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“I have no intention of giving Tom Lee any more power than he already has,” Jianyu told her. “Until his men find Cela, I have some time.”

Viola nodded. “If they find her?”

“When they find her,” he corrected. “I will do what I must. But I will not hand over the Strega or anyone who was loyal to Dolph. I will die first.”

This was exactly what she feared.

It was a terrible plan. With his connections to Tammany, Tom Lee was far too powerful a force to toy with for long. Then another thought struck.

“We will figure this out,” Viola promised. There had to be a way to remove that cord around his wrist without handing over every Mageus who had ever been loyal to Dolph. “Once I get Libitina back—”

“He assured me that he would know if I tried to remove it. If I do, he will enact the charm and take my magic… and my life.” Jianyu gave her a weak smile, but the resignation in his eyes told the truth of the situation. There would be no easy way out of this. But he was right. He could have made no other choice, not when she had already failed so spectacularly to put pressure on Torrio. Trapped as they were behind the Brink, they needed help. They needed allies, even dangerous ones.

A knock sounded at the door, disrupting the heavy silence that had fallen over them. Together they turned in unison, hearts in their throats. No one but Joshua and Abel should know where they were, and both should have been in Atlantic City searching for Cela. But both would have known the rhythm to signal their identity.

Viola exchanged a look with Jianyu, a silent conversation that had both of them nodding. She readied her affinity as he eased toward the door, opening it just a crack to see who waited on the other side. And then suddenly he was flinging it open.

In the doorway stood Theo Barclay, and with him was Cela Johnson.

DISTRACTION

1983—Times Square

Harte soaked until the bathwater had gone nearly cold, but still he remained in the tub, not yet ready to face Esta again. How could he when he’d read Nibsy’s diary, when he’d seen with his own eyes what their fates held?

No… He wouldn’t let that be the future that waited for them. He’d do whatever it took to make certain of it.

His vows didn’t help his conscience, though. He felt like the worst kind of ass. He’d just sliced her open and stitched her up. He’d just seen her death, there on the page of Nibsy’s diary, and all he could think about was how soft her skin had felt beneath his hands. How much he wanted to touch her again.

But he was delaying the inevitable. He couldn’t hide in the bathroom indefinitely. On the other side of the door, Esta was waiting. They had decisions to make, work to do.

Pulling himself from the tepid bath, he dried off and wrapped himself in a robe like the one Esta had been wearing. His reflection caught his attention, and under the bright garish glow of the modern electric lights, he was struck by how much he had changed in the last few weeks. His hair was too long. He’d always kept it neatly cut, and now it curled over the collar of the robe and fell into his face. Beneath his eyes, dark hollows told the story of too many days with no real sleep, and his once-sharp features now verged on gaunt. He looked like someone who had been sick recently, which… he had been. But he didn’t want to see that weakness staring back at him. He didn’t want to remember how completely helpless he’d been back in San Francisco.

He definitely didn’t want Esta to remember that, either.

Pulling his shoulders back, he lifted his chin. Better. Or if it didn’t make him look any better, it was as good as he was going to get.

Esta was sitting cross-legged on the bed. The robe she was wearing had come loose a little, and now it gaped, exposing the skin at the base of her throat. Maybe it was the graceful curve of her neck or maybe it was the smooth, exposed stretch of her leg that did him in, but suddenly it took everything he had not to go to her. He wanted to untie the robe and let it fall aside. He wanted to run his hands across the soft expanse of her skin. He wanted to see every inch of her. He wanted to take his time.

Touching her in the tunnels hadn’t been nearly enough. Then again, Harte had a feeling that nothing would ever be enough when it came to Esta. But he forced himself to stay still. She’d been through enough in the last few hours. She’d been burned and bloodied, and now she needed time to heal. He was going to keep his hands off her.

He was going to try to, at least.

At first she didn’t notice him. She was too deep in concentration, gnawing absently on her thumbnail as she studied the Ars Arcana, which was open on her lap. Stacks of Nibsy’s papers were lined up around her on the bed. It looked like she’d been sorting them. When he took another step into the room, she finally looked up. He couldn’t quite read the emotion in her whiskey-colored eyes.

“You didn’t waste any time,” he said, trying to keep the note of disappointment from his words. He knew they had to deal with what lay ahead, but he’d hoped they could set it aside—at least for the night. He wasn’t ready to face the truth of what had to be done. Esta was right. They had to go back—he knew that—but that didn’t mean he was ready to accept the possible future that Nibsy’s diary had shown them.

When she frowned at him, frustration and maybe even hurt flashing through her eyes, he felt like an ass.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “That isn’t what I meant. It’s only that—” How was he supposed to put everything he felt into words.

Her expression softened. “I know.”

He took another step toward the bed. “Well, did you find any answers yet?”

“Maybe.” She swallowed hard enough that he could see the column of her throat move, and then she turned back to the pages open before her. “Jack’s made our job easier with all the translations and notes he’s left. I think I found the ritual we need to use the Book as a container for the stones.”

It should have been a victory, but Esta didn’t seem happy or even relieved. Her eyes were still too serious. “That bad?”