THE DEVIL INSIDE
1904—St. Louis
After Esta and Julien left the dressing room, with the door closed solidly behind them, Harte had to fight to keep himself from following her. She’d looked up at him in the mirror a moment before, her face painted so that even he couldn’t recognize her, and he’d seen more than Esta—he’d seen the woman in his visions, the one with eyes that turned black as night and who screamed and screamed and—
It was a coincidence. Except he didn’t believe in coincidences.
He scrubbed his hand over his face and then, with a violence that even he didn’t expect, he kicked over the chair next to the dressing table before he swept the rows of makeup and paint to the floor. Porcelain pots shattered and the colors from the different powders splattered in a haphazard mess.
He should have stopped her. He should have tried harder to talk her out of this mess of a plan. She’d been taken in by Ruth and the Antistasi, romanced by their fantasy of a world remade, but Harte didn’t have the same stars in his eyes. He couldn’t see a world remade and free, not when the voice inside of him promised nothing but destruction and death.
Magic was nothing more than a trap. A trick.
Or maybe he should have let her go, as he did. Maybe he had to. Who was he to judge Ruth and her Antistasi? Especially not with the power inside Harte trying to make him doubt himself until he was so tied up with fear and indecision that it could break through the final defenses he’d managed to keep up.
Breathing heavily, he stared at himself in the mirror—the dark circles under his eyes, the two days’ growth of beard shadowing his jaw. If he looked close enough, he thought he could see the creature inside of him peering out from the depths of his own eyes.
Even now, his fingertips digging into the dressing table, Harte felt like he might fly away if he didn’t hold tightly enough. Every day that passed was a day Seshat grew stronger. Every day he had a harder time completely pushing down the voice that was rumbling and gathering its power. She was clearer now—anger and sadness and destruction and chaos was her song, and Esta was the melody she sang to.
She would rip apart the world.
No. He wouldn’t let that happen. Harte would do whatever he needed to in order to keep the Book from getting Esta—from using her. His visions, whatever they were, would not be his future.
Taking another deep breath, he pried his hands from the tabletop and stepped back. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, using every last bit of himself to control the power inside of him. Then he moved the panel from the wall long enough to go through it and made his way out the back of the building.
North was waiting for him at the end of the alley in one of the brewery’s wagons, which had been painted over to obscure the name. Ever since the fire, things had been easier between Harte and the cowboy, but North’s only salutation was a tip of his hat as Harte climbed up onto the driver’s bench.
“Your costume’s there,” North said, pointing toward the burlap sack on the floor.
As they drove, Harte pulled out a cape out and a matching mask. It was a grotesque-looking thing made of papier-mâché, with a snakelike face and straw to cover his hair.
When Harte was done dressing, North handed him a small flannel bag. He looked inside and found the necklace. If he hadn’t known it was a fake, he never would have been able to tell. Ruth’s people were good—damned good. The metal shone like the platinum of the real Djinni’s Star, and the stone in the center of the collar had nearly the same otherworldly depth as the original. “It’s perfect.”
“Of course it is,” North said. “Now, remember, when you switch it with the real necklace, fastening it will prime the activator. When they take it off, that should trigger the mechanism within it. This Julien fellow’ll have maybe ten minutes before the acid burns through and the serum vaporizes.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Once Harte switched it off Julien on the float, the next person to touch it would be the Veiled Prophet himself, when he transferred the necklace to the girl who would wear it at the actual ball. According to the plan, that should happen just before the Veiled Prophet escorted the unlucky debutante and presented her to the rest of the attendees of the gala. Julien wasn’t invited into that, so he’d be safe. “Everyone should be well on their way back to the meeting place when that happens. You have the bracelet Ruth took?”
“Maggie has it,” North told him. “She’ll give it to you at the Water Tower once it’s all done.”
“And then we’ll be out of your hair for good.”
North pulled the wagon to the side of the street and jumped down from the driver’s perch to hitch the horses to a post as Harte opened the back. Inside, more than a dozen Antistasi were waiting solemnly, each dressed in the same costume Harte himself was wearing.
They filed out in silence, one by one, until they were all gathered around North.
“You’ll need to make sure you get the right float,” North instructed, going over the plan one more time. Distraction was what they needed. Distraction and confusion so that Harte could slip up onto the float and make the switch.
“The Prophet will be near the end of the parade,” Harte told them, information Julien had been able to gather. “That’s where we need to cause the most fuss.”
“We’ll do just fine at causing a fuss,” one of the snake-people said, and the rest tittered in agreement.
“Remember,” North told them, cutting into their laughter, “when the lights go out, you all need to scatter. Ditch the costumes wherever you can, and then get yourself back to camp. Don’t go off together, either. Split up. If you get caught, do whatever you have to, but don’t betray the rest of us. We’ll get you out as soon as we can.”
There was a murmuring of assent through the group as Harte pulled on his own mask, leaving it propped up on the top of his head.
“Good luck,” North said, reaching out his hand.
Harte accepted the handshake. For a moment he considered pushing his affinity into North, just to be sure that Ruth hadn’t made any other plans, but he couldn’t afford North suspecting anything just yet. If they wanted to get both the necklace and Esta’s cuff away from a pack of other Mageus, they needed the element of surprise.
They studied each other for a second or two, neither one of them willing to be the first to surrender, until Harte decided to let North win.
He released the cowboy’s hand and gave him a silent salute as he pulled his mask down over his face. Then he joined the crowd of serpents and went to find the Veiled Prophet, the necklace, and the girl he would never deserve.