“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!”
A TURNING OF THE TIDES
1902—New York
James Lorcan felt his view of the future rearrange itself as he laid the paper onto the worn desk in front of him. Once, it had been Dolph’s desk, just as the apartment he was sitting in had belonged to Dolph as well.
The apartment was much better outfitted than the pair of cramped rooms above that James had called home before. But the comforts of the rooms were unimportant compared to what else James now had at his fingertips—all Dolph’s notes, all his books, and all his knowledge.
And my, my . . . what Dolph had been hiding. James had used some of Dolph’s secrets already to secure Paul Kelly’s alliance. He would use more of them in the days to come to position the players in the Bowery exactly where he wanted them.
On the wall hung a portrait of Newton beneath a tree, a spoil from a heist Dolph’s team had done at the Metropolitan. To the average viewer, the painting depicted nothing more than the most astounding revelation of the modern age—Newton’s discovery of gravity. At the man’s feet lay an apple, red and round, and above him the sun and moon shone, a pair of guardians in the sky.
But to someone more astute, the painting showed something more. The book Newton held in his hand was rumored to be the Book of Mysteries. The portrait depicted the point in history where Newton’s two lives converged—Newton the magician who had nearly gone mad from his experiments with alchemy and Newton the scientist. Both were in search of eternal truth and untold knowledge, and in the portrait, both found it within the pages of the Ars Arcana.
Across the centuries there had been stories and myths about the fabled Book. Some said it was rumored to contain the very source of magic. Others thought it was the Book of Thoth, an ancient manuscript buried in the Nile River that held the knowledge of the gods, knowledge unfit for the feeble minds of men. Still others thought it was a fantastical grimoire, a book of the most powerful ritual magic ever developed. Many had hunted for it—James himself had hunted for it. Two days ago he had thought the Book gone, forever beyond his reach, but now . . .
James let his eyes scan over the newsprint once again, allowing his affinity to flare out, searching for new connections in the Aether as he considered this development.
He almost hadn’t noticed. The papers were always filled with the trivial—stories meant to grab attention with lurid details of death and tragedy. James hadn’t cared to read the story about the train and the carnage of its derailment. In fact, he’d already tossed the paper aside when Kelly told him about the reporter that he was sending Viola to kill.
Now his eyes caught on the name of a dead man.
Harte Darrigan.
If the papers could be believed—and, in truth, often they couldn’t—Harte Darrigan wasn’t dead. And neither was Esta. If the two had made it through the Brink, it meant that not only was the Book still out there and attainable, but that they were using it.
James took Viola’s knife and balanced its point on the tabletop as he considered the possibilities. Two days ago he had believed that the fate of the world had already been inscribed: Magic would die. It would fade away until it was nothing but a memory and a superstition. The future would belong not to Mageus with their innate connections to the world, but to the Sundren. In the days following the mess on the bridge, James had accepted this fate. He’d considered his options and made adjustments to shore up his power, but this new information changed things again.
After all, the pages of a book could be torn out. A story could be rewritten. His affinity wasn’t perfect, of course—or it wasn’t perfect yet. But if this new information meant anything at all, it meant there was a very good possibility that he would get everything he wanted in the end.
James allowed the tip of the knife to sink into the page, carving out the names as one might carve out a heart. He tucked them into his vest pocket, talismans for the future, as he made his way down to the barroom to hold court over his new kingdom. He had a sense that something was coming, some change in the Aether that could mean a turning of the tides for him. There was much to consider, but Harte Darrigan and Esta Filosik would not escape him again. They would pay for their perfidy. James would make sure of it.
MOCK DUCK
1902—New York
Jianyu looked up from where he lay in the filth of the street, his head throbbing and his vision blurred, to find Sai Wing Mock, the leader of the Hip Sings and Tom Lee’s rival in the Chinese quarter, standing over him. If Tom Lee and his On Leongs might occasionally take advantage, the Hip Sings were ruthless, and none was more so than the man who went by the name of Mock Duck.
Mock dressed like a dandy, his Western-style suit cut close and his queue tucked up under a slate-gray porkpie hat, but it was rumored that he wore chain mail beneath his clothes—a defense against the enemies he had made in the years since he had started the war between the On Leongs and the Hip Sings. His hand still held the gun he had used to scare off Jianyu’s attackers, and his fingers were sharply tipped with long, polished nails—an overt sign of his wealth and position. No common laborer had fingertips as deadly as that.
At first the leader of the Hip Sings simply stared at Jianyu lying on the ground. His dark eyes were thoughtful. “I’ve heard stories about you, Mr. Lee,” he said finally, again using the Cantonese they shared.
“Lee isn’t my name,” Jianyu told him, speaking before he had fully considered his words. It was stupid of him to provoke Mock, especially here, where he was alone and unarmed and at the mercy of a man who was rumored to have ordered any number of murders. But here, at the mercy of Tom Lee’s rival, it seemed important to make it clear that he had no side in their bloody war.
Mock Duck’s wide, full mouth twitched. “I have heard that, too.”
Jianyu wanted to know why Mock Duck had been looking for him and what the tong leader might want of him, but he understood implicitly that silence was safer. When staring down a viper, surviving often meant not giving the snake a reason to strike. Instead, Jianyu focused on his affinity and tried to find the threads of light. But his head swirled from where it had cracked against the street. He was struggling to remain conscious, and he couldn’t focus enough to keep the light from slipping through his fingers.