It had cost him everything he had—and some that wasn’t actually his to give—to convince the antiquities dealer to part with the stone. But he needed something more than a simple jewel. This diamond had been found in the tomb of Hatshepsut, the same pharaoh who had erected the very obelisk that now stood in Central Park. There was a symmetry to it that buoyed Jack’s confidence. It could work.
“I’ve made the changes,” the old man said with a less-than-hopeful look as he took the stone and examined it. “But I don’t see how a bit of rock will be enough to defuse the power buildup this thing generates.”
“It’s not your job to see. Just follow instructions,” Jack ground out. “You have followed my instructions, haven’t you?”
The old man nodded.
“Then there shouldn’t be any problem,” Jack snapped. “Get this installed in the central globe, and then start her up. Let’s see if you’re going to disappoint me again.”
The old man gave a worried nod and then went back to the wiring. A few minutes later, he connected the power and a buzzing roar began from somewhere deep within the heart of the machine. Then the large, orbital arms began to rotate, slowly at first and then faster, until the center globe began to glow.
“It won’t hold,” the old man said, shielding himself behind a large metal toolbox as he started to pull on the wires.
But Jack was confident, or if not confident, desperate enough to give it a chance. “No! We’ll wait. See what she can do.”
Egad, it’s a thing of beauty. Sleek and modern, powerful in its promise. The arms spun, crossing each other in a blur of motion, like erratic rings of Saturn. Bolts of energy—of magic—leaped between the twin poles of the sphere. A perfectly contained universe. Only this was a cosmos he would control.
Let the Order laugh about his other failures. They would eat their words in the end. With this machine, he would do what they had only ever dreamed of doing. He would put a stop to the ever-encroaching threat of the Mageus. He would end them, once and for all. And when they were gone, when the city was clean and free from their corruption, the Order would recognize his brilliance, would reward him as they moved into the future, returning the city—the entire country—to the promise it had once held.
“Mr. Jack,” the old man shouted.
“I said to wait!” he yelled, barely able to hear himself over the noise the machine made. His eyes were wide and his hair whipped at his face, lifted by the wind the machine created in the center of the room. It felt as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice between the past and the future, and the violent charges of energy that licked at his skin only made him want to move closer to the edge.
His machinist pulled himself farther behind the metal box, but Jack stood in the open, daring fate to contradict him again. If the blasted thing exploded, let it take him with it. That would be easier than admitting he’d failed again. Or having to explain to his father where the money in his trust fund had gone.
But the machine didn’t explode. It picked up steam, the bolts of energy dancing around the central globe, chilling the air that whipped around them. Sparks of life, of power.
“It’s holding!” he said, unable to contain the laugh as the wonder and a dangerous hope grew in his chest. “It’s working!”
The old man peered out from behind the toolbox, his eyes wide.
Jack laughed again, relief and excitement mixing in a heady cocktail that had his blood humming. It worked. “This is only the beginning,” he said, more to himself than to the man who had built the machine.
It would be his beginning. No one else’s.
He walked to the controls and made a few adjustments, levering the machine until its power was focused exactly where he wanted it. He pointed that power toward the part of the city that was no better than a rat’s nest, considering the vermin that hid themselves there. He would take back his city.
Jack smiled. Balance, indeed.
“Send word if anything changes,” Jack called, fitting his hat on his head as he made his way out into the cold. His machine worked. He’d been right about the diamond. Everything would work out. He needed a drink to celebrate.
A DIFFERENT KIND OF DANGER
Wallack’s Theatre
After the week he’d had, Harte needed a good night. He’d managed to talk his way out of missing the performance when he got caught up at the Metropolitan—the front-page spread in the Sun had helped with that. But because it had mentioned him by name, Paul Kelly’s boys had been back. Kelly hadn’t been happy to see that Harte had been making progress with Jack and not cutting him in on the action.
Harte thought he’d managed to convince Torrio and Razor that he needed a little more time, but then he’d spent the rest of the week waiting for the other shoe to drop. And avoiding Jack, because he still had no idea how he was going to explain the museum robbery without putting himself at risk.
It didn’t help much that the audience had been cold so far, barely impressed with his sleight of hand and only somewhat amused as he made the impossible seem possible. But they hadn’t turned on him yet. The almost full house had everything to do with what was about to happen—they were waiting with growing impatience for the debut of his newest, most death-defying escape.
The man he’d selected from the audience to secure his handcuffs and chains had already returned to his seat with the smug assurance that there was no way Harte could get out. He made a show of wriggling and writhing to demonstrate how secure they were, because it never hurt to add a bit of drama. When two stagehands lowered him into the clear tank of tepid water, bound in chains and wearing nothing more than a pair of bathing shorts, the audience went gratifyingly silent as he sank to the bottom.
The screen hadn’t yet been lowered in front of the tank when the theater lights surged, pulsing like a heartbeat for a moment, and then went completely dark.
Even under the water, he could hear the frantic murmuring of the crowd, and he felt an answering panic. He knew it was impossible, but he swore the flare of the lights before they went out had pulled at his affinity, had made him feel a hollow ache that darkened the edges of his vision and caused his head to swirl.
But when he gasped, the mouthful of water he took in reminded him of where he was and what was at stake. He forced himself to let go of his panic and to focus on taking advantage of the unexpected drama of the situation.
Working quickly, he slipped the metal pin from its hiding place under a false fingertip, and contorting himself as he’d practiced hundreds of times before, he wedged it into the locks on the cuffs. By the time the stagehands lit the kerosene lanterns at the foot of the stage a few minutes later, Harte was already out of the tank, dripping wet and holding the heavy chains in his outstretched hands.