“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.