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“Let her up, Jericho,” Maggie said, her voice soft but determined.
Making sure to keep his hold on the woman beneath him, he glanced back to see Maggie crouched over the woman’s legs. Cordelia’s skirt had been lifted to reveal long, slender legs covered in silk stockings, but above her garters, a tattoo wound itself around her thigh. A snake. Not a living serpent, like his, but an ouroboros just the same, its fanged skull devouring the delicate bones of its tail.
“She’s not lying,” Maggie said.
The sharpshooter only smiled at him, like a satisfied cat.
“It could still be a trap,” North argued. He couldn’t help but wonder why Cordelia had chosen to mark herself with death instead of the living serpent that was at the center of all the stories he’d heard as a child.
“Let her up, Jericho. If this were a trap, we’d already be caught,” Maggie told him, lowering the woman’s skirts. “She’s not the one with the gun right now, anyway.”
Another shout went up, closer still. The smell of smoke was thicker now, and North wondered what exactly Maggie had set on fire.
“Jericho…” Maggie’s tone was firm, and she had that determined look she got sometimes when she wasn’t going to be swayed. “If she says she can get us out of this mess, I don’t think we have much choice but to give her a chance.”
North didn’t like the idea of letting the woman go, but he knew it was going to happen eventually. It wasn’t like he could sit on her indefinitely, even if there weren’t marshals searching the grounds. “Fine.” Slowly he let go of Cordelia’s arms, keeping himself ready for her counterattack, and when it didn’t come, he rose from where he’d pinned her to the ground.
As the sharpshooter stood and readjusted her skirts, North backed away, edging closer to Maggie. He was already reaching in his pocket for his watch, in case he needed it, but Cordelia didn’t attack or shout for help or try to run. She simply brushed herself off. She was still looking at the box, though, and—Antistasi or not—her expression was transparent enough that North could tell she was too interested for his liking.
“My gun,” she said, holding out her hand to Esta.
“You said you could get us out of here,” North said, stepping between the two. “You can have it back once we’re safe. Until then, if you try anything at all, I won’t be the least bit sad if she has to use it.”
THE TRAITOR
1902—New York
The Bella Strega was crowded, the air filled with the usual cheap tobacco smoke and the scent of ale. Along with those common scents was the familiar warmth of the old magic. For James Lorcan, that warm energy signaled something more. It was a power that was filled with possibility. With the right tools, it could be molded and shaped. With the right choices, it was a power that he could someday control.
So far, though, someday remained elusive. The Aether moved in strange currents around him, teasing James with the promise of victory but holding it just out of reach. It was a curse to sense the future coming but be unable to see it clearly. Still, each day his plans grew more sure and the tenuous grasp he had on the Devil’s Own grew stronger. Each day Dolph’s people trusted him a little more, depended on him a little more, but James knew implicitly that nothing was guaranteed. Not yet. Not until he had the ring and could unlock the power in Dolph’s cane. Then, and only then, would his control over the Devil’s Own be absolute.
Seated near the rear of the saloon, his back against a wall, James watched his kingdom. He considered his options as he tried to read the message in the Aether.
“You really think the Order has the ring?” Logan asked. He was sitting to James’ left, nervously picking at his nails as his eyes shifted uneasily around the room.
Clearly, Logan was still unsure about his new environment, but at least he was smart enough to keep his voice low. He’d have to be a complete fool not to see the way the others glared at him. They saw him as an interloper who’d taken an undeserved spot at James’ side. Even now James sensed Werner watching them from across the barroom. He could practically feel Werner’s annoyance. It couldn’t be helped, though. Logan’s ability to track objects would, no doubt, be useful, but James understood that the new boy could be dangerous, too, if his loyalty ever shifted. Better to keep him close, even if it caused those in the Strega to wonder. Better to make him believe that he had a home here, a friend.
“Paul Kelly’s contacts at Tammany have all but confirmed it,” James told Logan, tracing a circular stain on the table. “Considering that you’ve found no sign of the artifact in the city, it only makes sense that someone’s taken it through the Brink and beyond our reach.”
“It could be a setup, though,” Logan said, frowning. “Kelly could have taken it just as well as the Order. This might be a trap to get rid of you and take the Strega without a fight.”
“I’ve considered that,” James told Logan, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Of course he’d considered it, but the Aether didn’t lie. He had to play Kelly’s games… at least for now. “No doubt Kelly will play dirty and try to turn the tables on us at some point, but I don’t think his belief about what the Order is planning is a complete lie.”
“What does the journal say?” Logan whispered.
“It remains as unreadable as ever.” But with the new information from Paul Kelly, James found that the change in the journal no longer worried him. Instead, it emboldened him. Perhaps the future was no longer his to read, but that only meant that it was changeable. The future, it seemed, was his to make.
“There’s no doubt that Kelly is up to something,” James assured Logan. “Maybe he wants us to take the fall for what happened at Morgan’s gala, or maybe this is all a distraction so he can take the ring for himself.”
“But you won’t let that happen,” Logan said with smug satisfaction.
James couldn’t help but smile softly at Logan’s sureness. He’d been wary about Logan in the beginning, but Logan had proven himself—or at least, he’d proven his loyalty. Ever since his failure to retrieve the ring, he’d been that much more committed, and James was more than happy to use that commitment. It was so much easier than doling out threats.
“No,” he told Logan. “That isn’t going to happen. The stupid dago will get what he has coming to him.”
The Aether in the barroom trembled suddenly. In the vibrations, James sensed a warning of approaching danger—but also something that felt like possibility. He barely had time to register the change before the doors of the Strega burst open with a violent crash. Everyone except the most inebriated turned to see what was happening, and the noise of the saloon died to a strangled whisper as they all realized who had entered. The smile that had been playing about James’ mouth only broadened.
Viola had come home.
