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Harte frowned. “Her death doesn’t change anything,” he said. “I need the item I sent her—a headpiece made of gold that holds an amber stone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His father feigned confusion, but Harte could tell he was lying. Samuel Lowe knew the Dragon’s Eye. It was there, clear in the panic that colored his expression.

“That would be a problem for you,” Harte told him. “There are men who want the crown, and when they come for it, you won’t be able to protect yourself or the son you’ve claimed. Better you give it to me now, so I can draw them away. The piece isn’t worth what keeping it will cost you.”

“I think I’ll take my chances,” Samuel Lowe said, lifting his chin.

“I don’t think you understand,” Harte told him. “You don’t have a choice. You can either give me what I’ve come for, or I will destroy this new life you’ve built for yourself piece by piece. I will destroy you, too, just as you destroyed my mother.”

“And what about my son?” Samuel Lowe asked. “Would you leave him destitute and fatherless? Unprotected?”

Harte hesitated, thinking of the boy with the gray eyes so like his own, and that hesitation was enough.

Samuel Lowe’s mouth twisted mockingly. “No… You won’t hurt him,” he said. “You don’t have it in you.”

Seshat laughed her dry, papery laugh, as though she agreed.

But Harte was sick of both of them. “Are you so sure?” He clenched his fists at his sides. “Blood will tell, after all, and it’s your blood that runs in my veins.”

His father blanched, but the second the words were out, Harte felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. He’d just threatened a child’s life—his own brother’s life—to get what he wanted. Could he really do it, if the moment arrived?

His father looked wary, and Harte hoped that the threat alone would be enough.

“You should go,” his father said again, as another echoing shout sounded in the distance. “The Committee has eyes and ears everywhere, and you wouldn’t want their watchmen to find you. Especially considering what you are. They make it their personal job to clean the city of filth like yours.”

“If they take me, I’ll be sure to direct them back to you,” Harte said, without flinching. “You’re better off to let me in.”

Color climbed into the old man’s cheeks, but he didn’t take the bait.

“The woman who answered the door,” Harte said. “She doesn’t know about your life before, does she?” From the way his father’s eyes shifted to the side, Harte knew he was right. “I bet you hadn’t told her anything about New York. And the boy—I’d wager that he didn’t know about me either.”

His father’s expression went tight, but Harte couldn’t quite read the emotion. There was definitely anger there, but there was something more, something that couldn’t possibly be regret clouding his father’s eyes. After all, the man he’d known hadn’t been capable of remorse.

“You can make all of this go away,” Harte said again, more gently this time. “Simply give me what I came for, and I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again, and you can go on pretending that I don’t exist. It will be like this never happened.”

Suddenly Samuel Lowe looked older and more exhausted. “It’s not that easy,” he told Harte, shaking his head.

It never is, Harte thought.

“I won’t discuss this here. Not in the open. We’ll go to a place not far from here, where it’s safe. To talk.” This time the old man didn’t wait to see if Harte would follow. He simply started walking away, toward the streets beyond the narrow alley.

Why don’t you take him now? Seshat whispered, taunting. It would be so easy for you to reach out and take what is yours. What keeps you from it, other than weakness?

What did keep him from reaching out and using his affinity against his father? It would be easy to command him to hand over the crown.… But Harte knew that if Seshat was urging him on, she was up to something. She would never allow him to retrieve the Dragon’s Eye so easily, and now that he knew about the existence of his brother, there was more than one life at stake.

Weak, Seshat whispered, mocking. It is the reason you cannot hope to win.

Harte hesitated only a moment before, cursing to himself, he followed his father back into the heart of Chinatown.

CARELESS VIOLENCE

1904—San Francisco

It was growing late, but as Harte followed after his father, the sidewalks were still teeming with a mixture of Chinese men in traditional wear with queues down their backs and groups of white men in more Western-style clothing, who were clearly there for whatever amusement they could find.

The presence of those outsiders felt somehow different than in New York, where the rich from uptown would often go slumming on Mott Street to gawk at the Chinese people who were only trying to go about their day. Here the other white men didn’t seem so much observers as participants, and the air was filled with the kind of electric anticipation that can happen only at night, when the world turns toward the shadows and revels in its baser instincts. The air was filled with the scent of grilled meats and heavy spices, garlic and liquor, all mixing together with the familiar smells of the city that Harte loved and hated at the same time.

They wound their way through the crowded streets and then exited the other side of Chinatown through the barricade. A few blocks away, they turned off the larger boulevard to find a stretch of blocks tucked away from the main thoroughfare. There, saloons and beer halls lined both sides of the streets. Women in various states of deshabille stood near some of the doorways, calling to the men who passed.