A SKY DARK AND STARLESS
1904—St. Louis
Harte hesitated only a second longer, searching Julien’s face for any indication that the opening in front of them was some kind of trick or a trap, but he found none. Julien’s eyes were steady, his expression seemingly sincere. Still, it wasn’t worth taking any unnecessary chances.
Harte extended his hand. “Thanks, Jules.”
Julien grasped Harte’s hand without hesitation and gave the most fleeting squeeze of pressure before he drew it away. But skin to skin, it was enough. A pulse of power, and they’d be safe—from Julien, at least. Considering all they’d just learned, though, Harte wasn’t sure how far that safety would extend.
Without another word, Harte followed Esta into the dark tunnel, which got even darker when Julien replaced the panel behind him. They waited in the gloom, listening to the scrape of the rack of dresses, as Julien hid the panel and their eyes accustomed themselves to the lack of light. Even without seeing her, Harte could sense Esta nearby. The warmth of her—and of her affinity—called to him, and to the power within him. For the moment that power was quiet, but he knew it was only watching and waiting for him to let down his guard.
“Come on,” Harte whispered to Esta when he could almost see the shape of the passageway. “We should go while we can.”
Eventually they came to the boiler room, a larger chamber that smelled faintly of coal and dust. Since it was summer, the room was silent and empty, the fires long since gone cold. The large steel tanks that heated the water before it was pumped to radiators throughout the theater loomed over them, shadowy shapes that made it impossible to see if anyone waited on the other side of the room. They moved carefully, as silently as they could, and soon enough they found the workman’s entrance on the far side of the chamber.
“Are we sure this isn’t a trap?” she asked as she looked at the windowless exit door.
“Not one that Julien set,” he assured her. “I took care of it.”
“We should still be careful. I’ve never heard anything about these patrols. I don’t know if they’re something new or . . .” She seemed lost for words. “I don’t remember learning anything about them or the law against magic he was talking about. None of this existed in the future I knew.”
Harte thought he understood the emotion in her voice. Back in Manhattan, there had been Mageus willing to sell out their own kind for a handful of coin, but the Jefferson Guard and whatever this act was that made magic illegal were dangers they hadn’t expected.
“Even if these patrols are Mageus, they shouldn’t be able to find us unless we’re using our affinities. We don’t need to use any magic to get back to the hotel,” he told her, answering her unspoken worry that they would be discovered. “This isn’t any different from Corey’s boys back at the Haymarket. If we keep our heads down and our affinities cold, we’ll be fine.” He hoped.
Esta seemed to believe his false bravado—or she pretended to. She gave him a sure nod, and they eased themselves silently out into the back alley behind the theater, but as they went, Harte kept himself alert, just in case someone was waiting. The way seemed to be clear, and they walked toward the end of the alley as thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Slow down,” Esta hissed. He opened his mouth to argue—to tell her that the faster they were away from those Guardsmen, the better—but she explained before he got out a single word. “You start scurrying and it’ll draw more attention. You’ll look guilty.”
She was right. Even though every instinct in him wanted to run, Harte forced himself to slow his pace as they approached the mouth of the alley.
To the right, a Black Maria waited in front of the theater. Next to the windowless carriages stood more of the men dressed in dark coats. They must be the Jefferson Guard, from what Julien had said, which explained why they had been after the cowboy Esta had seen earlier. Stationed at the theater doors were four more similarly dressed men, all facing the theater and waiting for the audience to depart. Their posture was alert and clearly watchful.
“We can go back around the block,” Harte suggested. “It’s a bit farther, but at least we won’t have to pass them.”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t be able to sense us.”
He frowned, remembering the burst of cool energy that had accompanied the three Guardsmen when they’d rushed past outside the theater. It hadn’t been completely natural magic, which would have felt only warm. “I don’t think they’d be able to, but with the Book’s power inside me and with what happened earlier . . .”
She nodded, her golden eyes serious. “You’re right. It’s not worth chancing it.”
The theater was only a handful of blocks from the hotel they’d found, the Jefferson, which was close to the Mississippi River and nestled near the heart of downtown. The building was thirteen stories tall and capped with an ornate decorative cornice that sat like a crown on the top. It was clearly a new building, built for the crowds who would travel to the fair. Even in the overcrowded city, the dirt and grime of horse carts and the soot from the smokestacks of nearby riverboats hadn’t yet marred the building.
Maybe they should have gone with something more inconspicuous, but it had been two years since they’d left New York. They’d assumed two years would be enough time and St. Louis would be enough distance that no one would be looking for them. Besides, the Jefferson featured private baths, and the promise of soaking away the grime of the previous days and the long train ride in his own room—away from Esta and the way she provoked the power inside of him—had proven too great a temptation to resist.
Now, with the clouds hanging even heavier in the sky, flickering with the warning of the storm to come, the hotel looked like a sanctuary. In their rooms, they’d be safe. They had a couple of hours before they were supposed to meet Julien, when he’d bring them the stone, as Harte had silently demanded before they parted ways. He needed that time to fortify himself. It took so much energy to keep the voice inside of him locked down, to keep a handle on the power that constantly threatened to bubble up—especially when Esta was so close.
When they entered the peacefulness of the lobby, it was a marked difference from the bustling and cramped city outside the front doors. The moment he was inside, Harte felt some of the evening’s tension drain from him as he was enveloped in the hush of the hotel. A mezzanine balcony ran along all four sides of the lobby, and marble columns ringed the room, supporting an arched ceiling that was painted with the verdant green of lifelike palm trees, while crystal chandeliers threw their soft light through the fronds of real palm trees throughout the room. From somewhere far off—maybe the ballroom upstairs—music was playing, but despite the small groups of people still milling about, there was a sense of safety in the cavernous, two-story atrium.
They were barely across the lobby, heading for the bank of elevators, each encased in an ornate brass cage, when Harte caught a bit of motion out of the corner of his eye. When he turned, it looked as though the palm trees that were planted in small, private groves around the room were moving, as if blown by some invisible breeze. As he watched, puzzled, the music went silent so that all he could hear was the wind, and the lobby around him seemed to shift—to fade into a different place . . . a different time. . . .
It was night, the ceiling above had turned into a sky dark and starless, and the wind that rustled the palms carried upon its back the scent of betrayal, thick and metallic like old blood. . . . A friend turned foe who would destroy the heart of magic if he held it in his hands. He was coming. . . .
Harte blinked, and the vision faded.
Who is coming?
When he looked again, the palms were still, and he was surrounded once more by the opulence of the lobby, and in the air, there was only the tinkling of music from far off and the quiet murmur of conversation. But the power inside of him was rioting.
Esta’s arm had tightened around his.
“What is it?” he asked, thinking that maybe she had just seen the same dark night and felt the same unsettling awareness that something awful was on its way.
“To your left, there by the large palm. Gray pants and a light-colored jacket,” she said, and he knew in that instant that she wasn’t talking about whatever it was he’d just seen.
“There’s one leaning against the front desk—no! Don’t actually look at them,” she hissed.
“Who?” he asked, fighting the urge to crane his neck around and trying to ignore the way the voice inside of him was rumbling, its power churning and building.
“I don’t know, but they’re definitely not guests. I’ve known how to case a place since I was eight. I know what a cop looks like even when he’s not in a uniform,” she told him. “They just have this way of standing and a watchfulness about their eyes that isn’t quite easy, no matter how good they are at being undercover.” She finally glanced over at him. “You’re sure Julien wouldn’t go after the bounty?”
“I made sure,” he said, bristling at her doubt. The memory of the vision had put him on edge, and Esta’s questioning only made it worse.
“Well, maybe it didn’t work—”
Before she could finish, he pulled her to the side, backing her against one of the large marble columns and positioning them both behind one of the palms, so she would have a view of the room behind him. Wrapping his arms around her, he leaned in, so his face was close to her neck. He was gratified to feel the hitch in her breath.
But the voice was seething with anticipation.
Her voice came soft and breathy. “What are you—”
“See how many there are,” he whispered close to her ear, testing his self-control even as the power inside of him surged at her nearness.
He felt the moment she realized what he was doing. Her body went pliant against his and her arms reached up to wrap around his neck, joining in on the ruse. It’s just an act, he told himself, ignoring the fact that he didn’t care if it was.
She must have used the French-milled soap she’d found in a shop earlier that afternoon, when they’d purchased the evening wear, because she smelled different than she usually did. The scent was something darkly floral, but beneath the heady, flowery scent was still Esta, clean and real and so familiar that it took all of Harte’s strength to not move closer.
The voice within him purred its encouragement, and he could feel the unnatural heat of it gathering and shifting, ready for the moment when he would be at his weakest. The moment he would forget to hold its power in check.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
He thought of the vision he’d had at the train station—Esta with her eyes replaced by an endless darkness—and he vowed that he would never be that weak. If the power inside of him grew too strong, he’d leave. He would protect her, even if it meant losing all hope of reclaiming himself. He’d been willing to destroy himself once to quiet the Book. He would be willing to do it again, if it came to that.
But with Esta in his arms and the soft music in the distance and the scent of her surrounding him, thoughts of death faded. He couldn’t quite stop himself from brushing his lips lightly against the warm column of her neck.
Her breath hitched again, and Harte felt the voice urging him on. So he pulled back, refusing both himself and the power any measure of real satisfaction.
“There are six, maybe seven in the lobby,” she told him, sounding steady and sure. But this close, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest, and if nothing else, he knew she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended—he wasn’t alone in how he felt.
“You’re sure it’s the police?” he asked.
“I’m pretty sure,” she told him, her voice a low rasp. “The Jefferson Guards who were at the theater were all wearing armbands—they weren’t hiding what they were.”
“Maybe, whoever these men are, they aren’t here for us,” Harte said hopefully, pushing his luck and his self-control as he nuzzled his nose gently into her hair. The strands felt cool against his skin, like silk, and the voice hummed in anticipation. Instead, he pulled back again, proving to the power inside of him—and to himself—that he could. That he was in control—not his desire and certainly not the voice that was now ever-present in the recesses of his mind.
“Oh, they’re here for us,” Esta assured him. “Or maybe they’re just here for me. . . . The one by the fern keeps throwing glances our way.” She let out a sigh, her breath warm against his neck. “I can’t believe how stupid I was to let you talk me into this place. Even with false names, it was too much of a risk. It’s too big, too central.”
“I know,” he told her, feeling the guilt tug at him. She’d suggested somewhere more out of the way, but after the flea-ridden room in Brooklyn, he’d wanted hot running water and a bed without anything crawling in it. “But it’s too late to go back. We need a way out of here now.”
“Well, it’s not going to be the way we came in,” she said, leaning into him even more.
He couldn’t tell if she was doing it on instinct or if it was part of the ruse, but he held himself back just the same. He could feel the power within him preparing itself, anticipating the moment he would cease to hold it back, and he could not let it win.
“There are too many of them,” she said.
He wondered if she realized how perfectly they fit together, her softness against his own lean lines, or if she knew what it did to him to have her so close and not be able to let himself go any further. His heart pounded in his ears, but he kept himself composed. “Maybe there’s a service exit?”
“Probably,” she murmured, pulling back a bit. “But they’ll be watching it, too.”
He felt her shift in his arms. “What is it?” he asked.
“We have to go,” she whispered. “They’re starting to move. Just . . . act natural. We’ll have at least some advantage if they don’t know we’ve realized they’re here.”
Esta let out an airy laugh that he wouldn’t have expected she had in her. Then she ducked her head away, a show of coyness that was all a display for those watching, before tucking her arm through his and starting to lead him away from their spot among the palms.
Harte saw immediately that it was hopeless. If the men hadn’t looked like police before, they did now, arranged as they were across the room. There was no mistaking what they were doing—covering the exit, so the two of them had nowhere to go. “Now what?”
“I have an idea,” she told him. “The elevator.”
Again they started walking in the direction of the bronze cages, but now Harte was even more aware of how the men in the lobby were able to track them without so much as moving their heads. “Are you mad?” he said, slowing his steps and pulling her back. “If we get into an elevator, we’ll be trapped.”
“We’ll also be out of their sight,” she said. “That will buy us some time. . . . Unless you have a better plan?”
The elevator bank was only a few yards away. “We could run for it. If you think you can control your affinity, you could slow things down and give us a chance to slip out of here.”
“Maybe . . .” Her focus was on the elevators just ahead of them. “But if I can’t control it, we could be in worse trouble.”
Before Harte was ready, they’d arrived at the elevator bank, and before he could stop her, Esta had reached out and pressed the button to call the elevator. Above them, the hand of the elevator’s dial moved steadily toward the bottom, like a clock winding down their time as the men in the lobby began their approach.