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“Buy a pape’?” The boy lifted the stack of newspapers he had slung under his arms, unconcerned with Harte’s answer or mood.
“No,” Harte said, waving him away. “I don’t want a damn paper— Wait. Yes. Yes, I do.” He stood, shaking off the stiffness in his joints as he took a bill from his pocket. He didn’t care what the denomination was—anything but a coin would have been far too much. He just wanted a paper. He needed to know.
“Mister?” The newsie sounded confused.
“Just take it,” Harte said, shoving the money toward the boy. “I don’t need any change.”
Wide-eyed, the newsie took the bill from him and handed over the whole stack of papers. He darted away before Harte could change his mind.
Harte barely noticed him go. His eyes were already scanning the header of the newspaper for the date, and when he found it, he nearly collapsed with relief.
December 1, 1902.
Feeling suddenly light-headed, he leaned against a nearby tree to keep himself upright as he let all but the one newspaper he was holding flutter to the ground. It was okay. He might not be in the right month, but Esta had gotten him to the right year. She could still reach him, and they hadn’t missed the Conclave. They weren’t too late. She might already be here.
And if she doesn’t come?
Harte hated the voice in his head, hated the question as well. But he knew the answer. He’d fight for her. He’d carry on. He was in his city now, and he had allies waiting. He had only to find them.
He turned back to the tunnel, still empty. Still without any sign that Esta would appear. There was a part of him that wanted to stay, in case she arrived. But he couldn’t live in that tunnel, waiting for endless hours and days like some kind of vagrant. The police swept through the park regularly enough that they’d notice him, and that was only if one of the gangs didn’t get to him first.
They had a plan, didn’t they? Whenever she arrived, they’d find each other, and then they would set things right.
Harte took one last look, and then he started walking toward the Bowery. He had been away only a matter of months, but his travels had changed him. After San Francisco and Chicago, after seeing a New York that towered and rushed around him, this city felt different, and he felt different within it. He’d seen what it would become, and he could almost see that promise now, waiting like a sleeping beast ready to rouse itself. The world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the future to arrive.
Or maybe it was waiting for something else.… There was an atmosphere in the streets he couldn’t quite place. An uneasy hum of something about to begin.
He headed south. Cela Johnson would be waiting. So, too, would Jianyu and Viola. He would need allies in the weeks ahead if there was to be any chance of them stopping Jack or Nibsy, of using the Book or stabilizing the Brink. Hopefully, Esta would arrive before the Conclave. Or maybe he hoped she was late. Maybe he hoped the terrible future written in the diary would never happen if she simply missed it.
Either way, Harte had to find the others. He would have to prepare them for what was coming, because he knew he’d need their help.
But when he turned down the street where Cela lived, he found only the burned-out remains of what had once been her home. He couldn’t tell how long ago the fire had occurred—trash and other detritus had accumulated in the corners of what was left of the building—but there had been no move to rebuild.
In the distance, he heard the clanging of a fire bell. The whining of hand-cranked sirens.
He’d left his mother with Cela at the house that had once stood on that lot. He assumed his mother was gone. She’d been in bad shape when he’d left her to Cela’s care. But had his mother passed from the opium Nibsy had doused her with before the fire? Or had she been trapped in the flames that had consumed the home?
Had Cela made it out?
He looked around at the buildings that were still standing, silent and uninterested in his distress. He had to find Cela, or he’d never know. Which meant he had to find Jianyu.
But Jianyu could be anywhere in the city.
With one last look at the burned remains of Cela’s home, he turned his feet toward the Bowery, toward the one place that might have the information he needed. He only hoped he wasn’t already too late.
HELLCAT
Bella Strega
James Lorcan had almost grown used to the strange rumbling undercurrent in the Aether that had plagued him since not long after the summer solstice, but when the Aether shifted violently that night, he knew immediately that something was coming. Still, he felt no fear at the trembling that signaled an approaching danger. He felt only anticipation. He’d long since placed the players on the board, and finally the game would begin.
When the doors to the Bella Strega burst open with a gust of cold, he wasn’t surprised to see that it was Viola. He’d been expecting her for so long, she was practically late. With a knife in her hand and her eyes flashing fury, she entered the barroom ready to fight like the hellcat she was. Everyone in the saloon went silent, because everyone in that barroom knew what she could do—with the blade and with her magic.
Werner stepped forward, but James gave a subtle shake of his head to stop him. Viola had none of her usual cold, calculating calm. Something had unhinged her, and because of it, she’d made a mistake by coming here unprotected. It would make what was to come that much more entertaining. So he’d let the game play out. When Viola finally came to her inevitable end, it would be his hand that ended her. Not Werner’s.
“Bastardo!” she hissed, finally spotting James from across the dimly lit space. The people standing between them parted like water as she stalked toward him.
“Viola,” he drawled, keeping his voice easy and unconcerned despite her rapid approach. “How nice of you to visit. I see you haven’t lost a bit of your charm.”
