The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  A TURNING OF THE TIDES

  1902—New York

  James Lorcan felt his view of the future rearrange itself as he laid the paper onto the worn desk in front of him. Once, it had been Dolph’s desk, just as the apartment he was sitting in had belonged to Dolph as well.

  The apartment was much better outfitted than the pair of cramped rooms above that James had called home before. But the comforts of the rooms were unimportant compared to what else James now had at his fingertips—all Dolph’s notes, all his books, and all his knowledge.

  And my, my . . . what Dolph had been hiding. James had used some of Dolph’s secrets already to secure Paul Kelly’s alliance. He would use more of them in the days to come to position the players in the Bowery exactly where he wanted them.

  On the wall hung a portrait of Newton beneath a tree, a spoil from a heist Dolph’s team had done at the Metropolitan. To the average viewer, the painting depicted nothing more than the most astounding revelation of the modern age—Newton’s discovery of gravity. At the man’s feet lay an apple, red and round, and above him the sun and moon shone, a pair of guardians in the sky.

  But to someone more astute, the painting showed something more. The book Newton held in his hand was rumored to be the Book of Mysteries. The portrait depicted the point in history where Newton’s two lives converged—Newton the magician who had nearly gone mad from his experiments with alchemy and Newton the scientist. Both were in search of eternal truth and untold knowledge, and in the portrait, both found it within the pages of the Ars Arcana.

  Across the centuries there had been stories and myths about the fabled Book. Some said it was rumored to contain the very source of magic. Others thought it was the Book of Thoth, an ancient manuscript buried in the Nile River that held the knowledge of the gods, knowledge unfit for the feeble minds of men. Still others thought it was a fantastical grimoire, a book of the most powerful ritual magic ever developed. Many had hunted for it—James himself had hunted for it. Two days ago he had thought the Book gone, forever beyond his reach, but now . . .

  James let his eyes scan over the newsprint once again, allowing his affinity to flare out, searching for new connections in the Aether as he considered this development.

  He almost hadn’t noticed. The papers were always filled with the trivial—stories meant to grab attention with lurid details of death and tragedy. James hadn’t cared to read the story about the train and the carnage of its derailment. In fact, he’d already tossed the paper aside when Kelly told him about the reporter that he was sending Viola to kill.

  Now his eyes caught on the name of a dead man.

  Harte Darrigan.

  If the papers could be believed—and, in truth, often they couldn’t—Harte Darrigan wasn’t dead. And neither was Esta. If the two had made it through the Brink, it meant that not only was the Book still out there and attainable, but that they were using it.

  James took Viola’s knife and balanced its point on the tabletop as he considered the possibilities. Two days ago he had believed that the fate of the world had already been inscribed: Magic would die. It would fade away until it was nothing but a memory and a superstition. The future would belong not to Mageus with their innate connections to the world, but to the Sundren. In the days following the mess on the bridge, James had accepted this fate. He’d considered his options and made adjustments to shore up his power, but this new information changed things again.

  After all, the pages of a book could be torn out. A story could be rewritten. His affinity wasn’t perfect, of course—or it wasn’t perfect yet. But if this new information meant anything at all, it meant there was a very good possibility that he would get everything he wanted in the end.

  James allowed the tip of the knife to sink into the page, carving out the names as one might carve out a heart. He tucked them into his vest pocket, talismans for the future, as he made his way down to the barroom to hold court over his new kingdom. He had a sense that something was coming, some change in the Aether that could mean a turning of the tides for him. There was much to consider, but Harte Darrigan and Esta Filosik would not escape him again. They would pay for their perfidy. James would make sure of it.

  MOCK DUCK

  1902—New York

  Jianyu looked up from where he lay in the filth of the street, his head throbbing and his vision blurred, to find Sai Wing Mock, the leader of the Hip Sings and Tom Lee’s rival in the Chinese quarter, standing over him. If Tom Lee and his On Leongs might occasionally take advantage, the Hip Sings were ruthless, and none was more so than the man who went by the name of Mock Duck.

  Mock dressed like a dandy, his Western-style suit cut close and his queue tucked up under a slate-gray porkpie hat, but it was rumored that he wore chain mail beneath his clothes—a defense against the enemies he had made in the years since he had started the war between the On Leongs and the Hip Sings. His hand still held the gun he had used to scare off Jianyu’s attackers, and his fingers were sharply tipped with long, polished nails—an overt sign of his wealth and position. No common laborer had fingertips as deadly as that.

  At first the leader of the Hip Sings simply stared at Jianyu lying on the ground. His dark eyes were thoughtful. “I’ve heard stories about you, Mr. Lee,” he said finally, again using the Cantonese they shared.

  “Lee isn’t my name,” Jianyu told him, speaking before he had fully considered his words. It was stupid of him to provoke Mock, especially here, where he was alone and unarmed and at the mercy of a man who was rumored to have ordered any number of murders. But here, at the mercy of Tom Lee’s rival, it seemed important to make it clear that he had no side in their bloody war.

  Mock Duck’s wide, full mouth twitched. “I have heard that, too.”

  Jianyu wanted to know why Mock Duck had been looking for him and what the tong leader might want of him, but he understood implicitly that silence was safer. When staring down a viper, surviving often meant not giving the snake a reason to strike. Instead, Jianyu focused on his affinity and tried to find the threads of light. But his head swirled from where it had cracked against the street. He was struggling to remain conscious, and he couldn’t focus enough to keep the light from slipping through his fingers.

  “Pick him up,” Mock commanded, “and bring him.”

  Mock was not alone. Of course not. The boys who had jumped him would not have been scared off by a single man, gun or not.

  Jianyu felt himself being roughly hoisted, and his head swam again with the movement. In response, his stomach, empty as it was, heaved, and it was all he could do to keep from retching, which would be taken as a further sign of weakness. Jerking away from their support, he forced himself to stay upright. He would walk under his own power, if he did nothing else.

  Mock led the way as the group traveled through one of the tunnels that connected the various blocks around the Chinese quarter. The air underground was thick and stale, and the echoes of their footsteps were the only sounds. When they emerged, they were close to the Bowery, far from the Hip Sings’ usual territory.

  Jianyu knew where they were headed before he saw the golden-eyed witch on the sign over the Strega, so he was not exactly surprised when Mock Duck went through the saloon’s front doors as though he owned the place, his highbinders escorting Jianyu behind him.

  The barroom was mostly empty, since it was so early in the day, but Jianyu recognized a couple of Dolph’s boys—Mooch and Werner were in the back, and Sylvan was wiping down the bar under the watchful eye of one who could only be a Five Pointer. They looked up when Mock Duck entered, but their expressions showed little more than curious interest.

  There was no sign of Viola.

  Once the Strega had been Jianyu’s home, a sanctuary from the dangers of the city streets. Stepping into the familiar barroom as a prisoner felt somehow worse than all his injuries. His head felt like it would split open from where it had struck the pavement and his gut throbbed where it had taken a boot, but being treate
d like a stranger in this place that had once been a home made him feel lost in a way he had never felt before. With everything else, it was nearly too much, and the only thing that kept him steady was the sight of the traitor who had murdered Dolph.

  At the back of the barroom, sitting in the seat that he had killed for, Nibsy Lorcan lifted his eyes to see what the commotion was. His spectacles flashed in the light, the blank lenses giving him the appearance of a button-eyed automaton Jianyu had once seen at a dime museum. Soulless. Driven by some mechanism within that Jianyu did not comprehend.

  The two highbinders holding Jianyu shoved him forward as Mock Duck presented him.

  “You found him,” Nibsy said, and Jianyu could not decide if it was satisfaction or simple anticipation that colored the boy’s voice.

  “And you can have him as soon as I receive my fee,” Mock said.

  Nibsy shouted to the barkeep, and the boy brought a stack of bills wrapped in paper and a ledger. Mock Duck counted the money carefully and then flipped through the notebook, murmuring appreciatively. “This is all on Tom Lee?”

  “And a few others who might cause you problems,” Nibsy said.

  Mock Dock gave Nibsy a small, satisfied nod as he closed the booklet. “I trust we will do business again, Mr. Lorcan.” He held out his hand, and Nibsy took it.

  “Likewise.” Nibsy directed two men—Five Pointers, if Jianyu wasn’t mistaken—to take hold of Jianyu. Then he waited until Mock Duck and his men left before he looked at Jianyu. “So . . . ,” he drawled, bringing himself to his feet and using the cane that had once belonged to Dolph to make his way to where Jianyu stood. “The traitor returns.”

  With Jianyu’s vision swirling, there were two of Nibsy, but Jianyu sneered at both of them. “You dare to call me the traitor?”

  “We were all on the bridge, weren’t we?” Nibsy asked, and Jianyu realized that his words were meant for the people watching warily throughout the Strega. “We were there for Dolph—for the Devil’s Own—and you weren’t. Your cowardice doomed us all.”

  His head was spinning and the edges of his vision were starting to dim. It was a struggle to stay conscious, but Jianyu forced himself to focus and allowed the corner of his mouth to curve. “Are you so certain that I was absent?”

  He saw the realization flash behind the lenses of Nibsy’s spectacles, but the boy’s expression never so much as flickered. “If you were there, you didn’t help us. You let the magician get away, and with it, our chances of defeating the Order. You betrayed everyone here.”

  The people in the barroom were murmuring now, an uneasy buzzing like a hive about to erupt. Jianyu understood what drama was playing out too well. Nibsy would use the Devil’s Own against him. He would convince them of Jianyu’s treachery, and in turn they would do Nibsy’s dirty work. It would take very little. . . . It had been only Dolph who had held them back when Tilly was hurt, after all.

  “I am not the traitor in this room,” Jianyu said, his voice rough from a combination of pain and anger. “It was not my gun that ended Dolph’s life. It was yours.”

  The barroom went still.

  “The lies of a traitor.” Nibsy laughed, but Jianyu could feel the questions still hanging in the air around them. “A feeble attempt to cover your own guilt,” he said, stepping even closer. He pulled from his jacket a familiar knife—Viola’s—and held it to Jianyu’s face.

  Where did he get Viola’s knife? She prized it above all others and would not have willingly given it to anyone—even if she had believed them to be a friend. She could not be dead. Not Viola. Not when he needed her.

  “Do you know what we do to traitors, Jianyu?”

  The knife flashed in the light of the barroom, but Jianyu did not so much as flinch. “Traitors deserve death,” Jianyu said, struggling to keep his voice even despite the pain of simply breathing. They must have broken a rib, maybe two. “Are you prepared to die, Nibsy?”

  “My name is James,” Nibsy said, bringing the knife closer until the tip of it was poised against the skin under Jianyu’s chin. “And it’s not me who is going to die today.”

  The air in the room was electric. Everyone was focused on Jianyu, Nibsy, and the point of the impossible blade held between them. But Jianyu simply stared at Nibsy, refusing to back down. Refusing to take back his accusations.

  After a long, fraught moment, Nibsy smiled and pulled back. “I think a quick death is too easy for this one, don’t you?” he asked the room, but the barroom returned nothing except uneasy silence. “I think he should tell us everything he knows—about where Darrigan is and what he’s done with the Order’s treasures. But not here. No, we wouldn’t want to make a mess before the afternoon rush. Take him up to my rooms, would you, Mooch? I think we can continue our little conversation there.”

  Perhaps Jianyu should have fought once they were out of the main barroom and making their way up the familiar staircase. He didn’t suspect it would take much. Though Mooch had trained under Dolph’s watchful eye in the ring of the boxing club, the same as Jianyu, Mooch hadn’t trained for nearly as long. But Jianyu was still too unsteady from the beating to risk it. One more hit to the head and he doubted he would remain conscious.

  More important, he didn’t think he would convince Mooch of anything by attacking him. Nibsy was playing a long game, and so must he.

  MOTHER RUTH

  1904—St. Louis

  They called her Mother Ruth, but she was no one’s mother. At least not by blood. Her arms had never held a babe of her own, nor had they ever yearned to, because she knew a simple truth—giving yourself over in that way was a weakness. She would never allow a man to take that freedom from her, because she’d had enough of her freedom taken already. Hadn’t she watched her parents scrape by with barely enough to feed their family? Hadn’t she seen with her own two eyes how her mother wasted away, babe after babe, until finally, her fourteenth had taken the last she had to give?

  Or perhaps her own mother had wasted away for another reason. Ruth often wondered—was it truly the babes? Or was it that her mother had given away the part of herself that made her whole? Because Ruth had to imagine that what made her mother whole was the very thing that made Ruth herself whole—magic.

  Ruth’s father had been a small-minded man. Only heaven knew why her mother had made herself small to get a ring on her finger. But when her father had learned that his wife had the old magic, he’d done what he could to beat it out of her until she’d found ways to keep it hidden from him. But something like magic can’t be pressed down forever.

  Her mother had only kitchen magic, a kind of power she could weave into the food she made or the ale she brewed, but Ruth herself knew the power that something so seemingly simple could bestow because her own power was the same. She’d never understood it, a woman like her mother, cowering in fear of a man such as her father. But even as a small child, Ruth had been old enough and wise enough to know that some things in the world weren’t meant to be comprehended. Ruth’s mother had hidden her magic, and before she’d died giving birth to her fourteenth child, she’d taught the rest of her children who’d been born with affinities—Ruth included—how to hide theirs.

  On the day they’d buried her mother, Ruth’s father had told her in no uncertain terms that, as the oldest, the children were her responsibility now. Ruth might not have had a choice in the what, but she decided that day that she would chose the how. She taught her brothers and sisters how to stand on their own and how to cultivate their magic so that they couldn’t ever be pressed small by anyone.

  Maybe she could have run off. Maybe she should’ve.

  After all, she was already more than twenty when her mother died, and in those days, she was still young and pretty enough that there were plenty of boys whose heads turned when she walked by. She could have picked any one of them, thick-skulled and easygoing as they were, but why trade one duty for another? Better the devil you knew, she reasoned.

  So she’d managed to raise all
her brothers and sisters to adulthood. Mother Ruth, they called her, even when she told them she wasn’t their mother. Most of them took themselves far from the meagerness of their childhood, which was fine by Ruth. Fewer for her to worry about. They could do what they would with the world, and she would do the same.

  Her whole life, Ruth had exactly one hour to herself each week—the hour she took to go to Mass. But on a fateful Sunday, she never made it. That Sunday she chanced to dart under the cover of a random livery stable for shelter from the rain on the way to St. Alban’s. In addition to the soft rustling of horseflesh, she’d found herself interrupting a meeting, and it surprised even her that she’d stayed to listen to what was being said instead of continuing on. But there had been magic in the air, a warmth that she’d missed from her own mother’s arms—a warmth that called to her in a way that nothing else ever had. And there was something else: a righteous anger that she felt an answering call to deep in her bones.

  Instead of praying, she learned to shout. Instead of kneeling, she learned to rise. And she hadn’t stopped since.

  The Antistasi had been a new beginning for her. When she found the group that day, they were little more than a ragtag bunch hoping for companionship and an escape from their hard-scratched lives. They were disorganized and undisciplined, taking their name from bedtime stories about another time, when Mageus had fought fiercely against their annihilation during the Disenchantment.

  But since the Great Conclave two years before, since the Defense Against Magic Act had made the very thing she was illegal, something had changed in the organization. And Ruth had changed right along with it.

  She had given the movement everything she had, everything that she was. She used money from the brewery she had built for herself and her siblings, and she used the Feltz Brewery building in support of the Antistasi’s cause as well. Now she walked through the rows of women cleaning and filling bottles, and she knew that she’d been put on this earth for a purpose. Not only to save the girls who worked for her from a lifetime of servitude for a moment’s indiscretion, but for something much larger—a demonstration of the power those who lived in the shadows held. A demonstration that could change everything for those who still had a link to the old magic.