The Serpent's Curse by Lisa Maxwell (read an ebook week .TXT) 📕

who tried to pry it apart was liable to find time’s venomous teeth sunk deep into their wrist. But James Lorcan believed himself up for the task.

The matron who lived on the top floor was an old woman with rheumy eyes and a voice like a rusted gate. She opened the door immediately at his knock, used to his oddly timed visits. He paid handsomely enough that she did not question him, never scolded or tried to turn him away, not even when he came in the dead of night.

She knew better.

“Where is she?” James asked.

The woman pointed toward the back bedroom. “She’s napping, though.”

“I don’t care if she’s spinning straw into gold,” he said, brushing past the old lady and into the apartment.

He’d done what he could in the year after Leena’s death to make the girl comfortable. Now the child must be close to seven, and each time James paid her a call, she reminded him more and more of who she would one day become—the viper who would betray him.

If only he could kill the child now, or rather, let the city do what it would with her. It would have been far easier than raising her. But before it had become worthless, the notebook had taught James that taking the girl’s life would mean losing everything else. His only chance at regaining the destiny that had so far eluded him was through Leena’s daughter. He hoped that with a firm enough hand, he could still mold the child into what she should have been if not for that damned magician. Either way, he would use her as he could.

The girl entered the room a moment later, holding tightly to the old woman’s hand.

“Come here, child,” he said.

The girl shrank from him, the same as she had each time since the night he’d first marked her two years before. James didn’t blame the child for the fear in her golden eyes. It was another indication of how smart she was and how cunning she would become.

“We’re going to play a little game,” he told her, and held out his hand.

“Please, sir. No…” Her voice was no more than the mewing whine of a kitten, but he had no pity for her. Kittens grew into cats with claws, feral and dangerous if left unattended.

“Now, Carina,” he said sternly, and she finally complied, slipping her trembling hand into his, even as her small mouth was pressed tight.

The mark on the underside of her wrist had long since scarred over into the shiny pink of new skin. The girl trembled in his grasp as James traced over the letters with his finger, and he wondered how close the connection was between this child and the girl she would become. Could Esta see his warnings? Could she feel the touch of his finger through the miles and the years? More importantly, would she understand?

He had not brought Viola’s knife, but James doubted the make of the blade was what mattered. Tears were running down the apples of the girl’s cheeks even before he touched the small pocketknife to her skin, and by the time it drew blood, she was crying in earnest.

James ignored the girl’s tears.

As long as Esta Filosik was still in play, nothing was ever over. Nothing was ever too late.

PART

III

NEW ALLIANCES

1904—San Francisco

The air was oppressive with the fog that was coming in off the bay when Jack Grew arrived in San Francisco. He’d left Denver immediately after dealing with the maggot sharpshooter. Her affinity had been a welcome addition to the collection of power held within the Book. He had not bothered to stop and confer with Gunter or any of the others before he left. He brought Hendricks with him, but that was only because Jack had happened to see the Guardsman as he was leaving the grounds of the Curtis Brothers’ Show.

Denver had been a fiasco, but at least it hadn’t been a complete catastrophe. In Jack’s pocket, the Book’s power still throbbed in time with his own heart. Esta Filosik might have slipped away from him, but he knew exactly where she was heading, and he had allies already waiting.

When the ferry finally docked, Jack was met by one of the leaders of the Vigilance Committee. William Cooke was in his thirties—a decade older than Jack, but still young enough not to be part of the old guard. Jack remembered Cooke from the Conclave two years before. He’d been an attendee then—a junior delegate from the Vigilance Committee. Even then, Jack could sense a hunger in the other man, and in the time between, Cooke had apparently managed to rise through the ranks of his organization with impressive speed. He could be a rival for power unless Jack neutralized that threat right now.

Cooke seemed unaware of the direction of Jack’s thoughts as he welcomed Jack on behalf of the entire organization to their “fair city” with a haughtiness that made Jack want to punch him. “Fair” was stretching things, in Jack’s estimation. He’d traveled any number of places with the president, and even more on Roosevelt’s behalf, but he’d never been this far west. Now he saw that he’d been missing nothing. The shores of San Francisco teemed with working-class miscreants, and the buildings along the waterfront were no better than shacks. Years before, New York had already made improvements in even its poorest neighborhoods that far surpassed these streets.

But he didn’t tell Cooke any of this. There was no sense upsetting the man before he proved himself useful.

“I trust you’ve made the necessary arrangements,” Jack said, lifting a handkerchief to his nose to ward off the smell as Cooke led him through the docks.

“After I received your telegram, the Committee doubled the watchmen’s patrols.”

“And the Thief ?” Jack asked.

“So far there’s been no sign of her,” Cooke admitted.

“You’ve kept all of this quiet?” Jack asked. “We wouldn’t want our quarry to get