The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  From the moment Nibsy had said Harte Darrigan’s name, Esta knew she was about to meet the person she’d been sent to stop—the Magician. The moment he’d walked onstage, she’d also recognized him immediately as the boy from the Haymarket. At first she’d been uneasy, but after watching him for a few minutes, her worry turned to relief. With his overblown drama and tacky stage magic, she couldn’t believe that this was the Magician. Stopping him would be easy, she thought.

  But sitting in the audience, shocked and without any understanding of how she’d gotten there, she realized the Magician was more than he appeared to be. That he would be a formidable opponent.

  Luckily, it had taken her only a second to gather her wits and retake control of the situation. The surprise at seeing her in the middle of the audience had transformed his entire face. He’d looked so disarmed that she almost felt guilty for the laughter her little disappearing act caused. Almost.

  But then the look on his face changed from surprise to something else, and she knew she had to get out of there—fast.

  “Esta!”

  She barely heard the voice calling her name as she darted through the crowd, faster now as she tried to outpace her panic. The Magician must have erased her memory or manipulated her in some other way. It was magic, clearly, and not the half-baked stage magic that made up the rest of his tricks. But what was his affinity, and how far did it reach? Could he still affect her now—still control her?

  The thought made Esta shudder for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold. Professor Lachlan was depending on her to stop the Magician, but he already had the upper hand. And now he had her on the run.

  Esta pulled up short, coming to a dead stop that forced the people behind her to dodge around her. No. She wasn’t going to let him chase her off. That wasn’t going to happen again.

  She turned back to find the street sign of the intersection she’d crossed, but lurking above her, as though she’d conjured him in her thoughts, was the Magician.

  Larger than life, Harte Darrigan looked down with stormy gray eyes from the huge billboard that took up most of the theater wall behind her.

  “Esta! Wait!” Nibs finally caught up to her. He was panting, but his face was glowing with excitement as he caught her arm. “That was excellent. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. How’d you manage it?”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured, pulling away from him. She was quickly growing aware of the cold now, of how it cut through the velvet of her dress, and she rubbed her arms, trying to ward off the chill.

  Nibs handed her the cloak she’d left behind. “You don’t know?” he asked, surprised.

  She shook her head as she pulled the cloak around her, but it did nothing to dispel the cold. “I can’t remember how I got out of that box or how I ended up sitting in the theater.”

  “Interesting.” Nibs glanced over his spectacles at her.

  “You could have warned me about what he could do,” she said, turning on him.

  He didn’t so much as flinch at the heat in her words. “I thought it would be better for you to go in without expectations. Anyway, you played it brilliantly.  You threw him off, which is something I’ve never managed,” he said, admiration clear in his voice. “Dolph’ll be pleased.”

  She couldn’t quite feel buoyed by that news. Not at that moment.

  “I wanted to see what you could do.  And you weren’t ever in any real danger. I was only trying to get his attention.” His expression was smug behind the thick lenses. “And you certainly did that. Dolph was right to keep you,” he said.

  She glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. He made a good choice in not giving you back to Corey.  You’re a damn good thief, but there’s more to you than that, isn’t there?” he asked, squinting through his lenses at her.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” she challenged, making sure to meet his eyes. Daring him to accept it. “Give me something to do other than stealing purses.”

  He studied her a long, tense moment, and she could practically hear the calculations he was making in that mind of his. “Maybe we will,” he said.

  They walked in silence for a while before they found a streetcar heading in the right direction, but all the time, she swore she could feel the eyes of the Magician following her home.

  OLD FRIENDS

  Harte took his bow quickly, barely hearing the applause and not bothering with his usual flourishes. His whole body jangled from the surge of adrenaline he’d felt at seeing the girl—Esta, she’d said her name was—materialize across the room. His mind was already racing with the possibilities. He had to find her. He had to know how she did it.

  He pushed past Shorty, who was shouting at him to get back onstage and finish his act. He just needed to duck into his dressing room to grab his overcoat and keys, but when he pushed open the door, he found that the room was already occupied.

  “John,” Harte said, covering his surprise at finding Paul Kelly’s second-in-command sitting in the chair near his dressing table.  John Torrio was about nineteen, not much older than Harte.  Torrio had the same swarthy skin and hard-nosed looks, but not the polish or the style of his boss, and Harte’s ex-boss, the leader of the Five Point Gang.

  Pat Riley, better known in certain circles as Razor, was examining a set of handcuffs that were dangling from the mirror. Harte had been dodging Kelly and his boys for months now—ever since Dolph had told him about the Book—so having these two appear unannounced and unexpected could only mean their boss was done being patient.

  He reached beyond the depths of his unease and pulled up what he hoped was an affable, confident smile. “Gentlemen, what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Kelly sent us,”  Torrio said, straightening the sharp lapels of his suit as he spoke. “But I’m sure you know that, seeing as how you’ve been avoiding us. The boss needs your services again.”

  “I’m not in the game anymore,” Harte said, keeping a wary eye on Riley. “Kelly knows that. The last time was supposed to be the last time. We had an agreement.”

  Riley dropped the cuffs so they clattered onto the table and turned to look squarely at Harte. “The agreement’s changed.”

  It always does, Harte thought, fighting the urge to scream in frustration.

  John Torrio slouched comfortably in Harte’s dressing chair, his eyes projecting the lazy confidence of someone who had Paul Kelly’s full authority behind him. “You know Kelly’s got eyes everywhere, Darrigan. You telling me you thought you could be rubbing elbows with J. P. Morgan’s people and nobody wouldn’t notice?”

  “You’re here because I had a drink with Jack Grew?” Harte asked.

  “And Morgan’s son.”

  “I don’t know Morgan’s son.  And he doesn’t want to know me,” Harte said, eyeing his coat over Torrio’s shoulder. He shouldn’t have bothered to come back for it. He could have caught up with the girl and managed to miss these two.

  Though, now that he stopped to think, maybe he should let her go. She was involved with Nibsy somehow, which meant she had to be tangled up with Dolph Saunders as well. The last thing Harte needed was that particular complication, especially with Kelly’s men sitting in his dressing room.

  Still, that trick of materializing across the theater in a fraction of the time it would have taken anyone else to do it—the crowd had gone wild. If he could replicate it, he wouldn’t have to worry about ticket sales for a long time. Even if she was wrapped up with Nibsy Lorcan, Harte wanted to know how she’d done it. But first he had to get rid of the two men standing in his way.

  “But you do know Jack?” Razor insisted.

  Torrio nodded. “That’s enough for the boss.”

  “Jack’s only an admirer of my work,” Harte said easily, which was true enough. “He thought I could teach him how to pull coins out of his ear. Make him as rich as his uncle.”

  Torrio snorted, half-amused. “I bet he did. But
like I said, your new friendship interests Mr. Kelly. Greatly.”

  Harte made a show of unrolling the sleeves back down his arms, all the while keeping part of his awareness on the two men. “I meet lots of people,” he told them. “I wasn’t aware I had to check with Kelly every time I had a drink with someone.”

  Razor Riley growled in answer. “Watch yourself, Darrigan. Kelly told us to talk to you. He didn’t say we had to be nice.”

  Harte ignored Razor and kept his focus on Torrio. “What interest does Kelly have in Jack Grew, anyway?”

  “You know the boss,”  Torrio said with a shrug. “He’s always interested in growing his connections. Jack Grew’s pretty high up in the world.”

  Harte couldn’t hide his surprise. “Jack’s a nonstarter,” he said truthfully. “From what I hear, he was this close to being shackled to some fisherman’s daughter in Greece, because all his brains are in the wrong head. The boy wouldn’t be able to tell his ass from his armpit without Daddy to help him, and the whole family knows it. Kelly wouldn’t be able to get within ten feet of him before Morgan’s people got wind of it.”

  “Such little faith you have,” Torrio drawled, picking at his nails before he lifted his eyes to meet Harte’s. “You really think Mr. Kelly don’t know what he’s doing?”

  “Kelly wants you to work on Grew,” Razor clarified.

  “Work on him?” Harte repeated, feeling a cold twist of understanding in his gut.

  “You know what he wants,” Torrio said, taking his hat from Harte’s dressing table.

  It was one thing to use his affinity on shady politicians from Tammany or on the boys in the neighborhood, but tangling with the Order of Ortus Aurea? It was too risky, or Harte would have already done it. With magic, he could have wrapped Jack around his finger a lot easier. But he knew that if the Order got wind of it, they’d end him. Or worse.

  “I don’t have any sway over Jack Grew,” Harte hedged.

  “That ain’t the way I hear it. The way I hear it, you got the touch with difficult people.”  Torrio’s mouth twisted into something that might have been a smirk. “Kelly wants an introduction.”

  “I can’t understand why.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but the word around town is that the Order’s having an important get-together soon. Word is that anyone of any importance in the city will be there. Kelly don’t want to be stuck in the slums forever, Darrigan. He wants an invitation to that gathering. He wants an invitation to the Order. And he’s confident you can make that happen. . . . After all, you already have an in with Jack.”

  “Jack Grew and his like, they’re from a different world than us,” Harte said with a shrug. “They could barely stand to have me at their table, and—”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Torrio interrupted. He gave Harte’s cheek a not-so-gentle pat.

  “If I don’t want to figure something out?” Harte asked.

  “You know Kelly has ways of persuading. It would be a shame if anyone found out about any of your little secrets, now, wouldn’t it? Never know what might happen to you.”

  There were any number of secrets Paul Kelly knew about Harte Darrigan, any number of things that could ruin him if his old boss decided to expose him.

  “I see,” Harte said slowly.

  “I thought you might,”  Torrio said as Razor Riley sat stone-faced behind him.

  “I need time to think about it. Figure out the best way in.”

  “Mr. Kelly thought you might say that. He has the utmost faith that you’ll make the right choice. Me? I ain’t so sure. I think you might need a push in the right direction.”  Torrio shrugged. “I’m more than happy to give you that push.”

  “Well, this has been most enlightening, boys.” Harte held out his hand, a last-ditch attempt to take control of the situation. “Give Kelly my regards, won’t you?”

  Torrio looked at the outstretched hand but didn’t offer his own. “You put on a good show, Darrigan, but your time’s running out to make good.” He gave a jerk of his head before leading the way out of the dressing room. Razor gave Harte a look that said he wouldn’t mind if Harte screwed up, and then he followed Torrio, shutting the door behind him.

  Harte threw the lock on the door before he sank into the chair near his dressing table. It was still warm from Torrio’s body, which only served to remind him how much trouble he was in. Paul Kelly, a member of the Order? He couldn’t fathom it. But if it came to pass . . . Harte couldn’t help but shudder.

  He still remembered the first time he’d ever met Paul Kelly, about five, maybe six years ago. Back then Dolph Saunders had taken him under his wing, and he’d felt like the world was his. So when he found out his mother was back in the city—someone had seen her in one of Paul Kelly’s cathouses—he didn’t ask Dolph for help. He went to see for himself.

  He’d gone to curse her for leaving him, but once he’d realized what she’d become, he understood what his actions had done. He couldn’t leave her there. It had been easy enough to get her out. But of course Paul Kelly heard about it and came after him.

  Back then Kelly was beginning to make a name for himself. Mostly, his gang was made up of rough-looking Italian boys who didn’t need the evil eye to give someone a bad day, and they had Harte before Dolph even found out about it. But Kelly saw something valuable in Harte’s abilities, so he gave Harte a choice that day, which was more than he gave most: work for the Five Pointers, or end his short life in the Hudson. Harte picked the Five Pointers. Despite everything he’d been through, he’d still been too naive to know the Hudson might have been a better bet. He was wearing the Five Pointer’s brand before Dolph could do anything to help him.

  A few years after that, when he’d collected enough of Kelly’s secrets, he’d negotiated an exit from the gang. He’d renamed himself, made a whole new life, and started working theaters and dime museums in the Bowery, learning his craft from some of the old guys. He thought he’d made it out, but it wasn’t even six months later when Kelly called on him for a “favor.” For an old friend. But one more led to another and another.

  He’d tried not to think too much about the way his favors for Kelly often lined up with his lucky breaks in the theater business. He told himself that it was his skill more than Kelly’s pressure that had gotten him the first gig north of Houston or his first appearance in a Broadway house. But Torrio and Razor’s appearance only underscored the truth—Dolph Saunders had been right about Kelly having him on a leash. The only way to get away from Kelly’s influence was to get out of the godforsaken trap of a city.

  And the only way to do that was to get the Book before anyone else did.

  Harte picked up the handcuffs Razor Riley had moved. They were the first cuffs he’d ever cracked, back when he was a stupid kid from Mott Street who’d gotten picked up for lifting a half-rotten orange from a peddler’s cart. Breaking those cuffs and getting out of the Black Maria wagon bound for the boys’ mission had been his first taste of what it might feel like to choose his own destiny. He’d kept them as a reminder of how far he’d come, and of how far he still had left to go.

  Sure, Dolph Saunders and Paul Kelly were both breathing down his neck, but he had something neither of them had and both of them wanted—a willing contact in the Ortus Aurea. It would still be tricky, convincing Jack to trust him enough to get him into Khafre Hall. It would be damn risky going against an organization that snuffed out Mageus for sport. But those cuffs were a reminder that he’d been in tough spots before.

  He hung the cuffs back on their hook where he’d be able to see them. His entire life had been one big escape act. Getting out of that prison of a city wouldn’t be any different.

  CHANGING FEATHERS

  Esta spent the next few days working the Dead Line without complaint—and staying far away from Harte Darrigan. The letters and words in the news clipping she kept tucked against her skin had not stopped shifting. The future, the heist that needed to ha
ppen, was still undetermined, a fact that made her nervous, anxious. If the heist didn’t happen, she’d never get back.

  On Wednesday, she worked on Wall Street, fleecing unsuspecting bankers in the sleeting rain. With the rotten weather, it took longer than the day before to meet her quota, especially since she was relying on her skill rather than her magic whenever possible. She understood that in this city, magic was as much a liability as a tool, a mark for an unknown enemy to track her or find her.

  Despite the rain, it was still early when she made it back to the warmth of Tilly’s kitchen, exhausted and hungry.  The kitchen wasn’t empty. At the end of the long, heavy table, Dolph sat huddled with Viola, Jianyu, and Nibs. They didn’t pay any attention to her arrival, but when Tilly heard the door open, she turned from what she was doing at the sink. Seeing it was Esta, she wiped her hands on the apron covering her dress and grabbed a covered plate to bring over to her.

  “You’re back early,” Tilly said. She set the plate on the end of the counter and took the cloth off the top to reveal sliced hard cheese, salami, and some grapes that had already been picked over.

  Leaning a hip against the counter, Esta selected one of the remaining grapes. “The streets are a mess,” she said. “I got my quota, so I came back. I didn’t feel like melting today.”

  Tilly gave her a quizzical look. “Melting?”

  “Nothing,” Esta said, realizing her slip.

  “Another new dress?”  Tilly asked, teasing.

  Esta shrugged as she popped a grape into her mouth. “Change your feathers often enough, and the mark won’t recognize the bird.”  The words came naturally, without thought, but the moment they were out, the grape suddenly tasted bitter.  They were Professor Lachlan’s words, lessons she’d been taught until they were a part of her.  And she was failing him.