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I don’t want that power, she told the Book. Told herself as well. I only want to finish what Seshat started. I only want to set things right.

Ancient laughter bubbled up from within the pages, from within herself.

Ah, the voice said, its amusement surrounding her. You would reunite the piece of magic that Seshat stole. You would place the beating heart of magic back into balance with the marching of time. But will you be willing to do what is required?

I’ll do whatever it takes, she said.

But what of the cost?

No matter the cost. She’d already blackened her soul with Jack’s death, hadn’t she? She would pay again and again if she had to. To save the world. To save Harte.

The hilt of the dagger felt unnaturally cold in Esta’s hand, and the energy of the Pharaoh’s Heart pulsed through the Aether around her. She ignored the icy burn and plunged the blade down. The sickening grinding of bone vibrated through her arms as Jack’s watery blue eyes widened in pain and surprise. As though he could not believe she could have bested him. As though he could not believe it was possible for him to lose.

And then Thoth was there, rising up, cold and terrible in his fury, and she did not hesitate to reach for her own terrible power, the affinity that was as much a part of her as her own skin. Without hesitation, she pulled at the Aether, the substance that held together all things. Time. Magic and its opposite. And she did not stop until the darkness that lived in the spaces between all things flooded into Thoth and tore him from this world.

That darkness poured from Jack and, as before, his screams and Thoth’s mixed. It became a living thing—as alive and prescient as Thoth himself—as it gathered into a malevolent cloud swirling above. When Jack slumped back to the ground, emptied, the dark cloud broke, shattering itself into a million tiny shards. They fell like needles of cold energy onto the crowd—onto Esta—slicing through her too tender skin. It felt like the Brink crashing over her.

And then, all at once, it was over.

Esta was still gripping the hilt of the dagger, still pressing it into Jack’s chest, but suddenly she felt the warmth of Jack’s hands covering hers. She startled, because this hadn’t happened before. It wasn’t part of the memory. She looked down, but it wasn’t Jack’s hand that had gripped hers. Now it was Harte who lay beneath her. Harte whose lips were frothing with blood and whose hands were wrapped around hers, trying to pull the dagger from his chest. At the sight of his stormy eyes wide and empty, filled with an inky darkness, Esta scrambled away—

And fell off the edge of the world.

Her eyes flew open the second she landed, and it took more than a few seconds before the dream began to burn away and she realized where she was. Not in Chicago. Not in the presence of Thoth. No longer trapped in the nightmare that had felt like truth itself.

Moonlight filtered through the high, clouded windows of Dom’s warehouse. Brooklyn. They were in Brooklyn now, she told herself, still trying to calm her breathing. Jack was dead and Thoth was gone, and it had been a dream. Only a dream.

But it felt too real. Even now, she felt the voice inside her, brushing at the fears deep within her.

Her mouth tasted foul, and her skin felt like ice. She’d fallen off the ratty couch she and Harte had curled themselves up on once they’d arrived. Harte was still asleep there. He shifted, moving into the space she’d just vacated, and though his face was calm and peaceful, Esta couldn’t shake the image from her dream: his lips frothing with blood, his beautiful eyes clouded over by an inky black emptiness that obscured their usual stormy gray. There was a part of her that wanted to climb back up next to him, to tuck herself into his warmth and pretend for just a little while longer that everything was okay. But the dream was still too thick, too close.

Instead, Esta pulled herself up from the cold, filthy floor and eased the satchel from beneath Harte’s head. She looked down at him, peaceful as he was, and forced the remaining vision of the dream away. Until it was only Harte as he truly was, his dark hair mussed from sleep, his cheekbones still too sharp from nearly dying of plague.

Unable to stop herself, she leaned down until her face was close to his. Even in his sleep, Harte seemed to sense her there and lifted his chin until their lips met. It was the barest brush of a kiss, nothing more than the whisper of their mouths meeting, but Esta felt the last bit of coldness from the dream drain away, and some of the tension she was carrying eased.

Harte was safe. She was safe. So what if she’d made a promise to Seshat that she didn’t know how to keep? She’d figure it out. She would find a way to finish the ritual Seshat had started centuries before and bring time and magic back into balance. They had the Book now, and with it, all the secrets and spells that Thoth had collected through the years. And they had four of the five artifacts. The fifth waited a few decades before, just beyond the bridge, where Harte had left it with a friend. Seshat, magic, time—Esta would figure out a way to save Harte and in turn save them all.

And if she heard the voice of her dream echoing again in her waking, mocking her certainty? She shrugged it off. Pushed that voice back down deep and ignored it. Just as she tried to ignore the memory of the dream, of Harte bloodied and dead by her own hand.

There was light spilling from beneath a doorway at the other end of the hall. Everett was up, it seemed. She could use the company, especially now. She suspected that he could as well. After all, he’d lost his father just hours ago. He shouldn’t be alone.

Clutching the satchel to her chest, she started down the hallway, leaving Harte peaceful and sleeping for a little while longer. The sooner Esta figured out what would need to be done, the better for everyone. But her hand had barely reached for the handle of the door when a sharp pain erupted along the underside of her arm, and she could not stop herself from screaming.

CLAVIS

1920—Brooklyn

The sound of Esta’s screaming ripped Harte from sleep. There was no transition from unconsciousness to waking. The effect was instant. One second he was dead to the world, and the next he was on his feet, already moving before his brain could register where he was.

He was running down an endless hallway, sure that he was already too late—sure that Esta was already gone—when he saw her there in the light spilling from an open doorway, with Everett kneeling next to her.

No. No no no—

Shoving Everett aside, he took Esta in his arms, and it was only when she hissed in pain that he breathed. Not dead. Not gone. But she was hurt. Her face was etched with pain, and she was cradling her left arm, which was a bloody mess.

Everett was still there, crouched over them both. “What did she do to her arm?”

“She didn’t do anything,” Harte told him, hearing the fury in his own voice. “I’ll kill him for this.”