“The Antistasi,” Julien said, and his voice contained a note of true fear. But Harte wasn’t so sure. There was no trace of magic in the air, no indication that the smoke was anything but a distraction.
Other Guardsmen came out of the Nile exhibit and barreled through the crowd, pushing over anyone who happened to be in their way as they rushed toward the masked figures. A woman screamed as they knocked her aside, causing her to drop the child she’d been holding up for a better view of the passing floats. The child started to wail, but the Guardsmen didn’t stop to help. With an urgency that bordered on violence, they began grabbing anyone trying to escape the fog. Man or woman, even children—it didn’t seem to matter.
One of the figures had been caught by a group of the Guard, who’d already ripped the mask away. Beneath it was a boy who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. He spit at the Guardsmen and shouted, “Forever reign the Antistasi!”
“Long live the Devil’s Thief!” cried another in reply.
In response, one of the Guardsmen buried his fist in the boy’s stomach.
Esta took a step toward them, but Harte caught her wrist. She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with fury. “They’re children,” she said, her voice breaking on the word.
“We can’t help them,” Harte told her.
“I can—”
“No,” he said, cutting her off. If she used her affinity here, now, in the middle of this mess? There was no telling what might happen, especially considering the clear threat posed by the gates behind them.
“We can’t just leave them,” she told him, starting to pull away.
“If they catch us, things are going to get worse. We need to go.”
But Esta was staring at him like he was her enemy, like she would tear the sun from the sky to stop what was happening. For a moment Harte thought he would have to carry her—or worse, betray everything they’d built between them by forcing her. But he couldn’t risk it. Not only because it would be the worst kind of treachery, but also because he was already having enough trouble keeping the power inside of him in check while he held her arm.
He could feel it pressing at the most fragile parts of him—the parts that wanted Esta, the parts that agreed with her. Together they could destroy the Guard. They could help the boys, who clearly were no more Antistasi than anyone else in the crowd. He could see it, how easy it would be to make a different choice. A single touch, and he could make the Guardsman who was beating the child destroy himself.
The violence of the image, the sharpness of it, startled Harte enough that he gasped. Then he shook it off and focused on what was real. On what was true.
The power was still struggling to get closer to Esta—as though it craved her fury. He would not let it have her.
“Come on,” Harte said, jerking her back and following Julien as his friend led them in the opposite direction of the parade, away from the noise of the Pike and toward one of the smaller side routes that led back into the main part of the fair.
Esta eventually came, looking back toward the Pike every few steps, until they came to where the entrance of the Pike met the regular walkways of the fair. The noise of the crowd was a low murmur here, and Harte could barely hear the confusion of the Pike. Manicured pathways led to large, palatial buildings, and well-dressed people came and went from their entrances.
“We need to get out of here,” Harte said, releasing Esta’s arm and feeling the power inside of him rage.
“You might want to wait,” Julien suggested. “With an Antistasi attack, they’ll be checking all the exits.”
“They weren’t Antistasi,” Esta said, her voice hollow as she looked back toward the Pike. From there they couldn’t see anything but the outlines of the buildings. There was no way to know what was happening.
“It doesn’t matter who they were,” Julien said. “You saw how the Guard reacted. They’ll be looking for anyone involved, and you don’t want to get caught up in it.”
“Jules is right,” Harte said, needing that time to gather his wits and his strength. “We’ll wait for a while—play the tourist until we’re sure things have died down.”
“I, unfortunately, cannot,” Julien told them. “This, I believe, is where I say my good-byes.”
“You’re leaving?” Esta asked, turning back to them.
“I’m not a wanted fugitive,” Julien told her. “I have nothing to fear from the Guard, and I also have a matinee today.”
“We’re not done,” Harte said, trying to keep his voice level even as the power inside of him was still unsettled over his refusal to accommodate its wishes. He took another step back from Esta, just to be sure.
Julien frowned at them. “I’ve done what you asked—I’ve shown you the necklace.”
“We don’t have the necklace yet, though,” Harte pointed out. “As long as it’s on display like that, you’re at risk.”
Julien visibly bristled. “Then take care of it, Darrigan. She might be a thief, but I’m not.”
“You want us to take care of it? We need information—about the security or any events that might be happening. We need to know whether the necklace is always there or if they move it at night.”
“Why would you think I could get you that information?” Julien asked, clearly annoyed, and if Harte wasn’t mistaken, more than a little uneasy.
“Because you’re in the Society,” Harte pressed, not caring when Julien blanched. “Did you think we didn’t know, Jules?”
“It’s just a courtesy membership,” he said. “I’m no one to them. A joke.”
Harte didn’t miss the bitterness in his friend’s voice, but he couldn’t do anything about it. “You’re closer to the Society than either of us,” Harte told him. “You want to get rid of us? You’ll get us the information.”
“Fine,” Julien said. “But it’ll take time.”
“The sooner we can get the necklace, the sooner we’re out of your hair,” Harte told him. “And the sooner you can go on with your life like none of this ever happened.”
Julien let out a frustrated breath. “If I never had to see your face again, it wouldn’t be soon enough, Darrigan.”
Harte watched Julien walk off, keeping his eyes on his friend until he’d lost sight of him in the crowds.
“We could have helped those kids,” Esta said, her voice low and angry.
He let out a tired breath and reluctantly turned back to her. “I know,” he told her.
“Then why—”
“Because we have more important things to do,” he said.
“They were kids, Harte. Those were smoke bombs and costumes,” she said, her voice shaking. “They were dressed up as Antistasi—as me. The skirts and the masks. You saw it, didn’t you? They were playing the Devil’s Thief. And those Guardsmen were vicious. They had to see they were just kids, and it didn’t matter.”
“You’re not responsible for that,” he told her, and the moment he said the words, he knew that it had been the wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed with fury, and the power inside of him warmed.