The Serpent's Curse by Lisa Maxwell (literature books to read txt) 📗

For years Harte had carried the guilt of what he’d done. He knew that his choices that day proved beyond a doubt that he was truly his father’s son—reckless and careless and undeserving. Once he was older, though, he had come to understand that the impact of those choices went far beyond what he’d done to his mother. Maria Lowe had been an innocent as well. She couldn’t have known that the money her son sent belonged to someone else. She might even have been dependent on those funds, and she had likely imagined spending her old age with a son who would tend to her needs. Maybe that was why when Harte had been faced with the question of what to do with the stones, he’d sent the Dragon’s Eye to her, hoping that it was enough to repay one more debt.

That was before Harte had understood that the artifacts were nothing but liabilities. Now he could only hope that the grandmother he’d never intended to claim still had the crown and that no one else had gotten to it—or to her—first.

After a few blocks, Harte passed through the barricade on the other side of the quarter and continued on a little farther before he finally arrived at the address that had loomed for so long in his imagination. Dawson Place was a small dead-end street that he would have missed if he hadn’t been looking for it. Standing in front of the door, he was surprised at how plain and unremarkable it was. As a child, he’d imagined everything in California to be nothing short of fantastical, but this was simply a door—and a rather meager one at that. Still, his palms were damp from nerves, and he found himself wishing that Esta were standing next to him.

At first Harte couldn’t even bring himself to knock. More than two years had passed for whoever waited behind the door. Two years when anything could have happened. The Dragon’s Eye might not even be here.

He felt Seshat’s amusement taunting him, but he brushed it aside. The crown had to be there. If it wasn’t, maybe Maria Lowe could tell him where it had gone, and he would find it one way or another. Esta would be waiting for him soon enough, and Harte would not arrive without the artifact he’d promised her.

Once he knocked, Harte heard an immediate rustling from inside, and a moment later the door opened to reveal a small woman. Her hair was a dark, burnished blond shot through with ashy gray. It was pulled straight back from a round face, and her skin was smooth and unlined, except near the corners of her wide-set eyes. She looked younger than he’d expected, but he still hoped she was the woman he was seeking. Even though her expression was wary, Harte found himself searching for some trace of himself in her features.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said to her, finally remembering that he was here for the Dragon’s Eye and not to claim a family that didn’t know he existed. “Are you Maria?”

The woman shook her head, frowning, and started to close the door, but Harte placed his foot in the jamb and tried again. “Maria Lowe,” he repeated, this time more slowly. “Is she here? Do you know her?”

“There’s no one here by that name.” The woman again tried to push the door shut, this time with more force, but there was something in her expression that made Harte persist.

“If you aren’t Maria, can you tell me where I could find her? She has something of mine,” he said, his voice unsteady with the urgency he felt. “Something I sent her. A headpiece. Like a crown.” With his foot still in the door, he motioned around the crown of her head. “With a large amber stone in it.”

The woman’s eyes widened.

She knew. Harte was sure of it.

It would only take a brush of skin against skin to find out, and it just might be worth risking whatever Seshat might do to retrieve the artifact. Harte reached for the woman, determined to use his affinity no matter the cost, but before he could touch her, he heard the sound of a pistol being cocked, and a voice came from the alleyway behind him.

“Don’t even think about laying your hands on her.”

Harte froze. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, steeling itself for the blow that it expected to feel.

“Put your hands up where I can see them,” the man said. “And step back, or I will not regret putting a bullet in you.”

Harte raised his hands so the man would know he meant no harm as he turned, slowly, his brain struggling to accept the truth. It can’t be.

“Hello, Samuel,” Harte said. He’d never called this man “Father” before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Who are you?” The man narrowed his eyes and adjusted the gun, but Harte didn’t miss the flash of unease in his father’s eyes.

Harte’s first thought was that the man before him was far too small to be the same terror he remembered from his childhood. But of course he would seem smaller. Harte had grown since then. It was more than the height that threw him off, though. There was something essentially changed about his father. Samuel Lowe was wearing a dark gray suit, nothing as precisely tailored as Harte had once bought himself, but well-made nonetheless. His eyes were sharper and clearer than Harte had ever seen them, and his skin was lined but not sallow or puffed from too much cheap gin. If Harte had met this man on the street, he might not have realized who he was.

“You are Samuel Lowe?” he pressed. “The same Samuel Lowe who once lived in New York with Molly O’Doherty.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.” He was still aiming the gun at Harte, but uncertainty flared