by Lisa Maxwell
“The Devil’s Thief?” Esta asked.
“That’s what they started calling you,” Julien said, stubbing out the cigar for good this time. “You were in all the papers for a while. Everyone was trying to figure out who you were and where you’d gone. Every reporter was trying to unmask the Devil’s Thief.”
“Damn stupid name,” Harte muttered.
Julien laughed. “Maybe, but it made a helluva headline, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Harte said flatly.
Julien ignored him. “It has the right . . . je ne sais something. Really grabs attention.” He glanced more directly at Esta. “It would play great onstage, if you’re ever interested in the theater business?”
Harte spoke before she could answer. “She’s not.”
Esta shot Harte a look, but he didn’t even see it. His focus was on Julien, and his impatience felt like a living, breathing thing.
Julien didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. With a shrug, he continued. “Damn shame. Tall girl like you? I bet you’ve got a great set of legs under those skirts—”
“Julien . . . ,” Harte ground out.
“I can’t believe you really don’t know any of this,” Julien said, confusion replacing the amusement in his expression. “I figured that was why you’d gone to ground—that you were either dead or hiding out somewhere. Either way, I didn’t ever expect to see you back here.”
“We were . . .” Harte paused as though unsure of how to explain.
“Out of the country,” Esta supplied easily.
Julien frowned, considering the two of them. “Still, you’d think that news like that would have reached—”
A knock sounded at the door, cutting Julien’s words off midsentence.
The sudden alertness in Harte’s posture mirrored Esta’s own feeling of unease. There was only one entrance—and, therefore, only one exit—to the dressing room. If Julien was right about them being wanted and if he had recognized her so easily, it was possible that someone else had too. They couldn’t be caught there. Not after how far they’d come, and not with all they still had left to do.
“You didn’t—” Harte started, but Julien held up a hand to silence him.
“Who is it?” Julien shouted, not bothering to move to open the door. He, too, seemed suddenly on edge.
“It’s Sal.”
“The stage manager,” he whispered to Harte.
“Well, what do you want?” he boomed. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“There’s some of the Jefferson Guard here. They’re doing a sweep of the whole theater,” the manager shouted through the closed door. “Thought I’d warn you in case you were . . . uh . . . indisposed.”
“Well, I am.” Julien’s gaze moved between Harte and Esta. “Can you hold them off for a few minutes?”
“I can probably get you five,” the voice called from the other side of the door.
“Do that and I’ll owe you a bottle of something better than your usual swill.”
The three of them waited in silence for Sal’s footsteps to retreat. The moment they could no longer be heard, Julien was on his feet. “Come on. You two need to get out of here.” He pushed aside a rack of beaded evening gowns that glimmered in the light as they moved.
“What’s going on?” Esta asked Julien. “What’s he talking about—the guards?”
“The Jefferson Guard. They’re a private militia here in St. Louis.” Julien began to work on loosening a panel on the back wall. “Their main job is to hunt down illegal magic, but they’ve been on higher alert than usual with the Exposition going on this year—especially since the Antistasi attacks that happened last October.”
“Antistasi?” Harte asked at the same time Esta said, “What attacks?”
“The Antistasi are a group of anarchists, but instead of the usual dynamite and bullets, the Antistasi use magic to make trouble. They started cropping up after the Defense Against Magic Act went into effect last year, but you probably don’t know about that, either.” When they shook their heads, he continued. “Basically, it made all forms of unregulated, natural magic officially illegal,” Julien explained as he continued to loosen the panel in the wall.
“The Antistasi . . . they’re Mageus?” Esta asked.
“That’s what they claim,” Julien said. “Once the Act went into effect, they suddenly seemed to be everywhere, making all kinds of trouble. Actually, you and the train became something of an inspiration for them.”
Harte’s eyes met Esta’s, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was.
Mageus living outside the city—outside the Brink? The old magic wasn’t supposed to exist anywhere else in the country. Wasn’t that what she’d always been taught? It was what she’d been brought up to believe. But she’d felt it herself outside the theater. There was magic in the streets of St. Louis. Strange magic, but power just the same. Had something changed because of what they’d done back in New York when they stole from the Order and let Jack get the Book? Or had everything she’d known been a lie?
Once, Esta had been grateful for the education she’d been given. Her deep knowledge of New York allowed her to be a master of its streets no matter when she landed, but now she was even more aware of the holes in that education. Had Professor Lachlan withheld the information about Mageus outside the city from her on purpose to keep her blind? Or was this some new future she couldn’t have been prepared for?
One thing was certain—in her own time, there hadn’t been any Defense Against Magic Act.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Julien said softly, misreading her concern. “We’ll get you out of here.” He worked at pulling the panel aside, to open a hole into the wall. “The Jefferson Guard might not be looking for you specifically, but I’m willing to bet the bounty on your pretty little head is a lot bigger than their usual price.”
“There’s a bounty?” Esta asked.
“Christ,” Julien said, half-disgusted and half-astounded. “You really have been away for a while. Of course there’s a bounty. J. P. Morgan himself offered it. You can’t just go blowing up trains without consequences, you know.”
“I told you, she didn’t do anything to that train,” Harte ground out.
“And I’ve already said I’m inclined to believe you, but it will be harder to convince the Guard if they find you here. They’re not known for fighting fair, so you’d have a hell of a time getting away.”
“But—” Harte started to argue.
“He’s right,” Esta interrupted before he could delay them any more. “Let’s go while we can.” She sent him a silent look that she hoped he understood.
“Smart girl,” Julien said.
She didn’t bother to acknowledge the compliment. Her mind was swirling with the implications of everything they’d just learned: She was a wanted criminal and there was magic—maybe even Mageus—outside the confines of the Brink.
By then Julien had completely removed the panel of the wall, exposing a passageway behind it. “I’ve used this in the past when I wanted to slip out without dealing with the stage-door crowd.” His expression faltered, and Esta couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. “Follow this passage to the left,” Julien instructed. “It’ll bring you to the boiler room. From there you should be able to find your way out easily enough.”
“About that bounty, Jules . . .” Harte’s expression was as sharp as the part that split his dark hair. “You sure you don’t have any interest in claiming it for yourself?”
Julien looked legitimately taken aback. His voice held a warning when he finally spoke. “I would have thought you knew me better than that, Darrigan.”
“Like you said, it has been a long time,” Harte said, and there was something unspoken, charged between them. “A lot seems to have changed while I was gone. I just need to know whether you have too.”
“I don’t want their blood money,” Julien said flatly as he nodded toward the opening. From the look in his eyes, Esta could e
ven believe that he meant it. “Go on. When the Jefferson Guard comes through, I’ll make sure they’re distracted for a while so you can get well away from the theater.”
“We still need to talk, Julien,” Harte pressed.
“Sure, sure,” Julien said, waving them onward. “I’ll meet you at King’s in a couple of hours.”
“Where’s King’s?” Harte asked.
“It’s a saloon down on Del Mar—a hole in the wall where nobody should recognize you, or care even if they do.” Julien stepped back to allow them entrance to the tunnel behind the wall. “Go on, then. Before they come back.”
A SKY DARK AND STARLESS
1904—St. Louis
Harte hesitated only a second longer, searching Julien’s face for any indication that the opening in front of them was some kind of trick or a trap, but he found none. Julien’s eyes were steady, his expression seemingly sincere. Still, it wasn’t worth taking any unnecessary chances.
Harte extended his hand. “Thanks, Jules.”
Julien grasped Harte’s hand without hesitation and gave the most fleeting squeeze of pressure before he drew it away. But skin to skin, it was enough. A pulse of power, and they’d be safe—from Julien, at least. Considering all they’d just learned, though, Harte wasn’t sure how far that safety would extend.
Without another word, Harte followed Esta into the dark tunnel, which got even darker when Julien replaced the panel behind him. They waited in the gloom, listening to the scrape of the rack of dresses, as Julien hid the panel and their eyes accustomed themselves to the lack of light. Even without seeing her, Harte could sense Esta nearby. The warmth of her—and of her affinity—called to him, and to the power within him. For the moment that power was quiet, but he knew it was only watching and waiting for him to let down his guard.
“Come on,” Harte whispered to Esta when he could almost see the shape of the passageway. “We should go while we can.”
Eventually they came to the boiler room, a larger chamber that smelled faintly of coal and dust. Since it was summer, the room was silent and empty, the fires long since gone cold. The large steel tanks that heated the water before it was pumped to radiators throughout the theater loomed over them, shadowy shapes that made it impossible to see if anyone waited on the other side of the room. They moved carefully, as silently as they could, and soon enough they found the workman’s entrance on the far side of the chamber.
“Are we sure this isn’t a trap?” she asked as she looked at the windowless exit door.
“Not one that Julien set,” he assured her. “I took care of it.”
“We should still be careful. I’ve never heard anything about these patrols. I don’t know if they’re something new or . . .” She seemed lost for words. “I don’t remember learning anything about them or the law against magic he was talking about. None of this existed in the future I knew.”
Harte thought he understood the emotion in her voice. Back in Manhattan, there had been Mageus willing to sell out their own kind for a handful of coin, but the Jefferson Guard and whatever this act was that made magic illegal were dangers they hadn’t expected.
“Even if these patrols are Mageus, they shouldn’t be able to find us unless we’re using our affinities. We don’t need to use any magic to get back to the hotel,” he told her, answering her unspoken worry that they would be discovered. “This isn’t any different from Corey’s boys back at the Haymarket. If we keep our heads down and our affinities cold, we’ll be fine.” He hoped.
Esta seemed to believe his false bravado—or she pretended to. She gave him a sure nod, and they eased themselves silently out into the back alley behind the theater, but as they went, Harte kept himself alert, just in case someone was waiting. The way seemed to be clear, and they walked toward the end of the alley as thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Slow down,” Esta hissed. He opened his mouth to argue—to tell her that the faster they were away from those Guardsmen, the better—but she explained before he got out a single word. “You start scurrying and it’ll draw more attention. You’ll look guilty.”
She was right. Even though every instinct in him wanted to run, Harte forced himself to slow his pace as they approached the mouth of the alley.
To the right, a Black Maria waited in front of the theater. Next to the windowless carriages stood more of the men dressed in dark coats. They must be the Jefferson Guard, from what Julien had said, which explained why they had been after the cowboy Esta had seen earlier. Stationed at the theater doors were four more similarly dressed men, all facing the theater and waiting for the audience to depart. Their posture was alert and clearly watchful.
“We can go back around the block,” Harte suggested. “It’s a bit farther, but at least we won’t have to pass them.”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t be able to sense us.”
He frowned, remembering the burst of cool energy that had accompanied the three Guardsmen when they’d rushed past outside the theater. It hadn’t been completely natural magic, which would have felt only warm. “I don’t think they’d be able to, but with the Book’s power inside me and with what happened earlier . . .”
She nodded, her golden eyes serious. “You’re right. It’s not worth chancing it.”
The theater was only a handful of blocks from the hotel they’d found, the Jefferson, which was close to the Mississippi River and nestled near the heart of downtown. The building was thirteen stories tall and capped with an ornate decorative cornice that sat like a crown on the top. It was clearly a new building, built for the crowds who would travel to the fair. Even in the overcrowded city, the dirt and grime of horse carts and the soot from the smokestacks of nearby riverboats hadn’t yet marred the building.
Maybe they should have gone with something more inconspicuous, but it had been two years since they’d left New York. They’d assumed two years would be enough time and St. Louis would be enough distance that no one would be looking for them. Besides, the Jefferson featured private baths, and the promise of soaking away the grime of the previous days and the long train ride in his own room—away from Esta and the way she provoked the power inside of him—had proven too great a temptation to resist.
Now, with the clouds hanging even heavier in the sky, flickering with the warning of the storm to come, the hotel looked like a sanctuary. In their rooms, they’d be safe. They had a couple of hours before they were supposed to meet Julien, when he’d bring them the stone, as Harte had silently demanded before they parted ways. He needed that time to fortify himself. It took so much energy to keep the voice inside of him locked down, to keep a handle on the power that constantly threatened to bubble up—especially when Esta was so close.
When they entered the peacefulness of the lobby, it was a marked difference from the bustling and cramped city outside the front doors. The moment he was inside, Harte felt some of the evening’s tension drain from him as he was enveloped in the hush of the hotel. A mezzanine balcony ran along all four sides of the lobby, and marble columns ringed the room, supporting an arched ceiling that was painted with the verdant green of lifelike palm trees, while crystal chandeliers threw their soft light through the fronds of real palm trees throughout the room. From somewhere far off—maybe the ballroom upstairs—music was playing, but despite the small groups of people still milling about, there was a sense of safety in the cavernous, two-story atrium.
They were barely across the lobby, heading for the bank of elevators, each encased in an ornate brass cage, when Harte caught a bit of motion out of the corner of his eye. When he turned, it looked as though the palm trees that were planted in small, private groves around the room were moving, as if blown by some invisible breeze. As he watched, puzzled, the music went silent so that all he could hear was the wind, and the lobby around him seemed to shift—to fade into a different place . . . a different time. . . .
It was night, the ceiling above had turned into a sky dark and starless, and the wind that r
ustled the palms carried upon its back the scent of betrayal, thick and metallic like old blood. . . . A friend turned foe who would destroy the heart of magic if he held it in his hands. He was coming. . . .
Harte blinked, and the vision faded.
Who is coming?
When he looked again, the palms were still, and he was surrounded once more by the opulence of the lobby, and in the air, there was only the tinkling of music from far off and the quiet murmur of conversation. But the power inside of him was rioting.
Esta’s arm had tightened around his.
“What is it?” he asked, thinking that maybe she had just seen the same dark night and felt the same unsettling awareness that something awful was on its way.
“To your left, there by the large palm. Gray pants and a light-colored jacket,” she said, and he knew in that instant that she wasn’t talking about whatever it was he’d just seen.
“There’s one leaning against the front desk—no! Don’t actually look at them,” she hissed.
“Who?” he asked, fighting the urge to crane his neck around and trying to ignore the way the voice inside of him was rumbling, its power churning and building.
“I don’t know, but they’re definitely not guests. I’ve known how to case a place since I was eight. I know what a cop looks like even when he’s not in a uniform,” she told him. “They just have this way of standing and a watchfulness about their eyes that isn’t quite easy, no matter how good they are at being undercover.” She finally glanced over at him. “You’re sure Julien wouldn’t go after the bounty?”
“I made sure,” he said, bristling at her doubt. The memory of the vision had put him on edge, and Esta’s questioning only made it worse.
“Well, maybe it didn’t work—”
Before she could finish, he pulled her to the side, backing her against one of the large marble columns and positioning them both behind one of the palms, so she would have a view of the room behind him. Wrapping his arms around her, he leaned in, so his face was close to her neck. He was gratified to feel the hitch in her breath.
