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It doesn’t matter. Jack would have answers. When they finally discovered him, the perpetrator would already be disposed of. Perhaps he wouldn’t get the ring that night, as he’d hoped, but Jack would be hailed a hero.
The thief pounded on the bronze seal on the floor, but after a few minutes, the thief seemed to understand that he was trapped. He ran to the end of the room and tore at the doorway that led to the balcony. The warm summer air gusted into the room, helping to clear Jack’s head. His vision was still unsteady, but the pain was beginning to recede.
“There’s no other way out, I’m afraid,” Jack said, carefully pulling himself upright. He reached into his jacket and took out a pistol, aiming it at the intruder. “You’re welcome to jump, but if you hand over the Delphi’s Tear now, there’s no need. I might even allow you to live.”
The thief stepped out onto the balcony instead. Then, before Jack understood what he was doing, the figure threw himself off the ledge and disappeared into the wind.
STUBBORN TO A FAULT
1920—Chicago
Jericho Northwood took one look at the weapon his son was carrying when Everett returned from the Nitemarket with Esta and knew that things had gone too far. Esta might have kept her word by keeping Everett safe, but she’d clearly let the boy take too many risks. North had every mind to tell her so, except he didn’t know how to without exploding or saying something that might embarrass Everett… or revealing something he’d regret, especially since they’d brought Dominic Fusilli with them. The last thing he needed was Dom any more entangled in the Northwood family’s business, so North kept his mouth shut tight as they all tromped back to their warehouse.
As the elevated train rattled into the city, North tried to organize his thoughts. Everything seemed so much more complicated than he’d expected when he’d decided to bring Everett along for a quick bootlegging run. He’d only wanted to help toughen the boy up a little, not get him killed in the process. But with the sirens filling the city air, it was becoming more apparent that Esta might be right about the tower. It was an idea that made North’s blood run cold.
He hadn’t been much more than a kid himself when the tower in California had been activated, but he remembered the aftermath. The idea that something like that might happen again seemed completely impossible, but if Esta was right about the attacks, she was probably also right about the rest. The way North figured it, there was only one thing to do.
Once they were back at the warehouse, they were greeted by the man who’d driven the truck earlier. “There’s been an attack,” Floyd told him.
“We figured when we heard the sirens,” North said. “What’s the word?”
“It’s the convention. According to what they’re saying on the wireless, the delegates were in the middle of taking a vote on the vice presidential candidate—that easterner, Coolidge, was set to win—when everything went haywire. They’re talking about monsters, and they’re blaming the Antistasi.”
“Monsters?” North asked.
Floyd nodded. “Great beasts, according to the descriptions of the people who made it out. This one guy, he was saying the creatures looked like they were made from shadow. They killed a bunch of people already, and as far as I can tell, the attack is still going on—there are still people trapped in the Coliseum.”
North glanced at Esta, who gave him a dark look in return. I told you, she seemed to say.
“I want to hear for myself,” North told Floyd.
“We have the wireless set up in the main room.”
Together they went into the warehouse, where the other Antistasi North had hired were already gathered around the receiver, listening intently to the nonstop bulletins. They listened for a long time, trying to get a sense of what had happened. The attack had been violent. Already, they were starting to count the dead. But when the reports grew repetitive, North knew there was nothing more to learn, and he clicked off the receiver. In the end, fifty-three had been killed by some kind of magical beasts, and because the attacks were similar to what had happened at the Conclave back in 1902, they were already blaming the old magic.
Back then, the government had used the attacks on the Conclave to pass the Defense Against Magic Act. But that had been an attack on a private group of wealthy men. The convention was public, and the death toll was already horrifying. There was no telling what the Brotherhoods would do, no telling how much more they could turn the public against Mageus… except North already knew what came next. Esta had already told him what would happen.
At first no one moved or spoke. The group kept staring at the now-silent receiver, and then they began exchanging uneasy looks with one another.
“I know that they blamed the old magic for attacks like this before, but I’ve sure never heard of any Mageus with an affinity like that,” one of the men said, finally breaking the silence.
“Because it wasn’t Mageus,” Esta told him. She looked to North. “It was a setup. And it worked. Coolidge should’ve been nominated tonight, but now…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
North launched into action. “The shipment I was telling you about is in the back,” he told Dom. “We’re going to be leaving town tonight. I’ll give you whatever you want for a good price, if you help me get it off my hands.”
Dom’s eyes lit. “Mind if I take a look now, seeing as I’m here and all?”
“Be my guest,” North said.
“You’re leaving?” Esta asked once Dom had disappeared to find the promised crates of Nitewein.
“As soon as we can pack everything up and Dom hands over enough cash for me to pay the guys I hired for the job,” he told her.
“You can’t run from this,” Harte said, stepping forward with fury in his eyes. “We told you what was going to happen.”
Which was exactly why he was leaving. “I have my boy to consider,” North said, refusing to feel even the smallest bit of guilt. “I’m not going to stay here and let him die.”
“So that’s it? You’re not going to help us?” Harte asked, stepping even closer, as though he wanted to go toe-to-toe.
