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There wasn’t time, though. Even if Esta had wanted to help him, police were already on their way through the frenzied crowd, which had finally managed to pry open the arena doors and was pushing to escape. She scrambled to her feet and reached for the hilt of the dagger. There was a sickening feel of bone grinding against metal and the wet suck of blood and muscle as she pulled the dagger from his chest.

The second the blade was free, Jack’s arm went limp, falling to the floor next to him. His eyes were open and unseeing, a cloudy blue with no trace of black.

Esta turned back to Harte, who was still trying to right himself. She tried to pull the seconds slow, but her affinity slipped from her fingers as her legs wobbled beneath her. She’d given every bit of her energy to fighting Seshat and destroying Thoth, and now she was too exhausted to hold time for more than a second. Before she could reach Harte, they were surrounded by men in police uniforms, and Esta’s arms were being wrenched behind her back.

Unable to do anything with her arms pinned, Esta watched as the men picked Harte up. Then they were moving, her barely able to keep on her feet and Harte half carried by the officers who’d surrounded them. Before the crowd could realize what had happened or could turn on them, they were whisked by the police down the back of the stage and then out through a hidden exit near the side of the arena.

Esta was too exhausted to struggle free of the police officers’ hold on her. Instead of fighting, she let herself go limp and allowed them to carry her along. She hoped that she could collect enough strength to escape once they were no longer touching her, but the officers didn’t release her as they led her and Harte outside to a waiting police van. Another officer with a face like a knife waited there, rifle at the ready. Deep-green eyes over a sharp nose met hers, and Esta had the oddest sense that she’d seen him before. She probably had, patrolling in the arena.

“Get them in the back,” he growled as they approached.

When the van doors opened, Esta saw that Everett was already there, sitting on one of the benches with his head in his hands. Unceremoniously, she was hoisted up and shoved into the van, landing at his feet.

Harte was tossed in next, and immediately he reached for her. As he grabbed her hand, Esta realized that all she felt was the coolness of his skin. No sign of Seshat. But even with that knowledge, she still remembered Jack’s watery eyes pleading with her, his lips foaming with blood. She’d killed him. Thoth was gone. But she would have to live with the memory of Jack’s death—the memory of blade on bone and blood—for however long she had left.

The green-eyed officer jumped into the back with them, and Esta scrambled to her feet. Ready for whatever might come.

“Settle down,” the officer ordered as the van doors closed, plunging them all into darkness.

Exhausted and weary as she was, Esta reached for Everett and prepared to slow time, but before she could grasp her affinity, she felt an odd push-pull that reminded her of the chamber they’d used to enter the Nitemarket.

The truck lurched into motion, and Esta stumbled backward, nearly falling. But a pair of arms caught her, and she realized that the darkness of the van was transforming itself. Suddenly, like she had with the entrance to the Nitemarket, she found herself somewhere else entirely.

The police officer who had climbed into the back with them started to laugh. He brushed at the mustache on his upper lip until it seemed to melt into his face. “You should see the looks on your faces,” he said, slapping Harte on the back without any heat or malice. “You’d think you’d never seen a simple makeup powder before.”

Harte looked too dazed to respond. Esta felt the same.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

The officer pushed his cap back on his head and crossed his leg like he was on some kind of pleasure tour. “I do believe this is what they call a rescue,” the officer said.

“Why would you rescue us?” Harte asked, eyeing the officer’s uniform. It looked damned authentic with its double row of buttons and the worn brass star on his chest. “You don’t even know us.”

“Don’t I?” the officer asked, staring at Esta now. “I see the tickets I gave you worked.”

Esta’s mouth fell open a little. “Dom?”

“That isn’t really my name, of course,” he said. “But I guess it’s as good as any of the others, if you need to call me something.”

Harte didn’t quite understand. “But you were—”

“Old? Fat?” The man dressed in the police uniform—Dom, if he was to be believed—shrugged. “And you dismissed me easily because of it, didn’t you?”

“Why would you help us?” Esta asked. She had the sense that Dominic Fusilli never did anything unless he thought he could benefit from it.

“You saved my life,” Dom said, rubbing at his chin. “I figured it’s only right that I return the favor.” When Esta stared at him in clear disbelief, he leveled an unreadable look in her direction. “And you might say I have a vested interest in your mission.”

“How could you possibly know what my mission is?” Esta asked, not bothering to hide her suspicion.

“You want to destroy the Order, don’t you? Bring down the Brink? Once New York is open and free, I can expand the Nitemarket.” He gave her an impish smile. “I figured it was only good business to help you out however I could.”

It was an answer, but she didn’t think it was the entire answer.

“Are you going to tell us where we’re going?” Harte asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dom pushed back a sliding panel in the wall of the truck, and warm air streamed through the opening.

Beyond, Esta saw the gleaming lights of an enormous city. Buildings climbed to impossible heights, even more than they had in either Chicago or San Francisco. At first she was too disoriented to recognize where she was, but then Esta saw the soaring stone towers of the Brooklyn Bridge.