When he gave the kid on the other side of the door his name, he was let through to a long, familiar hallway to the back of the building. The closer he got to the end of it, the stronger the scent of sweat and blood and the more vivid the memories.
He’d spent the year after his mother had abandoned him—and before he was forced into Paul Kelly’s gang—hanging around The Devil’s Own. Back then, Dolph had still been a lanky teenager. He’d seemed larger than life to twelve-year-old Harte. Even with his limp, Dolph had commanded the respect of anyone who knew him in the Bowery, and of anyone who dared cross him. It was the kind of respect Harte himself craved, and Dolph had become something of an older brother, the mentor and protector his own father had never been. The boxing club had become a safe space for him—or at least it had been safer than the streets where he’d spent too many nights. He’d learned to fight there, to protect himself in ways that had nothing to do with magic. And he’d spent more nights than he could count eating at Dolph and Leena’s table in their rooms above the Bella Strega.
After he’d gotten caught up in Kelly’s gang, he’d stayed away from them both. It had been more than three years since Harte had even talked to Leena, but the ache of her loss hit him then, suddenly and far too late. She’d been only a handful of years older than him, but she’d mothered him in ways his own mother had never been able to. Still, even after he’d heard she lost a baby, Harte hadn’t risked crossing Kelly—or Dolph—to visit her. But now that he was back, surrounded by memories he thought he’d put aside, he was overwhelmed by the thought of her being gone. Leena had been too stubborn and determined to do anything she didn’t want to do, but Dolph should have never put her in a position to be harmed by the Order.
Leena had meant everything to Dolph, so Harte didn’t have any illusions about how disposable he would be. And he didn’t feel all that much remorse for what he planned to do in the end. The Book would be his, and Dolph Saunders could go hang for all he cared.
When he reached the main practice room, he found Dolph in the same place he’d seen him so many times before—perched on a low stool, his chin resting against his silver-tipped cane as he watched two of his boxers pummel each other in the ring above him. They were both bare-chested, their skin already slick with sweat and their chests heaving with exertion. They couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but already, each sported the tattoo that marked them as Dolph’s—a double ouroboros that featured a skeletal snake intertwined with a living one.
Life and death, Dolph had once told him, back when they’d still been friends. Survival was about balance. The threat of death could inspire you to carve out a life worth having.
Once, Harte had been eager to take Dolph’s mark, but Dolph had said that, at twelve, he was too young to make that decision. He’d considered it again when he’d wanted to get out of Kelly’s gang. Dolph could have easily given him the secrets he needed to buy his freedom.
He’d thought that trading one mark for another was something he could live with, and he’d come to the boxing club to do just that. But because he’d been early that day, Harte had seen what happened to those who crossed Dolph Saunders. He understood then what the mark was capable of, what Dolph was capable of.
He would never forget it—the way the man who was years older than Dolph had cowered and begged for another chance. The cold look in Dolph’s eyes as he rejected the pathetic appeals. Dolph had motioned for two of his boys to hold the man still, and then he’d simply touched him with the head of his cane. The second the silver Medusa touched the tattoo, the mark came to life. The two snakes began moving, and the man’s skin rippled as the ink turned the color of blood.
And then it did become blood. The man screamed like a banshee until the two boys dropped him, and he fell unconscious to the floor. By then, the air in the room had gone cold and energy crackled, but Dolph had barely seemed to notice. He’d given a curt nod, and the two boys had dragged the man away—unconscious or dead, Harte couldn’t tell.
Harte had turned around and left that day, and he had vowed to never take another’s brand again. He would do everything on his own, trust no one but himself. Even if it meant never truly getting away from Kelly’s reach.
Except now he might have a way. Stealing the Ars Arcana from the Order—from Dolph—might be a crazy, impossible death wish of a way, but Harte was about desperate enough to take it.
“You’re late,” Dolph said with his usual brusqueness. He didn’t bother to turn around. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Last I checked, I’m not one of your lackeys.”
“Not yet,” Dolph said, finally glancing over his shoulder to pin Harte with his blue-eyed stare.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man.”
Dolph didn’t react to the nickname the way he usually did. Instead, he let out a tired breath and gave Harte an unreadable look. “I’m glad you’ve come.”
Suspicious, Harte crossed the room to where Dolph was sitting. “I’m only here because that skirt of yours conned me into it.” It wasn’t the truth, of course, but it was better if Dolph thought he still had the upper hand.
One of the boys nailed the other with a right hook that sent blood splattering. A few drops landed on Harte’s polished black boots, and it took everything he had not to wipe it away in disgust.
“That’s enough for today,” Dolph told the two bloodied boys. “You’re losing your touch if you were taken in by a pretty face, Darrigan.”
“What can I say? She was persuasive. But she’s not your usual type,” Harte said as he watched the boys leave. “Though she does remind me a little of Leena, too much of a hellcat to fall in line easily . . . So maybe she is your type after all. My mistake.”
“Don’t,” Dolph growled.
“Where’d you find her?” Harte pushed, ignoring the tension that had risen between them at his mention of Leena. He knew it was a low blow, one she’d have taken him to task for, but he would use whatever advantage he could. And he’d hold Dolph accountable for what he’d done to her.
“You’re not here because of her.” Dolph eyed him. “You think I don’t know that Kelly’s men have been breathing down your neck lately?”
Harte went still.
“Oh, come off it,” Dolph said. “I have eyes in every part of this city. I heard about the fire the other day, and I know that Razor Riley helped to set it.”
Harte held up his hands. “You know what? I was wrong. Turns out I can’t do this,” he said, taking a step backward, preparing to leave. “I’d say it was good to see you again, Dolph, but you don’t deserve the effort it would take to lie.” He turned and let his feet take him toward the door, but he hadn’t finished crossing the room when Dolph spoke.