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With the Guards and their medallions so close, using his affinity would be dangerous, but he didn’t have much choice. Not when the police and the Guards were already searching the groups of people in line on the sidewalk behind him.

Dipping his hand into his coat pocket, Harte pretended to retrieve the money, but instead of handing over the required entrance fee, he touched the guy’s hand, sending a small charge of magic toward him. It was the second time in months that he’d used his affinity, and this time he couldn’t ignore the thrill of satisfaction that went through him.

He had carried Seshat within his skin for so long. During that time, he hadn’t used his affinity more than once or twice because he hadn’t wanted to risk hurting anyone with the goddess’s angry power. Now Harte realized just how much he’d been closed off from an essential part of himself. He’d always been ambivalent about his magic—at least since using it had been the cause of his mother’s pain—but feeling the connection to the old magic again settled something in him. Perhaps his affinity was neither good nor bad. Perhaps it was simply a part of him, as intrinsic as his gray eyes or sharp chin. As essential as Esta was. He could no more deny his magic than he could deny his connection to her.

The bouncer blinked and dropped his hand, looking momentarily confused before waving Harte through. Without hesitating, Harte opened the scarred wood and glass door and plunged headfirst into the darkness and the noise of the saloon.

It was the volume that registered first. Before the filthy floors or graffiti-covered walls, before the smell of stale cigarettes and old liquor, a wall of sound overwhelmed him. The intensity of it, the absoluteness of the noise hit him with the force of something like magic. For a second he considered retreating and taking his chances with the police, but he quickly regained his footing and rejected that idea. He’d already used his affinity; the Guards’ medallions would certainly have alerted them to his magic by now.

Lifting his hands to his ears, he pressed on through the crowd, who seemed unbothered by the sound, and headed deeper into the heart of the noise. The chaos inside the saloon—as unpleasant as it might be—was his best chance at evading the Guards. At least with the crowded tangle of bodies making it nearly impossible to press through, the police would have trouble finding him.

But the racket. He couldn’t imagine anyone calling it music, but there seemed to be a stage. Performers. A sort of rhythm.

He pushed his way deeper into the crowd, careful to protect both the satchel he was wearing and himself as he was jostled and pummeled by the writhing, thrashing bodies around him. He tried to circle the edge of the room, heading toward the bar on the far side, but as he moved, he found himself caught in the crowd and pulled into the mass of bodies careening around him. There, in the center of the chaos, the noise was even louder. The rumbling of the rhythm thumped through his chest, rubbed up against the emptiness there, and pounded away at the aching grief. He felt utterly lost. All he could do was keep himself upright. Completely adrift in a turbulent, churning sea of bodies.

Harte thought of Esta suddenly. He wondered if she knew of this place or if she’d experienced anything like it before in her own time. Strangely, he imagined she would like it.

No. She would love it—the noise and anger and energy that filled the room, terrible and hypnotizing just the same. She would love the possibilities, the careless pockets ripe for picking and the anonymity of the throbbing crowd.

But thinking of Esta immediately brought up the stark memory of her body, crumpled and still on the station platform, and a wave of guilt and regret nearly brought him to his knees. My fault. All my fault.

The scream of the singer filled the room, tearing through the hollowness in his chest, echoing the grief there. Echoing, too, the rage. Overcome, he stopped trying to push through the crowd. Instead he gave himself over to it, allowed himself to be carried along by it.

The singer was screaming again, and it no longer mattered that he could not understand the words. He felt the truth in them. The ragged emotion in the voice spoke to him, and suddenly something within him broke and he found himself shouting back. He was screaming with the rest of them because, for some reason, he felt that he had to. There was no choice. He could let out the pain or be torn apart by regret.

Minutes or seconds or hours later, something shuddered through the crowd. A cold energy flooded the space, jolting him from the trancelike stupor he’d been in. His clothes were plastered to his skin by sweat beneath his light jacket, and his throat felt raw from screaming, but it took only a second to find the source of the disturbance. There, amid the still-writhing violence of the bodies on the dance floor, were members of the Guard.

Harte had known they would track him. He’d expected it. But he’d gotten so caught up in the crowd and whatever strange magic the music had spun to hold him in its grasp, he’d forgotten himself. He should have been gone already, but now he was trapped.

LIKE TO LIKE

1902—The Bowery

The Bella Strega was usually mostly empty in the afternoons, and that day was no different. When James returned from his errand over in Little Africa, there was only a handful of people curled around cups of Nitewein in the mostly silent bar. The new girl behind the bar, Anna, turned to the opening door and, when she saw who it was, gave him a welcoming smile.

“The usual?” she called.

He nodded before making his way to his regular table, moving slowly to keep his limp from being too obvious as he crossed the barroom. His leg was aching from his trek across the city and from standing on it for so long, but it wouldn’t do to let the others know what a weakness it had become. Werner trailed behind like some kind of half-lost pup, but James could sense the hesitation in him. He’d been pliable enough since he’d returned empty-handed from the Flatiron Building with his tail between his legs, but he’d also been uneasy after James had dispensed with Mooch.

Even if Mooch’s death hadn’t stopped the Aether from rumbling, James did not doubt his decision. Mooch had been a problem for far too long. It was simply a lucky coincidence that the boy had made himself a convenient target for the necessary demonstration of James’ power. Thanks to Mooch, no one would dare doubt his control over the Devil’s Own now. And no one would dare move against him.

At least, no one who wore the mark.

Dropping into his usual chair, he tested the Aether as he waited for his drink. There was still something there, an indeterminacy that the day’s activities had done nothing to calm. The vibration he felt, churning somewhere deep in the Aether, might have been a warning. Or it might have been the promise of more power. He couldn’t quite tell. Not yet. And the diary was no help. It remained stubbornly unreadable since the gala. Useless as ever.

He needed something to change. He needed a victory of sorts to buoy him on.

The girl—Anna—approached the table with his usual glass of ale and gave him a flirtatious smile as she placed it on the table before him. When she retreated to the bar, she tossed a blushing glance over her shoulder in his direction. It was as direct an invitation as anything he’d ever seen.

As he drank, he watched Anna move behind the bar, more and more sure that his instincts had been correct. He’d hired her for a reason, and it wasn’t just that she was easy to look at with her strawberry hair and milk-white skin. It also wasn’t the fact that she’d accepted the position because she was clearly interested in him. After all, she wasn’t the first who had tried to catch his eye with a coy smile since he’d taken over the Strega and the Devil’s Own. She certainly wouldn’t be the last. And he wasn’t so desperate to fall for a seductive glance or an airy giggle.

Her willingness might have drawn his attention, but it hadn’t been the most beguiling thing about her. The affinity that lived beneath her skin was far more interesting to James. From the first time he’d set eyes on her, he’d sensed the girl’s connection to the old magic was a powerful one—and more, it was an affinity that could be of some use to him. He’d had enough of hobbling through the city on his injured leg. It was time to act.

He watched a bit longer, amused at how easily she entranced the men who leaned against the bar, hoping to catch her eye. They didn’t see through her act: how she smiled sweetly at those who paid her attention and slipped her extra coins. She could blush on command when she wanted to, dipping her chin and preening when it suited her.

Yes, she was the one. It was time to test his theories about the Delphi’s Tear. What was the worst that might happen? Barmaids were easy enough to find. And James couldn’t simply sit around waiting for Logan to return with news. Perhaps it would have been more efficient to simply take the sigils earlier, but the Aether had made it clear that it wasn’t the best way forward. He needed Viola and Jianyu for what was coming. Of that, he was certain, even if he still could not completely see why.

He nodded to Werner, who jumped and came scurrying over. Again James noted that the boy was too nervous these days. If he got any jumpier, he might become a liability. Even if his affinity had its uses.