by Lisa Maxwell
The old man’s thick brows bunched in a scowl. “Then perhaps you should have kept better watch of her.”
“You’re right,” Harte told him, turning his attention to the girl, who was glaring at him with eyes the color of whiskey and with just as much fire. He gave her a besotted smile. “I should have never let you go, not after you stole my heart,” he said, enjoying the way the girl’s eyes widened slightly when he emphasized the word.
“I don’t believe I know you,” the girl said, her voice shaking a little. Her words were well formed, her voice soft, cultured, but then, so was his. Considering his own beginnings, her lack of accent didn’t mean much. The more interesting question was where she’d learned to pick pockets. And why her teacher hadn’t warned her about using her magic in the Haymarket.
“You couldn’t have forgotten so soon.” Keeping in character, Harte lifted his free hand to his chest dramatically, as though struck. “Why, it was only last Friday we met here. The band was playing this very song when your eyes found mine across the room. I was reluctant, but you were”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“convincing.” He gave her a teasing wink before he turned to her partner.
“It was nothing at all to overlook her little affliction for such beauty.” Harte leered at the girl, who was still trying to pull away from him. He felt a pang of conscience at the fear lurking behind the anger in her golden eyes, but Corey’s men were too close. Better she fear him than meet with them.
Why he had decided to help her was beyond him, though. He was no white knight, no one’s protector.
“Yes, well . . .” The old man looked uneasily at the girl as he relinquished her to Harte. “Who am I to stand in the way of young love?”
Harte pulled her closer to him as the old man backed away into the crowd. “Easy now,” he whispered, his head close to hers. She smelled faintly of flowers and something soft and musky, like sandalwood. It was what a summer day should smell like, he decided, instead of the stink of the streets.
She was still struggling to get away from him, but he tightened his hold, a subtle adjustment that to any other dancer would look like an embrace. “Go along with me and don’t make a scene.”
“I’ll show you a scene,” she hissed.
She wasn’t small. She was nearly as tall as he was, and her features were more interesting than classically pretty. On anyone else, the wide mouth with such a sharp nose might not have worked, but on her it was striking. Her eyes were bright with fury, and damn if it didn’t make her that much more attractive.
Or maybe that was the whiskey talking. . . .
The girl wriggled again, settling into his arms, and then suddenly, she twisted, trying to knock him off-balance. But Harte had been in his share of dirty fights. He countered her attack easily, wrapping her in his arms to secure her again as he drew them both into the swirl of men and their women on the dance floor.
“Impressive,” he murmured, leading them into the first turn of a waltz.
The girl’s golden eyes narrowed at him, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of trying to get away. He’d been right—her skin was clean of paint. Unlined, it looked smooth and soft as a petal.
I should let her go. . . .
Over the girl’s shoulder, he saw one of Corey’s men prowling the dance floor, still searching for the source of the magic. The man turned, looking in the girl’s direction.
“Dance with me,” Harte told her, leading her away from the man and toward the center of the crowded dance floor.
Energy spiked around her again as she struggled to get free from him. “I wouldn’t dance with you if—”
Corey’s men were getting closer. Without thinking through the consequences, Harte covered her mouth with his own, locking her in his arms as he brought her close.
The kiss did exactly what he’d intended—the warmth of her magic went cold as she stiffened, pressing against his shoulders with her hands. Corey’s men were right next to him now, so he deepened the kiss and pulled her against him, away from them.
She smelled clean as a prayer beneath the soft scent of her soap, and it had been so long since he’d been that close to a girl—to anyone, really—that it took everything he had to keep his own wits about him. He was barely able to keep track of the two guards as they began to move away.
Without warning, her body went pliant in his arms, and he reacted instinctively. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he had tried. But he didn’t try. Instead, he drew her closer, the velvet of her gown soft beneath his fingertips, as she kissed him back.
Maybe he’d been wrong, he thought as her mouth moved in heady rhythm with his. Maybe she wasn’t so innocent after all.
His brain felt heavy, numb, and he didn’t know what to make of her. . . .
But even that thought was distant and obscure as her lips slid against his. He wasn’t thinking at all when he parted his lips slightly, seeking to taste her. He wasn’t considering how bad an idea it was when she opened her mouth for him. He was simply lost.
In that moment, the danger Corey’s men posed didn’t exist. Nor did the crush of bodies around them. He couldn’t think of anything at all but the feel of her mouth against his, the scent of her filling his senses . . . until her sharp teeth bit down hard enough on his tongue to draw blood.
He released her and grabbed his mouth with a surprised yelp. You bit me, he wanted to say, but by the time he opened his eyes the girl was already gone. The only trace she left was the tingling energy from her sudden burst of magic and the taste of blood in his mouth.
It wasn’t that she’d ducked away into the crowd. No. She’d been there one second and in a blink—in less than a blink—she had simply vanished. He’d spent years working on illusions, and he’d never seen anything quite like it before.
He needed to go before Corey’s men returned.
Instead, he stood stupidly in the middle of the swirling bodies, his tongue smarting, his head muddled by the whiskey, and his entire body electrified by the memory of her mouth against his. Impressed by her in spite of himself.
“Darrigan?” A voice was calling his name through the haze. “Harte Darrigan, is that you?”
His mind still spinning, Harte turned to find Jack Grew making his way across the dance floor. Too late to make his escape, he swallowed the blood that had pooled in his mouth and waved a greeting to Jack. He hardly felt any satisfaction at Jack’s appearance. All he could think of was the girl.
“I thought that was you,” Jack said with a smile that told Harte he’d already been drinking. “Well, come on, then. I have a table in the corner.” Jack pointed across the crowded room.
“Lead the way,” Harte said amiably. He tentatively checked his still-tender tongue as he forced himself to forget about the girl and focus on the situation before him. She wasn’t his problem anymore, but Jack Grew might be his solution.
A WASTE OF GOOD BOOTS
Esta ducked farther back into an alcove on the second floor and tried to force herself to calm down. She unfastened the top two buttons of the heavy velvet dress to dispel the heat that had climbed up her neck.
He’d kissed her.
She could still feel him on her lips, still taste the whiskey that had been on his breath. She didn’t know who he was or why he’d picked her, but she hated him for it.
First he’d ruined her chance at lifting the old man’s wallet—and her chance of getting Bridget Malone’s attention right along with it—and then, of all things, he’d kissed her like he had a right to.
As his head had bent toward her, it felt like time had gone slow, like the room had dimmed around them and she was frozen. It wasn’t that he had any power to actually stop time, not like she had. It was simply that she—who had spent her whole life training for attacks, who was an expert at getting out of tough situations—knew what was about to happen and somehow still couldn’t make herself move away or put a stop to it.
Worse, she’d kissed him back. Like an idiot.
> When his lips finally touched hers, she’d been braced for an attack, so she was too surprised by how gentle he was to even think. She’d felt the warmth of his mouth, the scent of him, like soap and fresh linen and citrus, and something inside of her had split open. It wasn’t that she’d never been kissed before. Of course she’d been kissed. By Logan, by men she’d needed to distract on various jobs. She might have even gone as far as saying she liked it, the tangle of breath, the push-pull excitement of desire.
But she hadn’t realized how much she craved gentleness. How susceptible she still was to a yearning for human contact that was more than the physicality of her sparring matches with Dakari. For warmth.
His mouth had offered her that, and for a moment she’d fallen into the kiss as easily as breathing. She hadn’t even tried to stop herself. It was like the mistakes she’d made with Logan all over again.
If she was honest, that bothered her more than the kiss itself.
Luckily, she didn’t have time to be honest with herself any more than she had time to think too much about the kiss. Or how stupid she’d been. Thank god she’d finally come to her senses and given it all back to him, and then some.
Too bad that only made her feel marginally better.
From her vantage point in the alcove, she could see the entire ballroom, including the boy. He’d been so commanding on the dance floor, she’d assumed he was older, but now that she looked closer at him, she realized he didn’t have any more than a couple of years on her.
She couldn’t help but watch him. It was important to understand your enemy, she told herself. It didn’t hurt that he was nice enough to look at. His suit fit perfectly over his broad shoulders. She knew firsthand that there wasn’t any padding in his coat—she’d felt his strength as he’d gripped her wrist and held her in his arms. Still, there was something about him that bothered her. Something more, that is, than the way he kissed.
Maybe it was simply that the old adage was true—you really can’t con a con—but after a few minutes of studying him, she realized all his confidence and swagger was an act. Or at least part of one. Just like Logan’s easy charm was a way to manipulate and Dakari’s fierce features were only a cover for the softness beneath.
The longer she watched, the more she noticed how uncomfortable he was. He fidgeted. The small tugs at his sleeves, the way he touched his temples to make sure every hair was in place, the way he arranged the gloves on the table, lining up the fingertips so they matched—he couldn’t seem to stop checking himself. The longer she watched, the more she wondered what he was hiding. Or what he was hiding from.
Then something struck her—the other man at the table was familiar. It took her a second to place him, but once she realized that he’d been older the last time she’d seen him, she easily recognized the blond as the man who’d shot Logan in Schwab’s mansion.
She pulled herself back from the railing. She wouldn’t steal the Pharaoh’s Heart for another twenty years or more, and in that past, he hadn’t known her. She was probably safe enough now, but it was too much of a coincidence that the man who had ruined everything at Schwab’s mansion was here as well.
She needed to find Bridget Malone before anything else happened. . . .
“Well, what have we here?” a voice said from behind her.
Esta jumped and turned to find a large man with whiskers like a goat leering at her, his belly preceding him into the small alcove. With him came the stale reek of sweat and beer and too much cologne.
“Corey said he had a treat for me tonight.” His heavy gold signet ring flashed as he flexed his fingers in what was clear anticipation. “I see you’ve anticipated my arrival,” he said, gesturing to her open collar.
At first Esta thought the man had made a mistake or had confused her for someone else, but his eyes traveled over her, lingering on her chest, her corseted waist and hips. She remembered suddenly where she was, in one of the semiprivate areas the girls who worked the hall used to entertain their clients. The man clearly thought she was there waiting for him on purpose, and before she had a chance to correct him, he’d already moved closer, blocking her in with his wide body.
She really hadn’t wanted to injure anyone else tonight, she thought, as the man took another step forward. Backing up until she was pressed against the railing, she considered her options.
“Now, now,” the man slurred, stumbling toward her. The smile curving his lip exposed his yellowed teeth when she lifted her hands, preparing for his attack. “None of that,” he said, the excitement clear in his voice.
The man grabbed for her, and he was lighter and faster on his feet than Esta expected. She barely had a chance to focus on the moment, to find the spaces between the seconds, so she could create a path through it and away from him. The room stilled, the bright cawing laughter and tinny notes of the band dimmed to a low drone, and the man went almost comically slow, as though he were moving through air as thick and solid as sand.
Relief flooded through her like quicksilver. It was almost too easy to slip past the man’s massive body. She caught the laugh bubbling up in her chest at the confusion in his eyes as she slipped out of the alcove, beyond his grasp. The second she let go of time, the world slammed back to life, and the man stumbled heavily to the floor with a groan.
In her relief, she didn’t realize how alert he actually was. Before she could get away completely, he caught her by the ankle.
“Let me go!” Esta growled under her breath. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, not here in the middle of this overcrowded room. She had to get away and find Bridget. She needed to get back to what was important—the Book, the stone. The job she had been sent to do.
But the man seemed to be enjoying himself. “That how it’s to be, is it?” He laughed, tugging on her with his ironlike grip, and hauled her along the floorboards, back toward the alcove.
In that moment, what she wouldn’t have given to be able to do anything else—to be able to call up a wind or send a jolting shock. But all she could do was manipulate the present. A powerful-enough affinity when she was nicking a diamond stickpin, it was useless if someone had ahold of her, unless she wanted to slow time for them as well.
“I’m not here for you,” she hissed at him again, trying to pull away.
“You were waiting for me,” the man said, his eyes bright with the chase.
“Corey, whoever he is, didn’t send me.” She gave him a few sharp kicks as she tried to get her ankle free.
The man simply laughed and dug his fingers into her ankle. His eyes were alert and more clear than they had been seconds ago, and before she could brace herself, he gave a sharp, unexpected jerk that brought her to the floor. Nearby, a group of people glanced over their shoulders at her struggle and then promptly averted their eyes.
The man laughed and kept tugging, causing Esta’s skirts to climb higher as he dragged her, exposing her legs as she fought against him. But it was no use. He had one ankle and was reaching his sausagelike fingers up her skirts, pinching her bare thigh above her petticoats, up farther. . . .
Not caring who saw her now, she let out a vicious kick that caught the man directly in the face. She felt the crunch of bone collapsing through the thin sole of her boot, and then blood spurted from the man’s broken nose. He roared like an injured bear but still didn’t let go of her ankle. His fingers tightened as he twisted her leg painfully, his eyes bright with some lurid excitement, and she felt her own bones ache under the pressure.
Desperate, she kicked him again. And again. Exactly like Dakari had taught her. Until the heels of her button-up boots were coated with the man’s blood. Finally, his fingers released their grip, and he slumped unconscious to the floor.
Esta scurried away from him, vaguely aware of the group of people who had surrounded her. The man’s face was a broken mess as he lay sprawled on the floor, but he was still breathing. For now, at least.
The group around her had grown silent. She met th
e eyes of one girl with too-pink cheeks whose skin had gone an ashy gray beneath the paint.
“I didn’t mean . . . ,” Esta started, but her words died as the girl let out a ragged scream at the same time that two men from the crowd took a step toward Esta.
She could tell by their expressions that pleading would get her nowhere.
Esta stood on shaking legs. She would try to find Bridget later. For now she needed to get as far away from the crowded hall and the snub-nosed bouncers as she could. But suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs seized, her chest went tight, like the oxygen had drained from the room. In a panic, she searched the still life around her for some sign of an attack, but her vision was already going fuzzy around the edges. Desperately, she struggled to pull in air that seemed to be missing from the room.
Before she could even begin to focus on the seconds ticking past her, before she could find the spaces between them to escape, a sharp pain erupted across the back of her head. And then everything went black.
THE APPROACH
Jack glanced up at the commotion in the balcony, but he dismissed it without another look. Harte, though, had felt the spike of magic, the telltale energy jolting through the room that only someone who had an affinity to the old magic would recognize. He wondered what the source of it had been, and whether the girl had been the unlucky recipient of the attention from Corey’s security.
If so, it was partially his fault for chasing her away. He should never have kissed her. He should have found a different way. His stomach tightened with guilt, but there wasn’t anything he could do for her now.
He turned his attention back to Jack, who was taking two glasses of whiskey from a waiter girl’s tray. The prodigal nephew of J. P. Morgan, Jack Grew was one of the sons of the city. His family was deep into the political machine and were known members of the Order of Ortus Aurea, so no one was more surprised than Harte when Jack had shown up at his dressing room after a show months ago, wildly excited about the act and desperate to know everything about Harte’s skills.
