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“Then it’s settled.” Curtis extended his hand. “I’ll have Aldo draw up a contract, and we’ll make it official.”
It took everything North had to return Curtis’ smile. He’d never have a life like the one Curtis proposed, one where all a man had to do was shake a hand, make a deal, earn a living doing what he loved. Without questions. Without fear. The best North could hope for was to keep fighting for the life he might have one day with Maggie, if he was lucky enough. He took Curtis’ hand, shaking on the deal he’d never keep.
He wasn’t really surprised at how tightly Curtis grasped his hand. There were a lot of men who thought they could prove themselves through the strength of their handshake. North was surprised, though, when Curtis’ other hand whipped out to latch onto his wrist. Before North could stop him or pull away, Curtis was ripping back the sleeve, exposing the dark snake inked into the skin of his wrist. He tried to fight free, but Aldo already had a pistol out and was aiming it directly at him.
“Good work, Aldo,” Curtis said as a trio of other men came seemingly out of nowhere to take North by the arms. They pulled his hands from his pockets and wrenched them behind his back. In the process North’s watch slipped from his fingers and landed on the ground as the men restrained him.
He looked at Aldo, pleading silently, but the other man turned away.
“I think we have the fella you were looking for,” Curtis said.
“Nice work, Curtis.” The voice was familiar… but North couldn’t place why at first. Then Jot Gunter was there in front of him, shaking Clem Curtis’ hand like they were old friends. He noticed the watch on the ground, and with a smile tugging up the edges of his heavy mustache, he crushed it beneath the heel of his boot.
No. No. No. No. No—
But it was too late. The watch was beyond his reach.
“He’s been going by the name Jerry Robertson,” Curtis told the men. “I noticed him around the other day, and when I heard about the Syndicate looking for a redheaded cowboy with two different-colored eyes, I had a feeling this might be the one.”
Gunter came a little closer and examined North with squinted eyes. North refused to blink, but he couldn’t help noticing that Gunter had a silver medallion on his lapel. It looked familiar—like the ones the Jefferson Guard wore back in St. Louis to detect illegal magic in the area.
“I believe it’s him all right,” Gunter said. “Jericho Northwood. You’re supposed to be dead.”
North let the pain and anger of losing his father’s watch chase away the fear, and he gave his old boss a cold look. “Sorry to disappoint, Mr. Gunter, but it appears I’m a hard man to kill.”
Gunter only stared at him. “We’ll see about that.” Then he turned to Clem Curtis. “Good work finding him for us.”
“It was an honor to be of service,” Aldo said, inserting himself between the two men.
Gunter glanced at the grounds manager and then dismissed him in the next breath as he returned his attention to Curtis. “The Syndicate won’t forget this. We take care of our own.”
The blond Curtis brother puffed up beneath the praise.
“Does anyone else know of this situation?” Gunter asked.
“Only a few people I trust implicitly,” Curtis assured him. “Like you requested.”
“Good,” Gunter said. “And the arrangements for this evening’s performance?”
“Your men will have complete access to the grounds,” Aldo assured him.
Gunter gave Aldo a dismissive glance. “The president’s man will be here this evening to supervise the raid personally. I trust we won’t have any trouble.”
“Of course not,” Curtis told Gunter. “What would you like us to do with this one?”
“The secretary is set to arrive any minute now. I expect he’ll want to interview this maggot for himself. I’ll let him decide what’s to be done with him after,” Gunter said with a satisfied smile.
North struggled against the hold the other two men had on him, but it wasn’t any use. They were too strong, and he was too outmanned.
Curtis glanced at the men holding North. “Take him over to the supply tent and keep him contained there. No one talks to him until the secretary arrives.”
SIGILLUM
1902—New York
Viola paused on the small landing outside Jianyu’s door, not quite sure what she was supposed to do next. From the way he’d pushed her out of the room, she doubted he wanted her to wait. He wanted to dress himself, and she had the sense that he needed to be left alone, to walk on his own power down the stairs. She’d been around enough men to know that they usually preferred not to test their weaknesses with an audience.
She realized suddenly that she still had the seal in her hand. Even once the bloody printed runes had started to glow, even once Jianyu woke and began looking more like himself, Viola had kept it tight in her fist, as though releasing it might somehow break the strange power it held. The small stone cylinder still felt oddly cool against her palm—a mark of the corrupted ritual magic it contained.
