Unable to resist its call, he took the Book from its home close to his chest and thumbed through the pages. Greek and Latin he could read, thanks to the interminable schooling he’d had as a boy, but there were other, less comprehensible languages mixed with strange symbols that graced many of the pages. Those pages should have been impossible for him to understand, and yet he’d woken in his mother’s house after being dosed with morphine that first time to discover that he’d somehow translated them just the same.
Now his own small, neat hand filled the pages with notes and translations, but looking at the writing in the jarring carriage caused his head to ache. He took a small vial from his waistcoat pocket and placed one of the cubes it contained on his tongue. It took only a moment for the bitterness to erupt, familiar and satisfying, in his mouth, and then only a few moments more before he felt the tension behind his eyes ease.
The notations came into focus as he searched for the page he wanted. A protection charm of sorts, or so he believed it to be. Alone in the carriage, he let the strange words roll from his mouth, filling the cramped space with the cool resonance of the power that would forevermore be his.
He had known the girl was alive all along. And now he would prove it to everyone else.
The carriage pulled up in front of the Jefferson, and Jack tucked the Book back into the safety of his waistcoat as he prepared himself. He would thank Miss Filosik, and if she wanted to beg for her life, he would accept whatever she offered. Then he would toss her back to the hands of justice—hands that were controlled, of course, by his family and others like them.
Jack’s personal servant and bodyguard, Miles, opened the door for him and waited silently with an umbrella in hand. When he stepped from the carriage, Jack noticed the line of dark wagons manned by uniformed officers and smiled. There will be no getting away this time.
“Wait here,” he commanded, brushing past Miles without bothering with the umbrella. What did a bit of dampness matter when Jack was so close to victory? He would have satisfaction. He knew it as surely as he felt the Book in his jacket, its familiar weight reminding him that he held all the cards.
THE TRAITOR
1902—New York
Jianyu did not fight Mooch as he was led up the familiar steps of the Strega.
“I am not a traitor,” he said softly as he forced his legs to move through the pain of lifting himself one step at a time.
But if Mooch heard what Jianyu said, he didn’t respond.
When they reached the second floor, Mooch opened a familiar door and pushed Jianyu through. Then he shoved him into one of the chairs Jianyu had sat in countless times before during conversations with Dolph.
“I am not a traitor,” he repeated as Mooch tied Jianyu’s arms behind him and his ankles to the chair legs. “The traitor is the one who has taken a fallen man’s home, just as he took his life. The traitor is the one who carries Dolph’s cane and commands his holdings as though he has any right.”
Mooch eyed him. “You can’t really expect me to believe that little Nibsy was the one to put a bullet in Dolph’s back? He don’t have it in him.”
“Then why do you follow his orders?” Jianyu asked softly.
“Maybe Nibs ain’t tough, but he’s smart,” Mooch said after a minute. “And anyway, who else am I gonna follow, you?”
“He will discard you the moment you’re not of use to him,” Jianyu said. “Look at what is already happening.”
“Nothing is happening,” Mooch said.
“Then why are there Five Pointers in the Strega?” Jianyu asked. When Dolph was alive, it would have never happened. Every one of the Devil’s Own knew what Paul Kelly’s men were capable of. Every one of them had been furious when the Five Pointers attacked two of the Devil’s Own not even a week before.
“We have an understanding now,” Mooch said, but the edge in his tone told Jianyu that not everyone was happy with this understanding.
“Do you?” he asked softly. Every breath he took was a pain, but he continued. “Because Nibsy trusts Kelly?”
“Don’t nobody here trust Kelly. We all know he’s a snake, but Nibsy’s explained it—Kelly’s got connections we need. He’s kept the Strega from burning, hasn’t he?”
“So he has.” Jianyu kept his voice low and as steady as he could. “But catching a snake by the tail will not keep him from striking you.”
“You know what? Just shut your yap, okay?” Mooch told him, more agitated now. “If you didn’t betray us, where was you on the bridge while we was getting our asses handed to us?”
“I was following Dolph’s orders,” Jianyu told him. It was nothing more or less than the truth.
“Dolph Saunders is dead,” Mooch said, his voice breaking with something that sounded like pain and frustration all rolled into a single emotion. “He was already laid out and cold before we went to the bridge.”
“His death did not invalidate the task he gave me,” Jianyu said carefully. “Me. Not the traitor you follow now.”
Mooch took a step back and began pacing. He wasn’t the smartest of the Devil’s Own, and what Jianyu had said was clearly having an effect on him.
Mooch was shaking his head as though the action might jar loose an errant thought. Then he stopped and glared at Jianyu. “No. I’m done listening to you and your lies right now. Just . . . You just keep your damned ugly mouth shut, you hear me?”
Jianyu didn’t respond to the slur. He watched the boy who had once been loyal to Dolph pace with a nervous energy that told Jianyu that his words had struck a nerve. The boy’s cheeks had gone blotchy with his consternation. If Jianyu could just keep himself upright and conscious for long enough, perhaps he could continue to pick at Mooch’s doubt.
But there wasn’t time. Before he could say anything else, Werner burst through the door.
Mooch turned in surprise, his fists already up like he was expecting an attack.
“You gotta come—”
“What the hell are you doing, bursting in here like—”
“The Strega’s on fire.” The other boy grabbed Mooch by the sleeve. “We gotta help.”
The color drained from Mooch’s face, but he didn’t hesitate to follow Werner.
“You cannot leave me here!” Jianyu called, but they were already gone.
The Strega took up the first floor of the building. If the saloon was on fire, the building could go quickly, and Jianyu was stuck two stories above and tied to a chair. He jerked at the ropes binding his wrists and found that they were too tight to slip free of. The same with his feet.
Faintly, he could smell the evidence of the fire as the breeze blew in through the opened window. Perhaps if he could scoot the chair close enough, he could call for help.
With all the strength he had left, he swung his body forward, moving the chair inches in the direction he wanted to go. The motion made his head swirl again, and his stomach threatened to expel its contents, but he tried again. His skin felt clammy, damp with the exertion as he struggled to move the chair closer to the window, but when the door behind him swung open, Jianyu went still.
“There you are.”
He turned to see a girl entering the room. She was about his age—perhaps seventeen—and of average height. Though her figure was trim, there was a softness in the curve of her hips and the swell of her bosom. Her heart-shaped face held expressive, deep-set eyes that were upturned at the corners, and her thick, dark hair had been parted in the middle and smoothed back into a chignon at the nape of her neck, a style recently fashionable in the city. But around her temples, fine wisps of hair had started to curl out of their style. The dress she was wearing was a sage green that complemented the deep burnt umber of her skin. Even as rumpled as it was and as dirty as the hem had become, the gown was so perfectly tailored that it might have come from the finest dressmaker’s shop on Fifth Avenue, which told him who this must be.