The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  “I’m not a problem,” Esta told her. But then she considered her words and gave Ruth a careless shrug, refusing to be intimidated. “Then again, maybe I am, but I’m definitely not your problem.”

  “No?” Ruth mused. “From where I stand, you are a liability to myself and to the Antistasi.”

  Esta gave a cold laugh, using the motion to glance at Harte, who was watching the conversation with a tense expression of concentration. “How do you figure?”

  Ruth stepped toward her. “The police and the Guard have been looking for you ever since the night we helped you slipped past them at the Jefferson Hotel. For a week they’ve been on high alert, searching everywhere for some sign of you, which has been more than a simple inconvenience for me. Your presence in my town has made it nearly impossible for my people to do their jobs and has put every one of us in danger of being discovered. All because the authorities believe you to be something special, something dangerous. The Devil’s Thief,” she said, but there was a hint of scorn in her voice. “But here you sit, at my mercy. Barely a woman and too soft for anyone with eyes in their head to mistake you for a man. You are nothing but a liability.”

  Esta let her mouth curve. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have tied us up and drugged us just to have this little conversation.”

  “I don’t take unnecessary risks,” Ruth said, visibly bristling. “Not when the safety of my people is at stake.”

  “I haven’t done anything to your people,” Esta countered. “There’s no reason to think I would.”

  Ruth tipped her head to the side. “You didn’t plant a smoking device on my man?”

  “He was following me,” Esta said, unapologetic. “And it’s not like he bothered to introduce himself. I didn’t know who he was or that he was one of yours at the time, and I had to distract him. Besides, he seems to be just fine.”

  Ruth’s brows drew together. “While I’ll admit that I’m inclined to be impressed by anyone who’s able to get the better of North, I’m less inclined to be forgiving of your attempt to incriminate us with your reckless display at the fair.”

  North. That must be the cowboy, Esta thought, and the way he was glaring at her only confirmed it.

  “Do you know what would have happened if you were caught today?” Ruth continued. “Do you realize what it would have done to us?”

  “I can’t see how me being caught would have affected you in the least,” Esta said.

  “Which only shows how foolish you are,” Ruth said. “I don’t know who you really are, and I don’t know if you have done even one of the many things that have been attributed to you, but I do know this—the Guard catching you would have been a victory for the Society and the other Brotherhoods. It would have been a fatal blow to the Antistasi movement everywhere. To catch you would have meant an end to the legend of the Thief. That legend is what keeps us safe even as it inspires fear in our enemies. Without it, we’d be exposed.”

  She hadn’t even considered that. Esta had seen the women in the ballroom, she’d heard Julien talk about the exploits of the Antistasi, and she had admired them. She hadn’t realized that she might be putting them in danger just by actually existing.

  “It wasn’t my intention to put any of you in danger,” Esta said, trying to make her voice sound contrite. “I don’t want to be a liability. I’d much rather be an asset.”

  “But you’re not an asset, and without the necklace, what can you offer me?”

  “Besides my name?” Esta asked, trying to come up with something that would be convincing enough to assuage Ruth’s doubts.

  “We already have that,” Ruth told her. “Even without you, we can continue to use it.”

  “But you don’t have a way into the Society,” Harte said from across the room.

  Ruth’s brows drew together and she turned away from Esta to focus on Harte. His expression was strained, but he had a look of sheer determination in his eyes.

  “Why would you imagine we need that?”

  “Because we know that you have big plans,” Harte said, drawing Ruth’s attention toward him. “And we know what you’re still missing.”

  BENEDICT O’DOHERTY

  1904—St. Louis

  Harte’s head was still pounding from whatever they’d used on him in the wagon, and inside, the power of the Book was churning uneasily. It didn’t like whatever that drug had been—and, to be fair, neither did Harte. His affinity felt hazy and indistinct, like the magic that was his usual companion was too far for him to reach.

  Fine, then. Harte might be a magician by trade, but he was a con man at heart.

  “If you know so much, perhaps we should dispose of you now,” Ruth said, stalking toward him. She had a combination of fear and fury in her eyes—a combination that might prove dangerous—but at least she wasn’t so focused on Esta any longer.

  “That would be a mistake.”

  “Unlike you,” Ruth said, “we do not make mistakes.”

  “Maybe not yet,” Harte said, not so much as blinking. “But not taking advantage of what we can offer you? Definitely a mistake.”

  “Why do you think we need entry into the Society?” Ruth asked.

  “The necklace wasn’t at the fair. If you don’t have it, that means the Society has moved it. How are you planning to get the necklace if you don’t even know where it is?” He paused, letting his question hang in the air before he spoke again. “You’re already running short on time.”

  Ruth straightened, and Harte could tell from the way her expression shifted that her actions were a show for everyone in the room. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No?” Harte asked easily, relying on the impressions he’d gotten from when his captors had touched him without realizing the danger. “Your guys are spooked because they know you’re not quite ready. They’re thinking that maybe it’s too big a risk, especially that one.” Harte nodded toward the one who had held his hands behind his back—the one he’d managed to read just before he was tossed into the wagon. “Frank, right? He’s got a sister up in Chicago. Figures that he could take off and go live with her instead of getting himself killed.”

  Ruth turned to the guy, whose face had gone pale. “Is this true? You doubt our undertaking?”

  The guy shook his head dumbly for a second or two before he found words. “He’s lying, Ruth. He’s just trying to confuse us.” But the fear in the guy’s expression told a different story.

  “Cowardice will kill you, Frank. Not my plans.” Ruth nodded to one of the others. “Take him downstairs and make sure he’s secured. There isn’t room for misgivings and fear. Not now.” Then she turned on Harte. “I know who she is, but who are you?”

  “Someone just like you,” he said simply. “I hate the Society and everything it stands for. We heard about what you did last fall—the attack on the construction of the Exposition. It was brilliant. Masterful, even.”

  Ruth considered him. “What is your name?”

  “Benedict O’Doherty,” Harte told her, the name slipping from his lips before he could consider it. “I’m called Ben for short.” Or I was, once. It seemed he’d been resurrected twice now, he thought darkly.

  “I don’t trust either one of you,” Ruth told him.

  “That only proves you’re not stupid,” he said simply. “But not accepting our help—that would be stupid. Especially when we could help you be more successful than you’ve even dreamed. Give us a chance to prove ourselves. The one you just had taken away was worried about a job you had for him. Let us do it instead.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she thought it over. Then her expression cleared. “Fine,” she said, her lips curling. “I’ll give you this one chance to prove yourselves.” She glanced at the cowboy. “Take him away and make sure he doesn’t cause any problems.”

  “But the job—” Harte said.

  “I think we’ll let the Thief do it. If she’s so powerful and so anxious to work with us, she shouldn’t h
ave a problem. And if she does anything at all to betray us, you’ll be the one to pay.”

  JUST A GIRL

  1904—St. Louis

  Maggie watched as her sister’s people led the Thief and her companion away. They went calmly, though clearly reluctantly, and the way that the guy—Benedict—looked at the Thief, as though he would do anything at all to keep what was about to happen from occurring, nudged at something deep inside of her.

  “Was that really necessary?” she asked Ruth, who was standing, impassive as always, watching as well.

  Her oldest sister, the only mother she’d ever known, glanced over at her with impatience shimmering in her gaze. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, Mother Ruth. Just wondering . . .” But secretly, she was questioning her sister. She’d been questioning Ruth and her tactics for some time, but right now, she knew this was where she had to be. “If Lipscomb’s people catch her—”

  “Then they take care of a problem for me,” Ruth said in a tone that brooked no argument. “She’s not the Devil’s Thief, Maggie. She’s just a girl, same as you. Same as I once was. The Devil’s Thief is bigger—it’s something we created through our actions. If she’s so stupid as to get herself caught by Caleb Lipscomb and his half-witted socialists, then it’s what she’ll deserve.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  Her sister’s expression brightened. “Then she’ll already be part of this. Think of it, Margaret. If she delivers the device, there won’t be any way for her to change her mind. She’ll be responsible for the explosion and for everything that happens after. If it goes well, as you’ve assured me it will, that means that she will have a hand in the effects of the serum. Not only will she understand the power it contains, but she will have the pride of knowing that she was part of it. She’ll understand and be one of us for good. More important, everyone who might stand against us will know she’s ours. When the other Antistasi groups know that the Thief chose us, it will go that much further toward solidifying our leadership.”

  Maggie couldn’t help but frown. “You don’t think you should tell her what we’re doing?”

  “Why should I?” Ruth asked. “This will be a test of her resolve—of her loyalty to our cause . . . and to me. If she’s truly for us, she’ll be willing to kill for us. And if she’s not, we’ll know now, before she has the chance to harm more important plans.”

  OUTMATCHED

  1902—New York

  Jack hadn’t been backstage at Wallack’s Theatre for weeks, not since he’d visited Darrigan, believing the magician to be an ally instead of an enemy. He would have gladly avoided the theater for the rest of his days, except that he was more certain Evelyn had something he wanted—and something that someone else was willing to kill her for.

  It galled him that he still didn’t know what it was.

  The day after she’d come to his town house, ready and willing, he’d awoken to find her gone and his head pounding from all the sherry they’d had together. Because he’d overindulged, the memory of that night was still hazy and indistinct. Clearly, she hadn’t been all that memorable, so he’d dismissed her. But then he’d read in the Herald about how she had been attacked. Intruders had broken into her home to rob her and shot her instead. Of course, she was using the attack for publicity, but that didn’t change the fact that she must have had something of value. Which had reminded him of her earlier teasing.

  The promise of discovering what she had was worth overcoming his disgust and the anger he felt simply walking through the maze that lurked behind the stage. No one stopped him months ago, and they didn’t bother to now, either. Tucking the bouquet of roses beneath his arm, he knocked twice on Evelyn’s dressing room door and entered when he heard her voice answer.

  Her dressing room was nothing like Darrigan’s. It was slightly larger, and the walls were draped with swaths of silks and satins, giving it a feeling of being both exotic and sensual. But Jack wasn’t taken in by it. This time he would remain in control of the evening’s progress.

  Evelyn was draped across a chaise lounge, arranged like a painting in her silken robe. He couldn’t see her injury, but clearly it hadn’t been life threatening. Her red mouth curved up when she saw him. “Hello, darling,” she purred. “Are those for me?” She lifted herself from the couch to accept the flowers from him, and when she did, he noticed the glint of gold on her finger.

  The ring was enormous. Its golden filigreed setting held a stone far too large for a common trollop like Evelyn, and he knew in that moment that it was what the thieves had been after and what he’d come for.

  “What is it, Jack?” Evelyn asked, arranging the flowers in the vase on her dressing table. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Not a ghost,” he told her, his voice heavy with anticipation. “An angel.”

  Her eyes glowed, and she went to him, willing and warm and ready.

  Later, when he was riding in the carriage back to his town house, he came out of the fog of desire and realized that he’d forgotten completely about the ring—again. He’d been right there, and he’d never even touched it. And he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t even remember what had happened between them.

  His hands clenched into fists. This time he couldn’t blame it on the drink.

  He should have known better. Something like this had happened to him before, in Greece, when he would wake without any idea of what had transpired in the hours before morning. He’d joked then that the girl he’d fallen for was a siren, tempting him to the rocks that would be his death, but he hadn’t known how right he’d been. How devious the girl had actually been.

  With sudden understanding, he realized that Evelyn was the same. Like the girl in Greece who had nearly ruined him, Evelyn was a witch—maggot scum who thought she could best him at his own game. But Jack wasn’t the green youth he’d been then. Greece had changed him, and the Book that he had locked away safely in his rooms had made him into something new. Evelyn might have feral magic, she might even have a ring that amplified her powers, but she didn’t have the Book. She couldn’t begin to predict how outmatched she was.

  THE SECRET ON ORCHARD STREET

  1902—New York

  James Lorcan had a feeling that things would become more interesting not long after he’d watched Logan Sullivan enter the apartment building and heard the hoot of something that wasn’t an owl nearby. He sent the others back to the Strega, except for Mooch, whom he kept nearby. He didn’t need the muscle; whatever was about to happen, tonight wasn’t the place for a fight. That would come later.

  He kept to the shadows and watched the entrance of the building, until he saw the group of people appear. A sturdy-looking man with deep brown skin had Logan looped over his shoulder, and a girl James didn’t recognize kept close by Jianyu. An unexpected development, to be sure, but it answered one question. And at least his companions were Sundren. Uninteresting, except for the way they now had two people who should have been his prisoners.

  Mooch took a step toward the group of them already scurrying down the sidewalk, putting distance between themselves and the building, but James caught his arm.

  “Just follow them. Find out where they’re going, but don’t do anything else. Then come back to the Strega.”

  Mooch looked like he wanted to argue, but James narrowed his eyes at the boy, and he seemed to decide against it.

  Jianyu had Logan, but really, it didn’t matter. The boy was as much a liability as he was an asset. Besides, James still had all the secrets he needed on the shelves of Dolph’s bookcases, and now in the notebook tucked into his coat.

  Jianyu’s appearance here, at this apartment where he had no real cause to be, told James one very important thing—Logan hadn’t been lying about who he was or what he could do. Which meant that the notebook he’d delivered wasn’t a trap or a trick. It was nothing more or less than the truth.

  It was late—nearly midnight—but there w
as another stop James needed to make now that he knew he could trust the words tucked near his chest, the words he would himself someday write.

  The lights in the building on Orchard Street were out when he finally arrived, but that didn’t concern him. He paid the woman on the third floor more than enough for the inconvenience of waking her.

  She wasn’t happy, but she didn’t complain as she let James in and led the way down the narrow hall to the small room where the girl slept. He dismissed the woman and went to the girl’s bedside, kneeling beside it so that he could wake her. The small face scrunched at the interruption, but eventually she reluctantly opened her sleep-crusted eyes to squint at him.

  It used to be hard to look at the girl without seeing Leena looking back at him, judging him for the choices he’d made and the path he’d chosen. It had gotten easier, in time, to see past Leena’s features—the golden eyes, the wide mouth that the girl would someday grow into—to the child beneath them. The promise in her.

  Once he had thought that he could save her from Leena’s faults. Dolph’s partner, his wife, really, in everything but name, had been too soft when she should have been steel, too generous when she should have kept her cards close to her chest. It had been a surprise—a delightful one, but a surprise nonetheless—when Leena had decided to hide the child from Dolph. But in the end it had been her undoing.

  He had hoped to mold the girl, to use her for his own bidding. Now James knew that in the end it would never work. He was raising a viper who would one day threaten everything he’d built, everything he was destined to become.

  He could kill the girl now, but time was a funny thing, tangled as a knot and woven into a pattern that even he could not yet see. If he killed her, what might that change? What might he lose that her appearance had helped him to gain?

  He couldn’t kill her. Not yet. But he could use her to send a message.