The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  She hadn’t been relishing the idea of going to her family to start with. If her uncle Desmond and his brood looked disapprovingly at her before, she could only imagine what he would do when she showed up on his doorstep, homeless, grieving, and with a half-dead Chinese man in tow.

  MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

  1904—St. Louis

  It was madness inside the Jefferson Hotel. Jack stopped short not three steps into the lobby. Dark-suited police were everywhere. Some were talking to groups of people clad in evening finery—women in satin dripping with jewels and men in sharply cut tuxedoes that would have made even a Vanderbilt green with envy—while others had created a border around the room and watched any new arrivals with suspicious eyes.

  “You can’t come in here now,” one of the officers barked at Jack, but the man’s voice was enough to bring him back to attention. And the morphine he’d just ingested was enough to make him not care. He stepped past the man without bothering to argue.

  The man took him by the arm and whipped him around. “I said you can’t—”

  “I was told to come,” Jack said, cutting him off.

  “By who?” the officer blustered, narrowing his eyes.

  “By me,” a voice said from behind the officer.

  “Chief Matson, I presume?” Jack said, jerking free of the other officer’s grasp. He held out his hand in greeting.

  The chief was a short man, stout and sturdy with the eyes of a hawk. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Grew,” the man said as he shook Jack’s hand. “But I’m afraid it’s been a waste of your time.”

  The man’s words cooled some of the easy warmth the morphine had spread through Jack’s veins. “You said they were here,” Jack said, his voice clipped.

  “They were, but they’re gone now,” the police chief said.

  “Gone.” The impossibility of the word was a punch in the stomach. “They can’t be gone. Didn’t you have men at all the exits?”

  “Every one, regular and service alike. They didn’t get out any of the exits.”

  “Then they have to be here,” Jack said, trying to keep his tone level. “Have you searched the whole hotel?”

  “We don’t need to,” Matson told him.

  Jack could practically feel the vein in his neck throbbing. Even with the morphine to dampen the noise and confusion of the lobby, the chief’s words sparked his temper. “Why the hell not?”

  “What’s the point? We saw them disappear,” the chief said. “Hell, half the force saw it. Just about five minutes ago.” The chief pointed to a spot not twenty yards from the front door. “We had them surrounded, all their escapes blocked. They were there one minute and then—boom—they were gone, just like that. Like they were ghosts.”

  I was right. They laughed behind my back and called me a fool, but I was right.

  “ ’Course, I don’t believe in ghosts,” the chief of police said. “So I called the Guard.”

  “The Guard?” Jack felt like the world had narrowed until he could concentrate on only one thing.

  “The Jefferson Guard. They take care of any problems we have round these parts with illegal magic.”

  “They didn’t take care of this one,” Jack said darkly. “This is unacceptable, Chief Matson. You assured me that you could secure the area for Roosevelt’s arrival.”

  The chief bristled, his heavy jowls wobbling as his cheeks turned red. “I have the utmost faith in our people to make sure everything is secure when the president arrives. Hey, Hendricks, come on over here,” the chief called.

  Across the room, a ruddy-faced man with a high forehead and a mop of honey-colored hair lifted his head. “I’ll be done in a second.”

  “You’ll be done now,” the chief snapped forcefully enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room. He turned back to Jack and huffed in annoyance. “The Guard thinks that because the city council has given them free rein, they’ve got some standing, but they’re still just amateurs.”

  “Hendricks, meet Mr. Jack Grew,” the chief said once the other man had come over. “He’s here to help prepare for the president’s visit at the gala. I was just assuring him that we have everything under control.”

  Hendricks kept his hands tucked behind his back and his chin lifted. Up close, the man was younger than Jack had expected. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, but he had the kind of broad shoulders and lean, strong features that made Jack puff out his own chest a little more.

  “Hendricks here is a colonel with the Guard,” the chief explained. “He can explain everything we have set up. I’ll leave Mr. Grew with you, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir,” the guy said, his expression never flickering.

  “Right, then. You’ll be in good hands.” He gave Jack a rough pat on the arm before he walked off to find another of his officers.

  “You have questions about our security measures?” Hendricks asked.

  “This Guard . . . What is it?” Jack asked.

  “The Jefferson Guard is tasked with protecting St. Louis from illegal magic,” Hendricks said, reciting the words as though from memory.

  “What does that entail, exactly?” Jack asked, eyeing the man.

  “We do what the normal police can’t.” The colonel’s eyes were emotionless when they met his. “We use a specific set of skills and tools to hunt Mageus who refuse to assimilate themselves as productive members of society.”

  Even with the haze of morphine dulling the brightness and noise around him, Jack felt his attention peak. “Really? You hunt Mageus?”

  Hendricks nodded. “We show them back to the gutters and the prisons where they belong. We eliminate the danger they pose to proper society.”

  “Excellent,” Jack said, reaching for the vial of morphine cubes. “Absolutely outstanding.”

  DELMONICO’S

  1902—New York

  The boning of the new corset was digging into the soft flesh of Viola’s hip, but there wasn’t a thing she could do to adjust it, not so long as her brother’s scagnozzo had her by the arm. And also not so long as she was supposed to be playing the part of a lady. It had been four days since Viola had accepted her brother’s beating as the cost of using his protection. In four days, the split in her lip had healed itself enough for her to be presentable in public. In those four days, she’d bided her time and done everything her brother had asked of her, no matter how insulting. She’d played the part of the dutiful, penitent sister, but she’d kept her eyes and ears opened and she’d started to plan.

  The maître d’ was checking over his ledger, searching for their reservation. Occasionally, he’d glance up at Viola and her escort with a questioning look, as though he knew that neither of them belonged. The longer they stood there, the more Viola felt the eyes of other people on them. She wished the stuffed-shirt fool would hurry up. She was more than ready to have a table between her and her escort for the night. Already he’d been too free with his eyes . . . and his hands.

  Paul didn’t fool her one bit, arranging all of this just so she could dispose of one stupid journalist for an important friend. There were a hundred ways to kill a man, maybe more, and not one of them required a fancy dress, with her tette pushed up to her chin and her breath pressed out of her lungs. Nor did they require her to have dinner at a fancy restaurant with John Torrio, the man all the Five Pointers called the Fox. No, her brother had set this up because he didn’t trust her yet. Torrio, or John, as he’d introduced himself, was nothing more than a nursemaid—though she doubted he’d appreciate being thought of as such. He was only there to keep an eye on her and to make sure she did what Paul had asked of her.

  So what if a lady needed an escort to dine at a restaurant like Delmonico’s? Killing a man in the middle of a crowded restaurant was a fool’s errand. She could have killed him in the streets just as easily.

  But Paul didn’t want this Reynolds killed easily. Her brother was making a point. With so many witnesses, Viola would be forced to use her affinity�
��and in doing so, she would have to break the vow she had made to herself years ago. As long as she could get a clear view of this man, it would be easy enough to make it look like he’d died naturally, and with no obvious attack, it would be impossible for anyone to see the man’s death as anything but a tragic misfortune. In the blink of an eye, Paul’s friend would be rid of his little problem and Viola’s soul would bear another black mark that could never be erased.

  Even so, the act didn’t require a fancy restaurant. Viola knew exactly what Paul was up to. It was no accident that he’d sent Torrio with her—her brother was matchmaking. His plan to marry her off had been the last straw to drive her away before. Now that she was back in the bosom of the family’s control, he was testing her. The old goat he’d tried to tie her to the last time was probably dead by now, so it only made sense for Paul to try shackling her to the man he was grooming to be his second—all the better to keep them both under his control.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Viola studied Torrio as they were shown to their table. He wasn’t bad looking—a tall, striking boy from just outside Napoli with dark eyes and dark hair combed straight back from his face. He didn’t have the characteristic crook in his nose that most who ran in the gangs wore as a badge of honor, but even dressed in a fancy dinner jacket, he didn’t have Paul’s polish. Torrio still looked like the streets.

  And like all men, he walked through the world as though what he had in his pants was enough to make him a king. But then, she thought, watching Torrio snap out orders to the waitstaff, who all jumped to meet his demands, maybe it is.

  Dinner was interminable. Viola tried to keep her mouth drawn into what she hoped was more smile than snarl as her escort droned on about all his accomplishments, but the task wore on her. He didn’t stop his bragging to eat the first two courses. Instead he talked around the food in his mouth. When the steaks came, huge slices of meat that were dressed with herbed butter and creamed spinach, Torrio finally—thankfully—shut up.

  Better he focus on his steak than continue to imagine that he had a chance with her. Men never took that news well, and she couldn’t afford to maim or kill the guy when she was trying to convince Paul she could be trusted. He and Nibsy were planning something, and gaining Paul’s trust was the first step in finding out what it was.

  Viola shifted in her seat as she picked at her bloody steak and the gelatinous oysters, hating the entire situation she’d found herself in. The food was too rich for her, right along with everything else in the restaurant. Her whole life, she’d stuck close to what she knew—first her mother’s kitchen and then the Strega, where she worked behind the bar, serving people of her own class and station. She had never really gone much farther than the streets of the Bowery, even when she left her family. But all around her, the dining room was filled with brilliantly white linen and gleaming crystal, candlelight and brightly polished silver. Delmonico’s, with its gilded opulence, was evidence of how big the divide was between what she was and what the rest of the world held.

  And the people . . . The men who could signal a waiter with a look instead of the roughly barked orders Torrio used and the ladies with their pretty manners and their tinkling, girlish voices all served to remind Viola of exactly who she was—and who she would never be. She hated them all almost as much as she hated the full corset biting into her skin and the ruffled flounce at her shoulders that pinned her arms down at her sides.

  Worst of all, the longer they sat, the more she began to think that the entire evening had been pointless. Paul had been confident in the intelligence he had from his network of busboys and cooks that R. A. Reynolds dined at Delmonico’s on Thursday nights at seven thirty. Reynolds always sat at the same table, a private corner booth, and Paul had arranged for Viola and Torrio to be seated at a table across the room with a clear view of the booth.

  But seven thirty had come and gone, and there had been no sign of R. A. Reynolds or anyone else. The whole fiasco had been an absolute waste of time. As Torrio downed another glass of the expensive scotch that Paul was paying for and cut large pieces of beefsteak to shovel into his mouth, Viola picked at her food and counted the moments until she could go home and take off the ridiculous dress.

  It was close to eight when a flurry of commotion erupted behind them. Viola turned to look and saw that a young couple had just arrived. They weren’t much older than Viola herself, but they were clearly favorites. The girl, especially, seemed to know almost everyone, because she stopped and chatted at nearly every table they passed.

  In a sea of lavish gowns, the girl stood out like a peacock among pigeons. She was dressed in a gown that looked, even to Viola, who knew very little about such trivial things, expensive. It was perfectly tailored to the girl’s lithe body, and its color—a light blush that matched the flush of the girl’s cheeks—would have looked ridiculously frivolous on anyone with less confidence. Instead, the pink hue only served to accent the glow of the girl’s creamy skin and the dark fringe of lashes around her eyes.

  She was as slender and delicate looking as a reed, with polished fingertips that had clearly never seen a day’s worth of work. Her blond hair had just a touch of copper when the candlelight hit it, and the long, graceful column of her neck was ringed with a simple strand of pearls that lay against the fragile notch at the base of her throat.

  Her skin would be soft there, fragile and fragrant with whatever scent she wears. Lilies, maybe . . . or roses . . . something floral and as pink as she is.

  Viola’s cheeks felt warm suddenly, as she realized the direction her thoughts had gone. She’d been staring openly. She glanced at Torrio to make sure he hadn’t noticed, but he was still busy shoveling the last of his potatoes into his mouth. Confident he wasn’t paying her any attention, she allowed herself one more peek at the girl. At the very moment Viola looked up, the girl’s eyes met hers. Dark blue, the color the sea had been in the middle of the Atlantic, and just as dangerous.

  Viola looked away as a wave of shame crashed over her—it had been only a few weeks since she had lost Tilly, and there she was, so easily distracted by a girl whose every breath screamed of wealth that Viola could never begin to dream of. And to be distracted here, of all places, when she was clearly being watched by her brother’s escort?

  Merda. If Paul heard of it . . .

  She knew exactly what would happen if Paul heard of it. He’d make sure Viola was either married or dead, because everyone knew her soul was already too blackened for the convent.

  But Torrio hadn’t noticed the entrance of the couple or the direction of Viola’s thoughts. As he signaled the waiter for yet another drink, Viola couldn’t help herself. She chanced one more peek at the girl just in time to see the maître d’ pull back the curtain to open a private booth—the Reynolds booth—and let the couple in. The girl had already disappeared behind the velvet curtains, but her escort had stopped to speak with the maître d’.

  Viola didn’t allow herself to wonder about the way her heart sank the moment the girl was out of sight. Her focus was on the girl’s escort, R. A. Reynolds. The man she was supposed to kill.

  Viola pulled on her affinity and sent it outward, searching for the link to this R. A. Reynolds across the room. She found him easily, his heartbeat steady like the ticking of a clock, pulsing nearly in time with her own.

  She could do this. It would be so easy to simply slow the flow of blood, to call to that living part of him and command it, to stop it.

  Why should she care that Reynolds was so young?

  Why should she care that he looked the maître d’ in the eye when he spoke to him—as though they were old friends? Or that the girl in the booth would have to witness her escort crumpling into a lifeless heap?

  She shouldn’t care. She didn’t.

  Who was this Reynolds to her? Un pezzo grosso. A rich boy living off his father’s money and name who had never worked—had never slaved—a day in his life. His hands would not have calluses beneath the gloves he w
ore. His stomach had never known the carving pain of true hunger. There were a hundred more like him, each less important than the one before. The world wouldn’t miss this one.

  Still, Viola hesitated.

  She’d killed many times before, and her soul was, surely, already stained beyond reckoning with the blood of her victims. It shouldn’t have mattered.

  Viola was still staring at the velvet curtain of the booth long after the man had disappeared behind it and the tether she’d had to the steady beating of his heart went slack.

  Torrio’s foot nudged hers beneath the table. “That’s them, ain’t it?” Torrio asked. “Why didn’t you . . . ?” He waggled his fingers at her.

  Yes . . . why didn’t I? Viola realized that Torrio was looking at her, his dark eyes sharp and far too suspicious. She’d just done exactly what Paul had been afraid of—she’d missed her opportunity to take out Reynolds when she could have. Now he was behind the velvet curtain, hidden from her sight and out of reach of her affinity.

  “Paul didn’t tell me Reynolds dined with other people,” she told him, trying to pull herself back together. It was a feeble excuse, and the look on Torrio’s face told her that he suspected what had happened. “I was thrown off by the other one.”

  “The girl?” Torrio’s brows drew together.

  “She’s a witness,” Viola said, knowing that the excuse was ridiculous. A witness to what? It wasn’t like her magic could be seen.

  “So take her out too,” Torrio said with a shrug. “What do you care?”

  “I don’t,” she lied. “But Paul might. We don’t know who she is. What if she’s the daughter of someone important? It could cause a lot of problems for Paul, killing the wrong person.”

  “It’ll cause more problems if you don’t take care of the right person. You had a clear shot there.”

  “It’s not so simple.”

  He frowned as though he could see straight through the lie to the truth of her, and for a moment Viola wondered if he knew what she’d been thinking—if he understood the real reason for her hesitation.