The Serpent's Curse Page 2

  Harte was gone.

  When she’d discovered his absence a little while ago, she hadn’t even been surprised. Not really. His desertion felt strangely familiar. Almost expected. Maybe a part of her had been waiting for him to leave for weeks now, but it didn’t hurt any less to know that she’d been right.

  Not that she would ever admit that. Not even to herself.

  It didn’t seem to matter that he had a good reason to put distance between them. Back in New York, Harte had tried to warn her that the power that had once been within the Book of Mysteries was dangerous. In St. Louis, he’d tried to explain that it was growing stronger and becoming harder for him to control. But the night before, when that ancient power had overwhelmed him in the Festival Hall, Esta had finally understood. Harte’s usual stormy eyes had gone black, and his expression had become so foreign that Esta had known instantly it wasn’t Harte looking back at her.

  And when she’d tried to help him—when she’d touched him? A shudder ran through her at the memory of the power she’d felt tearing at her.

  No. Not a power. A person. Seshat.

  Once, the ancient goddess had tried to save the old magic, but Seshat had been betrayed and trapped in the pages of the Ars Arcana. Now, after being imprisoned for so many years, she was furious and probably more than a little unhinged. To get her revenge, Seshat would destroy the world itself, and she would use Esta to do it.

  So yes, maybe Harte had been right to leave, to put space between them until they had a way to control the goddess’s power. But he should have discussed it with her. They could have made a plan. Together. Like the partners they were supposed to be. And he certainly shouldn’t have taken the Key. It was, without a doubt, the bigger betrayal.

  Esta wasn’t exactly sure how time might unravel if she never returned to the city and gave her younger self the cuff with Ishtar’s Key, as Professor Lachlan said she must. One thing was certain, though—Esta was undeniably connected to that small girl she had once been. She now wore the evidence of this link on her wrist, where a scar had appeared only days before.

  Despite being new to Esta, the silvery letters looked like they’d been carved into her skin long ago, a single word in the Latin she’d learned as a child—the Latin that Professor Lachlan had taught her. Redi.

  He’d used the imperative. It was a demand that she return to him.

  The scar’s sudden appearance was proof that however twisted and tangled time might be, the person Esta was now and the young girl Nibsy held captive were one and the same, as Nibsy and Professor Lachlan were one and the same. It was a sign—a warning—that Esta had no choice but to return the Key to her younger self and put her own life on its proper course. If she didn’t, her present would become impossible. The person she was would cease to be.

  Maybe that would be better.

  Esta felt suddenly numb with a mixture of grief and exhaustion. Again and again she had tried to right the wrongs of history. She had tried to create a better future for those with the old magic, but she had failed—

  No, Esta thought darkly. I’ve made things even worse.

  When she and Harte had left New York weeks before, they’d only meant to find the artifacts before Nibsy could, but Esta had mistakenly brought them forward to 1904 and had destroyed a train in the process. Because of that mistake, the Devil’s Thief and the Antistasi had been born. History had been set on a different path: the old magic had been deemed illegal, and so many had suffered because of it. And that was before they’d attacked the Society’s ball—and the president. Esta could only imagine the ways history might continue to change because of what she’d done.

  She should have listened to Harte and focused on collecting the stones. Instead, Esta had let her anger blind her, and she’d helped the Antistasi deploy a serum that turned out to be deadly. Worse, Jack Grew had still managed to slip away, taking the Book—and all of the secrets it held—with him. Without the Book, there was little chance of finding a way to use the stones to stop Seshat without Esta giving up her life.

  But even sacrificing her life wasn’t enough to right the wrongs she had created. Esta was willing to give up everything to stop Seshat here and now, but even if Harte could take the Key back to New York for her and give it to her younger self, the world was likely already changing in ways Esta couldn’t predict and didn’t want to think about.

  She took a step toward the edge of the platform, ignoring how the wind lashed at her. Below, the ground rushed by in a blur of rock and brush. Maybe it would be better if she didn’t return the stone. After all, without her meddling, the Book and its terrible power would have disappeared, as it had once before, and Seshat would never have been a threat. The world would be safe.

  Safe. Esta looked out at the far-off horizon and tried to imagine that world, but she found she couldn’t. Hadn’t she learned long ago that safety was nothing but an illusion?

  Her death was no solution. She knew that. If she never returned the Key, if history did unwind itself, the old magic would die, as Seshat had feared so long ago. Esta had grown up in that world, in a time far in the future, where magic was nothing but a fairy tale. And before magic faded away? There would be a century of fear and pain for those Mageus unlucky enough to have been born with a connection to the old magic. Removing herself from the equation wouldn’t stop the Order or any of the Brotherhoods. It wouldn’t end their hate or their violence or the power they held over the city she loved. It would simply leave the innocent as unprotected as they’d ever been. And Harte Darrigan would be gone as well, lost to history and memory, his life ended on a cold and lonely bridge.

  It was that final thought that felt most impossible of all.

  Esta’s fingers brushed at the bracelet at her wrist. The cheap strand of beads was the only thing Harte had left her, but he’d used his affinity to make it something more. As soon as Esta touched it, she felt Harte there, like he was standing right beside her. His voice echoed softly through her mind, explaining where he would go, what he planned to do, and when his words died away, Esta thought she could almost feel the warm brush of lips against the column of her throat: a promise and a plea all at once.

  To control Seshat and stop the ancient power from unmaking the world, they needed the other lost artifacts, but with Seshat’s power growing, Harte’s time was running out. The Dragon’s Eye waited for him on a distant shore, but the Pharaoh’s Heart was closer. It was where they would have traveled together if everything hadn’t gone wrong in St. Louis. But with the threat of Seshat’s power, they couldn’t afford to waste time traveling together.

  Find the dagger. Then meet me at the bridge. Together they would go back to the city and collect the final artifact.

  It wasn’t exactly a command. Harte hadn’t used his affinity to take away Esta’s will, as he could have. He’d left her behind, trusting that she would be able to do what he asked of her. Trusting that she’d be willing.

  Or maybe he didn’t trust her completely.… He’d taken her cuff, after all.

  The land flew by around her, wide and open, a world filled with possibilities that were not for her. Would never be for her. Esta would do what Harte had asked. She would find the dagger and then meet him at the bridge, but she would not allow herself to forget where her path would inevitably lead. She would use her affinity to stop Seshat, and in doing so, she would lose her life. Once Seshat was no longer a threat, it would be left to Harte to take the Key to the small girl Esta had been and stop time from unwinding. There was nothing Esta could do about the tragedy she’d caused in St. Louis. There was no way she could see to take the stones back to 1902 without crossing them with themselves and losing them again. But she could still stop Seshat from unmaking the world. Perhaps with Seshat’s power under control, Harte and the others they’d left in the city could fight the Order and create a different future for magic. Perhaps that could be enough.

  Esta reached for the bracelet once more, the beads cool against her fingertips. Again Harte’s voice came to her. She couldn’t stop herself from closing her eyes as his words brushed against her and his presence surrounded her again. Nor could she stop her throat from going tight at the feel of his lips against her skin, but when she opened her eyes, she was alone in the middle of a wide sweep of unfamiliar country.

  She tore the bracelet from her wrist, letting the tiny glass beads scatter like seeds in the wind. Esta wouldn’t let herself rely on the comforting presence of Harte’s voice, nor could she afford the distraction of his kiss. Both were only reminders of a future that could never be.

  But first the dagger.

  The air smelled faintly of the coal smoke expelled by the train, and the morning sky was a bright cornflower blue overhead. The train didn’t seem to be slowing anytime soon, but that didn’t mean that Esta couldn’t get off. Far off in the distance, the jagged teeth of a town broke the endless stretch of the horizon. It was an opportunity.

  Esta let her affinity flare until she could sense time hanging around her, but she’d barely started to reach for the seconds when she saw something else in the corner of her vision. A shadow lurked there, and the darkness had her drawing back and releasing her hold on time.

  She’d seen darkness like that before. It had happened the first time, weeks ago, on the train out of New Jersey, and then again in St. Louis. Each time, destruction had followed. But every time it had happened before, Esta had been touching Harte; their connection had allowed Seshat’s power to amplify her own. That couldn’t be what was happening, though. Harte was gone, and Seshat’s power with him.

  Wasn’t it?

  Esta shook off the unease that had turned the warm summer wind suddenly cold against her skin. She took a deep breath to center herself, letting the rhythm of the train ste
ady her, but before she could reach for her affinity again, she noticed that a small puff of smoke had appeared on the horizon. It was enough to make her pause.

  Not smoke, Esta realized. It was a cloud of dust thrown up by a group of horses galloping toward the train. Even from that distance, she could tell they carried riders.

  Esta took an instinctive step back from the railing, pulling herself out of sight. She didn’t know who the riders were, but her instincts were screaming that their appearance was no coincidence.

  The Order had found her.

  A WHISPERING CERTAINTY

  1904—St. Louis

  It was not yet six in the morning—an ungodly hour, to Jack Grew’s thinking—when he found himself walking through the empty midway of the world’s fair. Dark clouds hung heavy above, mirroring the mood of the whole city. As far as Jack was concerned, the gloom of the early morning suited him. His overcoat warded off the dampness of the day, and within a hidden inner pocket, the weight of the Book was a comfort, a ballast stone to keep him steady on his course. Within his mind, a new consciousness was taking form, a whispering certainty that he would prevail.

  The grounds of the Exposition would not be open to the public today, not after the embarrassment at the ball that had happened the night before. The highest-ranking members of the Veiled Prophet Society—and consequently, all of St. Louis—had retreated to their individual mansions and boardrooms to lick their wounds and hide their fear, leaving the people of the city to fend for themselves.

  Jack wasn’t exactly surprised. The men who held power in the Society weren’t any different from those who led the Order. Who could the men of the Veiled Prophet Society ever hope to be if they would not even reveal their faces?

  Nothing. No one.

  Luckily, Roosevelt was fine. The president had been removed from the Festival Hall moments before the attack, right before everything had erupted. Before leaving town late last night, Roosevelt had commended Jack on his bravery, thanked him for his assistance and his loyalty, and given him a new position.

  So, yes, perhaps Harte Darrigan and the girl had managed to slip through Jack’s fingers, but the chaos they’d unleashed had worked in Jack’s favor. Because of their actions, Jack had more authority than ever before. Because of their recklessness, the entire country understood exactly how dangerous feral magic was. The yellow journalists would sensationalize the events to sell their tawdry rags, and the fear and hate that was already spreading like a wildfire through the land would become the forge that could bring Jack’s ultimate goals to fruition.

  At the sound of steadily approaching footsteps, Jack turned to find Hendricks—one of the Jefferson Guard who had helped him in the previous weeks—approaching. Right on time.

  Jack didn’t bother calling out a greeting or lifting a hand in welcome. Instead, he kept his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, where his fingers brushed against the artifact he carried.

  He’d found the piece years before, but after the events of the Conclave, he’d used the pages of the Ars Arcana to secret it away. To protect it. For the last two years, however, the Book had refused to return the artifact, stripping Jack of the power he might have otherwise wielded… until the night before. Now the familiar coolness of the stone in the artifact sent a thrill of anticipation through his blood, and the same whispering certainty rose within him again.

  Hendricks’ gaze shifted restlessly, as though he expected an attack. “Sir,” he said in greeting. “Everything is ready. Just as you’ve required.”

  “Good,” Jack said, ignoring the outstretched hand and withholding the praise he knew Hendricks craved. “Let’s be on with it, then.”

  The two men made their way past the enormous sepulchral buildings, all quiet in the morning’s gloom, until they came to a tower at least twenty stories high, as tall as the skyscrapers that were already starting to transform the skyline of Manhattan. The building at the base of the tower housed a mixture of working machinery and displays about the wonders of wireless telegraphy. Jack had already seen the exhibit—and the one in the Palace of Electricity, where the ever-present crackle of high-voltage electricity had signaled that the De Forest wireless machine was at work. He’d already watched the operators send messages to and from this very tower, through the air—as if by magic.

  Jack wasn’t as ignorant as the people whose eyes had goggled in wonder, though. He knew that it wasn’t magic but science that accomplished the task, and he also knew that scientific thinking applied to the occult arts could reap great rewards.

  Years before, Jack had worked in secret to create a machine that could cleanse the world of dangerous, feral magic. He had hoped to reveal his masterpiece at the Conclave. He had imagined his machine in the Wardenclyffe Tower, the wireless installation that J. P. Morgan had been financing for Tesla out on Long Island. Jack had planned to use the machine to lead the Order into the future. Now he had bigger dreams.

  Here was evidence that Tesla’s project had not been a waste of resources, as J. P. Morgan had eventually come to believe. Here, disguised as a novelty, was evidence that Jack’s plan might one day be possible.

  “How many know that we’re here this morning?” Jack asked as the elevator began rising through the steel-framed tower. All around, the fairgrounds lay quiet and empty. Beyond, St. Louis looked as ragged and uninspiring as it did from the ground. It was nothing compared to New York, and thanks to the Society’s inability to protect the fair—and to stop Esta and Darrigan from stealing the necklace—it never would be.

  Hendricks’ expression was like flint. “The bare minimum required, as you requested. They’re all trustworthy.”

  “You’re sure?” Jack asked, eyeing Hendricks. “This project is of the utmost importance, and secrecy is a necessity.”

  Hendricks glanced at Jack, a question in his eyes.

  “By order of President Roosevelt himself, of course,” Jack said easily. It wasn’t a complete lie. Roosevelt had ordered him to take charge of the investigation into the incident at the ball, and the president had created the new cabinet position that granted Jack the power to do just that. “You know, I could use a good man like you on my staff.”

  “You could?” Hendricks asked, his brow wrinkling.

  “On behalf of the president, of course,” Jack amended humbly.

  “Of course,” Hendricks echoed. “It would be an honor to serve.” He stood a little taller.

  Even with his freshly starched uniform, Hendricks couldn’t hide his softness. He was no soldier, honed for battle, but maybe he and the Guard could be useful nonetheless. The men who ran the Order and the Society were a minority too small to really wield power… unless the more insignificant members of the population yielded it voluntarily. With Hendricks, Jack might well be able to take control of the entire Jefferson Guard.

  “The president will be honored by your commitment,” Jack said solemnly as the elevator reached the top of the tower. “As am I.”

  Hendricks nodded and puffed out his chest even more.

  The elevator shuddered to a stop, and the doors opened to reveal the observation platform. Windows encased the space. To the east, the Mississippi curved, muddy and dark, bisecting the country. To the west, endless possibility.

  Hendricks made the introductions to the men who were waiting at the top and operating the tower. One sat at a long table that was cluttered with machinery. His concentration remained on the controls, as the other explained how the tower received signals.

  “How far can you reach?” Jack asked, studying the machine, his mind whirling.

  “So far we’ve managed to get messages from as far as Springfield, Illinois. A distance of over two hundred miles, sir,” the operator told him.

  Two hundred miles. It was twice what he had hoped to reach with the Wardenclyffe Tower. “I’d like to see the transformer,” Jack said, wondering how they’d contained the enormous amount of electricity. It had been the singular problem of his original machine: the abundance of power it harvested could not be contained safely. Though the comforting weight of the artifact in his pocket reminded him that perhaps he already had an answer to that particular problem.