The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  He didn’t have to go in, he thought, as he came to The Devil’s Own Boxing Club. He should have stayed away months ago—maybe none of this would have ever happened. Nothing was stopping him from turning around and going right back to where he belonged, to his uptown theater and his clean, airy set of rooms. To his porcelain tub and a bath of boiling-hot water. To the life he’d built out of nothing. A life that could still be enough.

  But the fire said otherwise.

  He’d managed to get his mother sober enough to leave her at a new address, but how long would it be before Kelly and his boys found her again? And they would find her, because Harte had no intention of letting Paul Kelly anywhere near Jack. He couldn’t imagine what Kelly wanted with the Order of the Ortus Aurea, but if he ever managed to get their power behind him, it wouldn’t mean anything good for his kind, and especially not for Harte himself.

  Much as he hated admitting it, Dolph Saunders was the only way he saw to get around that possibility. After all, Dolph had a reputation for protecting outcasts from the wrath of the other gang bosses downtown, including Kelly’s own sister,  Viola. Let them fight each other while Harte made his move. If Dolph was right about what the Book contained, he’d be out of the city and safely on the other side of the Brink before any of them realized what had happened. They would be stuck inside, unable to reach him, and he’d be free.

  He ignored the twinge of guilt he felt when he thought of the other Mageus who would still be trapped. But they’re already trapped. If anything, he told himself, their lives might be better if the Order didn’t have their Book.

  When he gave the kid on the other side of the door his name, he was let through to a long, familiar hallway to the back of the building. The closer he got to the end of it, the stronger the scent of sweat and blood and the more vivid the memories.

  He’d spent the year after his mother had abandoned him—and before he was forced into Paul Kelly’s gang—hanging around The Devil’s Own. Back then, Dolph had still been a lanky teenager. He’d seemed larger than life to twelve-year-old Harte. Even with his limp, Dolph had commanded the respect of anyone who knew him in the Bowery, and of anyone who dared cross him. It was the kind of respect Harte himself craved, and Dolph had become something of an older brother, the mentor and protector his own father had never been. The boxing club had become a safe space for him—or at least it had been safer than the streets where he’d spent too many nights. He’d learned to fight there, to protect himself in ways that had nothing to do with magic. And he’d spent more nights than he could count eating at Dolph and Leena’s table in their rooms above the Bella Strega.

  After he’d gotten caught up in Kelly’s gang, he’d stayed away from them both. It had been more than three years since Harte had even talked to Leena, but the ache of her loss hit him then, suddenly and far too late. She’d been only a handful of years older than him, but she’d mothered him in ways his own mother had never been able to. Still, even after he’d heard she lost a baby, Harte hadn’t risked crossing Kelly—or Dolph—to visit her. But now that he was back, surrounded by memories he thought he’d put aside, he was overwhelmed by the thought of her being gone. Leena had been too stubborn and determined to do anything she didn’t want to do, but Dolph should have never put her in a position to be harmed by the Order.

  Leena had meant everything to Dolph, so Harte didn’t have any illusions about how disposable he would be. And he didn’t feel all that much remorse for what he planned to do in the end. The Book would be his, and Dolph Saunders could go hang for all he cared.

  When he reached the main practice room, he found Dolph in the same place he’d seen him so many times before—perched on a low stool, his chin resting against his silver-tipped cane as he watched two of his boxers pummel each other in the ring above him. They were both bare-chested, their skin already slick with sweat and their chests heaving with exertion. They couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but already, each sported the tattoo that marked them as Dolph’s—a double ouroboros that featured a skeletal snake intertwined with a living one.

  Life and death, Dolph had once told him, back when they’d still been friends. Survival was about balance. The threat of death could inspire you to carve out a life worth having.

  Once, Harte had been eager to take Dolph’s mark, but Dolph had said that, at twelve, he was too young to make that decision. He’d considered it again when he’d wanted to get out of Kelly’s gang. Dolph could have easily given him the secrets he needed to buy his freedom.

  He’d thought that trading one mark for another was something he could live with, and he’d come to the boxing club to do just that. But because he’d been early that day, Harte had seen what happened to those who crossed Dolph Saunders. He understood then what the mark was capable of, what Dolph was capable of.

  He would never forget it—the way the man who was years older than Dolph had cowered and begged for another chance. The cold look in Dolph’s eyes as he rejected the pathetic appeals. Dolph had motioned for two of his boys to hold the man still, and then he’d simply touched him with the head of his cane. The second the silver Medusa touched the tattoo, the mark came to life. The two snakes began moving, and the man’s skin rippled as the ink turned the color of blood.

  And then it did become blood. The man screamed like a banshee until the two boys dropped him, and he fell unconscious to the floor. By then, the air in the room had gone cold and energy crackled, but Dolph had barely seemed to notice. He’d given a curt nod, and the two boys had dragged the man away—unconscious or dead, Harte couldn’t tell.

  Harte had turned around and left that day, and he had vowed to never take another’s brand again. He would do everything on his own, trust no one but himself. Even if it meant never truly getting away from Kelly’s reach.

  Except now he might have a way. Stealing the Ars Arcana from the Order—from Dolph—might be a crazy, impossible death wish of a way, but Harte was about desperate enough to take it.

  “You’re late,” Dolph said with his usual brusqueness. He didn’t bother to turn around. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Last I checked, I’m not one of your lackeys.”

  “Not yet,” Dolph said, finally glancing over his shoulder to pin Harte with his blue-eyed stare.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man.”

  Dolph didn’t react to the nickname the way he usually did. Instead, he let out a tired breath and gave Harte an unreadable look. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

  Suspicious, Harte crossed the room to where Dolph was sitting. “I’m only here because that skirt of yours conned me into it.” It wasn’t the truth, of course, but it was better if Dolph thought he still had the upper hand.

  One of the boys nailed the other with a right hook that sent blood splattering. A few drops landed on Harte’s polished black boots, and it took everything he had not to wipe it away in disgust.

  “That’s enough for today,” Dolph told the two bloodied boys. “You’re losing your touch if you were taken in by a pretty face, Darrigan.”

  “What can I say? She was persuasive. But she’s not your usual type,” Harte said as he watched the boys leave. “Though she does remind me a little of Leena, too much of a hellcat to fall in line easily . . . So maybe she is your type after all. My mistake.”

  “Don’t,” Dolph growled.

  “Where’d you find her?” Harte pushed, ignoring the tension that had risen between them at his mention of Leena. He knew it was a low blow, one she’d have taken him to task for, but he would use whatever advantage he could. And he’d hold Dolph accountable for what he’d done to her.

  “You’re not here because of her.” Dolph eyed him. “You think I don’t know that Kelly’s men have been breathing down your neck lately?”

  Harte went still.

  “Oh, come off it,” Dolph said. “I have eyes in every part of this city. I heard about the fire the other day, and I know that Razor Riley helped to s
et it.”

  Harte held up his hands. “You know what? I was wrong. Turns out I can’t do this,” he said, taking a step backward, preparing to leave. “I’d say it was good to see you again, Dolph, but you don’t deserve the effort it would take to lie.” He turned and let his feet take him toward the door, but he hadn’t finished crossing the room when Dolph spoke.

  “You know I can protect you from Paul Kelly. Your mother, too. I would have done it years ago if you weren’t so damn stubborn and proud.”

  Harte stopped where he was, but he hated Dolph that much more for knowing the one thing that would keep him listening. “I’m still not willing to pay the price for your help. I’m not taking your mark,” he said. He kept his eyes focused in front of him.

  “I haven’t offered it,” Dolph said, his voice tight.

  “You did once.” He turned back to look at Dolph and let his old friend see that he wouldn’t be swayed. “I came that day, you know. I saw what you did to that man—what your mark did to him.” It had taken him two years more to gather enough of Kelly’s secrets to negotiate his exit from the gang, but he’d solved his own problems then. He’d do it again if he had to.

  “I didn’t realize . . .”

  “Did Leena know?” Harte asked. “Did she have any idea what you were playing at?” Back then Harte had left because he was afraid, but now he knew enough to understand that what Dolph’s mark had done stank of ritual magic.

  Dolph’s jaw went tight. “That’s none of your—”

  “Leena never would have been okay with it.”

  “She didn’t know how dangerous things were,” Dolph snapped, “or how precarious our position was.” He took a breath as though trying to calm himself. “Leena was too good for this world,” Dolph said softly.

  “Your Leena?” Harte laughed. “Maybe she was a saint—she must have been, to put up with you—but she was also tough as nails and smarter than anyone. I bet she was livid when she found out you were dabbling in ritual magic. I would have bought tickets to watch that fight.”

  From the flush in Dolph’s cheeks, Harte knew he was right. “She understood.”

  “I bet she did,” Harte mocked, shaking his head.

  “Do you really think I’m the first Mageus to try strengthening my power?” Dolph asked.

  “Of course not.” Stories of Mageus trying to make themselves stronger by using ceremonies or ritual objects were as old as magic itself.  They were the source of legends about witches and shamans, magical creatures the Sundren feared.

  No, Dolph wasn’t the first to try to claim more than he was born with, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  “Weren’t you the one who taught me the cost of what the Order was doing, the way they damaged magic itself each time they manipulated the elements and claimed power that wasn’t theirs?”

  Dolph scowled at him. “You weren’t around then. You don’t know what it was like—I didn’t know who I could trust or who I could depend on. So, yes, I did what I had to do to protect mine. How else was I supposed to fight against the Order?”

  “I don’t know.” Harte shook his head. Dolph couldn’t even see how many lines he’d crossed to get what he wanted. “But you weren’t supposed to become them.”

  “I’m nothing like the Order,” Dolph snapped.

  “No?” Harte pressed. “The Order thinks what they’re doing is right, that they’re only protecting what’s theirs—their land, their people, their country. That’s how everyone else sees it too. The whole city believes them, believes Mageus are something to be feared and lets the Order have their way.  Your mark could destroy a person—did destroy a person. How is that any different from what the Order does? How will you be any different if you get this book you’re after?”

  The muscle in Dolph’s jaw jumped, and his whole body radiated tension. “Considering how cozy you’ve been getting with Jack Grew, I can’t imagine you really care.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.”  The Order, the Bowery, the city itself. It was all the same to Harte. Each one was holding him down, holding him back. He’d throw them off one by one, until he was free, or he’d die trying.

  Dolph glared at him. “Did you come because you’re finally willing to join us, or only to remind me of my failures?”

  They’d finally come to it. He wasn’t sure he could do it until the words were already out: “You want my help,” Harte told Dolph. “I’m willing to give it in exchange for protection. I want Kelly off my back—for good—and I want my mother safe. But you’ll have to take my word for a guarantee. I won’t be branded by you. Not for anything.”

  It was a gamble. If Dolph rejected his offer, he’d have to deal with Kelly on his own. If Dolph demanded that Harte take his mark, he’d be as shackled to Dolph as he’d been to Paul Kelly, and Harte wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen.

  A long minute passed, the two of them standing in stony silence, waiting to see who would break first.

  “Fine,” Dolph said. His hand was gripping his cane so tightly his knuckles were white. “I’ll take your word. But if you go back on it, I’ll destroy the life you’ve built for yourself one piece at a time. I’ll make sure the entire city knows what you truly are. If the Order doesn’t finish you off,  Viola will.”

  “Fine with me,” Harte said. If everything went to plan, he wouldn’t be in the city to care. And if things went as badly as they could go, he’d gladly take a quick death at Viola’s hand over whatever Paul Kelly or the Order would dish out. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised you agreed.”

  “Things have changed,” Dolph said. “We can’t afford to wait for the Order’s next move.”

  He told Harte about what had happened to Tilly, about how she’d had her magic stripped from her. How at that very moment, she was fighting for her life.

  “You think the Brink has moved?” Harte asked, chilled by the idea.

  “I don’t know, but this latest attack makes me more sure than ever—we have to take the Order down. To do that, I need the Book. To get the Book, we need a way into Khafre Hall as well as a way out that doesn’t involve getting everyone killed.”

  Harte gave a hollow laugh. “Is that all?”

  “Probably not, but it’s the minimum. If you don’t have Jack Grew on the hook already, you will. It’s only a matter of time. I’ve heard about him: brash, quick-tempered, and has something to prove. He’s the perfect mark.”

  “That’s the problem. Everyone’s heard about him, and he knows it. He’s skittish,” Harte said. “Unpredictable. His family knows it, and they watch him pretty closely. I’m not one of them, no matter how well I shine up. If they warn him off, he’ll listen, because he has too much to lose with them right now.” He gave Dolph a knowing look. “Especially after that mess at the Metropolitan.”

  “So make him think he can’t lose.” Dolph gave him an impatient glare.

  “I’ve been trying, but it’s not so easy. He wants me to find out what happened at the museum.” He paused, never blinking, as he sent the clear message that he knew Dolph had been behind the robbery. “I’m assuming you don’t want him to discover the truth.”

  “So give him something better.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “Use the girl,” Dolph said. “She can help you hook him. She’s already established her cover, hasn’t she?”

  “The long-lost-lover angle,” Harte said, realizing exactly how deep her game had been the day before. She’d penned him more ways than one.

  “The daughter of one of your illustrious teachers. I bet she would have secrets Jack Grew would love to learn,” Dolph said with a satisfied smile. “Secrets that could make him a huge success in the Order. That’s what he really wants.”

  He hated the fact that Dolph was right.

  “I already told her, I work alone,” Harte said.

  “Not anymore. And not if you want my protection,” Dolph told him. “You won’t take my mark, but you will agree to work with Esta. O
therwise, you’re welcome to take your chances with Kelly and his boys. Your mother, too. I won’t make this offer twice.”

  Harte’s jaw was so tight his temple ached. “It’s not much of a choice when you put it like that.”

  Dolph shrugged. “There’s always a choice. The question is which one you’re willing to live with.”

  “You or Kelly,” Harte said, his voice as threatening as his mood. “Why do I feel like I’m only getting to pick my poison?”

  “It’s still a choice,” Dolph drawled.

  Harte shook his head. “You always were a bastard.”

  “Takes one to know one.” There was the hint of amusement in Dolph’s expression.

  “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But when this is over, you don’t bother me again. You don’t contact me or try to find me. If we’re all not already dead, you don’t even know me. Period.”

  The amusement faded from Dolph’s face. “Agreed. But if I get any hint of you going against me or mine, I won’t hesitate to end you. My mark or no, I will strip you of everything you hold dear.”

  “You should have gone on the stage,” Harte said dryly. “You’ve developed quite the flair for the dramatic. If that’s all?”

  “That’s all.” Dolph nodded. Then he softened his voice. “It really is good to see you again.”

  “I can’t say the feeling is mutual,” Harte said, but he couldn’t stop his mouth from curving up. “Keep my mother out of Paul Kelly’s grasp, and you won’t have anything to worry about on my end. I’ll get what you need.” Harte extended his hand to shake on the deal they’d made.

  Dolph shook his head. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Dare. I have a few things to take care of, but I’ll be sending Esta to you in a couple of days.”

  “What do you mean?” Harte asked. His hand dropped to his side.

  “She’ll be staying with you and keeping an eye on things while the two of you work together.”

  “She can’t stay with me.” He shook his head. “I don’t want her there.”

  Dolph laughed. “I won’t call you on that lie, but you’re going to have to take her.”