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

“Done.” Dom pulled out a thick stack of cash and counted out the amount before handing it over.

North tucked the money away without looking twice. Being shortchanged was the least of his worries.

“I’ll have some of my guys come by to pick up the goods by the end of the week,” Dom said, offering North his hand.

“I won’t be here,” North told him as they shook, and he hoped it was because he was home with Maggie instead of dead and gone. “But I’ll make sure the crates are waiting for you.”

“Then I guess this is good-bye for now,” Dom said. “It was an informative evening, Northwood.” He eyed Harte and Esta, who had managed to keep quiet through the conversation. “I’ll say one thing: You certainly do keep some interesting company.”

“You’re welcome to them,” North grumbled.

Esta had come over by that time. “I’m hoping you can keep our little meeting between us,” she said.

Dom tilted his head. “I make it a policy to never make promises I can’t keep,” he told her.

She didn’t seem bothered by his refusal. “I understand… though it might make it harder for you to reestablish your business if anyone found out who really was in charge of running the Nitemarket.”

“A threat?” Dom said, rubbing at his stubbled chin. “And not a very creative one at that. I expected better of you, Miss Filosik.” He appeared to be suppressing a smile.

Esta’s eyes narrowed a little. “You’re a frustrating man, Mr. Fusilli.”

“And a helpful one,” Dom said with a slight twist of his mouth. “I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion. I might have something that could help.”

Esta didn’t betray even an ounce of surprise. “Do you?”

Dom made a small flourish of his hand. “Walk me out, and maybe I can be persuaded to divulge it.”

Esta glanced at Harte, who didn’t look happy about the situation, but she only gave him a shrug before following Dom out.

“Do you really think you can disarm the machine in the tower without anyone realizing?” Harte asked Everett, part of his attention still on Esta and Dom as they left.

“I know how the California tower worked. I think we could do something even better than disarming it,” Everett told Harte. Then his gaze shifted to North. “But I could probably use some help.”

North knew when he was defeated. “It’s not like I’m about to let you go climbing up there alone.”

“Look on the bright side,” Everett told him. “If we fail, you won’t have to worry about Ma killing you.”

North stared at his son. “You don’t know your mother very well if you think she wouldn’t drag me back from the dead just for the sake of killing me a second time.”

ALREADY FALLING

1920—Chicago

The following evening, the June heat was thick and sticky as Harte stood next to Esta in the line of people waiting to enter the Chicago Coliseum. He felt the sweat already dampening the cotton of his shirt and the hair at his temples, but he was too exhausted to care. No one had slept much following the events at the Nitemarket. They all realized how little time they had to stop a deadly future from unfurling. Even with the short nap Esta had forced on him before they left, Harte felt every bit as old as North looked. Seshat might have been silenced by another tablet of the Quellant, but in his muscles and in his bones, Harte felt every second of every minute that he’d been awake.

The mood of the enormous crowd congregating around the building was boisterous. A group of women in white dresses held signs and shouted at every man passing, demanding women’s suffrage. Other groups held signs supporting candidates, men whose names Harte didn’t know and didn’t particularly care to. Occasionally, a shout would go up—America first!—and in unison, the rest of the crowd would respond with raucous shouts and chants of Harding! Harding! There was an energy in the air despite the heat, an excitement that even Harte, who’d never cared for the often dirty dealings of the political machine in New York, could feel.

There was another emotion running through the crowd as well—fear. Or maybe it was anger. From the hushed whispers and anxious expressions many of the attendees wore, it was clear that the attack on the convention the night before was fresh in their minds. Many of the people in line to enter wore black armbands in solidarity with the fifty-three men who had been killed during the previous night’s attack. Others held signs of support and shouted for an end to the threat of feral magic. None of them had any idea that the attack had been staged, and Harte wondered if they would care even if they did know—or if the attack had simply given them permission to put their truest and ugliest beliefs on display.

“It’s exactly like Sammie described,” he murmured to Esta. He realized then that he hadn’t quite believed his brother’s story. Not completely. Deep down, he’d hoped that Sammie had been exaggerating or had misremembered past events, but now Harte saw how naive that hope had been.

He understood fear, of course. He was well acquainted with the quiet, often unexamined hatred it inspired, and he knew as well what that hatred could do when channeled and directed. But he’d never imagined that it could unite so many people so quickly and absolutely. Short of standing in Khafre Hall that night so many weeks ago, Harte had never really seen the hatred against what he was—who he was—made quite so obvious.

“They’ve added security,” Esta whispered. She nodded up toward the roofline, where men holding rifles lined the top of the building. “And that banner’s new too.”

The Coliseum was an enormous structure with a facade that reminded Harte of a castle with its multiple medieval-looking towers and arched entrances. The whole building was decorated with patriotic bunting and flags that hung limp and still