The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  Dolph waited until they were gone before he looked to Esta. “Well?” he asked, dispensing with any pleasantries.

  She knew what he was asking. “I think he’ll talk,” she told him, wishing that alone was enough to fix the future.  To save Dolph from that fate. “He said he had something to take care of, but he should send word to you soon.”

  “What else?” he asked, eyeing her as though he knew there was more.

  She hesitated. “He won’t take your mark.”  When Dolph was silent, she continued. “I told him it was negotiable.”

  Dolph’s expression creased. “That wasn’t for you to say.”

  “I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to keep him interested. Maybe if you’d warned me, or if I even knew what the mark was, I could have come up with something else.” She leveled a frustrated glare in his direction, ignoring the danger he posed. “He’s willing to talk now. From what I understand, that’s more than anyone else has managed to get from him.”

  Dolph glared back at her, but he didn’t argue any further.  After a long, tense moment, he turned to glance back at the door where they’d taken Tilly up to the apartments above. It stood empty and silent.

  “How bad is it?” Esta asked. But Dolph didn’t have to answer for her to know the truth. She could see it in his anguished expression, in the tightness of his posture.

  “For Tilly, it’s as bad as it can be,” he said. “For the rest of us? It’s something new, and that rarely bodes well for our kind.”

  THE WEIGHT OF NIGHT

  Dolph waited until the Strega was completely clear before he locked the doors and ventured out to discover what he could. Pulling his cloak around him and the brim of his cap low over his face, he headed south, toward Fulton Street and the notorious Dead Line. When the lights of the Bowery grew dim and the streets grew darker still, he switched the patch over his eye, so that he could navigate the night without falling into a coal cellar or some other trap laid for unsuspecting marks.

  Rats rustled in the gutters as he passed, and the wind cut through his heavy cloak, but the cold March winds barely touched him. How could they, when everyone already said ice ran in his veins?

  Let them say it, he thought bitterly. Ice or no, his ways had saved enough that he wouldn’t apologize for them. He’d carved out a life for himself, hadn’t he? He’d battled against all odds to achieve what he had. His own family had seen him as a liability, had tossed him out when he couldn’t work anymore at the factory that had mangled him as a child. To them, he was another mouth they couldn’t feed, so they had sent him away to save the others.

  He couldn’t blame them, really. Desperation and fear could make anyone do nearly anything, and sometimes a single sacrifice was necessary to save many.

  Back then, Dolph had been so angry, full of vinegar and bile. He’d been too stubborn to accept death or the boys’ workhouse as his life, lame foot or not. And he’d been too smart to follow anyone else. While the other urchins begged for bread or stole coins from fat pockets, the secrets Dolph stole helped to make him who he was. Those secrets would either save him—or kill him—in the end.

  Let the others fight over ragged strips of land they could never own. He knew the truth—there was a whole land made for him and his kind. Or there would be soon, if he had anything to do with it. Once the Brink came down, the Mageus could be free to do whatever they would. Once the old magic was restored, no one would be able to stop them. Without the Order of Ortus Aurea holding them back, they could remake the whole country as a land for magic. Those without it could learn for themselves what it was to live narrow, hen-scratched lives.

  They were close now, closer than he’d ever been. Soon he would have Darrigan, and then he would have Jack Grew, and then the Order would be in his sights. But first he needed to deal with this new danger that had risen up in their midst.

  He walked on, not bothered by any of the shadowy figures who huddled in doorways, their cigarettes flickering like fireflies in the bitter night air. Before he was within a block of Fulton Street, Dolph could already sense something wasn’t right. There was a cold energy sizzling in the air like a live current, a warning to any with magic to stay away.

  He pushed on, closer still, until he could force himself to go no farther. At the corner of Fulton and Nassau, he turned east and followed the icy energy along the length of Fulton. It felt almost as though he were walking along the perimeter of a high-voltage fence that was invisible to the eye. Like the Dead Line has come to life.

  Dolph continued to walk, feeling his way along the Line as it ran down Fulton.  As he walked, he fought the strangest urge to reach out and run his fingers through the energy beyond the sidewalk’s edge, to stir its power.

  Maybe it was some new trap. Or maybe it was because he’d been touched already by the Brink, that its power was now a part of him.

  Magic was like that. Whether natural, like that of the Mageus, or corrupted, like the power the Order was able to wield, like called to like. Magic, whatever its form, could tempt the weak with its promise of power. Which was part of what the Sundren were afraid of—that magic was a drug, like the opium that trapped so many. Those without an affinity for it feared that magic was a compulsion. Those who had touched power knew it wasn’t a completely unfounded fear.

  In the old countries, there were stories of magic—and Mageus—run rampant. Plagues and deaths blamed on the same people who had once been asked to heal and guide. But that was before the Disenchantment, before the Ortus Aurea and other Sundren like them began hunting his kind and penning them in, destroying even the memory of a world permeated by the old magic as they took power for themselves.

  The Order believed themselves to be men of reason. They called themselves enlightened, but in the end they were merely human, wanting what they didn’t have and taking what wasn’t theirs because they could.

  This new danger was definitely man-made. Unnatural. The power it radiated felt broken, as though a part of the world had become unmoored from itself. Whatever had happened to the Dead Line, like the Brink, it had been designed to control. To punish.

  He had no idea how this new threat worked. He wasn’t sure if it was simply a line or if its power had engulfed the entire southern end of Manhattan, and he wasn’t sure if it was like the Brink—which would allow entry into the city but not escape—or if it would destroy any who crossed in either direction.

  But if this new line was the Brink, if it marked a constriction of their territory, who was to say it wouldn’t move again? If it continued to creep north, they would have nowhere to go.

  Across the street, Jianyu materialized out of the night and began to walk toward him.

  “What news did you find?”

  Jianyu shook his head. “No one’s talking. Khafre Hall is dark. If this is the Order’s doing, they are very quiet.”

  “It couldn’t be anything but the Order’s doing,” Dolph argued. “Things are changing, and I can’t say they’re changing for the better.” He glanced over to Jianyu, read the stiffness in the boy’s spine, the closed expression on his face. “About earlier . . . I’m sorry for what Viola did.”

  Jianyu’s expression didn’t change. “She was afraid. People do all manner of things when fear drives their hearts.”

  “Still.  You’re one of us, and I don’t want you to ever doubt that. The people in the bar, the things they said earlier? They don’t speak for me, and they won’t be allowed to darken my doorway again.”

  Jianyu inclined his head, but he didn’t respond, and Dolph couldn’t tell if he believed the sincerity of his apology or not.

  Dolph couldn’t blame him. After all Jianyu had been through, after all the city and the country had done to his people, why would he trust anyone, much less Dolph, who made it his business to remain as mysterious and unknowable as he could?

  “You’ll keep looking?” Dolph asked. “For Tilly?” he added, knowing that whatever Jianyu might think of him, he would do what he could fo
r the girl.

  “Of course,” he said, and with another small bow, he disappeared into the night.

  The weight of the night on his shoulders, Dolph turned back toward the Bowery, back toward Golde’s apartment and the empty place at her table. Back to his streets, his own home, and all the people he was no longer sure he could protect.

  A ROOM FILLED WITH FEAR

  As the sky started to lighten outside Viola’s window, Esta rubbed her eyes and stretched out the kinks in her back.  She had finally convinced Viola to give Tilly more Nitewein a few hours before dawn. The first person who had offered her kindness in this city was now slumped on her side in the bed, her thin shift damp with sweat, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She looked three feet from death’s doorstep, but at least she wasn’t screaming anymore.

  Esta dipped the rag back into the bucket of murky water and placed it against Tilly’s feverish forehead once again. At the feel of the cool cloth, Tilly moaned.

  Viola paused until Tilly settled again, but then continued to pace in the corner of the small room.

  “You can sit down anytime now,” Esta told her. So much for the cold, fearless assassin—Viola had been wearing a hole in the floor for most of the night.

  “I still don’t like it. Tilly, she never had the Nitewein. She would have hated to be like this,”  Viola said, her voice trembling as she gestured vaguely toward the girl in the bed.

  “She wasn’t exactly having the time of her life with all the screaming and moaning,” Esta muttered. If she thought Viola would accept sympathy, Esta would have offered it. Instead, she gave Viola something to strike back at, a distraction from her worry.

  “What did you say?” Viola demanded.

  “Nothing. Never mind.” Esta dipped the rag and placed it against Tilly’s feverish brow again. Neither of them spoke for a long while, but Viola’s fear filled the room as she resumed her pacing.

  “Does she know how you feel?” Esta asked softly, not looking at Viola.

  Viola’s footsteps went still and a long, uncomfortable moment passed during which Esta wondered if she’d gone too far. But then . . .

  “No,”  Viola said, her voice barely a breath but containing more heartbreak than a single word should be able to hold.

  Esta met Viola’s eyes. “You never told her?”

  Viola let out a ragged breath and looked at the bed where Tilly lay. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Her friendship is enough.”

  Esta took the cloth and dipped it back into the water, not knowing what to say, what comfort to offer. She didn’t know if  Tilly had known or understood how Viola felt, but from the warm smiles she’d seen the two share, Esta couldn’t help but think that maybe she did. And Esta knew Tilly cared for Viola, even if it wasn’t in quite the same way. Still, she wasn’t sure whether saying anything would help Viola or make things worse, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

  But she stayed.

  The morning passed slowly into afternoon, the streets outside the window growing noisy with the business of the day, but nothing inside the room had changed. Tilly had not improved . . . if anything, she seemed to be more pale and her cries more desperate every time the Nitewein began to wear off.

  Tilly’s cries had Viola strung tight as a garrote wire, and when Viola’s temper snapped each time they had to give Tilly more Nitewein, Esta’s was the only exposed throat in the room. Which would have been an easier burden to shoulder if Esta wasn’t aware of just how deadly Viola could be. By the afternoon, Esta’s shoulders were tight and her eyes felt like someone had thrown sand into them from the lack of sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, and as much as she wanted to help Tilly, she wished someone—anyone—would come and relieve her.

  As if in answer, the door to the room opened, its uneven hinges creaking, and Dolph Saunders limped into the room. His hair was a riot of waves around his face, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. When she saw him, Viola stepped forward, putting herself between Dolph and Tilly.

  “Stand down, Vi. I’m not here for that,” Dolph told her, sounding tired and drawn. “And despite your impressive skills, you know well enough that you couldn’t stop me if I were.”

  Viola’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t argue.

  Dolph turned to Esta. “Have you slept any?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  “About as much as you did, from the looks of it,” Esta told him.

  “You’ve been here all day?” He seemed surprised.

  “Most of the night, too. It’s not like I could sleep with the noise she was making.” She nodded toward Tilly.

  “Noise?” Dolph asked, looking at Viola.

  “Mostly it was the screaming that kept me up,” Esta told him. She shrugged, willing away her own exhaustion. “I thought I might as well help since I wasn’t getting any sleep.”

  “She should have been sedated.” Dolph glared at Viola.

  Viola crossed her arms. “She is now, if that makes you happy.”

  “Immensely,” he drawled. Then he turned back to Esta. “How is she faring?”

  “I don’t have any idea. She’s quiet now, though.”

  Viola stepped forward. “She’ll come through. Don’t you worry none.”

  With an impatient glare, Dolph turned to Viola. “I’ll worry when I’m ready to, and not a second before.” Then his tired expression seemed to soften as he leaned into his cane. “We’ll give her a bit more time. Keep her sedated this time,” he told Viola sternly.

  “She’d hate this,”  Viola said softly, her worried eyes locked on the pale girl in the bed.

  “Hate it or not, it’s necessary. Keeping her calm is the most we can do for her now. Her affinity is still there, but it’s been broken somehow. It’ll be up to her to decide whether she’s strong enough to go on without it.”

  “Of course she’ll be strong enough,” Viola told Dolph, her jaw set determinedly. “She always was.”

  “I don’t disagree, but surviving this will require a different sort of strength than she’s had to draw on before. Time will tell.” Dolph turned to Esta. “Come with me.” He didn’t wait for her to follow.

  Just before Esta made it to the door, Viola grabbed her wrist.

  The girl’s strange violet eyes bored into her. “Thank you. For what you did for her,” she said, her voice breaking. “And for me.”

  “It was nothing,” Esta told her, an easy enough truth.

  But Viola only squeezed her wrist more tightly. “No one else came,” she said simply, before she let Esta go.

  Esta slipped out of the room and found Nibs and Dolph waiting for her in the hall.

  “Should I make the arrangements?” Nibs was asking.

  Dolph shook his head. “Not yet. There’s a small chance she could still pull through. We’ll give her some time.”

  Nibs frowned. “She’s a talented healer.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Dolph said as he led the way down to the staircase at the end of the narrow hall. “But Tilly’s always been stronger than most. And her magic isn’t completely gone. She’s been loyal to me, so we’ll give her—and Viola—time before I decide.”

  “Decide what?” Esta couldn’t help asking.

  “I won’t let her suffer,” Dolph said shortly. “And I can’t allow her to become a liability.”

  A dark understanding rose in Esta. “So you’ll—”

  “I’ll do what needs to be done to protect those who depend upon me,” he growled, pulling himself to his full height as though daring Esta to cross him. When she didn’t, he spoke again. “Darrigan sent me a note today, as you said he would. He’ll meet with me in two days’ time. With both Viola and Tilly otherwise occupied, I’d like you to be around—in case I need your help with him.”

  Esta nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Dolph said, looking her over. “Go get some sleep.  You look like something dragged from the gutter.”

  A HOMECOMING OF SORTS
<
br />   Wallack’s Theatre

  Harte looked at the bottle of Nitewein someone had left on his dressing room table and considered his options. Going to Dolph Saunders for protection would be bad enough as a last resort. It was worse to be forced into it.

  He picked up the bottle and tipped it side to side, watching the dark, viscous liquid coat the sides of the green glass. Removing the stopper, he took a sniff. Flowers and something sweet cut through with the bite of cheap wine. It smelled like an opium den and a saloon all mixed together, revolting and beguiling just the same.

  How bad could it be if it made him forget what he had to do?

  After pouring himself a glass, he sat staring at his reflection. He had his mother’s chin, and his hair waved like hers, but he saw too much of his father looking back at him for his liking.

  His nerves were jangling as he slowly lifted the glass.

  The smell hit him, sweet and floral and sickening, and all at once a memory rose from that time after he’d rescued his mother from Paul Kelly’s brothel. She never could stay sober for long, and every time she went missing, he’d have to hunt through smoke-filled basements to find her and keep her from any more trouble. He would try not to look as he pulled her clothes around her and dragged her back home, but she’d only hate him in the morning anyway. For seeing her like that. And for taking her away from the only thing she’d let herself love other than his father.

  Unnatural boy.

  He put the glass down and resealed the bottle. In the mirror, his reflection stared back at him, doubtful. After he was done cataloging his faults and putting away his regrets, he reached for his pocket watch before he remembered it had been stolen.

  Not that he really cared if he was late.

  • • •

  Harte hated everything about the world below Houston—its rotten, trash-lined streets, the tumbled rows of tenements teeming with desperation and despair. Even the air, which was permeated by the stench coming from the outhouses behind them. So he hated what he was about to do even more.