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The origin of the Order’s artifacts wasn’t news to Esta. Someone had died, and because of that lost life, she could use the stone to slip through time. That was a fact. Every time Esta used the Key, she used that stolen power. Another fact. She’d tried to ignore those facts for a long time now. She’d told herself that she was using the stones for an honorable purpose, but standing there amid the swirling eddies of magic—natural and corrupt, hot and cold power alike—Esta wondered if she’d been conning herself all along. What did it mean that she was still willing to use power that wasn’t rightfully hers? How did that make her any different from Thoth?
“It’s not the same thing,” Harte whispered, easily guessing the direction of Esta’s thoughts. Her surprise must have shown, because he slid his palm against hers, tangling their fingers in a moment of stolen comfort.
She didn’t even pretend to deny that he was right. “How is my using Ishtar’s Key any different?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe it’s not, but the world isn’t black or white, good or evil. Ever since the day you came back for me, every choice you’ve made—right or wrong—has been because you believed it would help in some way.”
“Not always. Not in St. Louis…”
“In St. Louis you made mistakes. We both did. We’re trying to right those now.” He squeezed her hand gently. “It’s all we can do.”
“I don’t know if that’s enough.” Esta started to pull her hand away. She didn’t deserve his comfort or his understanding.
But Harte caught her hand again and laid a kiss on her palm. “No one is blameless, Esta. Even saints had their sins. It isn’t possible to live a perfect life, and even if you could, it wouldn’t be very interesting.” He released her hand then, and when he spoke again, his words came slowly. “You make mistakes. You learn. We all do. Sometimes it takes a little bad to cause an enormous amount of good. Dolph Saunders understood that. Would you blame him for the life he chose? For the sins he committed?”
Esta thought about the father she hadn’t really known. She wasn’t sure what to do with the goodness he’d shown to her and to the people in the Bowery, or with the terrible things he’d done as well—especially what he’d done to her mother. Finally, she shook her head. “I honestly don’t know.”
“That’s fair enough,” Harte said. “But it’s like you told me back on the train—it’s not your fault. Having the cuff, using it. You didn’t create any of this. All you can do is figure out how you want to live in it.”
He was right. The stone in her cuff had been made through the worst possible means. The mistakes she’d made in St. Louis had been terrible. But Esta wasn’t walking away from her responsibilities. Not now. Not ever.
“Maybe you’re right,” she admitted. “But look at all of this, Harte. These are Mageus buying and selling power that isn’t theirs to trade. How is this any different from what the Order does? It’s all the same—people forgetting that the affinities we hold inside of us aren’t separate from who we are. Maybe I didn’t create any of this, but it’ll be my fault if I allow it to remain.”
Harte’s mouth curved a little, and his eyes held promises that she wasn’t sure he could keep. “Then by all means, let me be the one to help you tear the whole damn thing to the ground.”
THE NITEMARKET
1920—Chicago
North didn’t realize he’d lost Harte and Esta until Everett tapped on his arm.
“Your friends are still back there,” his son said, giving North a look that reminded him of Maggie in its directness. And its impatience.
He knew Everett was itching to know more about the two strangers they’d picked up at the Green Mill, but the Nitemarket wasn’t the time or the place to explain things—especially not to speak the name of the Thief. She was still something of a legend both loved and hated, depending on who you were talking to.
Since he didn’t want to draw any more attention to their group than they already might have attracted, North retraced his steps rather than shouting for the two to pick up the pace. They were about twenty yards back, their heads close together as they spoke in voices too low for him to hear. Whatever they were talking about, their expressions were too serious for his liking.
“You two coming or what?”
Esta seemed startled by the interruption, but in a blink her expression transformed itself from surprise to her usual calm composure. She gave him a look so blandly disinterested that if North hadn’t known better, he never would have thought she’d been lagging behind the group to start with. The problem was, he did know better.
Finally moving again, the four made their way deeper into the Nitemarket, looking for North’s contact. They didn’t talk much, and Everett—thank heavens—did what North had told him: He kept his eyes down and his hands tucked into his pockets.
North had never been a fan of visiting the market, even if it did provide their family with a good living. Between Maggie’s formulations—at least the ones she was willing to part with—and the goods North was able to liberate—like the Nitewein from that very night—the Nitemarket provided the Northwoods a steady stream of income, which helped augment whatever breeding horses on their ranch outside Kansas City brought in. And the market kept them connected to the Antistasi. Neither North nor Maggie had any desire to be drawn all the way back into the Antistasi, but if they kept one foot in the game, North hoped they could maybe see danger coming long before it arrived.
Like he’d told Esta and Harte, the Nitemarket wasn’t a safe place. A person who knew where to look could usually find one of the many entrances in any good-size town—well, any town except New York City—but the market itself never seemed to be in the same location twice. It moved from place to place each night, presumably to avoid detection, but the market didn’t limit entrance to Mageus, which made it even more dangerous in North’s estimation. There were any number of Sundren who had managed to find their way into the cramped aisles of vendors and goods over the years. Usually, the outsiders were well-intentioned folk interested in family lore, or sympathetic souls looking for the thrill of brushing up against the old magic. Occasionally, though, there were Sundren who found the market specifically to cause problems. You never knew when you might run afoul of the occasional raid or groups of Sundren vigilantes playing at being heroes.
North probably shouldn’t have brought Everett. Maggie certainly wouldn’t have let the boy come if she’d been there to have a say. But with Esta’s warnings about the tower—however unlikely they seemed—North felt better having his son by his side, even in a place as dangerous as the Nitemarket.
In one of the last stalls at the back of the long, cavernous hall, North finally found the contact he’d been looking for. Dominic Fusilli was an older man with a middle like pudding and hardly a white hair left to cover the mottled scalp of his head. They’d met about five years before, but North still didn’t exactly trust Dom. Still, the older man had his uses.
“Northwood,” Dom said, seeing the four of them approach. “I see you brought Junior.”
“This is my oldest, Everett,” North said, reluctantly making the introductions.
“He’s the spitting image of you, isn’t he?” Then Dom realized that Harte and Esta were also with them, and his eyes narrowed. “And a couple of others as well?”
North stepped in front of Esta, blocking the peddler from examining her too closely. It had been years since the Devil’s Thief had disappeared, but it wasn’t worth taking the chance that Dom might recognize Esta. The old guy pretended not to know what was going on, but North hadn’t been green enough to buy that act five years ago. There wasn’t any sense underestimating Dom now.
