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Both wanted the other out of the way. That fact seemed the only thing about the situation that worked to Viola’s benefit. Let them have their little pissing contest. She had no intention of getting caught in the crossfire. Viola cared only about retrieving the ring and stopping the Order from regaining so much as a foothold in the city. She cared, too, about making sure that Cela and Abel were not harmed by their decision to commit themselves to this cause. Everything else—her brother and Nibsy, too, for that matter—could go to the devil as far as Viola was concerned.
“Of course you would try to cross me,” Paolo said. “But you won’t live for long after if you try.”
“Enough,” Viola told them. They didn’t have time for this bickering. To the west, the boats churned toward shore. To the east, the tower waited, poised to solidify the Order’s power once again. “We don’t need to chase wagons,” she told them. That had never been the plan anyway. “We know where they’re going. We’ll meet them there.”
Nibsy’s gaze slid to her. “And when they arrive?”
“We’ll stop them from going any farther,” she told them, wishing she felt surer than she sounded. “Together.”
“We should still send the signals,” Nibsy told Paul. “Any delays might help.”
“No,” Paul told him. “I want my people on Fifth Avenue waiting for the wagons, not running around the city like chickens after a fat worm.”
“The Order is expecting an attack. It would be a shame to disappoint them,” Nibsy argued. “If they don’t run into any problems, they may start to believe that their plan to distract us hasn’t worked. They might try something else we’re not expecting.”
Paul frowned. “Fine.” But the tension strung between the two was enough to put Viola’s teeth on edge.
Men. They were exhausting. And they were wasting time.
“What of the train?” Viola asked, drawing their attention back.
“Right across Twenty-Third,” Paul said as though taking control of the situation. “We’ll block their straightest route. If your people are ready to the south, mine will take the north,” he told Nibsy. “And the three of us will take the building.”
Nibsy took the mirror to send the signals as Paul inched closer to the edge of the roof, making sure not to get too close, and gave a sharp whistle. He listened, and then a moment later, he whistled again. “Where the hell is he?”
“Who?” Viola asked.
“Johnny. He’s supposed to be waiting downstairs.”
“We’ll catch him on our way out,” Nibsy told him, tucking the mirror away. He started for the rooftop door, but Paul grabbed his arm.
“Not so fast,” her brother said. “I don’t need you taking off and getting ahead of us.”
“As if I could outrun you,” Nibsy said. He gave a small flourish of his hand.
As Paul charged into the stairwell, Nibsy slid a glance to Viola. She couldn’t tell what emotion was behind it. Satisfaction, maybe? Or perhaps amusement?
“After you,” Nibsy said, and when Viola began to argue, he shrugged. “I’d prefer to keep that knife of yours where I can see it, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t need a knife to stop your heart,” she muttered as they began to descend the stairs, but she’d barely taken another step when the skin on her back felt suddenly cold. It was as though someone had slipped a piece of ice down her collar. Beneath her shift and her blouse, Viola felt the strange sensation of the mark she wore—Dolph’s mark—trembling.
The feeling—the very thought of the mark coming to life—made her stumble, and she nearly missed the next step.
“Have a care, Viola,” Nibsy said, but his voice was flat, without any hint of true concern.
It can’t be. Viola glanced back up at him, but she couldn’t read his expression. The glass of his spectacles flashed in the dim light, obscuring his eyes, but his mouth was soft. He seemed relaxed. Calm. But his hand gripped the cane that had once been Dolph’s, and there was something possessive in the way his thumb traced the coils of the gorgon’s serpentine hair. It made her shiver. It made her wonder.
“Is anything wrong?” Nibsy asked, his brows lifting above the wire rims of his glasses. “Something you wanted to say to me?”
“No,” she said, shaking off her misgivings. She continued her descent, stepping more carefully now, even as she fought the urge to scratch at the ink in her skin.
Even in life, Dolph had never threatened her with the mark she wore. Not like he threatened others. He’d never needed to. Viola’s loyalty had been absolute because Dolph had been, before all else, a trusted friend. But she’d heard stories about what happened to those who dared betray him or the Devil’s Own. The fantastical stories about the curse of the serpents that were inscribed in their skin and the way Dolph Saunders could use those marks to unmake their bearers by taking their magic.
Viola hadn’t wanted to believe those tales. They’d seemed too ridiculous to be true, but then, she hadn’t known the man who’d written the journal entries about taking Leena’s power. She hadn’t known the version of Dolph Saunders who’d studied strange sigils to control demons and then hid his work behind unreadable markings. Viola had wondered many times in the days after Nibsy had shown her the sheets torn from Dolph’s journal, notes written in Dolph’s own hand, whether she had truly known Dolph Saunders at all.
But now, to think that Nibsy might be able to control the power Dolph had once claimed for himself, terrible and unnatural as it was? Impossible. Or so Viola hoped. She couldn’t begin to contemplate what he might do with such power. She didn’t want to.
She’d barely reached the next landing when a noise sounded from below. Gunshots rang out, and shouts echoed up the stairwell. On instinct, Viola started toward the sound, but Nibsy caught her by the wrist. “It would be more prudent to wait a minute or two,” he said, completely unruffled by the commotion.
