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

Harte knew he was on precarious ground. It had come out all wrong.

“Esta—” He tried to collect his thoughts—tried to figure out how to say everything he felt—as she waited, dangerously quiet.

“Forget it, Harte,” she said after a moment. “I think I’ll pass on your generous offer to make an honest woman of me. I’m fine. We are getting off this train, and we are going to focus on finding Jack and the Book. We have enough to worry about without you inventing more problems.”

She turned from him then to collect her bag with a cold determination, while Harte stood there wondering how he’d screwed everything up so absolutely. Again. Esta was already opening the door and heading out into the corridor before he could even begin to consider how to repair the fragile peace he’d broken, and then they were disembarking and the time for conversation had passed.

The station was packed and filled with an energy like something about to begin. It was because of the convention, Harte realized. Somewhere in the city, Antistasi were planning the attack that would set history on a different course, and somewhere in the city, Jack Grew was waiting with the Book. Still, even with so much at stake, Harte was painfully aware of Esta next to him—especially the anger that radiated from her stiffened spine and tight jaw. She refused to look at him.

With Esta resolutely ignoring him, Harte tried to push aside his hurt and his embarrassment. He needed to keep himself alert as they made their way through the station, watching for any sign of trouble. He didn’t remember much about leaving the bank or catching the train in Oakland. He’d been reeling still from the death of his brother, but now he saw that the world had changed once more. Chicago was all flash and energy, with boxy motorcars and bustling sidewalks and buildings that towered overhead. The air was thick with the scents of exhaust and bitter cigarettes and the noise of street vendors with their wares. Men in light-colored, slightly wrinkled-looking suits and groups of young women walking arm in arm without escorts filled the sidewalks. The women wore dresses that fit loose, with low waists that obscured the shape of their bodies and hemlines that exposed their ankles, and many wore hair cut bluntly at their chin, every bit as short as Esta’s.

It didn’t take them long to find lodging in a small hotel. Esta lifted a few wallets so they could purchase some new clothes, and eventually her icy demeanor began to thaw and she started to talk to him again. But they never regained the warm easiness of the truce they’d come to on the train. She was purposely holding herself back from him now, and Harte knew it was his fault.

Three days later, not much between them had improved, especially with Seshat pacing impatiently beneath his skin. But they’d uncovered a promising lead—whispers of a nightclub where Mageus were rumored to go. It wasn’t much, but it was a start toward locating the Antistasi in the city, and so that evening Harte found himself standing beneath the brightly lit marquee of the Green Mill wearing one of his new ready-made suits and trying not to stare too hungrily at Esta. Her dress was ready-made as well, but it fit her like it had been tailored specifically for the long lines of her body. The fabric skimmed over her curves, a shimmering column that ended only slightly below the knee. It looked like it was made from dark, liquid gold, and Harte wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch the material—and the girl beneath.

He didn’t have to worry about Seshat that night, because they’d decided to risk using one of the remaining Quellant tablets. For the first time in days, the goddess’s mocking laughter and threatening whispers weren’t echoing in Harte’s mind, but he barely noticed. All his concentration was on Esta and the dress she was wearing, and the fact that she was still holding herself away from him. He might have so little time left, and he wanted to fix things between them before it was too late. He wanted to bring her back to him—to make sure she was safe and protected—but Harte understood that they had a job to do. He tucked his hands into his pockets and kept them—and his thoughts—to himself.

The convention had started the day before, and so far the ballots had been inconclusive, but they both knew it was only a matter of time until the presidential nominee would be decided. Once that happened, the Antistasi would attack, unless he and Esta got to them first and convinced them to abandon their plan.

Esta had described the Green Mill as a saloon, but that was underselling it a bit. The establishment took up nearly an entire city block. But unlike some of the German-run beer halls back in Manhattan, the Green Mill’s many rooms and gardens were all polish and shine.

They passed through the crowded saloon in the front of the building, ignoring the mahogany bar that served a menu of seltzers and juice, then continued on to the sunken gardens that stood at the center of the complex. Open to the warm summer night air, the gardens were filled with people dancing and laughing. Harte still didn’t quite understand the whole concept of Prohibition. He couldn’t figure out why anyone thought it would be necessary—or even possible—to make alcohol illegal. From all appearances, his instincts were right—the people bouncing around the dance floor, their arms and legs flying in all directions, looked far less sober than the so-called dry gardens should have allowed.

“The entrance to the speakeasy is over there,” Esta said, frowning at the crowded dance floor.

Her lips were a dark, deep red, and she’d done something to accent the peaked bow in the center, so her frowning only served to draw