The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  “He knows people in the Order?”

  Dolph nodded. “Specifically, he’s become friends with a fellow named Jack Grew, who happens to be J. P. Morgan’s nephew. I don’t need to explain to you how important a contact like that is, not with what’s happened to Tilly. I need information, and Darrigan is our best chance to get it. His connections are our best opportunity to get a crew into Khafre Hall.”

  She feigned surprised. “You’re not planning to rob them?”

  Dolph nodded.

  “That’s a bigger risk than the Metropolitan,” she said, pretending to be more concerned than she actually was.

  “It is, but if we do it right, the rewards are bigger too. I want to end their reign over this city, over our kind.” Dolph leaned over to take a book from the shelf. “I want to make this land safe for magic.”

  He opened the volume—a ledger or journal of some sort. Its pages were filled with the same strong, even hand. He took a small envelope from between the pages and pulled out a worn scrap of fabric, which he handed to Esta.

  She looked closely at the faded and smeared letters. “That’s blood.”

  Dolph nodded. “Someone died getting that message to me. A woman named Leena Rahal, a woman I trusted with my life.”

  “What does it say?” She frowned, playing dumb to lead him on. She didn’t need him to know that she knew Latin as well as any of her other languages. “Something about a book?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Ars Arcana?”

  Esta shook her head, keeping her eyes on the bloodied words so the lie wouldn’t show.

  Dolph flipped through the pages of the journal, and finding the place he wanted, he held it out to her. On the page was an image that she recognized easily enough from her many lessons with Professor Lachlan—the Tree of Knowledge. This image was different from others she’d seen, though. Usually, the tree’s wide branches held symbols representing the ancient mysteries, alchemical notations that were attempts to explain the interworkings of heaven and earth. In this version, though, the tree was aflame, and at the source of those flames was a book. Like the bush Moses found, like the fish in the center of the Philosopher’s Hand, the book wasn’t being destroyed by the fire.

  “There are stories passed down through time of a book that holds the secrets of the old magic—the Ars Arcana, or the Book of Mysteries. Some believe it contains the very beginnings of magic. Others believe its pages hold the history of Mageus, but legend has it that whoever possesses the Book also can wield the power it contains. Of course, like the Golden Fleece or the philosopher’s stone, the Book is supposed to be nothing more than a story—a myth,” Dolph told her. “But I believe the Ars Arcana is real, and I believe the Ortus Aurea has it.”

  “Because of this?” she asked, holding up the scrap.

  “In part, but the more I’ve looked into it, the more sure I’ve become. That image isn’t a simple picture. It’s a complex arrangement of symbols—the book aflame, the moon and stars circling. It should look familiar to you.” He gestured toward the painting hanging over his shelves, the one she’d helped to steal.

  “Newton is holding the same book, with the same symbols on its pages,” she realized, looking between the two.

  “The circular symbol there is called the Sigil of Ameth, the Seal of Truth. The Order believes an initiated magician could use it to unlock power over all creatures below the heavens—and some above as well.  The Ars Arcana is supposed to contain the one true sigil. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that J. P. Morgan, one of the highest-ranking members of the Order, owned that painting. I think Morgan couldn’t help himself from bragging about his knowledge. The Order has the Ars Arcana. I know it.”

  “You want to steal the Book,” she said, letting her excitement show.

  “We could use the knowledge it contains to destroy the Brink. Without the Brink and the Book, the Order would be finished. More than that, I believe we could let magic—old magic, true magic—grow free again. Libero libro. The Book will free us.”

  “Does Harte know all of this?”

  “He knows what I’m after,” Dolph admitted, “and he knows the Book could bring down the Brink.”

  Which is why he took it, Esta realized. He wanted it for himself.

  But then . . . why had he disappeared? Why had the Book disappeared? It didn’t make any sense. There had to be something more to what happened, and she would have to be smart—and more patient than she’d ever been—to figure it out. Or risk disrupting the future even more.

  “Why are you telling me all of this now?” Esta asked.

  “Because I need you to understand the importance of what we are undertaking. It will be difficult to do what I’m planning. Khafre Hall is a fortress. Without someone on the inside, the job will be impossible. Jack Grew’s our way in, and Harte Darrigan is our way to him. So you’ll go to Darrigan and you’ll make sure he gets Jack on the hook.”

  Before she could ask anything else, they were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

  “Come,” Dolph said, his eyes never leaving Esta’s.

  Nibs opened the door. “There’s news.”

  “Well, get in here and tell me about it,” Dolph barked.

  With a nod, he stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind himself. “Whatever happened to the Dead Line,” Nibs said, “it’s done. Gone.”

  Dolph’s brows drew together. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “The crew you had patrolling over on Fulton said that it just disappeared. One minute it was there, and the next, there was a flare of energy and they couldn’t sense it anymore.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple hours ago,” Nibs said. “I went down to check for myself before I came to you. I wanted to make sure. But it’s gone, all right.”

  “That was right about when Tilly got worse,” Esta realized.

  “It was,” Dolph said, his expression stony. He finished his drink before he spoke again. “Gather your things and get yourself to Darrigan’s. I want Grew on the hook, and I want it to happen before anyone else has to die.”

  EVEN KITTENS HAVE CLAWS

  Harte’s Apartment

  Knowing how Dolph Saunders worked, Harte had half expected the girl to be waiting for him when he got back to the theater. Actually, he’d planned on it. He’d spent the long walk back from The Devil’s Own thinking of all the things he wanted to say to her—the rules he’d establish to put her in her place and keep her there. When she didn’t appear, he couldn’t help feeling almost disappointed. And when she still hadn’t made an appearance by the end of the night’s second show, he could only wonder what Dolph was up to and whether he’d keep the bargain they’d made.

  Even prepared as he was, the last thing he expected to find when he let himself into his apartment late the next night was the girl, curled up like an overgrown kitten on the narrow couch in his front parlor. She was fast asleep, her head resting on her arm and her breathing soft and even. At first he simply stood there staring. In sleep, her features looked different—softer, somehow.

  Not that he was fooled into thinking she was harmless—even kittens had claws, after all. And he’d had enough experience with this one to know hers were sharper than most.

  He wondered how long she’d been there. She looked uncomfortable with her neck tipped to the side at such an awkward angle. Her dress was a shade of blue that reminded him of the spring sky, but the hem was marred with the grime of the winter streets. He cringed at the sight of her damp boots up on the clean chintz upholstery. They would leave a mark if she stayed that way.

  With a sigh, he went over to the sofa. “Esta,” he whispered. “Come on. Wake up.” She didn’t seem to hear him, so he reached down to shake her arm gently. “I said wake—”

  The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling. He had no idea how she’d managed to move so quickly out of a dead sleep, but it had taken less than a second for her t
o sweep his legs out from under him with her ankle and twist his arms around to pin him to the floor. Her eyes were wide and furious, but they weren’t really lucid until she blinked away the sleepiness in them and saw him beneath her.

  “Oh,” she said, confusion flashing across her otherwise intense expression.

  “Off ?” he choked, barely able to breathe.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice still rough and drowsy as she shifted off him. “But you shouldn’t grab me like that,” she said sourly, as though her nearly breaking his neck had somehow been his fault.

  “You shouldn’t break into people’s homes if you don’t want to be grabbed.” He lifted himself to his feet and went to turn on another light. “And I didn’t grab you. I was trying to wake you. Your boots are ruining the furniture.”

  She blinked, her face wrinkling in confusion as she looked at her feet. “They’re clean,” she argued, but she reached down and began unbuttoning them anyway. When she’d pulled off both boots, she left them in a heap on the floor and didn’t bother to cover her slender ankles.

  “How did you even get in here?” he demanded, trying to gather his wits. There was something he was supposed to be telling her right now, something he was supposed to say. “I was expecting you at the theater yesterday not in my very locked, very secure apartment. Not in the middle of the night.”

  “No so very secure,” she argued. “And it’s barely past midnight. I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she said, fighting off a soft yawn.

  Her hair was a mess, half tumbled down from sleep, but Harte focused on what was important . . . if he could just remember what that was.

  She gave in to the yawn. All the action did was call attention to her mouth, which made him remember other things that weren’t exactly helpful at that moment.

  He’d made a mistake. A tactical error. This was never going to work if he couldn’t focus long enough to take control.

  “So, am I going to be taking the couch, or are you going to be a gentleman and give me your bed?” she asked, batting her eyes innocently.

  “The only way you’re getting into my bed is if I’m in there with you,” he told her.

  “Not likely,” she drawled.

  “Then I guess you’re taking the couch,” he told her. “Best you learn now, I’m no gentleman.”

  “Figured as much,” she said, pulling herself up and tossing him a pillow as she walked toward the back of the apartment.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I need to use the facilities,” she told him. But she walked right past the open bathroom and into his bedroom, and before what she was doing completely registered, she’d shut his bedroom door and clicked the latch in place, leaving him holding the pillow.

  It took a second for him to process what had just happened, but once he did, he stormed across the apartment and pounded on the door. “Open this door, Esta.”

  “No, thanks,” she called from within. “I’m good here.”

  “I mean it. I’ll bust it down if I have to.”

  There was a rustling sound from within that he refused to think about too closely. It couldn’t be the sound of petticoats falling to the floor or her gown being unlaced. He would not allow himself to imagine her disrobing on the other side of the door. And even if she were, he would not let himself care.

  “Feel free. It’s your apartment,” she said, and he could practically hear the shrug in her voice.

  He ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. “What are you doing in there?”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” she called.

  He had a sudden vision of what she would look like in his bed, her dark hair spilled out across his pillow, but he locked that image down and threw away the key. “I think you’re trying to take my bed,” he said, inwardly groaning at his bad luck.

  “I don’t think I’m trying at this point.” Her voice came from closer to the door now.

  His bed was going to smell like her if she slept there, and then he’d never be able to sleep soundly again. He pounded again and then eyed the door. He could probably break it down. “I want my bed, Esta.”

  The door cracked open and her face appeared. Her shoulders were bare except for the lacy straps of her chemise, and she’d taken her hair down so it fell around her shoulders in loose waves. “Think of this as me helping you better yourself,” she said, as she tossed a small object at him.

  He grabbed for it out of instinct, giving her the time she needed to slam the door in his face and click the lock in place once more.

  “Better myself ?” He looked down at the object he was holding—the pocket watch he’d lost at the Metropolitan exhibition. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said, Darrigan,” she called through the closed door. “By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be a real live gentleman.”

  • • •

  The next morning when he woke, his neck was stiff from sleeping on the couch. He pulled himself up and ran a hand over his face, trying to rub away his grogginess and to will away the dreams of dark, silken hair and lacy chemises that left him feeling restless and unhinged. He was still in his clothes, since Esta had locked him out of his own room, but now, across the apartment, the door to his bedroom stood open.

  Approaching the door warily, he saw that his bed was rumpled and unmade. The blankets were thrown back, and in the center of the bed, the mattress sagged where someone had slept, but the girl wasn’t there. She wasn’t in his tiny closet of a kitchen, either. As he pulled on a fresh shirt, he had the brief, impossible hope that maybe the night before had all been part of the same awful dream. Then he heard the off-key singing coming from his bathroom.

  He knocked on the bathroom door. “Esta?”

  The singing went suddenly silent. “You didn’t tell me you had a bathtub,” she called.

  “I didn’t invite you to use it, either,” he said, trying not to think of her soaking in the white porcelain tub. It didn’t matter if it was his sanctuary—the mark of how different this life was from his old one. He didn’t need the image of her tawny limbs, or any other part of her, naked in the warm water. In his warm water.

  He heard the sounds of sloshing, and a moment later the door opened. Esta was standing with one of his large towels wrapped around her. Her shoulders were bare again, and wisps of her hair that had fallen from where she’d piled it on her head were stuck to her damp skin. Water was still dripping down her neck and her legs, leaving puddles on his tiled floor.

  For a moment he couldn’t think, much less speak.

  “You have a bathtub,” she said again, and she made the word sound like something miraculous. Her face was scrubbed clean, pink from the heat of the water, and she was smiling at him as though he’d just saved her life. “I’m never leaving.”

  Then she shut the door in his face. Again.

  His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for a minute he had to focus on breathing. He had to remind himself that this would be worth it in the end. It would all be worth it when he walked out of the city a free man and left all of this behind him.

  He turned without a word, grabbed an orange from the bowl on his kitchen counter, threw on his hat and coat from the stand by the door, and left, slamming the door behind him. He’d go to the theater. People there might eat knives, dance with bears, and shimmy across the stage half-naked, but at least they didn’t make him feel insane.

  THE SCENT OF BETRAYAL

  Paul Kelly’s

  There was something about the warming weather that drove the desperate a little wild. With spring came more boats, and with those boats, more immigrants hoping to carve out their own piece of the rotten fruit that was the city.  And as spring teased the promise of summer, tempers began to flare. Always with something to prove, the new crop of boys would try their luck with knives or guns as they worked to claim meager pieces of territory. Street corners. Back alleys. Nothing worth dying over, but they did just the
same.

  With his cane and uneven gait, it was nearly impossible for Dolph to go unnoticed by those who might not know any better. It would have been easier to use the cover of night to do what needed to be done, but some business required the stark light of day—to send a message that he didn’t fear anyone in the city. Not the Order of Ortus Aurea, whose constant presence kept his kind crawling in the gutters. Not the men at Tammany, who’d clawed themselves to the top of the city only to forget they’d been born in the slums. And not Paul Kelly, who seemed to be planning a move to establish himself as a true rival.

  Kelly fashioned himself as a nob, and if it weren’t for that crooked nose of his, evidence of his days as a boxer, he probably could have blended in at the Opera. He sure spent enough to dress the part. But at heart, Kelly—whatever his adopted moniker might suggest—was a paisan. The fancy clothes, the well-heeled style, it was all a cover so he could pretend he was different from every other dago fresh off the boat, crawling through the muck of the city to make something of themselves.

  When Dolph entered, Kelly’s men came to attention, their hands reaching for the guns they kept beneath their coats, but Kelly waved them off. “Dolph Saunders. Quel est votre plaisir?” he asked, slipping into perfect French.

  So, he doesn’t want his boys to hear us, Dolph understood. “Il est temps de rappeler vos hommes.” It’s time to call off your men.

  Kelly’s wide mouth turned down. “I’m not sure I can. My boys have been having a good time of it,” he said, nodding to John Torrio, who sat at the table across the room.

  “They went too far setting that fire,” Dolph growled. “Six people died in those blazes, four of them children.”

  Kelly gave a careless shrug. “You said you wanted pressure on Darrigan.”

  “On Darrigan, yes,” Dolph said. “But killing innocents wasn’t the deal.”

  “There aren’t any innocents in this town,” Kelly told him. He pulled a silver case from his inside jacket pocket and took his time selecting one of the thin, perfectly rolled cigarettes inside.