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

layers of fabric between their skin, Harte was able to push the ancient power back easily enough.

For now, Seshat whispered softly.

Harte grimaced in reply.

“I wish we had more of the Quellant,” Esta said, noticing his discomfort.

“I’m fine.” At least for now.

Besides, he hated the idea that he needed Maggie’s formulation even to stand next to Esta. Even more, he hated the way the Quellant made him feel: cold and empty and incomplete. That aching hollowness was almost enough to have him yearning for something to take the pain away. He wondered if it was anything like what his mother felt after she’d ventured too close to the Brink. If so, Harte understood a little better why Molly O’Doherty had reached for the numbing lull of opium.

Together, Harte and Esta followed the crowd of people through the golden double doors and into the nightclub. Once they entered, they were surrounded by the sounds of the orchestra’s music, crystal clinking, and couples speaking across linen-covered tabletops. The whole place was decorated in dark gleaming wood and gold accents. In the center of the room was a wide-open dance floor, which was anchored by a five-piece band that was playing a soft ballad. This wasn’t the raucous Haymarket, with its painted ladies and packs of hungry young men roving for a night on the town. The clientele here was mostly couples—mostly older and mostly white, but the waitstaff and other workers all seemed to be Chinese people. Jewels glittered around every woman’s neck as couples glided across the dance floor in smooth, looping circles or sat leaning close across tabletops, their quiet murmuring like the rustling of money.

The hostess was a Chinese woman wearing a red satin gown. Her dark hair had been cut nearly as short as Esta’s and was curled and fluffed about her face in the style that seemed to be popular everywhere in the city. She led them to a table in the back corner of the club, away from the lights and bustle of the open dance floor, as they’d requested. Esta looked over the menu, which was divided into both American and Chinese offerings, but Harte could hardly concentrate on food. Instead, he scanned the room and the dance floor for any sign of the man who could be his brother.

“Are you sure he’ll be here tonight?” Harte asked after they’d placed their order. He didn’t know why, but he’d almost expected Sammie to be waiting for him at the door.

“That’s what I was told by the person who answered the phone earlier,” Esta said, looking around the room. “From what I understand, he’s here every night.”

“We should have come yesterday,” he told her, frustrated at his own weakness.

“You needed to rest yesterday,” Esta told him, her golden eyes flashing with something that looked too much like pity for Harte’s liking.

He’d seen that look too many times since he’d woken in that damned hospital bed. As he’d recovered in the hotel, she’d been there by his side, watching over him as though he might disappear if she looked away. Harte didn’t even want to think about the ways she had helped him. He would have been incinerated by the shame of his own weakness had he been well enough or strong enough to care at the time. And always, fear and pity had been stark in her expression—like he’d been some kind of wounded animal to save… except for that afternoon when he’d woken from an unintended nap and, not thinking about the consequences, had kissed her. It hadn’t been pity in her eyes then. It had been hunger and hope as deep and unspeakable as his own.

Harte knew he should tell her how grateful he was. He could at least tell her how beautiful she looked that night, but he couldn’t figure out where to start. He opened his mouth again and again—he probably looked like a fish—but the words wouldn’t come.

Esta turned to him, and her expression shifted to concern. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Harte mumbled, feeling stupid. Before he could pull himself together and try again, though, the orchestra trilled and the house lights began to dim. The dance floor was suddenly bathed in cool blues and pinks.

A line of chorus girls with their legs bare to the hip sashayed onto the floor. Their shoes clickety-clacked in rhythm as they came, and the scraps of their costumes threatened to come undone with every bounce and shimmy. Their act was followed by a Chinese couple. The woman was dressed in a diaphanous gown of silk and feathers that made her look like a bird of paradise, and the man, tall and slender in a topcoat and tails, spun her around the floor in a dreamlike waltz as easily as if she weighed no more than the feathers on her gown.

Their meals arrived, but Harte wasn’t hungry. He picked haphazardly at the food on his plate as one act after another took the stage. Esta must have been as nervous as he was, because she didn’t eat much either. By the time the waiter carried away their barely touched plates, the show was winding down, and there had been no sign of Sammie.

With the ringing of the piano, the entire club went dark, and a single beam of light flickered on to illuminate a girl in the center of the dance floor. She had hair the color of fire and was holding an enormous translucent sphere, like a giant soap bubble. The orchestra hummed softly, and she began to dance.

“She’s not wearing anything at all,” Harte murmured, feeling his cheeks heat in embarrassment. He’d seen plenty of bare arms and legs during his days onstage, but nothing like this.

Esta glanced at him, and Harte could tell she was trying not to laugh. “I believe that’s the point.” But her expression shifted when the girl started dancing, and suddenly Harte felt the unmistakable warmth of magic—natural magic. “Did you feel that?” Esta whispered.

He nodded. “It can’t be a