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“If you’re not compelling him, we won’t have any way of knowing what choice he makes,” she said. “We won’t know if it’s safe to eliminate Nibsy or not.”
Harte considered the problem. “Maybe there is a way.…”
“Well?” She looked back at him. His mouth was so close to hers, and his gray eyes were smiling at her. “You’re not going to tell me?”
“No. I don’t think I will.” He kissed her softly.
“Harte—”
“You’ll have to trust me on this one, Esta.” He kissed her again. “If it works, you’ll know.”
“We won’t be able to touch Nibsy until—unless—it does,” she told him. “If I can help—”
“You can’t,” he told her. “We’ll have to leave it up to fate.”
Too bad fate was a fickle bitch.
She took one more opportunity to lean into Harte, to allow herself to enjoy the way he touched her now like they’d always been together. The way her heart raced, even with the familiarity of him. They were going back, and for her, it would likely be the last time. If they made it through the Conclave alive, she’d have to give up Ishtar’s Key, and maybe even her affinity. If they didn’t… well, she wasn’t going to think about that.
Still, the modern city—even this version of it, dirty and broken as it was—had always been her home, and even if everything went right, she’d miss the towering buildings of Midtown that felt like walking through a cavern. She’d miss the spacious hotel where they’d burrowed and planned. She’d miss all of it. But if they could get Dakari’s help, if they could bend time and fate to their will, she’d have Harte.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Not even a little,” she said, throwing one of his standard lines back at him.
It wasn’t a lie, because before they could go back, she had to face her past. She had to face Dakari.
Esta swallowed against the tightness in her throat and willed herself not to start crying like a fool as they approached. Instead, she focused on what needed to be done and pasted on the kind of smile that could hide the emotion beneath. It was the smile she’d learned as a child, the one that had let her pretend everything was fine when all she’d wanted was for someone to gather her up and tell her she was enough.
They walked toward the line of carriages, arm in arm. To anyone they passed, she would appear to be nothing more than a girl with her boyfriend, madly in love. And because it was New York, hardly anyone looked twice at their clothes, styled for nearly a century before.
They were there too soon, standing in front of Dakari’s rig, with the old gray mare that she knew was named Maude. He was wearing a ridiculous suit meant to mirror the clothes of old New York. But its thin fabric was stretched across his broad shoulders, and the cheap top hat appeared to be every bit the prop it was.
“You folks looking for a tour?” he asked when he noticed they’d approached.
“Possibly,” Esta said, suddenly nervous. Suddenly unsure about their plan.
What had she been thinking? Now that she was standing in front of Dakari, facing him as a stranger, she couldn’t seem to form words.
She stalled by distracting herself with the mare. Tentatively, she put her hand out and brushed her palm across its smooth coat. “She’s a pretty horse.”
“She’s the best you’ll find in the city,” Dakari said with a smile. He looked so young. So fresh and unbothered. She wondered again who he could have been if Nibsy had never gotten his claws into him.
“The cars don’t bother her?” Esta asked, knowing the question was completely inane but wanting to draw the time she had with him out a little longer.
“Nah,” Dakari said. “Old Maude here is as steady as they come. She never spooks. She’d be happy to take you both for a tour of the park. Thirty even for half an hour.”
Harte’s brows shot up. “Dollars?”
“He still isn’t used to the big-city prices,” Esta said, laughing at the look on Harte’s face despite herself. It was enough to remind her why she was doing this and what was at stake.
She wasn’t ready to give him up.
“Actually,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “We didn’t come looking for a ride. We came looking for you, Dakari.”
Dakari’s brows rose, and he took a step back toward his horse with wariness clouding his expression. “Who are you? Who told you my name?”
“It’s a long story,” she said. When Harte squeezed her hand encouragingly, she continued. “But if you have a few minutes, it’s one I think you should hear.” She reached into the inner pocket of her jacket and took out a small object wrapped in a piece of flannel. She’d carried it with her everywhere—had managed to protect it through every danger of the last few months—because it was a connection to her own, true past. And to the one person she’d always loved.
