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“What’s changed?” Cela asked, trying to ignore the hope that made her feel light-headed.

“This,” Viola said, pulling a small object from her skirts. She held it up for Cela to see. It was about the size of a thin cigar, halfway smoked, and seemed to be made of clay or stone. Or maybe some kind of dark-red rock.

“What is it?” Cela eyed the object, trying to figure out how it could help anything.

The white man’s eyes lit up. “Where did you get—”

“Where is not important,” Viola said, cutting him off with her words and a look. “What is important is this—Libitina, she’s not a normal knife.” Viola’s full mouth pinched tight, but then she explained that the knife’s blade was a wicked bit of magic—false magic, she called it, though it seemed to Cela true enough if it could cause a man’s death so easily. “I was trying to heal him with my affinity, but it won’t work alone. We need false magic to break false magic.”

“And what about this one?” Cela glanced at the man who was blocking the doorway. “Is he some kind of wizard or something to help with your ‘false magic’?”

“No,” Theo Barclay said with an uneasy smile. It was the sort of wobbly smile men who hadn’t grown into themselves still used on their mothers. “I’m a student, actually. Art history.”

Cela couldn’t stop her brows from rising. “That sounds…” She was about to say pointless, but nothing good came from speaking ugly, so she simply shook her head instead. “If you think there’s something you can do, then you best get to it,” she said reluctantly. She wouldn’t let herself hope. Not yet.

Viola started toward the bed, but Cela suddenly had a wave of apprehension and stopped her. “You’re sure this won’t hurt him?”

“It shouldn’t.” But Viola’s strange violet eyes looked unsure. She glanced up at the white man again, like she needed the confirmation.

“I’ve done the translations twice,” he said. “It will work.”

This was another gamble, Cela realized. Another shot in the dark. She hesitated a moment longer, torn and frustrated at her own powerlessness, before she finally relented and let Viola pass. It wasn’t as if there was anything more she or any of Abel’s friends could do for Jianyu. If Viola thought she could help, then who was Cela to stand in her way?

“You ever done this before?” Cela asked as Viola approached the bed.

“Once,” Viola told her, but she didn’t elaborate. “Help me get his shirt off??”

They worked together to carefully remove the shirt until Jianyu’s bare chest was open to their view. When Cela removed the bandage, she saw that the wound in his shoulder hadn’t changed. It was still raw and angry, still seeping blood after so many days. Behind her, Cela could sense Theo Barclay inching closer, but she tried to put him out of her mind—she only hoped he was gone before Abel returned. And that he wouldn’t cause any trouble for them later.

At first Viola didn’t move. She stood, staring at Jianyu. But if just looking at him could fix him, he would’ve been well already.

“Now what?” Cela asked, prodding Viola.

Viola glanced at her. “Now we try…”

The object was the shape of a cylinder, and now that she was closer, Cela could see that its surface was carved with a series of strange markings. When Viola rolled the object through the dark blood oozing from Jianyu’s wound, it acted like a stamp and created a lurid trail of scarlet inscriptions across his shoulder and down over his chest.

Cela thought she had understood what it meant that Jianyu was Mageus. She’d been with him when he’d cloaked them both in his magic to escape a Bowery saloon. Back in Evelyn’s apartment, she’d been caught in a siren’s spell. But this was different. A strange energy filled the room, lifting the hairs on the nape of Cela’s neck. Theo Barclay didn’t seem as shaken as she felt, though. He was watching Viola work with bright interest, but Cela felt only deep unease. She steadied herself as Viola traced the small amulet in strange looping patterns over Jianyu’s chest, and as Cela watched, the bloody runes began to glow.

PLANS TO MAKE

1902—New York

Coming back to life was not at all like waking up. There was no gentle stirring or warm satisfaction to be found in the comfort of a safe bed. Coming back to life was like surfacing through concrete. It was like being trapped in the maze of Diyu, lost between the levels of torments, unable to find the way back.

Jianyu’s chest burned as though he were being flayed alive. His limbs felt like fire was running through his veins, but he was not yet at the surface. Darkness surrounded him, strangled him, even as he struggled against it. But soon the pain was nothing but noise. Soon, even through the terrible weight of it, he could begin to feel something other than the absolute certainty of death.

His eyes opened, but at first he could not see. It took minutes, maybe hours, for the world to come back to him, dim and blurred. He heard voices. Felt the pain recede as worried hands touched his skin. A pair of eyes appeared above him, and he found that he knew them.

“Viola?” Jianyu tried to form the shape of her name, but his mouth was still missing.

He had asked for Viola, had told Cela and Abel that she alone might be able to help him, but he had not been sure that she would come. Not when she had no idea of anything that had happened—not about how Dolph had been murdered or why Darrigan had done what he did. If she was here… If she had saved him, then truly, they might still have a chance.

“He needs water.” Another voice, soft and sure. Cela. In the darkness between life and death, he had heard her voice coming to him from a distance, but he had not been sure whether it was real or a dream. He would likely never be able to repay her for all that she had done.

Jianyu felt something wet and cool against his face, liquid trickling down over his chin, and then his body seemed to understand what needed to be done. Suddenly he was swallowing. Gulping down the bright, cool liquid like it was the source of life itself, until he realized his body’s mistake—or perhaps his body realized his—and he began coughing it back up. He barely cared that the two women leapt to fuss over him, like he was a very old or very incompetent fool of a man. His embarrassment at their fussing did not matter. He was not dead.

Perhaps he had wondered once or twice before what the future could possibly hold for him, trapped as he was in this country—on this island—so far from his homeland. He had wondered when he realized the truth of the Brink, and when a group of men had held him down and cut his queue, making it certain he could never return home. Often Jianyu had questioned whether the constant struggle of simply existing was worth the seemingly endless exhaustion, the endless battle. He had continued on, but he had wondered many times before what it was all for.