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

hurt you, Harte wanted to tell the child, but he couldn’t make that promise. He’d already hurt the boy by using him as a pawn. He’d promised his brother magic, but in the end he would betray him, just as he’d betrayed everyone else. Harte told himself that this was how it had to be. He could not turn back, not now. He had made a promise to Esta that he would die to keep, but even Harte Darrigan couldn’t convince himself that he wouldn’t have regrets in the end.

“Maybe it would be impossible if I were here alone,” Harte said, hardening his resolve. “But I’m not. I have you—a member—to help me.”

His father blanched, confirming what Harte suspected. “You don’t know—”

“But I do. Maybe if you hadn’t been wearing that ring, I wouldn’t have put it together, but of course you wouldn’t be able to resist showing everyone the mark of your status. You didn’t simply sell Cooke the crown for cash. You got yourself into their little club. It’s why you were so worried that the Committee might find out you didn’t turn me in immediately.”

Samuel Lowe’s nostrils flared slightly, the only sign that anything Harte said had struck a nerve.

“You want your son back? I want the Dragon’s Eye,” Harte told him. “Take me to the crown, and I’ll consider handing him over.”

“You’ll consider—”

“You still have items that belong to me,” Harte reminded him. “It seems only fair that I keep something of yours until mine are returned.”

“Father?” The boy’s voice was a question and a plea all at once.

“Enough, Sammie,” his father said, snapping at the child.

Harte felt the child flinch at the sharpness of their father’s tone. He bent down so that he was eye level with Sammie. “Would you like to see another trick? Perhaps I could make something disappear?” he asked, infusing mischief into his tone.

The boy looked wary, but he screwed up enough courage to jut out his stubborn little chin as he met Harte’s eyes. “I want to see the elephant.”

Harte had to choke back a laugh at the boy’s insistence. “Yes, well…” He glanced up at the sky, which was shrouded with the same clouds that had greeted his arrival to the city, and transformed his expression into regretful disappointment. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look like elephant weather today after all. Perhaps a different trick? One that your father might help us with?”

“No,” Samuel Lowe said, trying to imbue his voice with its usual authority and failing to hide the tremor of fear vibrating through it.

“No?” Harte asked, a warning in his voice. “You agreed—”

“I will show you where the crown is kept, but you will make no move to retrieve it,” his father said. “Not now. Not when I or my son could be considered complicit. You will give me your word. Or I will make certain that you never see the other items again.”

Harte didn’t let the threat sway him. “You’re not in any position to make threats,” he told his father as he stepped closer to the boy, ignoring the pang of guilt he felt. “Enough with the stalling. I’m going in one way or the other. I can either make a scene and bring you down with me, or you can help me and make this easier for everyone.”

Samuel Lowe seemed to know when he’d been outmaneuvered. “You will keep your mouth shut and remain silent once we’re inside. Don’t draw any attention to yourself. You’re an outsider here,” he told Harte. “This city is nothing like the streets you grew up running wild in.”

Harte doubted there was much difference. Already, he saw the similarities—secret organizations that required loyalty and gave protection for a price, residents who were afraid to cross the wrong lines. And the Vigilance Committee, a group of men who seemed as determined to root out the old magic as any of the other Brotherhoods.

He followed his father through the arched doorway and was instantly surrounded by the opulence of the bank’s lobby. The walls were polished wood that gleamed in the dim light, and the floors were inlaid with marble. A high counter ran along the back side of the room, where three men dressed in crisp dark suits sat behind brass bars, working steadily.

One of the men glanced up as Harte’s father approached. The two spoke in low whispers, and Harte had to stop himself from gripping the boy’s shoulders too tightly. He tried to steady himself, preparing for the betrayal that was likely to come as he waited in the stuffy quiet. It felt like being inside a tomb.

The clerk kept tossing glances in Harte’s direction. When the clerk’s brows drew together, Harte had the sinking feeling that he’d let himself walk into a trap, but after a moment the two seemed to have come to some understanding. The clerk gave a small nod finally, and his father directed Harte to a door just left of the counter. Still unsure, Harte followed, gently tugging the boy along with him for protection.

On the other side of the doorway, a steep staircase led upward. With his leg throbbing and his entire body aching, the climb felt impossible, but Harte did what he could to keep pace. He didn’t want his father to know how winded he was or how dizzy he felt when he looked up the seemingly endless stretch of steps. Esta will be waiting, he reminded himself as he lifted his foot to the next step.

When they reached the third floor, they came to a heavy brass door inscribed with an unusual design. The etchings in the metal reminded him of some of the alchemical symbols he’d learned in the preparation of his stage act, but he didn’t recognize any specifically. His father withdrew a brass key from his vest pocket and used it to unlock the door.

Beyond the door, a darkened antechamber led into a larger space. It looked like some kind of temple.

If Harte had thought that the