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The realization of what Harte was saying made Esta go cold. If she was being honest with herself, she’d known that this had always been one answer. Originally, before she’d returned to the past and changed everything, Harte had died on the Brooklyn Bridge. Originally, the Book had been lost, and Seshat had never been a threat. Harte wasn’t wrong. If he died now, the ancient goddess would be finished. The world would be safe. She had her cuff. She could go back, set things right before Nibsy could collect the artifacts. With them, Esta could possibly even find Jack and take back the Book.

And Harte would be gone.

It was an impossible choice—a single person for the world itself.

But Esta had the Quellant now, and she had her cuff. She knew how to get the artifacts back and she knew how to subdue Seshat. There was still a chance to save Harte and go back and set things right. She would not choose if there was still a possibility that she could do both.

From within the house, Esta heard a crash that told her time was running out. She gripped Harte around the midsection and pulled her affinity close, concentrating on the seconds and then beyond them, to the layers of years that were and would be. Searching.

A man appeared in the doorway, a satisfied smile drawing his thin mouth into a cruel curve. “Esta Filosik,” he said, apparently not realizing what she was doing.

She didn’t even bother to look up. All of her concentration was on searching for the right year. Too close and there might not be medicine advanced enough to save him. Too far, and Esta risked any number of things—including crossing the stones with one of her many previous trips through time.

“Mr. Grew sent us for you,” the man said.

Maybe she should have cared that this man could take her to the Book. Maybe she should have allowed him to lead her directly to Jack, but Esta knew Harte wouldn’t make it if she did.

“You can tell Jack Grew that he can go to hell,” Esta growled, finally finding the place she wanted—a clearing, a flash of chrome, and the whirling brightness of neon lights—and she closed her eyes and focused all her affinity on that time and place. On the possibility that waited there.

The man lunged for her, but she rolled them both away, through the layers of time to the city that waited beyond. As she slipped through, Esta felt the darkness rise in her. Around her. Consuming her. Seshat’s power felt weaker than before, but it was still more than Esta could control. The ground began to shake, tossing the man back as it cracked beneath his feet.

Power slammed through Esta, hot and potent and so satisfying, and suddenly she lost hold of the layers of time. The ground was still shaking beneath her, more violently now. She heard someone scream, a crash.

She knew it was Seshat, but she could not give up. Not when Harte’s life was at stake.

With all of the strength she had, Esta shoved Seshat’s power back as she pulled on her own affinity again. She felt Ishtar’s Key heat dangerously against her arm as she pushed through the layers. Another power was sliding alongside her own. The ground continued to tremble, and as a chasm opened beneath them, Esta found herself falling, not into the gap in the earth but through time once more as darkness swelled and the world began to crumble around her.

A NEW ALLIANCE

1902—New York

Viola sat with Jianyu at the edge of the small room at the rear of the house, listening to Abel Johnson explain the situation they were facing to his friends. The back room was crowded with people, like too many sardines in a can. The air was hot and close, and tempers were beginning to fray. Though Viola remained quiet in the corner, she did not miss how some of Abel’s friends often turned, giving her sideways glances without hiding their unease. She tried hard not to care.

She and Jianyu, along with Theo, Cela, and to some extent, Abel, had spent the last few weeks waiting and planning, but things had changed, and now everything was moving too quickly. Thanks to Theo, they knew that in a matter of days the Order would bring the Delphi’s Tear back into the city and install it within the inner chambers of their new headquarters. If that was allowed to happen, the chances of ever retrieving the ring would become much more unlikely—maybe impossible. With the shortened timeline, it had become obvious that they needed help.

Abel had finished his explanations, but he hadn’t quite come to his point. Viola could read the mood in the room, though. Already she sensed that things would not go so easily as Cela and Abel had assured her.

When Cela glanced back at the two of them, her expression was guarded. Cela had been cordial ever since Jianyu had woken, but Viola knew that Cela had still not forgiven her for attacking Jianyu. For attacking her.

Cela’s constant suspicion grated, but Viola accepted it as her due. It was no more than she was used to, after all. Hadn’t she lived with looks just as sharp for as long as she could remember—from her own family, and later from those in the Devil’s Own who did not understand why Dolph should put so much trust in a woman? If a lifetime of judgment had not broken her, neither would Cela Johnson’s. No matter how deserved that judgment might be.

“The bottom line is that this isn’t our fight, Abel,” the one called Joshua said with a frustrated sigh. He was a stout man, whose shirt stretched tight across his stomach whenever he moved. He was maybe a year or two older than Abel and had a quietness about him that Viola had appreciated when they’d first met more than a week ago. This quietness gave his words more weight somehow. “We have pressure coming at us from all sides with the strike looming in Philadelphia, and now you’re asking us to go stirring up trouble with the Order? If we do that, we’ll be putting a mark on the back of every Negro in this city.”

“We’re already wearing that mark,” Abel said.

“Well, I damn sure don’t need to make the one on my back any bigger,” another man argued. He was older still, and his face wore the kind of weariness of someone who worked too much and for too little. His hair was tightly curled about his head and had a reddish cast when the light hit it.

“I understand, Saul,” Abel said. “But maybe by working together, we can make those targets a little smaller. Maybe we don’t have to fight alone.”

“Or maybe helping these folks does the opposite,” another said. “We have families of our own to protect.”

Saul’s wife, a woman with skin as dark and smooth as ebony, placed her hand on Saul’s knee. Her hair had been pulled back from her narrow face in a serviceable braid, but the humidity of the day had it curling around her temples, not much different from what Viola’s own hair was doing at that moment. “We got children, Abe. Are you really asking us to put them at risk for a fight that isn’t even ours? I’m sorry, but Joshua and my husband are right. We can’t get involved.” She sounded sorry for it, but unwilling to be moved.

Joshua leaned forward again. His deep-set eyes looked like they had already seen too much. “Look, Abe, I know that you and your sister like these folks, and I’m sure that you want to help, but we have real issues to solve right now. We have the meeting with the steel workers next week. If we can’t get them to open their labor union to our men, it’s going to set us back at least ten years. You should be focused on those problems, not some treasure hunt.”

“It’s not a treasure hunt,” Cela told them, speaking for the first time since they’d gathered.

“You’re right,” Aaron said. “What you’re talking about is robbery.”