Today's Reading
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.
PART
I
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.
...
