Once they made their way down the stairs, Jack was led through a heavy set of doors and found himself in a courtroom. A dour-looking judge sat at the high bench, listening to whatever the man in front of him was saying. At the sight of the man’s back—the graying hair, the small patch of baldness at his crown, the fine wool of his overcoat—Jack’s stomach sank. Not his father or cousin . . . This was worse. Much worse.
The man in front of the judge turned, and J. P. Morgan himself stood scowling at Jack as he approached the bench.
When that peasant bitch had caught Jack in her web of lies back in Greece last year, she’d wrapped him up so deeply that he’d practically lost himself. He still didn’t remember most of the drunken days and nights he’d spent under her spell, but even then, the family had simply sent his cousin to round him up. If he found himself short of funds at closing time, one of the family’s men would show up to pay the bill. His uncle didn’t usually bother himself with the minutiae of the family’s life, especially not the life of his wife’s sister’s oldest boy. But there was Morgan himself, in the flesh: his bulbous, cankerous nose, stooped shoulders, and a scowl on his face that meant trouble for Jack.
Shit.
Jack stood in front of the bench, trying to listen to whatever it was the judge was saying, but he couldn’t concentrate. Not when his uncle was staring at him like he was something from the gutter.
The judge finished talking. “Do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Jack answered, not really caring what he was answering to. He wasn’t some damn little boy to be put into a corner. As long as it meant freedom, he would have agreed to anything.
Another officer stepped forward to remove the heavy cuffs, and Jack rubbed at his wrists.
“I expect that I won’t have to see you here again,” the judge told him. It wasn’t a question.
“No, sir,” Jack said, silently cursing the judge and his uncle and the whole lot of them put together.
Morgan didn’t say anything until they were both in the private carriage, closed away from the prying eyes of the city. Outside, the sky was just beginning to go from the pale light of dawn to full day. He’d spent the whole night in that rotting cell.
After the carriage began to move, his uncle finally spoke. “You’re damn lucky Judge Sinclair is up for election this fall, or it wouldn’t have been so easy to get you out of there, boy. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, trying to shoot a man in broad daylight.”
“I was trying to—”
“You can’t possibly think I actually care?” Morgan snapped, his cold eyes silencing Jack as effectively as his words. “You had one job—to meet Darrigan and get the artifacts he stole. All you had to do was to stay out of the way so the Order—not you—could dispose of him.”
“Darrigan made me look like a fool,” Jack said, his temper barely leashed. “I couldn’t let what he’d done to me stand.”
“You made yourself look like a fool,” Morgan said. “All that damned magician did was give you enough rope to hang yourself with. None in the Inner Circle wanted you on that bridge, but I convinced the Order to give you another chance, and what happens? You go off half-cocked, as usual. It’s bad enough you brought those miscreants into our sanctuary, bad enough that Khafre Hall is in rubble and the Order’s most important artifacts are missing. But to go and draw even more attention to the situation? You’ve embarrassed the entire family. You’ve embarrassed me.”
You’ve embarrassed yourself. Jack, at least, had tried to do something. If the Order had given Jack the access he’d wanted months ago, Harte Darrigan wouldn’t have been an issue. “I’ll find Darrigan,” he told Morgan. “I’ll get back the Book and the artifacts.”
“Darrigan is dead,” Morgan said flatly.
“Dead?” No. That couldn’t be. Not when Jack had plans to kill the magician himself.
“Jumped from the bridge right after you were taken away. If he had the Order’s possessions, he either hid them or gave them to someone else. Not that it matters . . . We’ll find the artifacts sooner or later.”
“I’ll help—”
“No,” Morgan said bluntly, cutting him off. “You won’t. You’re finished. Your membership to the Order has been revoked.”
The finality in his uncle’s tone told Jack that it wasn’t worth it to try explaining or apologizing. Especially not when his uncle had that look on his face. He would just have to bide his time, as he had after the fiasco in Greece. Eventually his uncle would cool off, and Jack would make them all understand.
“Further,” Morgan continued, “you will be leaving the city immediately. Your bags have already been packed and are waiting at your mother’s house. Once we arrive, you will have exactly thirty minutes to clean yourself up and say your good-byes. When you’re presentable, you’ll be taken to the train station.”
Jack huffed. “You can’t force me to leave.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps not. But tell me, how do you plan to live? Your parents have decided they will not be paying any more of your bills until and unless you prove yourself. The town house you leased will need to be paid for. The carousing you do—the drinking and the whoring—will now be yours to deal with. Who do you think will hire you in this town after the embarrassment of yesterday?”
Utter disbelief made Jack’s head feel as though it were in a fog. His uncle had ruined him. Morgan had turned Jack’s own parents against him, and with nothing more than a word, he could make sure no one in the city would have Jack. The truth of his own impotence burned. “And where will I be going?” he asked, his own voice sounding very far away from himself.
“Where you should have gone yesterday—the job is still waiting for you in Cleveland, just as it was before the fiasco on the bridge.”
“And how long will I be working there?” Jack asked flatly.
“Indefinitely.” Morgan picked up a newspaper that was sitting on the carriage bench next to him and opened it with a snap. The front-page headline glared darkly at him: THE MAGICIAN’S TRAGIC TUMBLE. Beneath the words was an etching of Darrigan himself, staring from the surface of the newsprint, his half smile mocking Jack.
Indefinitely. “That’s it, then? I’m exiled.”
“Don’t be so damned dramatic,” Morgan growled from behind the paper.
Once, Morgan’s authority would have made Jack tremble, but now there was something about the sneering quality of J. P. Morgan’s voice that made Jack bristle. They still don’t understand. The Inner Circle of the Order, with their comfortable boardrooms and palatial mansions on Fifth Avenue, saw themselves as kings—as untouchable. They didn’t realize that peasants start every revolution, and when the peasants rise up, royal heads are the first to roll.
But Jack knew. He understood.
“You’re making a mistake,” Jack said coldly. “You have no idea what these maggots are capable of. You have no idea the threats they pose.”
With another violent snap, Morgan brought his newspaper down, practically tearing it across his lap, and glared at Jack. “Watch yourself, boy.”