“The long-lost-lover angle,” Harte said, realizing exactly how deep her game had been the day before. She’d penned him more ways than one.
“The daughter of one of your illustrious teachers. I bet she would have secrets Jack Grew would love to learn,” Dolph said with a satisfied smile. “Secrets that could make him a huge success in the Order. That’s what he really wants.”
He hated the fact that Dolph was right.
“I already told her, I work alone,” Harte said.
“Not anymore. And not if you want my protection,” Dolph told him. “You won’t take my mark, but you will agree to work with Esta. Otherwise, you’re welcome to take your chances with Kelly and his boys. Your mother, too. I won’t make this offer twice.”
Harte’s jaw was so tight his temple ached. “It’s not much of a choice when you put it like that.”
Dolph shrugged. “There’s always a choice. The question is which one you’re willing to live with.”
“You or Kelly,” Harte said, his voice as threatening as his mood. “Why do I feel like I’m only getting to pick my poison?”
“It’s still a choice,” Dolph drawled.
Harte shook his head. “You always were a bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.” There was the hint of amusement in Dolph’s expression.
“Fine. We’ll do it your way. But when this is over, you don’t bother me again. You don’t contact me or try to find me. If we’re all not already dead, you don’t even know me. Period.”
The amusement faded from Dolph’s face. “Agreed. But if I get any hint of you going against me or mine, I won’t hesitate to end you. My mark or no, I will strip you of everything you hold dear.”
“You should have gone on the stage,” Harte said dryly. “You’ve developed quite the flair for the dramatic. If that’s all?”
“That’s all.” Dolph nodded. Then he softened his voice. “It really is good to see you again.”
“I can’t say the feeling is mutual,” Harte said, but he couldn’t stop his mouth from curving up. “Keep my mother out of Paul Kelly’s grasp, and you won’t have anything to worry about on my end. I’ll get what you need.” Harte extended his hand to shake on the deal they’d made.
Dolph shook his head. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Dare. I have a few things to take care of, but I’ll be sending Esta to you in a couple of days.”
“What do you mean?” Harte asked. His hand dropped to his side.
“She’ll be staying with you and keeping an eye on things while the two of you work together.”
“She can’t stay with me.” He shook his head. “I don’t want her there.”
Dolph laughed. “I won’t call you on that lie, but you’re going to have to take her.”
“You know it’ll ruin her,” Harte argued, unexpected anger curling in his stomach at the thought. “Her reputation won’t recover.”
“That won’t matter if the Order kills us first.” Dolph pulled himself to his feet. “You worry about keeping your end of our agreement. She’ll let me know of any unwanted developments.”
Harte could only stand there, his frustration rising as he watched Dolph limp off in the same direction the two boys had gone, dismissing him without so much as a good-bye. The reek of the sour, coppery dried blood wrapped around his throat, choking him. He wasn’t sure if he’d managed to negotiate a good deal or simply tied a noose around his own neck.
“That’s it?” he called out. “You’re going to send me the girl, and I’m supposed to figure out the rest? I take on all the risk, and you sit, safe in your castle.”
“I’ve already given you everything you need.” Dolph turned to look at him over his shoulder. “But—”
“Yeah?” he snapped, his frustration mounting.
“The girl’s currently under my protection,” Dolph said softly, “so if you actually do ruin her, you’ll answer to me.”
RUINED
The Docks
The machine was in ruins. Metal fragments were lodged in the wood of the walls and in the chest of the old man. The hulking globe in the center looked like it had melted.
Jack nudged the body with his toe. Dammit.
All of his work had been for nothing. Months of work. Months of waiting. Wasted.
“Get this cleaned up,” he told the boy who’d brought him the news. He tossed him a coin. “Then put out word that I need a machinist. Now.”
“And the old man?” the boy asked, eyeing the body warily.
“Dump him in the river.”
Jack didn’t stay to make sure the work was done. The warehouse, even with all its square footage, felt claustrophobic. Like the walls were pressing in on him, squeezing him until there wasn’t a drop of blood left for him to give. He’d risked everything, gambled everything, and he had been so close. Dammit.
He kicked over a barrel and sent a pair of rats skittering away.
There was still something he was missing. Some key to making the machine work. There had to be, because he wouldn’t let himself believe that they were more powerful.
Reason and logic would prevail.
He would prevail.
The machine should have been perfectly functional. The problem would have been easy enough to figure out if the High Princept would just let him consult the Ars Arcana. Certainly, the Order’s most important artifact, their most sacred text, would have the answers he needed. But there were parts of Khafre Hall only the Inner Circle had access to, and the Mysterium, with all its secrets, was one of them. So unless something changed, he was on his own.
Tugging at the collar of his shirt, Jack stomped back out to the carriage. When his father found out what had happened to the money in his trust fund . . . when his uncle and the rest of the Inner Circle found out . . .
Jesus. They’d never let him in. Worse, he’d never be able to set foot in society again.
Dammit.
He needed more information. He needed the Order to trust him enough to let him into the Mysterium, because he knew the answer was there. Solving the Metropolitan robbery would go a long way toward getting into their good graces, but Harte Darrigan had been avoiding him the last few days. He was trying to be patient, trying to give the magician a chance to work on the problem, but at this rate, the machine would never be done in time for the Conclave.
He needed to figured out what he was missing, and fast, or he’d be ruined.
But most of all, he needed a drink.
DREAMS FROM WAKING
Bella Strega
Something had happened. It had come suddenly and absolutely, as a wave might overtake a small boat out to sea, leaving Viola struggling to stay afloat. For three days she’d watched her friend suffer, writhing and moaning despite the laudanum in the wine. For three days she had paced the floor in Tilly’s room or sat on the edge of her narrow bed, holding her hand and whispering everything she’d wanted to say for so long.
Night and day she’d stayed. Tilly couldn’t hear her, but night and day Viola continued whispering, using her mother tongue, because the words felt right in that language. Her meaning felt somehow more suited for the soft melodic rhythm of the country that had made her.
But her words and prayers had not been enough.