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I could tear this all apart.

The thought came to her stark and pure and clear. If North and Everett failed… If the machine goes off, so many people will die. And no one here would mourn the loss. Esta felt all of the hate and all of the fear, thick as the summer’s heat that surrounded her. If North and Everett had not succeeded, she could bring down this entire arena to destroy the tower and the machine it held. And if it also destroyed the thousands of people who cheered on the destruction of innocents? So be it. She could eliminate the threat of Jack Grew once and for all. Esta felt the temptation stirring within her, felt herself pulling the strands of time a little more.…

She stopped, suddenly appalled at the direction of her thoughts. She was shaken by how tempting they had been, even though she didn’t know where those thoughts had come from. Destroying the Coliseum wouldn’t help. She knew that. Tearing this place in two might stop the machine, but it wouldn’t stop the hate.

Esta realized she was hesitating, which was something she’d been doing too much of recently. Or maybe it was an improvement, since her impulsiveness had caused her so many problems before. But the memory of Denver was still fresh. Somehow, Thoth was not bound by her affinity, and Esta knew that what she was about to attempt might not be easy. But she would not fail again. This time she would be ready. She took one last look at Harte, and then she began moving toward the stage, where Jack Grew waited beneath the night sky.

When Esta finally made it to the center of the arena, she climbed the steps to the stage, careful to sense any possible disturbances in the Aether. Ready for whatever might happen.

Jack stood before her with his hand raised and his mouth open, caught in the middle of his ranting. Esta hadn’t seen him since Denver. It had been only a matter of weeks for her, but for Jack it had been much, much longer. The years hadn’t been kind to him. He looked even older now than the very first time she’d encountered him, back in Schwab’s mansion in New York. His already-soft face now sagged with age, and his skin gleamed with sweat, pink and sallow all at once. If he’d ever been an attractive man, the years—and the drinking—had stolen his looks as deftly as any thief. Jack’s eyes were the same, though. Watery blue, they still burned with righteousness and hatred, and looking at him, Esta knew that she would not be sorry for whatever happened to him tonight—whatever she had to do.

She took one final look around the room to see the world as Jack saw it. Patriotic bunting decorated the balconies and draped from rafters overhead, men wore boaters trimmed with red, and the crowd was entirely focused on the stage, so many of them with a feverish look in their eyes. Because they believe in this. Because their own lives were so narrow and pinched and fearful that Jack Grew was enough to represent a hope for something more—or at least, something different.

Slowly, Esta inched closer to Jack. His raised arm made what she had to do even easier, not that she really needed the assistance. She’d been lifting wallets and diamonds for as long as she could remember, and dipping her fingers into the concealed pocket within Jack’s coat felt as natural as breathing to her.

The Ars Arcana was there, waiting for her, like she knew it would be. Her finger brushed against the crackled leather, and she swore that she felt a light frisson of energy, warm and cold mixed together. This time she would not lose it. This time there was no chance of her being pulled into the darkness of the void, not while the cuff was on her arm, ready and waiting.

Carefully, her fingers gripped the Book, and she started to pull. Little by little, inching it out from where it had been concealed, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. When the Book was nearly free, she reached for it with her other hand, to steady the weighty mass of it.

Suddenly Jack’s hand latched onto her wrist like an iron manacle, just like before. This time, though, Esta wasn’t surprised, not like she’d been back in Denver. She acted immediately, using all of her weight and strength to wrench herself free. But it was impossible. Jack was so much stronger than he’d been before. No matter how she twisted or writhed, Esta couldn’t break his grip. It was like wrestling with a marble statue, cold and completely unyielding. Unnatural. But she still had the Ars Arcana gripped tightly in her hand, and she vowed to herself that only death’s fingers would pry it free.

The room was still frozen in time as Jack jerked Esta back to him, and when he opened his mouth, it was not Jack’s voice she heard.

“Where is she?” Jack asked in a voice that reminded Esta of brittle bones and broken stone. He shook her, his strength impossible. “I know she’s here. I can sense her power.” His nostrils flared like he was scenting the air. “Seshat…” The name came out like a whispering hiss, long and soft, but the sound of it was like nails on glass to Esta. Then Jack turned on her, his eyes bleeding into blackness as the pupils grew and obliterated the watery blue, and the world slammed back into motion around her.

UNEXPECTED

1902—New York

Cela listened to the alarm bells bouncing off the sides of the city’s building as the sun traveled toward the horizon. Soon it would set, and New Jersey would begin to grow dark with the first minutes of twilight. The evening creep would find its way to Manhattan’s streets, and she would know—one way or the other—if their plan had worked.

After Cela packed up the spyglass and made sure there wasn’t any evidence of her being up on that rooftop, she took one last look at the towering building to the east. It was something to see, even from that distance. The world was an impossible place sometimes—hate and love, science and magic, all wrapped up into one. It changed so fast, often in the blink of an eye, and yet… some things never changed at all.

She took the steps down to the street quickly. She’d be glad to have her feet on solid earth, where feet belonged, but when she came through the stairwell door into the bar that occupied the bottom floor of the building, the saloon was empty except for two men. It didn’t take a genius to look at their broad, flat foreheads and swarthy skin to know that the Italians hadn’t shown up at this particular bar for a random drink. Even if they hadn’t reached for their guns as soon as she came through the door, Cela would’ve known they were Paul Kelly’s men.

At first she thought maybe she could pretend she didn’t understand why they were there, but she hadn’t taken more than two steps before they closed ranks.

“Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat?” the one said, kicking a chair so it slid across the floor in her direction.

She glanced up at the bartender, a West Indian man who was polishing a glass and who glanced away as soon as their eyes met.

No help at all.

It was clear—he didn’t want any trouble, and she didn’t blame him, exactly. Businesses like this depended on their owners making nice with all types. He didn’t know her and didn’t owe her a thing.

Straightening her spine, Cela faced the two Five Pointers. “Is there something you gentlemen needed?” she asked, pretending innocence.

The one with the scar across his eyebrow smirked. “Sit.”

Reluctantly, she took the chair and did what he said. They’d expected problems, she told herself, but for the Five Pointers to have come after her so soon likely meant that something had gone very wrong.

Cela had known this would be a possibility the second she’d realized the Order had sent three ships instead of one, but she trusted Jianyu and Viola. She only had to wait this out, and they would come through for her. She had to believe that.

It wasn’t like she had much choice.

A few minutes later, things got even worse when Abel was pushed through the door of the saloon by another pair of Five Pointers. He should’ve been clear on the other side of town, so the fact that he was there made Cela’s stomach sink. It meant that things were worse than bad. It meant that things might even be beyond fixing.

She stood to go to Abel, but the one with the scar—and a gun—stepped between them. “Save the reunions for later,” he said, waving his sidearm to instruct two of the others to lead Abel to a chair across the way.