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He made his way down the back staircase to the Strega’s barroom, all the while following the wild fluctuations of the Aether. It was early evening, too early for the usual crowd, but when he entered the saloon, he found it louder than usual. The energy felt unsettled and more than a little dangerous, and James saw the cause almost immediately.
Near the zinc bar, a drunken Mooch was speaking loudly enough to be heard over the din. He was gesticulating as he spoke, railing to anyone who would listen, as Werner tried—and failed—to quiet him. Quite a crowd had amassed around the pair, and as Mooch continued to speak, the feeling in the air grew more and more electric. Certain that this was the cause of the disturbance, James paused, biding his time before he made his presence known.
He’d been listening to the whispers filtering through the ranks of the Devil’s Own ever since he’d returned from the Flatiron Building with the Delphi’s Tear on his hand—and without Mooch and Werner—two nights before. After Logan had described how the two had left with Viola, how they’d run to save themselves instead of finishing the mission he’d sent them on, James had assumed that he would not see them in the Bowery again—at least not alive. Yet there they were, disrupting his evening and threatening everything he was on the verge of building.
Gripping the cane tighter, he felt the magic within it flare stronger than ever as he took a step into the low-ceilinged room. Even those around the periphery were quiet, trying to listen to Mooch, so at first one noticed James enter. But as he walked through the crowd, an awareness rippled, and slowly people began to move out of his way, giving him room to pass freely.
He was nearly to the bar before he could hear clearly what Mooch was saying.
“It was an impossible job,” the redheaded firebrand slurred, waving his glass of Nitewein around so wildly that the contents sloshed over his hand. “A suicide mission.”
According to Mooch, they’d been sent into the Order’s lair like lambs to the slaughter.
“Dolph Saunders wouldn’t never have asked us to do it,” Mooch railed, even as Werner tried to shush him. “Dolph would’ve had our backs.”
“Nibsy does have our backs,” Werner said, trying to take the glass away from his friend.
Mooch jerked his hand back, spilling the remained contents. “Nibsy Lorcan ain’t more than a boy. People are following him like he’s somebody, but he ain’t nothing compared to the man Dolph—”
It was the final statement that had James stepping forward. The thump of his cane shouldn’t have been audible over the noise of the saloon, but somehow it was enough for people to turn. The crowd went silent, because everyone understood that a line had been crossed. Everyone seemed to be holding their collective breath, waiting for what would happen next.
When Mooch realized that James had appeared, there was no flash of fear or misgiving. Instead, Mooch lifted his chin, his expression bleary-eyed and smugly indifferent. Next to him, Werner’s expression had shifted into an alert wariness. Werner, at least, understood.
Stopping a few feet from Mooch, James leaned on the cane and again reveled in the feel of its power beneath his palm and the way it sang to the nervous energy careening through the room. As the room buzzed, he simply stared at the two boys without speaking.
Because he could. Because the Strega was his to command.
Mooch was a few inches taller than James and older as well. He was mean as a snake and could turn his fire on anyone—and did, often without provocation. But it didn’t take a reading of the Aether to know that he wouldn’t threaten James. Not here in the heart of the Strega. And not with his fire, at least. Because Mooch wasn’t a leader. He was a coward.
“So,” James said softly, knowing that nevertheless his voice carried through the room. “I see you have returned to us at last.”
“Didn’t expect that, did you?” Mooch demanded, too drunk to be nervous and too cocky to be smart.
“What is that supposed to mean?” James asked, his voice deadly calm.
“Don’t listen to him none,” Werner said, trying to push Mooch behind him. “Look, we would’ve come back sooner. We meant to. But the Order… they’re everywhere. They’re picking up anyone they suspect of having the old magic.” Werner shifted nervously.
“I’m aware.” James leaned into the cane, kept his expression free of any emotion. Beneath his hand, the power within the silver top—Leena’s power and Dolph’s—sizzled against his skin. “The rest of us are all aware of the danger we’re currently in, no thanks to the two of you. And yet here you stand, blaming others for your own failures.”
“Just take back what you said,” Werner hissed into Mooch’s ear. “Apologize.”
But Mooch only lifted his chin higher.
Werner’s eyes darted to James. “He’s been drinking too much tonight, Nibs. Nerves, you know. He’s just talking shit, but he don’t mean nothing by it.”
“James,” he corrected. “I’ve asked you to call me James.”
“Right. James. Sorry.” Werner ran a hand through his dark blond hair. “Like I said, Mooch here, he don’t mean nothin.’ Do ya, Mooch?” He elbowed his drunken friend. “Tell him.”
Even inebriated as he was, Mooch’s confidence suddenly faltered. There was a flicker of misgiving in his expression as he seemed to realize the gravity of the situation.
The smugness drained from his expression. “Yeah, I didn’t mean nothing,” he muttered half-heartedly. But he looked down, unable or unwilling to meet James’ eyes.
“I see.” James stepped closer. “But I wonder… why would you say something you didn’t mean?” he asked, pretending confusion. “You said quite a lot just now.”
“I was just talking, is all,” Mooch told him. A soft belch highlighted his drunkenness and punctuated his confession.
James cocked his head slightly. “Were you?”
