“Now, just hold on there, Mr. Grew. It’s not safe to—”
Jack stopped midswing, realizing it wasn’t one of Kelly’s men. It was instead one of the police who had been present to deal with Kelly. “This isn’t necessary,” he told the man through gritted teeth as he struggled against his would-be savior. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“You need to stay down.” The man pressed Jack to the floor again as more shots were exchanged.
He couldn’t move the officer, but Jack wasn’t without resources. His connection to the golem was stark and bright, and even pinned as he was, Jack’s lips moved in a silent incantation. To protect the artifact. To kill. Against his chest, the Book felt like a brand.
Only when the gunshots ceased completely did the officer finally move and help Jack to his feet. From the corner of the room, Jack caught a flash of violet and saw the girl being carried away, limp and still, by one of Kelly’s men.
He didn’t bother to go after them. Instead, he went for the dais. There lay Evelyn, broken as a painted doll. Her lips were still a bright, unnatural red, and the rouge on her cheeks looked luridly pink against the pallor of her lifeless skin. Her hand was outstretched, but the ring was gone.
PART
I
AN UNFAMILIAR COUNTRY
1904—Texas
Esta Filosik stood on the open platform at the back of a train heading into the West. The wind tore at short strands of her hair, whipping them against her cheek as she took in the view. There was a wild beauty to the land, but the stark openness of the seemingly endless sky unnerved her. Despite the warmth in the air, a chill had sunk deep into her bones. It felt suspiciously like regret.
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
