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He lifted the dagger and sliced the shirt from the man’s chest. There was more than the warmth of morphine in his blood now. The power within him, that voice that urged him on and guided him, was thrumming with anticipation. It was further proof of his worthiness, further evidence that victory must soon be his.

The maggot was shaking now, fighting against a power he could not hope to defeat. Jack ignored his protests, reveled in his fear, and pressed the point of the dagger to his chest. The bloodred garnet in the hilt grew brighter, and Jack could feel the power within it calling to him.

His hands almost did not feel like his own as they began to guide the blade, slicing into the Chinaman’s chest to create the intricate pattern from the front of the Ars Arcana. Blood welled from the maggot’s skin, and Jack felt the beginnings of feral power stirring in the air as the Aether around him vibrated. He finished his first cut and continued on, carefully replicating the symbol from the Book on the Chinaman’s bare chest. As he cut, the maggot tried to keep himself from crying out. His face twisted with the effort of holding back evidence of the pain, but in the end, he broke. A ragged, guttural moan tore from his throat as the sigil was nearly complete.

Energy pulsed wildly around him, like a small storm building in the otherwise silent warehouse, but the magic seemed erratic. It wasn’t as powerful or sure as he would have expected.

He was nearly done—there were only a few more lines to connect—when someone started pounding on the warehouse door. At first Jack thought to ignore the intrusion. But the pounding grew more urgent, and in the end, he lowered the dagger. He’d waited too long to rush this and miss the moment of completion. He’d get rid of the intruder, and then he would savor it.

It wasn’t like the maggot was going anywhere.

On the other side of the door, his mother’s coachman, Adam—or was it Aaron?—waited, looking uneasy.

“You aren’t supposed to be here yet.” He’d paid the man handsomely to do what he asked and to keep quiet about it.

“Sorry, sir, but I didn’t have a choice,” the driver said, looking nervous. “It wasn’t your mother that sent me. Mr. Morgan himself wants to see you.”

Jack cursed. “You didn’t tell them where I was?”

“No,” the driver said. “They didn’t ask. Just told me to go fetch you and make it quick.”

“Give me a minute,” he told the man, and then slammed the door in his face.

He considered the body of the maggot suspended a few yards away and cursed again. The rest of the ritual would have to wait. It was too delicate a procedure to rush and risk a mistake, especially when he couldn’t be certain that he could find another maggot with so much power again before the Conclave. And he couldn’t make his uncle wait. Not now, when he was so close. If the Order suspected what he was doing, they might realize what he had in his possession, and they’d certainly try to take it for their own.

He couldn’t allow that to happen. His plan to unseat the Inner Circle from power depended on the element of surprise.

Jack tucked the dagger beneath his jacket and then secured the Book of Mysteries in its usual hidden pocket, close to his heart. He left the maggot where he was, suspended in the Aether. Once he dealt with his uncle and whatever demands Morgan felt like issuing, he’d return and finish the job. By the time tomorrow dawned, he would have the stone he needed, and the machine would be complete.

LONGING

Uptown

Cela still couldn’t quite believe that Harte Darrigan was standing there, alive and in the flesh. She didn’t want to believe that it was Viola in his arms, bloody and unconscious and looking like she was two steps from the grave. But denial wouldn’t keep her friend alive.

“What happened to her?” she asked.

“Nibsy Lorcan,” Harte told her. “She’s hurt pretty badly.”

At this declaration, Ruby wailed and tried to break free of Cela’s hold. But holding the near-hysterical heiress back, Cela waved Harte inside.

“Take her upstairs,” she told him. “Third floor. The room she’s been using is the second door on the left.”

Harte turned to the blond boy that Cela recognized from the night at Evelyn DeMure’s apartment. Logan was his name, or at least that’s what Jianyu had told her. He’d been with Nibsy Lorcan before, but now he was standing next to Darrigan with a dazed expression on his face.

“You listen to Cela,” he told the boy. “Any order she gives, you do it. And you don’t talk to anyone else until I come back. Understand?”

Logan blinked with a far-off look and nodded.

Seemingly satisfied, Darrigan headed toward the house with Viola still draped in his arms. Cela watched him go, far too aware of just how bad off Viola must be to not even stir when he jostled her as he mounted the steps.

Cela looked at Logan. She didn’t have any idea what she was supposed to do with him. The last thing Mr. Fortune would want messing around with his newspaper business was another white boy. “Go on upstairs to the kitchen. Have a seat at the table and don’t go nosing off anywhere.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy said, and then followed Harte into the building.

Ruby was still making a sort of terrible keening sound as she sobbed in Cela’s arms. Any second now, she was going to break completely, but Cela didn’t have time for that. Not with the two white boys making trouble in Mr. Fortune’s building. She took the white girl by the shoulders and, pushing her back a little, gave her a firm but gentle shake. “You gotta stop that noise,” she told her. “Hush, now. Your tears aren’t helping anyone.”

“My fault,” the girl moaned.