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“I’m looking for someone,” he said to her, finally remembering that he was here for the Dragon’s Eye and not to claim a family that didn’t know he existed. “Are you Maria?”

The woman shook her head, frowning, and started to close the door, but Harte placed his foot in the jamb and tried again. “Maria Lowe,” he repeated, this time more slowly. “Is she here? Do you know her?”

“There’s no one here by that name.” The woman again tried to push the door shut, this time with more force, but there was something in her expression that made Harte persist.

“If you aren’t Maria, can you tell me where I could find her? She has something of mine,” he said, his voice unsteady with the urgency he felt. “Something I sent her. A headpiece. Like a crown.” With his foot still in the door, he motioned around the crown of her head. “With a large amber stone in it.”

The woman’s eyes widened.

She knew. Harte was sure of it.

It would only take a brush of skin against skin to find out, and it just might be worth risking whatever Seshat might do to retrieve the artifact. Harte reached for the woman, determined to use his affinity no matter the cost, but before he could touch her, he heard the sound of a pistol being cocked, and a voice came from the alleyway behind him.

“Don’t even think about laying your hands on her.”

Harte froze. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, steeling itself for the blow that it expected to feel.

“Put your hands up where I can see them,” the man said. “And step back, or I will not regret putting a bullet in you.”

Harte raised his hands so the man would know he meant no harm as he turned, slowly, his brain struggling to accept the truth. It can’t be.

“Hello, Samuel,” Harte said. He’d never called this man “Father” before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Who are you?” The man narrowed his eyes and adjusted the gun, but Harte didn’t miss the flash of unease in his father’s eyes.

Harte’s first thought was that the man before him was far too small to be the same terror he remembered from his childhood. But of course he would seem smaller. Harte had grown since then. It was more than the height that threw him off, though. There was something essentially changed about his father. Samuel Lowe was wearing a dark gray suit, nothing as precisely tailored as Harte had once bought himself, but well-made nonetheless. His eyes were sharper and clearer than Harte had ever seen them, and his skin was lined but not sallow or puffed from too much cheap gin. If Harte had met this man on the street, he might not have realized who he was.

“You are Samuel Lowe?” he pressed. “The same Samuel Lowe who once lived in New York with Molly O’Doherty.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.” He was still aiming the gun at Harte, but uncertainty flared in his expression. “Who are you?”

If Harte had any doubts about who this was, they evaporated. Even so many years later, his body still remembered the fear that tone used to inspire.

But Harte wasn’t a child any longer. He was a few inches taller than his father, his body lean and strong from years of discipline and training, and he’d survived in a world that was bent on destroying him for too long to fear much of anything now. Instead of cowering, as he might have before, he straightened a little, jutting out his chin in an unmistakable challenge.

“You know exactly who I am,” Harte said flatly, tossing the words out like a dropped gauntlet. “Or don’t you recognize your own son?”

CORSICANA

1904—Texas

Jack Grew wiped the sweat from his brow as he directed his horse to follow along behind the sheriff of Corsicana, Texas. Once he’d received news that Esta had been spotted, Jack had taken the first train he could get out of St. Louis, but he’d still been too late. The Devil’s Thief had evaded him again. Darrigan as well. And they’d left a trail of destruction in their wake.

Some of the men who had witnessed the events of the day before were with him. Riding behind Jack were Jot Gunter and other members of the Ranchers’ Syndicate. Gunter was like many of the Syndicate’s members: old, rich, and entirely too convinced of his own importance. But then, the ranchers in the Syndicate thought far too highly of themselves in general. They might own large swaths of the country, land where oil had been discovered a few years back, but they were still upstarts. Parvenus. Without breeding or history. The horses they rode had finer pedigrees than the men themselves, and the fact that the men seemed so proud of their backwater dump of a town only proved how pointless they were.

The last time Jack had seen Gunter was in New York at the Conclave, back in 1902. Gunter had been one of the representatives from the Syndicate. Like the men from the other Brotherhoods, he’d come to gloat. The members of the other Brotherhoods had believed the Order had been dealt a blow when Khafre Hall had burned, but they’d found out differently that cold December night two years before. Thanks to Jack, the Order had prevailed and would continue to lead the Brotherhoods through the new century.

Not that Jack would remind these men of this. He could pretend that they hadn’t once been adversaries now that he had won. After all, it was always good to have allies, especially when they were weak men who could be controlled.

A quarter mile from the town itself was the site of the engine’s explosion. There, the ground was scarred and split. Deep gashes spread from a larger chasm in the dusty earth, which was being guarded by a group of men with guns at the ready. As they got closer, a pair of men on horseback with bronze stars on their lapels rode out to meet the group. Other men, both on horseback and on foot, stood watch, probably to keep away the scavengers and newspapermen who swarmed around tragedies like vultures.

Federal marshals. Jack should know—he’d given the order for them to be there. The last thing anyone needed was for the locals to muck up the investigation.

Gunter and the mayor exchanged some words with the pair of marshals. Gunter made a show of puffing himself up as he spoke, but the two lawmen listened with uninterested silence, their faces shadowed by the broad brims of their hats. They simply shook their heads. Impatient with their lack of cooperation, the sheriff nudged his horse forward and tried to speak with the men. That didn’t make any difference either. The two marshals only frowned at him as they exchanged words in low, hard tones, and the sheriff grew more agitated by the second.

Jack could feel the sweat rolling down his back as he allowed the sheriff and Syndicate men a little more time to display their own ineptitude. Then, growing bored, he urged his horse forward.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Jack drawled, giving the marshals a status they didn’t quite deserve. “I’ve come to survey the site on behalf of Mr. Roosevelt.”