THE CITY
The city stirred as the sun dipped below the horizon and night began to rise. With a shuddering sigh, it felt the cool, timeless waters lapping at its shores, heard the endless wailing of children hungry within closed-off rooms. It tasted the fears of the women and men who wandered through the narrow channels of its streets, staking everything they had—everything they were—for a dream they often could not even name.
Far beneath the present, beneath the constant disappointment and the regret, the land remembered what natives and newcomers alike had long since forgotten. It remembered that once it had been a true place, before the land had been carved and flattened and pressed into order.
The city could not forget, because in the darkness, the past was always there. The future too. Alongside what was, the city could see the glimmer of what had been and what could still become, especially at night, when the past and future and all the possibilities in between seemed one and the same.
The city had watched itself change many times before and knew it would change again. But on that night, the deepest night in the darkest part of the year, it sensed something that felt like a beginning.
Or perhaps it felt like an end.
That night a dangerous new magic began to stir. Beneath the indifferent stars, cold fires smudged their heavy incense into the sky, and chaos flared. The streets that carved order into bedrock began to burn, and the city felt itself beginning to come undone.
But there were those who would stand and fight for an impossible future.
The city had barely noticed them when they’d first arrived on its banks days or weeks or years before: one with fire in her eyes and a knife in her hand, one who could fold the light but could not uncrease his own heart. They had been no different from any of the other desperate souls who came day after day, year after year, all hoping to carve a life from the unfeeling streets. That night they stood apart, and the city wondered.…
And there were others: those held no power at all—at least none that could be remembered. They had been born in the city’s own cradle, but now the city took their measure.
Great beasts of smoke and fog rose from the cold fires as a demon raged, and the city watched her children fight. It watched them fall one by one. The assassin, the spy, and those who would help them. Broken
and bleeding on a rooftop filled with angry men. A knife to the heart. A bullet to the brain.
And then there were the two. The Magician and the Thief. And the city stirred with interest once more. But in the end, they were too late, and their blood mingled with the rest.
The demon laughed, and the men who dreamed of greatness fled like the rats that tickled the city’s ribs day and night. All except one, who stayed tucked into the shadows, eyes glinting at the sight of the broken bodies before him.
The city watched as the Serpent smiled. Like the city, he knew already that time was a circle, unending and infinite until shattered against desire. His hands tightened around a gorgon’s head, and his lip curled.
Time went still. The night held its breath. But then, the world spun on.
The city shook off its disappointment. And it began to dream.
ONLY A DREAM
1920—Brooklyn
Esta stared down at the small book in front of her. If not for the power radiating from it, the Ars Arcana would have been unimpressive. Unremarkable, even. It was smaller than one might expect of such a fabled object, bound in worn leather that had long since cracked and peeled from age. But the design carved into its cover was astounding. Clear and crisp, the geometric shapes were layered and woven into one another to form a complex sigil. The lines were so entangled that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.
So much was riding on what the Book of Mysteries contained—the information and the magic within its pages—that Esta hadn’t been able to fall asleep. She knew she should probably wait for Harte, but impatience made her a little reckless. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from taking the Book from the satchel and running her finger along the intricate design carved into the leather of the cover. At the soft brush of her touch, the Book shuddered. The Aether around her trembled in response. Even the very quintessence of existence seemed to understand that the piece of pure, untouched magic within those pages could remake the world. Or destroy it.
For what was Aether but time, the very substance that carved order from chaos? And what was magic but the promise of power within chaos? Time and magic. Order and chaos. Once, the two had existed in a fragile equilibrium. Like the ouroboros, the ancient image of a serpent fated to forever devour its own tail, time kept magic in check, and the wild chaos of magic spurred time onward. But a mistake—an act of hubris, however well meaning—had changed everything. Now, deep within the Ars Arcana, a piece of the beating heart of magic waited. Severed and separated from time by an act of ritual, it was impossibly potent and dangerous. In the wrong hands, its power could cause unthinkable destruction.
Esta glanced over her shoulder to where Harte was still sleeping on the low sofa. On a makeshift pallet nearby, North’s boy, Everett, snored softly as well. Even in sleep, he looked so much like his father. But North wasn’t with them any longer. He had sacrificed himself for Everett—for the hope of a better future for all Mageus—in Chicago. And Esta would not allow that sacrifice to go wasted. She would do everything she could to claim them a different fate.
The enigmatic owner of the Nitemarket, Dominic Fusilli, had dropped them off at one of his warehouses in Brooklyn and told them to get some rest. As far as Esta knew, she was alone with the Book in the stillness of the night.
She could wake Harte—she probably should wake him—but it had been nearly two days since he’d had any real sleep, and he was still weak from being sick in California. He needed the rest. And also, she wasn’t ready to tell him yet—not about what Seshat had revealed back in Chicago nor about what Esta had done to save his life. She’d promised to finish the ritual Seshat had started eons before, a ritual to place that severed piece of magic back into the whole of creation. It was a promise she had no idea how to keep.
The Book trembled again, beckoned. The answers were within those pages.
They have to be.
Her finger had barely made contact with the ancient cover when, suddenly, the Ars Arcana threw itself open, and the most terrible wailing split the silence of the night as the pages began flipping in a seemingly endless wave. Which shouldn’t have been possible. The Book wasn’t that big. There shouldn’t have been that many pages. Then, just as suddenly as the Book had opened, its pages burst with a blinding flash of light so bright, Esta had to flinch away, shielding her eyes from its brilliance. When the light dimmed and her eyes readjusted, she was no longer in the warehouse in Brooklyn but back on the stage of the Chicago Coliseum. The Book was gone.
In her hand was the hilt of the dagger that held the Pharaoh’s Heart, and beneath her, Jack writhed, his eyes open in rage and fear. She lifted the dagger, knowing what she must do—what she had done. What she would do a thousand times over. She knew what would happen next, the sickening crunch of bone. The terrible sinking of the ancient dagger’s blade as it sucked itself deep into Jack’s chest.
You would be so willing to kill for the power in these pages?
A voice echoed inside her head—it was her own voice and not her own at the same time. Startled, she stopped with the dagger over her head. All around, the crowd in the massive arena had gone silent.
Of course she would kill for the Book. She already had.
And now? Will you take the beating heart of magic as your own…? Or will you give it over to the one who thinks herself a goddess?
The voice was no longer her own but Thoth’s—the same voice that had spoken to her before, in Denver. In Chicago as well.
Will you sacrifice yourself for Seshat’s mistakes? Do you trust in her promises so absolutely?
Esta shook her head, trying to shake off the voice. It couldn’t be Thoth. She’d destroyed him and the danger he posed along with him, but the memory of him was so strong, and his words were already worming into her mind, poking at her misgivings and fears.
She will not save you, the voice whispered. Given the chance, Seshat will destroy you and the world itself. For what? For simple vengeance.
It was no less than Seshat had threatened for months now. But they’d made a bargain. Harte’s life for Esta’s promise…
You will die to keep that promise, the voice threatened. But there is another way. Give your affinity over willingly, like so many have before you. You need not die. With your affinity, I could control Seshat’s power. Your magic could remove Seshat from the Magician without destroying the boy who holds your heart. You could live beyond the reach of time, and your magician with you.
She wanted to deny the temptation in those words, but she couldn’t. How?
With the beating heart of magic.
The voice spoke again, a crooning caress along the inside of her mind. Think of all you could do if only you would have the courage to take what I offer. Think of the chaos you brought into the world. Think of those you could save: Your friend who tumbled from the sky… All those who have died because of you… Your parents… Your magician, who is destined to be consumed by the demon within him.
Seshat will not save them. She will not save you.
It was a temptation. It would have been a lie not to admit that to herself. To save Mari and North. To save Dolph and Leena, the mother she’d never met. To know that Harte would be safe.
Think of what you could do with the power in these pages, the voice tempted. It was her voice now, and Thoth’s as well. Both together. Terrible and enticing all the same. The demon bitch was too weak to truly take it as her own. But you, girl… you are more than Seshat could ever be. With the power in these pages, you could become infinite. Think of it, the voice whispered. Think of what you could accomplish if magic—pure magic, true magic—answered only to you.
No. Esta recoiled from the idea. She’d seen what the quest for power had done to Seshat. To Jack. To Thoth. She didn’t want the power in the Book; she only wanted to replace it into the whole of creation, where it belonged. She only wanted to complete the ritual that Seshat had started so long ago, as she’d promised she would.
I don’t want that power, she told the Book. Told herself as well. I only want to finish what Seshat started. I only want to set things right.
Ancient laughter bubbled up from within the pages, from within herself.
Ah, the voice said, its amusement surrounding her. You would reunite the piece of magic that Seshat stole. You would place the beating heart of magic back into balance with the marching of time. But will you be willing to do what is required?
I’ll do whatever it takes, she said.
But what of the cost?
No matter the cost. She’d already blackened her soul with Jack’s death, hadn’t she? She would pay again and again if she had to. To save the world. To save Harte.
The hilt of the dagger felt unnaturally cold in Esta’s hand, and the energy of the Pharaoh’s Heart pulsed through the Aether around her. She ignored the icy burn and plunged the blade down. The sickening grinding of bone vibrated through her arms as Jack’s watery blue eyes widened in pain and surprise. As though he could not believe she could have bested him. As though he could not believe it was possible for him to lose.
And then Thoth was there, rising up, cold and terrible in his fury, and she did not hesitate to reach for her own terrible power, the affinity that was as much a part of her as her own skin. Without hesitation, she pulled at the Aether, the substance that held together all things. Time. Magic and its opposite. And she did not stop until the darkness that lived in the spaces between all things flooded into Thoth and tore him from this world.
That darkness poured from Jack and, as before, his screams and Thoth’s mixed. It became a living thing—as alive and prescient as Thoth himself—as it gathered into a malevolent cloud swirling above. When Jack slumped back to the ground, emptied, the dark cloud broke, shattering itself into a million tiny shards. They fell like needles of cold energy onto the crowd—onto Esta—slicing through her too tender skin. It felt like the Brink crashing over her.
And then, all at once, it was over.
Esta was still gripping the hilt of the dagger, still pressing it into Jack’s chest, but suddenly she felt the warmth of Jack’s hands covering hers. She startled, because this hadn’t happened before. It wasn’t part of the memory. She looked down, but it wasn’t Jack’s hand that had gripped hers. Now it was Harte who lay beneath her. Harte whose lips were frothing with blood and whose hands were wrapped around hers, trying to pull the dagger from his chest. At the sight of his stormy eyes wide and empty, filled with an inky darkness, Esta scrambled away—
And fell off the edge of the world.
Her eyes flew open the second she landed, and it took more than a few seconds before the dream began to burn away and she realized where she was. Not in Chicago. Not in the presence of Thoth. No longer trapped in the nightmare that had felt like truth itself.
Moonlight filtered through the high, clouded windows of Dom’s warehouse. Brooklyn. They were in Brooklyn now, she told herself, still trying to calm her breathing. Jack was dead and Thoth was gone, and it had been a dream. Only a dream.
But it felt too real. Even now, she felt the voice inside her, brushing at the fears deep within her.
Her mouth tasted foul, and her skin felt like ice. She’d fallen off the ratty couch she and Harte had curled themselves up on once they’d arrived. Harte was still asleep there. He shifted, moving into the space she’d just vacated, and though his face was calm and peaceful, Esta couldn’t shake the image from her dream: his lips frothing with blood, his beautiful eyes clouded over by an inky black emptiness that obscured their usual stormy gray. There was a part of her that wanted to climb back up next to him, to tuck herself into his warmth and pretend for just a little while longer that everything was okay. But the dream was still too thick, too close.
Instead, Esta pulled herself up from the cold, filthy floor and eased the satchel from beneath Harte’s head. She looked down at him, peaceful as he was, and forced the remaining vision of the dream away. Until it was only Harte as he truly was, his dark hair mussed from sleep, his cheekbones still too sharp from nearly dying of plague.
Unable to stop herself, she leaned down until her face was close to his. Even in his sleep, Harte seemed to sense her there and lifted his chin until their lips met. It was the barest brush of a kiss, nothing more than the whisper of their mouths meeting, but Esta felt the last bit of coldness from the dream drain away, and some of the tension she was carrying eased...
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