DUST AND METAL
1904—St. Louis
While Harte watched the dial of the elevator creep steadily downward, he had the clear sense that their time was running out. Each second that ticked by was one closer to the moment when the police in the lobby would reach them. But after a string of seconds, nothing had happened.
“They’re not coming,” he said, when he realized the plainclothes officers had stopped approaching.
“If they already knew we were here, they probably have people stationed in our rooms,” she told him, sounding far calmer than he was feeling. “There’s no reason to create a public scene if they can get to us there.”
Which didn’t make him feel one bit better. “If we can’t go to our rooms, where are we going?”
She glanced at him. “We’re in a hotel, Harte. It’s filled with rooms. We don’t need our own.”
Inside, the power of the Book felt unsettled, as though it were a caged animal pacing. “They’ll be able to see which floor we stop at,” he argued, his chest feeling tight as the hand of the dial reached the bottom and the elevator groaned to a stop.
“That’s the idea,” she said, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against his lips.
It was over before he’d realized what had just happened. He barely registered the shocking warmth and the softness of her mouth against his. If it weren’t for the absolute torment of the voice’s realization that he’d let her slip away again, he might have thought he’d imagined the whole thing.
The elevator doors opened, revealing an interior empty except for the operator. “What’s the plan?” he murmured as they stepped inside the close quarters of the elevator.
Earlier that day, he’d admired the polished wood and gleaming mirrors of the interior. When they’d first checked in, Harte had thought the elevators were sleek and modern, a marvel of the age, but now the mirrored cage felt as airless and constricting as a prison cell. Once the doors closed and the elevator started moving, they would be even farther from any chance of escape.
“Seven, please,” Esta told the operator, an older man with deep brown skin who was dressed in the pristine uniform of the hotel porters.
Harte realized that she had spoken loudly enough for the men in the lobby to hear.
“Yes, ma’am,” the operator said as he set to closing the gate.
The moment the doors were closed and the operator had pressed the lever forward, causing the elevator to rise, Esta leaned over and whispered in his ear, “It would probably be better if he doesn’t remember any of this, but we need the elevator to keep moving. Maybe a little more slowly.” She nodded toward the operator. “Have him stop at seven . . . nicely.”
Harte gave her a small nod to let her know that he understood, even if he had no idea how she planned to get them out of the mess they were in once they reached the seventh floor.
The operator perched on a small stool, silent and stoic, facing the switch and monitoring the elevator’s rise, ignoring the passengers in the car, as he’d presumably been trained to. If he’d heard any of their exchange, he pretended not to. If he sensed that anything was amiss, he didn’t show it. But his uniform presented a problem. The operator was buttoned up to his neck, his hands and wrists covered with white gloves. Because Harte’s affinity needed skin-to-skin contact, the only option he had was the strip of exposed skin between the high collar of the man’s jacket and the straight edge of his hairline, a gap caused by the way his shoulders were hunched, probably the effect of the long hours he spent on shift.
Harte felt guilty for taking advantage of him, but he couldn’t see any other way out of the mess they were in. He took a deep breath, focusing his affinity and preparing himself—he’d have only one chance to pull this off without having to resort to other, more violent measures. As the elevator passed the second floor, the bell in the car rang and the car itself vibrated slightly. Harte took the opportunity to reach forward and gently touch two fingers against the nape of the man’s neck, pushing his affinity toward the boundary between flesh and soul all at once.
The operator went stiff for a moment, but he kept his hand on the lever, releasing the pressure only a little so the path of the elevator slowed slightly. Harte withdrew his fingers a moment later, and the operator didn’t so much as flinch. The elevator kept climbing, though now more sluggishly, and the operator kept staring at the dial. He and Esta might have been two ghosts for all the poor man knew or cared.
“Boost me up,” Esta said, staring at the wood paneling on the ceiling.
He realized then her intention—above them, the soft light thrown by the glass globe exposed a panel. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered, but he didn’t bother to argue. It wasn’t as though he had a better plan.
Girding himself against the usual rumbling excitement of the voice, he offered his hands so Esta could step into them and then lifted her toward the low ceiling. It took her only a moment to swing the panel open and pull herself up through it.
“Come on,” she said, reaching her hand back for him.
The elevator was still progressing slowly and steadily upward. The bell dinged again as they passed the fourth floor.
“I can get it myself,” he told her, and with a short leap, his fingertips grasped the edge of the opening. As the elevator continued to move, he pulled himself up into the darkness of the shaft. It smelled of dust and metal, and the moment Esta replaced the ceiling hatch, the only light they had to see by were the narrow beams that came through the brass grates marking each floor. The hotel had a bank of three elevators, and together the sound of the machinery driving the cables echoed around them as the individual cars stopped at the various floors.
“Now what?” he asked, reaching out to hold the cable of the still-moving lift to steady himself. The movement of the elevator reminded him too much of the swaying of the train. He took a deep breath and held on more tightly.
Esta didn’t seem bothered by the movement, since she wasn’t holding on to one of the cables. “With any luck, those guys from the lobby are running toward the seventh floor right now. But we won’t be in the elevator when it stops.”
“We can’t stay here, either,” he said. “Even if that operator can’t tell them where we went, they’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Eventually,” Esta agreed, speaking loudly enough that he could hear her over the mechanical clicks and groans. “I’m betting on that, too. They’ll waste manpower and time stopping the elevators and looking for us. But we won’t be here by then, either.” She was peering over the edge of the car, far enough that he wanted to pull her back. “Give me your hand.” She reached back without looking to see if he’d comply.
“What?” he hesitated.
“Your hand. Now!” She looked back at him then, determination flashing in her eyes. “Trust me, Harte.”
Before he could think of all the reasons he shouldn’t, Harte slipped his hand into hers.
Satisfied, she turned back to the edge. “Ready?” she asked, not looking back at him. “One . . .”
“No, Esta—”
“Two . . .” She wasn’t listening.
The contents of his stomach were quickly working their way up his throat. “Don’t—”
“Three!”