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It had worked. James had barely believed it could be possible when Logan had suggested jumping to escape the top floor of the building. It seemed like a suicide mission to trust your life to a bit of silk, but the Aether had told James to go along with the other boy’s idea, and so he had. Logan would either fly or fall, he’d figured. Either way, the ring would be his.
He watched for a long moment while Logan floated over Twenty-Third Street, and then he lost sight of him beyond the trees of the park. James waited a little longer before he snapped the reins and urged the horses onward down Madison Avenue. When he reached the corner of Twenty-Sixth Street, he stopped the wagon there and waited to see what would happen next. If Logan tried to run with the ring, he wouldn’t get far. James had made sure that his own people lined the neighborhood around the Flatiron, just in case.
But Logan didn’t try to run, as he might have. As perhaps he should have if he’d been a bit smarter. Instead, he emerged from the park a few minutes later. He’d already disposed of the parachute and the pack that had carried it. When he saw James in the wagon, relief flashed through his expression, and a moment later he was climbing inside.
“You have it?” James asked.
The boy’s mouth kicked up on one side as he pulled something from his pocket and then dropped an enormous golden ring into James’ outstretched hand. The setting held a stone as clear as a teardrop. The Delphi’s Tear.
It was everything James had expected it to be and even more than he’d hoped. Almost immediately, he could sense the pull of the artifact calling to him. Whispering to him of its power, cool and steady and absolute. He felt the power within the cane vibrate, as though it knew what was to come.
“I found that for you once before,” Logan said, his eagerness giving way to a cocky pride. But then his expression faltered, confusion replacing the confidence. “Or I will… someday. But maybe I won’t have to if you hold on to it this time.”
James didn’t bother to respond. The future was nothing more than a story that was his to write—or to rewrite, as it were. The ring was heavy, and the gold of the setting had the deep burnished color of metal that was older and purer than the fashion of the day. It felt strangely warm in his hand, and for a moment he let himself marvel at it.
At the power it held within it—the kind of power that required a life sacrifice.
At the possibilities now before him.
Silently, he slid the ring onto his smallest finger, and he felt the Aether around him lurch again. It felt kinetic, exhilarating.
Right.
