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“You’re bleeding all over the place,” Harte told her. “You’re definitely not fine. Bring those over here,” he ordered Everett, who was still too shocked to do anything more than obey.
“It’s all I could find,” Everett said, making the words sound more like an apology than an explanation.
“It’s great,” Esta said gently as she winced again.
Harte was still too angry—too terrified—to do anything more than make a half-formed grunt of thanks. His hands could manipulate cards right beneath a person’s nose or pick a lock in the darkness of an underwater tank, but he could not seem to keep them steady as he dabbed the water over Esta’s mangled skin.
“It’s okay, Harte,” she said, touching his wrist softly to stop him. To steady the shaking that even she must have been able to see. “I can clean my own arm.”
“I have it,” he said.
“Harte—”
“Just let me look at it, would you?” He could hear the tightness in his own voice. He stopped, closed his eyes, and tried to calm himself. “Let me do this for you,” he said, opening his eyes again and meeting her gaze. He knew why she wanted to do this herself—why she felt like she had to do everything on her own—but he couldn’t let it go. “Let me help you, Esta.” He paused, and when he spoke again, he made his voice softer. “I need to make sure you’re okay.” He swallowed hard, hating how helpless he felt. “Please.”
Any other time, Esta probably would have argued. Even now he could see that she wanted to. But she seemed to understand. Resigned, she offered up her hand.
Everett stood close by, watching as Harte worked as gently as he could to clean and bandage her wounds. His expression was creased with grief and worry, and Esta knew that it was more than her injuries that had put the hollowness in his eyes.
The burns were puckered and nearly indecipherable, but though the cuts were still seeping blood, the word was clear. Clavis.
“What does it mean?” Everett asked, frowning. “Is it a name or—”
“It’s Latin for key,” Esta said softly. “But I don’t know what that’s supposed to signify.”
“Maybe he wants your cuff,” Harte said as he covered the burns with some ointment from the kit before moving on to the cuts.
“Ishtar’s Key?” Everett asked. “That makes sense.”
“It’s possible,” Esta admitted. “But I can’t help feeling like there’s more to it. He had the cuff for ages and never did anything with it.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Harte told her, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Hating that there was nothing he could do to protect her—except take care of Nibsy Lorcan once and for all.
“Well, well, well,” a voice said from the doorway.
The three of them jumped at the sound of it, turning as one to find Dominic Fusilli, the owner of the Nitemarket and their erstwhile rescuer, standing in the darkened doorway. He had the satchel that had once been secured under Harte’s head. Esta must have taken it when she’d woken up, but they’d all forgotten about it in the rush to help her. Dom had already opened it, already removed the small, worn book from within. It was too late to stop him.
The interest that lit Dom’s face had Harte’s instincts prickling in warning. “What do we have here?”
SACRIFICE AND POWER
1920—Brooklyn
Esta considered her options as she watched Dom flip through the pages of the Ars Arcana. They’d all been so distracted by the mess on her arm that none of them had heard Dom’s footsteps approaching, and he’d found the satchel she’d dropped before they could pick it up. Now he had the Book and the artifacts, and Esta wasn’t sure how to get them back without upsetting the one ally they seemed to have. It was too late to slip through the seconds and take it from him. He’d already seen the Book, and they were in his warehouse, under his protection. For now they were safe. And the Book wasn’t going anywhere—she wouldn’t let it.
Maybe she was wrong to be so uneasy. After all, Dom had saved them from an impossible situation in Chicago. Whatever magic he’d used on the van to transport them to Brooklyn in the blink of an eye had certainly allowed them to get far, far away from where the authorities would be searching. But Maggie didn’t like Dominic Fusilli, so Esta figured that was a good enough reason not to trust him.
One look at Harte told Esta that he felt as uneasy as she did.
If Dom noticed their mood, he didn’t show it. He was taking his time, studying the page he was on before turning to the next. “I still can’t believe I’m looking at this,” he said. “The Book of Mysteries. Here. In my hands. And the lost artifacts—or some of them. When I think of what these would sell for…” He let out a low whistle. “I’d be set for life.”
“They’re not for sale,” Harte said flatly.
“Everything’s for sale,” Dom told them with a shrug. He glanced up at Esta. “Everyone has their price.”
“Not us,” Harte said, stepping toward Dom. “Not for these.”
Esta placed her hand on Harte’s arm. Starting a fight with Dom wasn’t going to help anything. Better to convince him, to make him think that giving back the Book and the artifacts would help him in some way. “What Harte means to say,” Esta told Dom, “is that we can’t sell them yet. We have to use them first… to bring down the Brink.”
