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At least there weren’t many people around. The farther into the park they ventured, the quieter it became, and soon the sounds of the city were no more than a gentle buzz in the background. Above, the trees caged them in with craggy, bare branches. It took her a second to remember the way, especially with how different everything looked, but eventually she found the path that led to the Blockhouse.
“This place looks older than I am,” Harte said, peering up at the stone structure.
“It is.” While she might have preferred the comfort of a hotel, there were too many people there. Too many exits to be blocked. Too many passages to be trapped. “You’ve never been here?”
He shook his head. “What is it?”
“An old Revolutionary War fort,” she said. “The war ended before it ever saw any action, but we should be safe enough inside to get the artifacts secured.” Or if not safe, at least they’d be able to see danger coming.
She shivered when a cold gust blew through the trees. “I should’ve found us warmer coats.”
Harte cocked a brow in her direction. “Are we planning on staying long?”
“No,” she said. The old woman’s words made it clear that they didn’t have time to get comfortable. They needed to secure the artifacts and get out of there. It was time to go back.
“Good,” he told her, frowning up at the structure. “I’ve never really been one for the outdoors.”
She thought of his apartment, of the enormous white tub and the hot running water that would have been a luxury at the time, and she laughed. “I think that’s probably an understatement.” Then she grew serious. “We should get started. The sooner we get the stones secured, the better.”
They used Viola’s blade to cut the rusted padlock off the barred door, and then they climbed through the low-hanging entrance. From the trash lining the small, stone-walled space, Esta could tell that they hadn’t been the only ones with the idea of using the fort recently. She nudged aside a used condom with her foot and shuddered.
“Let’s set up over there.” She pointed to a spot near one of the openings in the block. “You can keep a lookout while I take care of the artifacts.”
Harte took the satchel from where he’d slung it across his body and handed it to her, and in the matter of a few minutes, she had everything ready—the Book of Mysteries was open to the page that described the ritual, and the artifacts were arranged nearby. Viola’s knife was in her hand. But she hesitated.
“What is it?” Harte was frowning down at her from where he stood a few feet away.
“I thought we’d have more time,” she admitted. “Back in the hotel, I thought we were safe. It felt like we could stay there for a while. Just the two of us. I wouldn’t have stopped you if I had known—” She pressed her lips together and fought back the tears burning at her eyes. She wanted too much, and she was afraid she couldn’t have any of it.
He came over to where she was and wrapped her in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said.
“What if it’s not?” she asked. “What if that was our chance, and I wasted it?”
His hands were rubbing her back gently as if to warm her, but there was a cold fear lodged deep within her that she couldn’t quite shake.
“I keep thinking about what you said back at the hotel,” she told him. “About someone else raising me. And the more I think about it, the more I realize how selfish I’m being. Even if we figure out a way for me to survive the Conclave, can I really send that girl forward in time to be raised by Nibsy now that I know what he’s truly capable of?”
Harte’s hands went still.
“You saw what he did to her,” Esta continued. “He’s worse now than he was before. He’s more dangerous because he knows everything. Even if I’m willing to sacrifice her like that, even if I’m willing to send her forward, it means I have to let Nibsy live. And if I let him live, he’s never going to stop hunting us. He’s never going to give up trying to get the power in the Book.”
“What are you saying?” Harte asked. “If you don’t send her forward with the stone, you’ll disappear. It’ll be like you never existed.”
She stepped back from him, because it was too hard to think when he was touching her. It was too hard to want something that maybe never should have been hers.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” Esta told him.
“No, Esta—”
“Think about it, Harte. You heard what Everett said: A life is singular. But mine isn’t. It hasn’t been since Nibsy mistakenly sent me forward in time as a toddler. I’m myself, and I’m that other version as well.” She showed him her wrist with the scars of injuries she shared with another person. “We’re separate, but the same. We’re connected in a way I don’t understand. Maybe that’s not supposed to happen. Maybe I am an abomination,” she told him, repeating what Jack—Thoth—had told her weeks ago in Colorado.
“I don’t believe that,” he said. “I refuse to believe that.”
She smiled softly at the vehemence in his tone. “Maybe abomination is too strong a word. But I’m certainly an anomaly. I’ve introduced chaos into the time line just by existing.” Her smile faded. “Maybe the only answer is for me to set that right. Maybe I’m supposed to go back and fix the mistakes I made. I can finish the ritual and make the Brink whole. Without the Brink, the Order would be powerless, and maybe magic could go on. But what does that matter if Nibsy is still a liability, more dangerous now than ever? If I wasn’t worried about surviving, we could eliminate him and the danger he poses.”
“You’d really kill him?” Harte asked. “I know what killing Jack did to you, Esta. You can’t tell me you’re really willing to take another life so easily.”
“It wouldn’t be easy,” she said honestly. It had been terrible, and for the rest of her days, she would have to live with the memory of Jack’s life seeping out beneath her hands. But if it meant ending all of this? If it meant saving someone else from carrying that burden? “But I saw what he did to that other version of me, Harte. He tortured her and twisted her into something I never want to be. How can I send a child forward to him, knowing that? How can we let him live, knowing that if he survives, no one will ever be safe? He won’t stop, Harte.”
