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“You expect me to trust you?” Esta asked, considering her options. His offer might have been more tempting if he hadn’t also just revealed something important: She and Harte had assumed Seshat was the power within the Book, but Thoth’s words confirmed that Seshat had succeeded in placing a piece of pure magic in those pages. If she and Harte could harness it, there was no telling what they might be able to do, all the people they might be able to save.

It felt more important than ever to get the Book. And to get it here and now, before Thoth could get away.

“Trust or not, it matters little,” Thoth said. “One way or another, your affinity will belong to me, and so will Seshat’s. I will no longer be beholden to the tedium of time. My power will truly be limitless.”

“But not really,” Esta told him. “There’s only so much you can do without a body. After all, you needed Jack to get this far. Such a glorious specimen of manhood you’ve selected to do your bidding.”

Jack’s face twisted. “His weakness served my purposes, but soon I will be beyond the need for anything so pedestrian as a body.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But there’s one thing you forgot when you hitched your entire plan for world domination to Jack Grew.”

“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Thoth sneered.

“The funny thing about bodies—especially male bodies—” Esta brought her knee up sharp, right between Jack’s legs, and ancient demigod or not, Jack crumpled at the impact. “They have a certain weakness.”

She didn’t stay to gloat. Snatching the Book from where it hovered in midair, and with time still pulled around her, she started to run, but she’d barely reached the opening of the tent when her vision flickered.

No. This can’t be happening. Not now.

But as she moved, she felt time turning on her. The present moment was there, and then it wasn’t, as the world around her flashed, cycling through the layers of time. Past. Present. And future. All at once. All terribly imminent. She felt herself start to fade, felt the Book fall through her fingers. She grabbed for it again, but it was like she was nothing but a shade, grasping for the reality she was no longer a part of.

PROMISES KEPT

1904—San Francisco

Harte Darrigan had once made a vow to himself that he would never again be tainted by the muck and filth of the streets. He’d spent too many nights curled in doorways with newspapers for warmth, fighting off rats and men alike. Now, though, standing across from the same door he’d approached when he’d first arrived in California, he felt so exhausted and worn down that he could have happily sunk right into whatever the slippery substance was under his feet. But he had the feeling that if he gave in to that longing to rest, he might never get up again.

He hadn’t truly realized how weak he’d become until he’d made the decision to move. It still seemed incredible that he’d managed to get out of the hovel the Committee had kept him in at all. It was another mark of how bad he must have looked—they hadn’t bothered really guarding him. As Harte freed himself and began navigating the streets of San Francisco, he realized that he was in serious trouble. With each new bout of feverish shivering, the mantle of dread he wore felt heavier.

He understood that he would not be able to make it back to the bridge, as he’d promised. He knew that he would never see Esta again, but Harte was determined to make right his biggest mistake. He would retrieve her cuff and return it to her—he would try.

What had he ever been thinking to take it from her in the first place?

He hadn’t been thinking. He’d been desperate. Harte saw now that he hadn’t been brave enough to stay after what had happened in St. Louis. He’d been too afraid that Esta would turn away from him, disgusted by what lived inside his skin. He’d been a fool, and now it was too late.

Harte could only hope that Samuel Lowe hadn’t had a chance to sell Ishtar’s Key yet. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to make it to their meeting at the bridge, but if the cuff was still somewhere in his father’s home, Harte would find it. He could send it to Cela Johnson. Cela could leave the city. She could find Esta and explain. Harte had already asked far too much of the seamstress, but he would ask her for this one last thing as well. He would do everything he could to make sure that Esta knew he hadn’t betrayed her on purpose.

Harte leaned against the damp brick of the building and watched the door across the alley for what felt like ages, until night fell over the city and lights glowed from within the windows around him. But no lights came on in his father’s house. It remained dark and quiet, with no sign of anyone inside.

It was possible that the woman and the boy had left. Harte knew that his father wouldn’t return. He’d made sure of it when he’d used the last of his strength to push his affinity into the men who’d wrestled him to the ground outside the bank. He could have used the opportunity to escape, but instead, he’d chosen to make the men believe they’d seen proof of his father’s treachery. He’d ordered them to put Samuel Lowe on the first merchant ship they could find. It was the most he could do for the boy—one last trick to make the monster in Sammie’s life disappear for good. He hoped it would be enough to give the kid a chance at a real future, a chance Harte had never had.

He closed his eyes and gathered his strength. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could almost see the familiar lines of Esta’s face, and in response, he felt Seshat stir with interest.

You can’t have her, Harte said. Neither of us can. But help me now, and we can both give her what she needs to defeat Thoth. Help me now, and we can end your enemy. You can have your revenge, even if neither of us lives to see it.

He felt Seshat’s frustration at his words, but he also sensed her resignation. Harte didn’t wait for her agreement. Instead, he started across the street and let himself into the darkened house.

The light from a streetlamp poured in through the small windows, casting an eerie pall over the home. It was a small space that held a living area and kitchen all together, but it was neat and tidy, with matched pieces of well-made furniture. On one wall was a large wardrobe cabinet flanked by a couple of low couches. In the opposite corner, a stove stood cold and waiting. It clearly hadn’t been used in some time, but the air still held the smell of spices and oil.

Confident that no one seemed to be home, Harte leaned against the nearby table, but breathing only caused him to erupt into a fit of coughing, which shook his body and sent jolts of pain through him. He gripped one of the chairs, hunching over as he tried to brace himself. Finally, when the fit had passed, he gathered what little strength he had and turned back to his business. He had to find Esta’s cuff.

He started with the wardrobe on the far side of the room. It was a large piece, solid and well made. Behind the closed doors, Harte found a combination of shelves and drawers. He started to open one of the drawers but stopped short. If it hadn’t been so deathly quiet in the house, he might not have heard the noise, but in the muffled silence, the sound of a gun being cocked might as well have been as loud as a cannon. Harte froze.

“Your hands. Put them where I can see.” It was a woman’s voice, soft and accented, but confident just the same.

He turned slowly, raising his hands so that he could show he was no threat. On the other side of the room was the woman who had answered the door so many days before. His father’s wife. She had seemed surprised then—maybe even afraid. Now she wore an expression both fierce and unwavering.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who sent you?”