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“The Devil’s Own follow Nibsy because he fills a need, not because they believe in him or in the world he wishes to build. They do not have the same loyalty to him as they once had to Dolph. We can use that knowledge to our advantage when the time comes.” He would use his fury then as well.
“You need to rest,” Viola said.
“I have rested enough,” he told her. “The Order will not wait, and we have plans to make.”
COMPLICIT
1904—San Francisco
As Harte followed his father through the city, he tried to formulate a plan even as he struggled to hide how awful he felt. He wasn’t sure where they were, or how far from the restaurant his father’s shop was, but Harte realized quickly that he was weaker than he’d first suspected, and there was a particular pain in his left thigh that shot through his hip, growing worse with every step he took. The summer breeze felt like ice against his too-tender skin, and his heart was racing unevenly in his chest. He knew that the illness was something more than a simple infection, but he pushed that worry aside to save his strength as he followed his father through the unfamiliar streets.
At first, every time his father nodded silently to someone they passed, Harte tensed, but after a few blocks, he realized that his father’s reputation seemed to matter to him far too much to risk drawing attention. Besides, Harte had hold of Sammie for a reason. If he felt guilty for using the boy—his own brother—as a hostage? He pushed that guilt down deep.
They stopped at the corner of Jackson Street and Montgomery, an area defined by wide thoroughfares lined with low, two- or three-story brick buildings. Many had iron shutters thrown open to bring in the summer breezes. These were not the same tumbledown wooden structures near the docks. Nor were they surrounded by the busy open-air market stalls or rickety-looking balconies of Chinatown. This, Harte could tell, was a place where men of means did business. Neat awnings capped a few of the shops, and signs were painted in ornately curling letters to declare their proprietors.
Harte’s father came to a stop in front of a large brick building. It was a bank—Lucas, Turner, & Co.—and at three stories, it was taller than some of the others that surrounded it. The first floor was made from large, light-colored stone blocks. The two floors above were brick. Wooden fire escapes ringed the top two floors, and over the arched doorway, a bronze medallion depicted Lady Justice holding her scales aloft. But she was not blindfolded. Her eyes were open, and they seemed to stare down in judgment of the people on the sidewalk below.
“The Committee’s offices are on the second floor,” his father said, turning to Harte. “They keep the crown in their temple on the top floor, under lock and key. It’s impossible to get into if you’re not a member. You’d have to get through the bank’s security and then make it past the men who work in the offices above. By then, the men inside would stop you before you could even hope to open the chamber on the top floor. So you see, impossible. You can let the boy go now. You won’t be getting the crown.”
Sammie looked up at Harte with a question in his eyes—and now the fear that Harte had inspired back at the shop had grown more complete.
I’m not going to hurt you, Harte wanted to tell the child, but he couldn’t make that promise. He’d already hurt the boy by using him as a pawn. He’d promised his brother magic, but in the end he would betray him, just as he’d betrayed everyone else. Harte told himself that this was how it had to be. He could not turn back, not now. He had made a promise to Esta that he would die to keep, but even Harte Darrigan couldn’t convince himself that he wouldn’t have regrets in the end.
“Maybe it would be impossible if I were here alone,” Harte said, hardening his resolve. “But I’m not. I have you—a member—to help me.”
His father blanched, confirming what Harte suspected. “You don’t know—”
“But I do. Maybe if you hadn’t been wearing that ring, I wouldn’t have put it together, but of course you wouldn’t be able to resist showing everyone the mark of your status. You didn’t simply sell Cooke the crown for cash. You got yourself into their little club. It’s why you were so worried that the Committee might find out you didn’t turn me in immediately.”
Samuel Lowe’s nostrils flared slightly, the only sign that anything Harte said had struck a nerve.
“You want your son back? I want the Dragon’s Eye,” Harte told him. “Take me to the crown, and I’ll consider handing him over.”
“You’ll consider—”
“You still have items that belong to me,” Harte reminded him. “It seems only fair that I keep something of yours until mine are returned.”
“Father?” The boy’s voice was a question and a plea all at once.
“Enough, Sammie,” his father said, snapping at the child.
Harte felt the child flinch at the sharpness of their father’s tone. He bent down so that he was eye level with Sammie. “Would you like to see another trick? Perhaps I could make something disappear?” he asked, infusing mischief into his tone.
The boy looked wary, but he screwed up enough courage to jut out his stubborn little chin as he met Harte’s eyes. “I want to see the elephant.”
Harte had to choke back a laugh at the boy’s insistence. “Yes, well…” He glanced up at the sky, which was shrouded with the same clouds that had greeted his arrival to the city, and transformed his expression into regretful disappointment. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look like elephant weather today after all. Perhaps a different trick? One that your father might help us with?”
“No,” Samuel Lowe said, trying to imbue his voice with its usual authority and failing to hide the tremor of fear vibrating through it.
“No?” Harte asked, a warning in his voice. “You agreed—”
“I will show you where the crown is kept, but you will make no move to retrieve it,” his father said. “Not now. Not when I or my son could be considered complicit. You will give me your word. Or I will make certain that you never see the other items again.”
Harte didn’t let the threat sway him. “You’re not in any position to make threats,” he told his father as he stepped closer to the boy, ignoring the pang of guilt he felt. “Enough with the stalling. I’m going in one way or the other. I can either make a scene and bring you down with me, or you can help me and make this easier for everyone.”
Samuel Lowe seemed to know when he’d been outmaneuvered. “You will keep your mouth shut and remain silent once we’re inside. Don’t draw any attention to yourself. You’re an outsider here,” he told Harte. “This city is nothing like the streets you grew up running wild in.”
Harte doubted there was much difference. Already, he saw the similarities—secret organizations that required loyalty and gave protection for a price, residents who were afraid to cross the wrong lines. And the Vigilance Committee, a group of men who seemed as determined to root out the old magic as any of the other Brotherhoods.
