UNEXPLAINED DARKNESS
1904—St. Louis
Esta watched Julien’s back as he made his way through the crowded barroom and then out into the night. “You’re sure he won’t just run to this Society of his and rat us out?” she asked Harte, turning back to him.
His brows drew together. “He won’t tell anyone he’s seen us.”
“But that stuff in his dressing room—the medallions and the sashes,” she pressed. “They were all inscribed with the letters VP. He’s one of them.”
“I know, but Julien’s not stupid,” he said. “He might not like it, but he’ll give us the information we need to protect himself and his career.”
Esta frowned as Harte called for another glass of whiskey, and when it arrived, he drank it down in a single long swallow. He didn’t say anything else at first. He simply sat, staring sightlessly for a moment, his cheeks flushed from the drink as the piano’s music wrapped the room in its hypnotic rhythm. It was a ragtime tune, a syncopated run of grace notes and black keys. It had been in the background all night, but now with the silence hanging between her and Harte, she couldn’t help but listen. And as she did, she could practically hear the future in the rhythms and chords—the lazy, laid-back, just-behind-the-beat attitude that would eventually become the blues and jazz and then rollick through the twentieth century with chimerical transformations.
For now, though, it was simply a ragtime tune on the verge of something more, but it seemed to be a promise—or maybe a warning—that they, too, while safe for the moment, were on the verge of something they couldn’t predict.
“So Julien is . . .” She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, not with the way Harte was looking at her, eyes stormy and unreadable.
“He’s a damn genius,” Harte said flatly. It did not sound like a compliment. “You saw him onstage earlier, and you saw him here tonight.”
She had. Everything about Julien, from the sharp part dividing his dark hair to the way he used the thick cigars as props to punctuate his words, was the portrait of male confidence. If Esta hadn’t seen Julien remove the blond wig and stage makeup with her own eyes in the dressing room earlier, she would have had trouble believing he was the same woman who had captivated the entire auditorium with her throaty, heartrending song.
“Which Julien is the real Julien?” she asked. “And which is the act?”
Harte frowned. “Honestly, I’m not sure it matters.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “A long time ago I reached a point where I decided that Julien is whatever he wants to be. He is the woman who captivates audiences onstage and he’s also the man he appears to be off the stage.” Harte paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. “They’re the same person, and that ability he has—to switch between the two without losing any of himself—he taught me how important it is not to lose the heart of who you are when you’re becoming someone else.”
Esta realized then what Julien had meant when he’d said he’d taught Harte everything he knew. She’d seen in Julien the echo of the same male swagger that Harte carried himself with. Or rather, she supposed, she saw the origin of it. But she couldn’t help wondering who Harte became when he was with her.
“Look, don’t worry about Julien,” he said darkly. “I’ll take care of him.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not cutting me out of this, Harte.”
“I’m not trying to cut you out,” he told her. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“Well, stop trying. I’ve been just fine on my own up until now. I don’t need some knight in shining armor.”
“I never said I wanted to be one.” His voice was clipped. “We’re supposed to be in this together, but you don’t want me to worry about you or do anything to help you. What do you need, Esta?”
I need you to stop pulling away from me.
The unexpectedness of the thought surprised her. “I need you to back off and trust that I know my own limits,” she said instead. She saw the hurt flicker across his features, but she didn’t apologize. “I need you to trust me.”
“You mean like you trust me?” He stared at her for a moment, shaking his head. “I left you alone for an hour and you cut off your hair.”
“It’s my hair, Harte. I can do what I want with it.”
He frowned, his gaze sweeping over her face, down the nape of her neck, and taking in the too-large coat and the rumpled shirt beneath it. As much as she hated to admit it—even to herself—she couldn’t have felt warmer if he’d used his hands instead.
“I would have brought you with me if I’d known you were going to do something so drastic,” he said finally.
“You shouldn’t have left me at all.”
His eyes met hers, and she swore that they were filled with everything he wasn’t saying. Then he blinked and glanced away as though he couldn’t bear to look at her any longer.
She sighed, annoyed at his dramatics. “You’re giving yourself way too much credit, Darrigan,” she told him. When he didn’t acknowledge her words, she rapped on the table between them to get his attention. “Did you hear me? This was my choice.”
He still wouldn’t look at her. “If I hadn’t left you and made you angry—”
“I would have done it anyway,” she said, interrupting him before he said anything even more stupid. “It was a necessity. I’m taller than most women. I stand out. But as a man, I’m average. Easy to overlook. And you saw what happened back at the Jefferson. A hat can fall off or hairpins can come loose. We can’t risk that happening again—I couldn’t risk it. It’s just hair.”
He frowned at her as though he didn’t believe her—or maybe he just didn’t want to believe her.
“Besides, I like it,” she told him, lifting her chin in defiance. “Julien’s right—I have the bones to pull it off . . . and the confidence.”
His expression told her that he didn’t agree, but there was some other emotion in his eyes. Something almost hungry. For a moment she felt caught by the intensity there.
“You’re dangerous enough on your own without Julien’s help.”
Her cheeks felt suddenly warm. “You think I’m dangerous?” she said, fighting to keep her lips from curling into a smile. She liked the idea of him seeing her that way, liked the idea of keeping him on his toes even better.
“From the moment I saw you in the Haymarket. But you don’t need me to tell you that.” The stormy gray of his irises seemed somehow darker than it had been a moment before. Again she thought she saw the flash of unnamed colors in their depths. “You already know you’re dangerous.”
He was right. She’d trained her whole life to be a weapon, but him acknowledging it didn’t delight her any less.
“This will work.” She felt the truth of it now, deep inside. “Julien will help us get the necklace, and then we’ll move on to the next stone. After all,” she said with a self-satisfied smirk, “I am the Devil’s Thief, aren’t I?”
Something shifted in his expression. “I’m not sure that’s a title you want to be claiming.”
“You’re not still worried about the people in the ballroom, are you?” she asked, remembering the thrill she’d felt at the sight of them—their masked faces and billowing skirts. Most of all, she remembered the way the mood in the ballroom had transformed from festive to fearful as the men surrounding them scurried like roaches to escape.
“If those were the Antistasi, we need to steer clear of them,” Harte said. Then he told her what Julien had relayed to him, about the attacks on the Exposition and other places around town.
“They’ve hurt people?” Esta asked, feeling a tremor of unease—and, oddly, disappointment.
“And they’ve done it using the name of the Devil’s Thief,” Harte said darkly.
“Because of the train,” she said, her mood falling. “Because I started this.”
Harte’s brows drew together. “You didn’t blow up that train, Esta.”
“Maybe not intentionally,” she said. “But something happened to it. I slipped through time, and people died.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you had nothing to do with it,” Harte argued.
She shook her head. “You don’t really believe that. Look what happened in the hotel, and in the station. Even on the bridge, when we were crossing the Brink. Something happens to me when I use my affinity around you. There’s something about the power of the Book that changes it. Whenever I try to hold on to time, I see this darkness I can’t explain.”
“Darkness?” Harte asked. He’d gone very still.
“When I use my affinity, I can see the spaces between time, but when I’m touching you, it’s like those spaces become nothing. Like time itself is disappearing. Didn’t you hear those elevator cables? It sounded like they were about to snap.” She licked her lips, forcing herself to go on. “What if that’s what happened to the train?”
He was frowning at her again, and when he finally spoke, it sounded as though he was choosing his words carefully. “You don’t know that. What we do know is that you didn’t intend to do anything to that train. If these Antistasi are using whatever happened for their own benefit, they’re nothing but opportunists.”
“Or maybe they’re just trying to make some good come of a tragedy,” she argued. “You heard Julien. Jack used the derailment to drive fear and anger against Mageus. Maybe the Antistasi are just answering those lies.” Because someone had to. “These Antistasi might be opportunists, but they helped us escape tonight. Maybe that makes them our allies.”
“We don’t need allies,” Harte argued. “We need to get the necklace and get out of town as quickly as possible. The sooner we get the necklace, the sooner we can collect the rest of the artifacts and get back to the city to help Jianyu.”
“Fast might not be possible. We had a whole team going into Khafre Hall,” she told him. “If there are a group of Mageus here in St. Louis who are actively working against the Guard, maybe we could use them.”
“To do that we’d have to find them and convince them to trust us. And we’d have to figure out if we could trust them,” Harte told her. “The police and the Guard already know you’re here. The Order will know soon too. The faster we’re out of this town, the better.”
Esta couldn’t disagree with that. Even though she was less recognizable with her new haircut and wearing a man’s suit, the longer they stayed, the more dangerous it became. Finding the Antistasi would take time, but she wasn’t sure that Harte was right about his reluctance to at least look into them.
By then the pianist was playing the final chords of his song and the people on the dance floor had started to thin. “We should go,” he said, but she didn’t miss the tightness in his voice or the way the muscle in his jaw ticked with frustration.
Fine. He could sulk all he wanted as far as she was concerned. What he couldn’t do anymore was leave her out.