KING’S SALOON
1904—St. Louis
Harte was nearly a block away from the boardinghouse when he realized what he’d just done. Esta was going to murder him—or worse—and he would deserve every bit of it.
When they’d first arrived at the boardinghouse, he hadn’t intended to leave her there, but she looked so miserable and tired that he thought it would be better for her to rest. When he turned and saw her half-dressed, though, he had to get away. With her hair falling around her face like some sea nymph come to the surface to tempt him, the power inside of him urged him to go to her.
Or maybe he couldn’t blame that impulse entirely on the Book. It had felt a little like the first time he’d seen her, that night at the Haymarket, when he’d found himself walking toward her even before he understood what he was doing. That particular decision had earned him a sore tongue, so he didn’t trust his instincts one bit where Esta was concerned.
Nor would he let himself become some puppet for whatever was living inside of him. Not as long as he could fight it. If the voice was telling him to go to Esta, to let himself have her, then he would do the opposite.
But in truth, he’d left her there because he was a coward. And he probably could have used her at King’s. After all, he hadn’t been the one to notice the police at the hotel, and he doubted he’d be able to pick any out at King’s, should they be waiting.
When Harte stepped into the saloon, there was no sign of Julien. He ordered a drink at the bar and found a table in the corner to wait—and to watch.
King’s was about half the size of the Bella Strega, the bar Dolph Saunders had owned back in the Bowery. Like the Strega, smoke hung thick in the overwarm air and the customers crowded at the bar or around tables, hunched over their glasses as though the whiskey they had ordered would run off if they didn’t stay watchful. But the Strega was always filled with the comforting warmth of magic, and that energy had marked Dolph’s bar as a safe space for Mageus like Harte.
There was a different sort of magic floating through the air in King’s Saloon—a jolt of energy that had nothing to do with the old magic Harte had an affinity for. This magic came from the notes of an upright piano in the corner, where a man wore a porkpie hat pushed back to reveal a wide forehead and a face completely enthralled by the song he was playing. Harte had heard the bouncing melodies of ragtime tunes before, but this man’s fingers flew over the ivory keys with a trembling intensity like nothing Harte had ever experienced. When the man hit the song’s minor chords, Harte felt their dissonance vibrate down into the very core of himself, stirring something he hadn’t known was there. He wasn’t the only one affected—on the tiny dance floor, couples swayed close together, driven by the moody chords and compelling rhythm, their bodies intimately intertwined.
Twenty minutes passed, maybe more, but each time the saloon’s front door banged open, it wasn’t Julien. The meager chunk of ice in Harte’s drink had long since melted. Esta would be waiting, and she’d be mad enough as it was without Harte spending even more time. Maybe something had gone wrong—maybe Julien had gotten himself caught up with the Jefferson Guard or maybe Harte hadn’t given the right suggestion.
Or maybe the Book interfered with my affinity, just as it did with Esta’s.
But he shook off that thought. He felt fine, and in some ways his affinity felt even clearer and stronger than ever. Still, as the moments ticked by, Harte started to think that if Julien were coming, he would have arrived already.
Nearly an hour past the time when Julien should have arrived, Harte gave up and drank the now-warm whiskey, wincing as it burned down his throat. As a rule, he hated hard liquor—hated the way it made his head foggy and his reflexes sluggish—but he had a feeling he’d need some fortification for whatever Esta dished out when he went back to the boardinghouse. He was already on his feet, gathering his still-damp coat to leave, when the door opened once more and Julien appeared, silhouetted by the streetlight behind him.
Julien Eltinge entered the barroom the same way he’d entered the stage earlier that night—like someone who knew he was born to command attention. It wasn’t that he made any fuss—the door didn’t slam, and he didn’t do anything obvious to draw attention to his arrival—but the energy in the air seemed to shift, and the entire barroom felt it.
Though he probably saw Harte immediately, Julien didn’t come over right away. Instead, he took his time circulating through the room, shaking every hand that reached out to greet him, and then accepted a drink from the barkeeper, downing it in a single swallow. It wasn’t an accident, Harte knew. Julien was making it clear whose turf they were on and who was going to take the lead.
Which was fine with Harte. He could just feel the whiskey starting to soften the world, and he needed a moment to gather his wits. When Julien finally decided to approach Harte’s table, Harte got to his feet just long enough to greet him with a handshake.
Julien took the chair across from him without being asked and called for the bartender to bring another round of drinks. “I still can’t believe you’re here. Harte Darrigan, back from the dead and come to haunt me,” he said, chuckling.
“Like I said, Jules, I was in Europe, not dead.”
“You were gone an awfully long time.” Though Julien’s words were neutral, his expression held an unspoken question and, more worrisome, doubt.
“The tour was going well, and we found we liked European sensibilities,” Harte told him, trying to keep his tone easy and carefree. “You know how it is when you find an audience. You milk them while you can. But eventually the money dried up, like it always does. I got tired of the scenery, so here we are.”
“I’m surprised you came back at all.” Julien eyed him. “It was a risk, considering who you’re traveling with—the Devil’s Thief.”
“Don’t start with that again,” he said testily. After the strange women who’d appeared in the ballroom, he’d had enough of the Devil’s Thief nonsense. “She has a name, you know.”
“Yes,” Julien said, studying Harte as though trying to determine the truth of his story. “There are plenty of people who are aware of her name.”
Despite the way the whiskey was making him feel loose, Harte met Julien’s gaze steadily. After a moment Julien seemed to relent. He pulled a case of cigars from his inside pocket and offered one to Harte. When Harte waved him off with a polite refusal, Julien shrugged.
“Your loss.” He cupped his hand around the end of the thick cigar, inhaling as he held a match to its end to light it. Taking a couple of deep puffs, Julien leaned back in his chair, the picture of confidence as the bartender delivered their drinks. But there was still a question in his eyes. “We both know you’re not really here to talk about your European holiday,” Julien said.
Harte’s unease grew, but he put on a mask of outward calm. “Not really, Jules.”
“I didn’t think so. From the company you’re keeping these days, I’d be surprised if you weren’t wrapped up in something big.” He let his words trail off, allowing Harte an opening.
Harte didn’t take it. Just give me the stone, already. “Look, Jules, I’d rather not have to lie to an old friend—”
Julien shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Maybe I’ve turned over a new leaf,” Harte said, with a calmness meant to mask his nerves.
Julien huffed out his contempt at that sentiment. “Like hell you have, Darrigan. I know you too well to believe you could change.”
“Maybe you knew me,” Harte said gently. “But it’s been an awful long time.” It had been even longer for Julien, who hadn’t had two years pass by in a matter of seconds. “Can we just leave it that there are some things you’re better off not knowing?”
Julien studied him a moment longer, puffing out acrid clouds of yellowish smoke from the cigar clamped between his teeth. After a long, thoughtful moment, the corners of his mouth hitched up, and he let out a rusty-sounding laugh. “It’s always something with you, isn’t it, Darrigan? All the times I tried to take you under my wing and show you how not to get yourself in trouble, and here we are again.”
“Did you really expect anything less from me, Jules?”
“Tell me this much, at least—is it the girl?” Julien asked.
“It usually is a girl, isn’t it?” Harte said, trying to make light of Julien’s question.
Julien’s mouth kicked up at the joke. Then he leaned forward, his gaze darting around the room, as though concerned that someone might overhear. But his eyes glinted with mischief, and for a moment Harte could see in them the Julien he’d once known—the old friend who smiled his way through a fistfight and then walked into a barroom with his shoulders back and his head up just to prove no one could keep him down.
“Tell me straight, Darrigan,” Julien said in low tones. “Did she do it? The train, I mean . . .”
Any warmth he might have felt drained away, and Harte was suddenly aware of the cold dampness of his clothes and the danger of the situation. “Esta had nothing to do with attacking any train. And if you ever knew me at all, you’ll know I’m telling you the truth about that.”
Julien stared at him as though considering what he’d just said. Finally, he sat up straight, a knowing look in his eyes as he clamped the cigar between his teeth again. “Because we were friends once, I’m willing to believe you . . . for now. But I’ll tell you this—as a friend—if she is planning on causing some kind of problem here, especially at the Exposition, you’d best steer clear. The mood in the city right now? It’s not good. With all the outsiders, there’s been rumblings about Antistasi causing problems.”
“What’s the deal with them, anyway?” Harte asked. “I’ve never heard of them before.”
“They’re a fairly recent phenomenon,” Julien explained. “Until the Act passed last year, Mageus hadn’t been much of a problem outside New York. Everyone assumed that the Brink had taken care of them, but once the Act went into effect, the Antistasi started causing trouble outside the city. It got bad here in St. Louis when they were trying to build the grounds of the Exposition. A lot of people died.”
“The Antistasi killed people?” Harte asked, his stomach twisting. It was one thing to dress up and set off smoke packets, but murder was something else entirely.
Julien nodded. “Last fall was the worst. Back in October, not long after the Act went into full effect, there was a major attack on the building crews of the Exposition. They used some kind of fog that ate up a good part of Lafayette Park. People who saw it from the outside said it was like a living thing—you could feel the evil coming off it—and the people who got trapped in it lost their minds. Masons destroyed walls they’d just built, electricians set fire to half a block of buildings, and fights—nasty, deadly fights—broke out between people who were friends. When the fog finally lifted, the whole area was covered in ice. People had frostbite—they lost fingers and toes—and water mains all over the site had burst. It set everything back months and nearly caused the Exposition to delay opening. The Antistasi claimed credit for it.”
Harte’s awareness was prickling. The people in the Jefferson had used the same sort of thing for their little performance in the ballroom. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to see what the effect of it would be, but he’d felt the cold magic in that room. From what Julien was saying, they might have escaped more than they’d realized.
Harte had met plenty of Mageus in New York, but he’d never heard of anyone using a fog. Magic—true magic—didn’t need any trick to make it work. It was just a connection with the very essence of the world itself. Now, ritual magic—corrupt magic—that was something different. Ritual magic was about separation. It was a breaking apart of the elements of existence in order to control them instead of working within their connections.
Ritual magic—like what the Order did when they’d created the Brink and what Dolph had done when he’d created the marks worn by the Devil’s Own—always came with a price.
“Did they ever catch the people who did it—these Antistasi?” Harte asked.
Julien shook his head. “No. The Antistasi are damn good at evading capture. But ever since the attack last October, the Jefferson Guard was given as much authority as the actual police to stop them,” he said. “If your girl is here to cause problems, she’s going to have a hell of a time trying to get away after. The police and the Jefferson Guard both . . . none of them are taking any chances. Not with the world watching the Exposition.”
“Esta’s not here to cause any trouble,” Harte told him, which was nearly the truth. Esta certainly wasn’t an Antistasi or any other kind of anarchist. They just needed the necklace, and once they had it, they’d be gone.
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” Julien said. “Where is the minx anyway?”
“I left her behind at our hotel. Told her to stay put,” Harte said gruffly, inwardly glad that Esta wasn’t there to hear him. But it was easier this way, to speak Julien’s language—and to pretend that he had some actual control over the situation. In reality, the idea of anyone being able to control Esta was laughable. “I thought we could handle this between the two of us old friends.”
“Ah,” Julien said, stubbing out his cigar in the ashtray. “So we come to it at last . . . old friend.”
Harte shrugged. “You said yourself that I wasn’t here to talk about my European vacation.”
“I know this is about the package you sent me a couple years back,” Julien said darkly. “That necklace.”
Something about Julien’s tone put Harte on edge. “So it is,” he said carefully.
“When I got the damn thing, I told myself that it would come back to bite me.” Julien leaned his elbows on the table. “The second I got the package and that ridiculous note of yours, I told myself, ‘This is going to be trouble.’ I wanted to send it back, but by then, I’d already heard about your leap from the bridge. I thought about just tossing it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that, either.”
“I can solve that problem right now by taking it off your hands once and for all,” Harte said easily.
“Don’t I wish,” Julien told him, more agitated now. “I’d like nothing better than to give the blasted thing back to you, but I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” Harte said, urging him on.
But Julien was shaking his head, and Harte had the sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to like what Julien had to say next.
“I don’t have it,” Julien told him, and at least he had the grace to look embarrassed.
Before Harte could say another word, a voice broke through the music and noise of the barroom. “What do you mean, you don’t have it?”
Harte looked up, knowing already who would be standing there, knowing before his eyes took in the rumpled, dirty coat and the wide-brimmed hat that Esta would be glaring down at him. But he wasn’t ready for how she looked or what she’d done to herself.
“Well, well,” Julien said as he took her in, head to toe. He tossed a sardonic look Harte’s way, and he knew Julien was laughing at him. “So much for telling her to stay put.”