“. . . saw her take off like the hellhound was on her tail.”
“Little Cela?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“No . . .”
“You don’t think she started it?”
“She certainly didn’t stay around to help, now, did she? Left the Browns upstairs without so much as a warning.”
“Always thought there was something strange about that girl . . . Too uppity for her own good, if you ask me.”
“Hush. You can’t be telling lies about people like that. She was a good girl. A hard worker. She wouldn’t burn down her own house.”
“Abel wasn’t in there, was he?”
“Can’t be sure . . .”
“She wouldn’t do anything to her brother. Say what you want about her, but Abe doted on that girl.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a bitch bit the hand that fed her. Big house like that? She could sell it and go wherever she wanted.”
“Abel never would’ve sold.”
“That’s what I’m saying. . . . They paid the insurance man, same as everyone.”
“Carl Brown said there was a gunshot. . . .”
Jianyu turned away from the bitterness and jealousy that dripped like venom from their words. They knew nothing except that Cela was not inside the house.
The gunshot, the burning house. It could have been Cela’s doing, but from the way the fire brigade stood silent and watchful rather than putting out the blaze, Jianyu thought otherwise. It was too much like what had happened in other parts of the city. It had the mark of the Order.
Which meant that someone, somehow, might already suspect that Cela had the Order’s artifact. As long as she was alone in the city, without protection, she was in danger.
They all were.
THE TRUTH ABOUT POWER
1902—New York
From the table at the back of the Bella Strega, James Lorcan balanced the stiletto knife on its tip as he surveyed the barroom. The knife had once belonged to Viola, but considering that he’d found it lodged in his thigh, he’d decided he’d earned it. He watched the light flash off its deadly blade—a blade capable of slicing through any material—as he contemplated everything that had happened.
He was no longer relegated to a seat off to the side, as he had been when Dolph Saunders was alive. Now James occupied the head of the table—the space reserved for the leader of the Devil’s Own—where he had always belonged, and Saunders occupied a small plot of land in a nearby churchyard, where he belonged. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
At the table next to him were Mooch and Werner—Bowery toughs who had once taken Dolph Saunders’ mark and pledged their loyalty to the Devil’s Own. Now they, like the rest of Dolph’s gang, looked to James for leadership. They were playing a hand of cards with a few others. From the way the Aether around them wavered and vibrated, one of them was bluffing about the hand he held—probably Mooch—and was about to lose. From what James could read, the others knew and were driving up the pot on purpose.
They hadn’t invited James to join in, not that he would have anyway. He had never cared for games—not in that way. Take chess, for instance. Simpleminded people thought it was a challenge, but in reality the game was far too predictable. Every piece on the board had specific limitations, and every move led the player to a limited number of possibilities. Anyone with half a brain between their ears could learn the simple machinations to ensure victory. There was no true challenge there.
Life was so much more interesting a game. The players were more varied and the rules constantly changing. And the challenges those variables presented? They only served to sweeten the victory. Because there was always victory, at least for James Lorcan. People, after all, were not capable of untold depths. He didn’t need his affinity to understand that at their heart, humans were no more than animals, driven by their hungers and fears.
Easily manipulated.
Predictable.
No, James didn’t need his affinity to understand human nature, but it certainly helped. It sharpened and deepened his perceptions, which gave him an advantage over every other player on the board.
It wasn’t that he could see the future exactly—he wasn’t a fortune-teller. His affinity simply allowed him to recognize the possibilities fate held in a way most people couldn’t fathom. After all, the world and everything in it was connected by Aether, just as words were connected on the pages of a book. There was a pattern to it all, like the grammar of a sentence or the structure of a story, and his affinity gave him the ability to read those patterns. But it was his intelligence that allowed him to adjust those patterns when it suited his needs. Change one word here, and the overall sentence adjusted. Cross out a sentence there, and a new meaning emerged. A new ending was written.
Just the day before, the future he had envisioned and planned for had been within his reach. With the Book’s power, he could have restored magic and shown those like him what their true destinies were supposed to be—not cowering from ordinary, powerless Sundren, but ruling them. Destroying those who had tried to steal that power to make the world theirs. And he would have been the one to lead the Mageus into a new era.
But the Book was lost. He’d expected that Darrigan would fight—had even planned for the magician to run—but he hadn’t predicted that Darrigan would be willing to die.
He hadn’t predicted Esta’s role either, though perhaps he should have. She’d always been slightly hazy to him, her connections to the Aether wavering and unsettled from the first. In the end, James had been wrong about her. In the end, she’d been as vulnerable and worthless as any of the other sheep that followed Dolph Saunders.
Without the Book, perhaps that particular dream could never be, but James Lorcan wasn’t finished. As long as the future still held possibilities for anyone smart enough to take hold of them, his game was not at an end. Perhaps he could not take control of magic, as he’d once dreamed. Perhaps magic would fade from the earth, but there were so many other ways for him to win. So many other ways to make those who had taken his family—and his future—pay. So many ways to end up on top of them all.
After all, power wasn’t always about obvious strength. Look what happened to James’ own father, who had wanted nothing more than fairness for other workers like himself—safe conditions, a good wage. He’d tried to lead, and they’d crushed him. They’d burned James’ house, killed his family, and taken everything from them. James had seen too many times what happened when you stepped up to lead.
You made yourself a target.
He didn’t have any interest in following Dolph’s fate, so he would do what he always did. He would bide his time. He would look to the long game while the small-minded tried to jump from space to space, knocking one another off the board while he watched from afar. It wouldn’t take much—a suggestion here, a whisper there, and the leaders in the Bowery would be so focused on snuffing out one another over the scraps the Order left them that they wouldn’t bother with James. Which would leave him free to focus on more important matters.
No, he certainly was no fortune-teller, but he could see the future on the horizon. Without the Book, magic would fade and the Brink would become nothing more than an antiquated curiosity. What power would the Order have then, especially without their most treasured possessions?