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

“Both of you must lay them down,” Jianyu said, feeling suddenly tired.

Viola gave an indelicate snort that reminded Jianyu of so many days sitting around the kitchen table at the Bella Strega, talking like friends—almost like family.

“Lay down your knives, Viola,” Jianyu repeated. “Dolph Saunders believed that the only way to win against the Order, the only way to free the old magic, was to do so together.” The memory of his old friend sent a wave of sadness through him. “You went back to the Strega?” he asked. “To get the information that saved me?”

“A few days ago, yes.” Viola frowned.

“How did you find it to be?”

“Not the same, of course.” Her expression darkened. “Nibsy sits at Dolph’s table, and the Devil’s Own look to him now.”

“It is all as he planned,” Jianyu told her. He’d seen it for himself when he’d been taken to the Strega as a prisoner by Mock Duck a few weeks before the gala.

“I still can’t believe the little snake could have done all of this on his own,” Viola said. “I still say that if Darrigan hadn’t—”

“Dolph trusted Darrigan,” Jianyu reminded her. “Especially at the end. Dolph’s trust is enough for me, and so it should be enough for you as well.”

Viola snorted her disagreement. “You trust too easily. So did Dolph, it seems. Now Darrigan is gone, and the artifacts with him.”

Jianyu pushed away the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. With each passing minute, he felt a little stronger. A little more like himself. He had wasted far too much time lying on his back. When he thought about all that had happened, all that had been lost and betrayed, fury coursed through him. He accepted the heat of his anger, let it buoy him. Gathering his strength, he placed his feet upon the rough rug and tested his strength.

“It was the only way,” Jianyu said. “He and Esta will find the artifacts, and they shall return to us. Then we will end Nibsy together.”

With some effort he pulled himself up, wobbling a little on his unsteady legs. Viola was there in an instant, offering her arm. Jianyu took it gladly, but only for a moment. Only long enough to regain his balance.

“Will we also end the Devil’s Own?”  Viola wondered, frowning at him. “They follow Nibsy because they believe him. They don’t understand any of this.”

“The Devil’s Own follow Nibsy because he fills a need, not because they believe in him or in the world he wishes to build. They do not have the same loyalty to him as they once had to Dolph. We can use that knowledge to our advantage when the time comes.” He would use his fury then as well.

“You need to rest,” Viola said.

“I have rested enough,” he told her. “The Order will not wait, and we have plans to make.”

COMPLICIT

1904—San Francisco

As Harte followed his father through the city, he tried to formulate a plan even as he struggled to hide how awful he felt. He wasn’t sure where they were, or how far from the restaurant his father’s shop was, but Harte realized quickly that he was weaker than he’d first suspected, and there was a particular pain in his left thigh that shot through his hip, growing worse with every step he took. The summer breeze felt like ice against his too-tender skin, and his heart was racing unevenly in his chest. He knew that the illness was something more than a simple infection, but he pushed that worry aside to save his strength as he followed his father through the unfamiliar streets.

At first, every time his father nodded silently to someone they passed, Harte tensed, but after a few blocks, he realized that his father’s reputation seemed to matter to him far too much to risk drawing attention. Besides, Harte had hold of Sammie for a reason. If he felt guilty for using the boy—his own brother—as a hostage? He pushed that guilt down deep.

They stopped at the corner of Jackson Street and Montgomery, an area defined by wide thoroughfares lined with low, two- or three-story brick buildings. Many had iron shutters thrown open to bring in the summer breezes. These were not the same tumbledown wooden structures near the docks. Nor were they surrounded by the busy open-air market stalls or rickety-looking balconies of Chinatown. This, Harte could tell, was a place where men of means did business. Neat awnings capped a few of the shops, and signs were painted in ornately curling letters to declare their proprietors.

Harte’s father came to a stop in front of a large brick building. It was a bank—Lucas, Turner, & Co.—and at three stories, it was taller than some of the others that surrounded it. The first floor was made from large, light-colored stone blocks. The two floors above were brick. Wooden fire escapes ringed the top two floors, and over the arched doorway, a bronze medallion depicted Lady Justice holding her scales aloft. But she was not blindfolded. Her eyes were open, and they seemed to stare down in judgment of the people on the sidewalk below.

“The Committee’s offices are on the second floor,” his father said, turning to Harte. “They keep the crown in their temple on the top floor, under lock and key. It’s impossible to get into if you’re not a member. You’d have to get through the bank’s security and then make it past the men who work in the offices above. By then, the men inside would stop you before you could even hope to open the chamber on the top floor. So you see, impossible. You can let the boy go now. You won’t be getting the crown.”

Sammie looked up at Harte with a question in his eyes—and now the fear that Harte had inspired back at the shop had grown more complete.

I’m not going to