curl up and die. He didn’t have the words to comfort that kind of sorrow, and he wondered if he had any right, considering what his part in it had been. Without another word, he helped Greta into the back of the wagon. Before closing the door, he popped the fuse on a bottle of Maggie’s Quellant and tossed it in with them.
“Is that really necessary?” Ben asked. “They could barely walk as it is. I doubt they’re going to cause any trouble.”
“They’re like children,” North explained. “They don’t know how to control what they have. We got one in there who sets fire to his own hands because he can’t stop it and another one who leaves a trail of growing vines on everything she touches. It’s a long ride back to the brewery, and we can’t risk them not being able to hold themselves together until they’re safely back and we can show them how to control it.” He glanced over at Ben. “You remember what it was like, don’t you? When you were just a kid and you didn’t realize everything you could do?”
“Yeah . . .” Ben’s voice held the ghost of some past regret in it. “I remember.”
“There you go,” North said, climbing up into the driver’s seat of the wagon and knowing without a doubt that he wasn’t the only one with ghosts following his footsteps through life.
Bringing up his childhood apparently was enough to shut Ben up good and tight, which was fine by North. He didn’t care to deal with any talking when he had thinking to do.
They rode in silence back through town to the brewery, with the first light of dawn setting the horizon aglow. But it was Ben who saw the smoke first.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing in the direction of a glowing place on the horizon, where a plume of black rose up like a nightmare, blocking the stars in the sky.
The brewery was on fire.
LIBITINA
1902—New York
By the time Viola made sure that Theo and Ruby were headed toward the safety of their own part of town and she made her way back to the New Brighton, Paul had already heard about the fire. He was pacing and shouting at his men, while the one they called Razor stood nervous and waiting nearby.
“Where have you been?” Paul asked, turning on her the second she was through the door. His face was mottled an ugly, angry red.
“Out,” she told him, pretending that she didn’t notice his agitation.
“Out?”
She shrugged. “I needed air.” After the meeting with Ruby, she still felt like she needed air, not that Paul had to know about that.
“I needed you here,” he snapped. “Station thirty-three, she’s on fire, and it isn’t any normal fire.” He glared at her as though it were somehow her fault.
“You think I did this?” She glared at him in return.
“You were, as you said, out.”
She frowned, realizing that all of the Five Pointers were now watching her with a question in their eyes. “Fire is not my style, Paolo. You know that.”
“If that station burns, Tammany is not gonna be happy,” Razor said. “We have to do something.”
Paul let out a frustrated growl and took Viola by the arm. “These are your people, so you’re going to help me.”
By the time they got over to the station, the air was heavy with smoke. Flames were tearing from the arching windows, and the front of the brick building was black with soot as the fire brigade pumped water toward the blaze. The steady stream from the pump truck didn’t seem to be doing anything to stop the fire, probably because the heat of the flames wasn’t the only warmth in the air.
Someone with an affinity for fire had to be nearby, feeding the flames, but where? She scanned the crowd, searching for some sign. The old magic was about connecting with the larger world, so it required focus and often needed contact—a sight line or direct touch. Whoever was at fault would be close.
“Find the maggot doing this or don’t bother coming back to the New Brighton,” Paul said.
Viola shrugged off the slur on her brother’s lips. He’d called her worse. “And what am I supposed to do when I find him?”
“You’re my blade, aren’t you?” Paul glared at her.
“I don’t have a knife,” she told him. “You made sure of that.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t need one?” he said, his meaning clear. “Go on. Before it’s too late.”
She thought about arguing, but before she could, she heard the shattering of glass as a window cracked and flames poured out of it. If this station was destroyed by someone with the old magic, Tammany would retaliate. Innocent people would be at risk of being caught in the cross fire.