The Serpent's Curse Lisa Maxwell (famous ebook reader .TXT) 📖

clothing, who were clearly there for whatever amusement they could find.

The presence of those outsiders felt somehow different than in New York, where the rich from uptown would often go slumming on Mott Street to gawk at the Chinese people who were only trying to go about their day. Here the other white men didn’t seem so much observers as participants, and the air was filled with the kind of electric anticipation that can happen only at night, when the world turns toward the shadows and revels in its baser instincts. The air was filled with the scent of grilled meats and heavy spices, garlic and liquor, all mixing together with the familiar smells of the city that Harte loved and hated at the same time.

They wound their way through the crowded streets and then exited the other side of Chinatown through the barricade. A few blocks away, they turned off the larger boulevard to find a stretch of blocks tucked away from the main thoroughfare. There, saloons and beer halls lined both sides of the streets. Women in various states of deshabille stood near some of the doorways, calling to the men who passed.

Harte’s father paid little attention to the women as he walked, but eventually he stopped at a building with a large restaurant on the first floor. The doors were wide open to the night air, and Harte’s stomach rumbled at the heavy scent of food. Inside, the noise of the streets gave way to the chatter of diners and the clinking of glasses. Waiters stood at the ready along the walls as a mixture of men dined in the main room. There were no women, at least not any that Harte could see.

His father lifted two fingers to get the attention of the waiter standing closest to the door, who clearly recognized him. After a quick exchange of words, they were shown to a table at the back of the restaurant. It was quieter there, but it wasn’t exactly private. There were still other diners and waiters at tables nearby.

“Sit.” His father took one of the seats on the other side of the table, clearly placing himself out of Harte’s reach, as he had on their walk.

Harte could have argued, but creating a scene would not help him find the Dragon’s Eye, so he took the seat across from his father. At first neither of them spoke. Harte understood that it was a test—impatience would be seen as a sign of weakness, so he kept silent. He refused to appear weak. Not before this man. Not ever again.

Deep within his skin, Seshat only laughed. It was the same papery thin laugh that set Harte’s nerves on edge. But he shoved her down and focused on the man across from him… and on what would come next.

A little while into the uncomfortable silence, a waiter appeared with a tray of crabs and prawns along with an assortment of other side dishes. As the covers were removed from each plate, the fragrance of butter and garlic filled the air, reminding Harte that he hadn’t eaten since he’d been on the train, hours before. Even then, he hadn’t allowed himself to buy more than a stale sandwich and a mealy apple each day of his journey.

Samuel Lowe pointed at the tray of food. “It’s been a hell of a long day, and I’m not dealing with you or your idiotic demands on an empty stomach, boy. You might as well eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Harte said, despite the answering growl of his own stomach. After all that had happened between them, after all this man had done to Harte’s mother, it seemed somehow wrong to break bread together like it was nothing.

On the other side of the broad table, Samuel Lowe ignored Harte’s refusal. Even before the waiters were done serving, he’d started wielding an assortment of silver instruments to crack claws and withdraw the glistening meat from the various sea creatures on the table in front of them. The way his father worked with fluid, almost elegant movements made the gold ring on his finger flash. It also made Harte’s stomach twist. The motion was familiar, but not because he remembered it from his childhood. It was familiar because it reminded Harte of himself. He used the same flick of his wrist as a distraction onstage during sleight-of-hand tricks.

Seeing this tiny echo of himself in his father’s movements made Harte wonder again if all the stories he’d told himself about being something more than his father’s son had ever been true. He’d betrayed so many people and hurt so many others. Not for the first time that night, Harte considered whether his intentions had ever mattered. Maybe the destruction he’d left in his wake—his mother, Julian, Esta, even Dolph—was evidence of the one thing he’d never wanted to accept: that his father’s careless violence flowed in his own veins. That there was no escape from what he was.

Be glad if it gives you strength, Seshat hissed. The world will drag you down and tear you apart for sport, but only if you allow it to. I do not understand your hesitation. Why do you fight what you are? Why not use it to your favor?

Harte went still. Never before had her voice seemed so clear, so utterly logical to him.

I feel your hatred for this man, she urged. Still you hold back. You could so easily make him pay for the pain he’s caused you. Show him what you are. Make him understand how powerless he truly is… I will help you destroy him. You have only to promise me the girl.

Never. Harte tried to shake Seshat’s temptation from his mind. It would be so easy to do what she said, to use his affinity to destroy the life his father had built for himself. He could pay Samuel Lowe back for every black eye and every bruise the man had ever given him and for every time he’d