“Why?” she pressed.
“I made a promise,” he told her. “I gave Darrigan my word that I would see you safe and protect the ring. I have done the first, and now I must turn to the other.”
“You don’t owe Darrigan anything,” she said, more softly now, a frown tugging at her full lips. “Neither of us owe him a single thing more.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I explained to you what the ring could do, did I not? In unworthy hands, it could have devastating effects. I cannot allow that to happen. I cannot allow the Order or anyone else who might do harm with the stone to obtain it.”
Cela stared at him for a moment, her dark eyes sharp in their intensity as she considered his words. Then she let out a jagged breath that was as much frustration as it was understanding. “I’m coming with you, then.”
“No—”
“I’m the one who lost that ring, so I’ll help you find it.”
“This is not your fight.” Jianyu shook his head. “You will stay here, with your family, where you belong.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Were you in that house with me? I don’t belong there.”
He had seen, had felt the tension between them, but . . . “They are family. Your blood.”
“They might be my mama’s people, but they’ve never really been mine, blood or not.” Her jaw was set and determined. “My grandparents didn’t ever approve of the choice my mama made when she married my daddy for lots of reasons, but mostly it boiled down to his skin being too dark. Didn’t matter that he worked his knuckles to the bone to give us a good life: a roof over our heads and shoes on our feet. According to them, he was low class, and when we came out with skin every bit as dark as his, so were we,” she told him. “They never said it outright, but we knew.”
Her shoulders seemed to sag with the weight of her confession. “My mama’s people put up with us for her sake, but they never were any sort of safe harbor, even when she was alive. They blamed my daddy when she died a few years back from consumption, and now they’re blaming me for Abel’s death. I can see it in their eyes. They heard the whispers about how I ran from the house, and maybe they don’t say it outright, but they’re sure as hell thinking I had something to do with it. So no, I don’t belong there. If you’re leaving, I’m coming with you.”
Jianyu understood the expression Cela wore as she lifted her chin, daring him to contradict her. It was the same as the mask he often wore himself, the steely armor that served as protection from the never-ending menace of a world that did not welcome him. But because he recognized it, he also knew what was beneath—the soft, essential parts of the soul that could be damaged beyond repair.
He frowned. “This is my burden to carry.”
She let out a long sigh, and she looked suddenly fragile. “That’s where you’re wrong. The moment they came and took my brother, it became mine, too.”
“But—”
She cut him off. “Tell me, did you have a plan for finding Evelyn?” She paused for his answer, and when it did not come, she shook her head. “What were you gonna do, wander around until you ran into her? It’s a big city. At least I know where she lives.”
NOT AS PLANNED
1902—New York
Nothing had gone the way Logan Sullivan had expected. When he’d left Professor Lachlan’s building that morning, he hadn’t planned to end the day tied up in the dark, dank cellar of some rotting building, guarded by two guys who looked like they’d started shaving when they were eight.
The redheaded one was especially worrisome. He kept rubbing his fingertips together, causing flames to dance at the tips of them, all the while leering at Logan. It was like he was just waiting for Logan to make a wrong move.
Which wasn’t going to happen.
Maybe things hadn’t gone that smoothly. Maybe Professor Lachlan had been wrong about how easy it would be—about how his younger self would certainly be able to tell that everything Logan said was the truth. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if those big goons hadn’t caught him first, and it definitely would have been better if Esta hadn’t made off with the package Professor Lachlan had entrusted Logan to deliver; the Book and the stones would have gone a long way toward smoothing things over.
But he’d still had the notebook, Logan reminded himself. Once the Professor read about himself, he’d know that Logan was telling the truth. He’d know exactly how helpful Logan had been to his future self, and he would believe him now. Maybe he’d even be able to help him get back to his own time. Although Logan had a sinking feeling that without Esta, that was going to be impossible.
Shit.
Footsteps echoed on the staircase that descended steeply into the cellar, an uneven gait that Logan recognized immediately. There. He’d been right all along.
Logan gave the redheaded guy—Firebug McGee, or whatever his name was—a smug look. It was only a matter of moments before Logan would be vindicated.
It was still a shock to see just how young the Professor was here, in this time. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, close to the age Logan himself had been when he’d received a ticket and an invitation to fly across an ocean and start a new life. His uncle, a low-level fencer of stolen goods, had been one of the Professor’s contacts in England, and he hadn’t given Logan a choice in the matter. To the thirteen-year-old Logan, the whole thing had seemed almost too good to be true: He got out from under the constant threat of his uncle’s fists, and the professor paid for his mother to have the house in the country, like she’d always wanted. And if Logan had to deal with a life behind the Brink or the headache of traveling through time or Esta’s smart-ass tendencies, it had been worth it for the comfortable life and for the respect the Professor had given him.
But this boy wasn’t yet the man the Professor would become. The Professor’s younger face didn’t even have a shadow of hair on it, and the eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses, while familiar, were clear of the cloudy cataracts that would haunt him in the future. Still, there was the same uncanny knowledge in his eyes, the spark of intelligence that had let Logan know the very first time they’d met that the old man wasn’t to be messed with.
It will be fine.
“Leave us.” The boy who would one day become the Professor made it to the bottom of the stairs and stood in front of Logan, eyeing him with a familiar expression.
“You sure, Nibs?” the redhead asked, snapping the fire between his fingers as he watched Logan uneasily. “I can stay, just in case.”
The Professor turned on the redhead. “You think I can’t handle myself?” he asked in a voice like acid.
The fire on the redhead’s fingertips went out. “I just thought—”
“We’d be in trouble if I depended on you to do the thinking, Mooch. But I don’t. I depend on you to do what I ask, when I ask it. And I’m asking you to leave me with our prisoner. I’ll deal with him myself.”
“Right, Nibs. Sorry.” Mooch cut Logan another threatening look, but he took himself up the steps, leaving Logan with the younger version of his friend and mentor.