Julien Eltinge entered the barroom the same way he’d entered the stage earlier that night—like someone who knew he was born to command attention. It wasn’t that he made any fuss—the door didn’t slam, and he didn’t do anything obvious to draw attention to his arrival—but the energy in the air seemed to shift, and the entire barroom felt it.
Though he probably saw Harte immediately, Julien didn’t come over right away. Instead, he took his time circulating through the room, shaking every hand that reached out to greet him, and then accepted a drink from the barkeeper, downing it in a single swallow. It wasn’t an accident, Harte knew. Julien was making it clear whose turf they were on and who was going to take the lead.
Which was fine with Harte. He could just feel the whiskey starting to soften the world, and he needed a moment to gather his wits. When Julien finally decided to approach Harte’s table, Harte got to his feet just long enough to greet him with a handshake.
Julien took the chair across from him without being asked and called for the bartender to bring another round of drinks. “I still can’t believe you’re here. Harte Darrigan, back from the dead and come to haunt me,” he said, chuckling.
“Like I said, Jules, I was in Europe, not dead.”
“You were gone an awfully long time.” Though Julien’s words were neutral, his expression held an unspoken question and, more worrisome, doubt.
“The tour was going well, and we found we liked European sensibilities,” Harte told him, trying to keep his tone easy and carefree. “You know how it is when you find an audience. You milk them while you can. But eventually the money dried up, like it always does. I got tired of the scenery, so here we are.”
“I’m surprised you came back at all.” Julien eyed him. “It was a risk, considering who you’re traveling with—the Devil’s Thief.”
“Don’t start with that again,” he said testily. After the strange women who’d appeared in the ballroom, he’d had enough of the Devil’s Thief nonsense. “She has a name, you know.”
“Yes,” Julien said, studying Harte as though trying to determine the truth of his story. “There are plenty of people who are aware of her name.”
Despite the way the whiskey was making him feel loose, Harte met Julien’s gaze steadily. After a moment Julien seemed to relent. He pulled a case of cigars from his inside pocket and offered one to Harte. When Harte waved him off with a polite refusal, Julien shrugged.
“Your loss.” He cupped his hand around the end of the thick cigar, inhaling as he held a match to its end to light it. Taking a couple of deep puffs, Julien leaned back in his chair, the picture of confidence as the bartender delivered their drinks. But there was still a question in his eyes. “We both know you’re not really here to talk about your European holiday,” Julien said.
Harte’s unease grew, but he put on a mask of outward calm. “Not really, Jules.”
“I didn’t think so. From the company you’re keeping these days, I’d be surprised if you weren’t wrapped up in something big.” He let his words trail off, allowing Harte an opening.
Harte didn’t take it. Just give me the stone, already. “Look, Jules, I’d rather not have to lie to an old friend—”
Julien shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Maybe I’ve turned over a new leaf,” Harte said, with a calmness meant to mask his nerves.
Julien huffed out his contempt at that sentiment. “Like hell you have, Darrigan. I know you too well to believe you could change.”
“Maybe you knew me,” Harte said gently. “But it’s been an awful long time.” It had been even longer for Julien, who hadn’t had two years pass by in a matter of seconds. “Can we just leave it that there are some things you’re better off not knowing?”
Julien studied him a moment longer, puffing out acrid clouds of yellowish smoke from the cigar clamped between his teeth. After a long, thoughtful moment, the corners of his mouth hitched up, and he let out a rusty-sounding laugh. “It’s always something with you, isn’t it, Darrigan? All the times I tried to take you under my wing and show you how not to get yourself in trouble, and here we are again.”
“Did you really expect anything less from me, Jules?”
“Tell me this much, at least—is it the girl?” Julien asked.
“It usually is a girl, isn’t it?” Harte said, trying to make light of Julien’s question.
Julien’s mouth kicked up at the joke. Then he leaned forward, his gaze darting around the room, as though concerned that someone might overhear. But his eyes glinted with mischief, and for a moment Harte could see in them the Julien he’d once known—the old friend who smiled his way through a fistfight and then walked into a barroom with his shoulders back and his head up just to prove no one could keep him down.
“Tell me straight, Darrigan,” Julien said in low tones. “Did she do it? The train, I mean . . .”
Any warmth he might have felt drained away, and Harte was suddenly aware of the cold dampness of his clothes and the danger of the situation. “Esta had nothing to do with attacking any train. And if you ever knew me at all, you’ll know I’m telling you the truth about that.”
Julien stared at him as though considering what he’d just said. Finally, he sat up straight, a knowing look in his eyes as he clamped the cigar between his teeth again. “Because we were friends once, I’m willing to believe you . . . for now. But I’ll tell you this—as a friend—if she is planning on causing some kind of problem here, especially at the Exposition, you’d best steer clear. The mood in the city right now? It’s not good. With all the outsiders, there’s been rumblings about Antistasi causing problems.”
“What’s the deal with them, anyway?” Harte asked. “I’ve never heard of them before.”
“They’re a fairly recent phenomenon,” Julien explained. “Until the Act passed last year, Mageus hadn’t been much of a problem outside New York. Everyone assumed that the Brink had taken care of them, but once the Act went into effect, the Antistasi started causing trouble outside the city. It got bad here in St. Louis when they were trying to build the grounds of the Exposition. A lot of people died.”
“The Antistasi killed people?” Harte asked, his stomach twisting. It was one thing to dress up and set off smoke packets, but murder was something else entirely.
Julien nodded. “Last fall was the worst. Back in October, not long after the Act went into full effect, there was a major attack on the building crews of the Exposition. They used some kind of fog that ate up a good part of Lafayette Park. People who saw it from the outside said it was like a living thing—you could feel the evil coming off it—and the people who got trapped in it lost their minds. Masons destroyed walls they’d just built, electricians set fire to half a block of buildings, and fights—nasty, deadly fights—broke out between people who were friends. When the fog finally lifted, the whole area was covered in ice. People had frostbite—they lost fingers and toes—and water mains all over the site had burst. It set everything back months and nearly caused the Exposition to delay opening. The Antistasi claimed credit for it.”