The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  But tableaux got away with being so provocative because of their subject matter—classical art. The gown Evelyn wore might have been enough to have her jailed on the streets, but for the tableau it was perfect. When she was reclining on the divan, the gown would look very much like the one in the painting, giving the impression of both a nightgown and a burial shroud, to heighten the similarities between the depths of sleep and death itself.

  Of course, if Jack’s plans came to fruition, those similarities would be one and the same tonight.

  On her finger, the ring glinted in the low light. Soon, he promised himself as her eyes found him in the mirror and she turned to greet him. Very soon.

  “Jack, darling,” Evelyn purred. “How do I look?” She twirled, allowing the gown to spin.

  By now the warm desire she elicited had become familiar to Jack, and with the ritual he’d performed earlier from the pages of the book, it was little more than an annoyance. But Evelyn wasn’t the only actor that night. He put on a good show of softening his gaze and stepping toward her as though he wanted to kiss her, rather than wring her neck.

  “Ravishing, as always,” he said, counting the seconds until the satisfaction on her face turned to fear. “Did you find the wig I sent over?” Fuseli’s sleeper was a pale blonde, and Evelyn’s violently red hair would disturb the reality of the scene.

  “I did,” she told him. “I was just about to put it on.” She peeked at him from under her lashes. “I also saw the nightmare. You’ve outdone yourself, Jack. He’s marvelous.”

  “Isn’t he?” Near the platform where Evelyn would eventually prostrate herself stood the misshapen figure that would be perched on her chest.

  Evelyn walked over to it and ran her hand seductively over the top of the creature’s head. “The expression on his face, it’s so vital and alive. You can almost imagine him haunting your dreams, can’t you?” she asked with a sly, seditious smile he’d come to recognize as her trying to manipulate him.

  “I can more than imagine it,” he said, examining the creature he’d created with his own hands. It had taken more than a few errors to get it just right, light enough to sit on her chest and with enough heft that it would hold up when the time came.

  “The audience will be thrilled,” she purred.

  “Yes. Yes, they most definitely will be,” he told her, biting back his anticipation. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to check on some other preparations. It’s nearly time to begin.”

  BEFORE THE STORM

  1902—New York

  Cela tugged at the starched uniform she was wearing. She hadn’t been born to wait on tables or clean up after people who thought they owned the world just because their daddies were rich. But she’d promised Jianyu that she would help him get the ring back. It had been a trying week, though, working as a domestic in the Morgan mansion. Every day she watched the preparations for this gala, she’d come to understand that none of these people needed any more power than they already had. They certainly didn’t need some magic ring that could cause things to end badly for more than just people with magic. She believed Jianyu when he said that in the wrong hands, the stone in the ring could bring the entire world to its knees.

  Cela wasn’t built for kneeling.

  She straightened her back and got ready. They had a little while longer to wait. The plan seemed simple enough—wait until Evelyn’s scene was revealed, and then Jianyu could slide in and take the ring from her finger. If she tried any of her hocus-pocus, she’d have to use it on the whole place or risk exposing herself in the middle of a room full of men whose goal in life, other than making money, was destroying her kind.

  Too bad Cela didn’t believe anything could go that simply, no matter what Jianyu thought.

  But she wasn’t alone. Even if he didn’t necessarily agree with her, Abe had decided to help. It might have been just to keep her from getting herself into more trouble than she could handle, but she wasn’t going to complain. Across the room, he was carrying a tray of champagne. His eyes met hers and he gave a slight shake of his head. No sign of Evelyn yet.

  She nodded to let him know that she was okay, and then she went to pick up some more dirty glasses. It was all about to begin.

  AN OLD ENEMY

  1904—St. Louis

  When Esta saw Jack sitting in the gloom of the waiting carriage, she had to force herself to finish climbing aboard. Julien took the seat next to Jack, so she was forced to sit across from him. She swallowed down her nerves and followed Julien’s example, leaning back and letting her legs flop wide beneath her skirts—mimicking the man she was supposed to be—and prayed that between the makeup Julien had painted her with and the dim lighting of the carriage, Jack wouldn’t recognize her.

  “Ah, Mr. Eltinge, and . . .” Jack’s voice was expectant as he glanced sideways in her direction.

  “This is Martin,” Julien said, as though that explained it all. “Martin Mull.”

  “We weren’t expecting anyone else,” the man behind the gauzy lace veil told him.

  Esta could feel Jack’s interest in her, but she kept her face forward and forced herself to keep breathing as she met his gaze unflinchingly.

  “Martin often serves as extra security for me,” Julien explained easily. “Tonight of all nights, I assumed that extra security would be more than welcome. Especially considering what you’re having me wear through the streets of the city.”

  There was a moment of long, tense silence before the Prophet inclined his head, the veil in front of his face waving with the motion. Esta could practically feel Jack’s interest in her fade when the Prophet dismissed her. Unconcerned, he removed a vial from inside his coat, took a couple of small cubes from it and placed them in his mouth, and then, considering it, he took a couple more before tucking the vial away.

  It had been only a few weeks, but for Jack it had been longer, and the years showed on his face. He looked older than he had before, and his skin had a sallow and unhealthy puffiness to it. Maybe it was the effects of drinking, but somehow Esta didn’t think so. His fingertips were drumming on his leg, and the nervous energy of their soft rhythm vibrated through the air in the small space.

  He had the Book. He might even have it with him. He was sitting there, so close, and if she just risked using her affinity, she might be able to lift it from him.

  But if she tried—if she managed to get the Book—Jack would know it was missing. His response to that discovery could throw all of their careful plans into chaos—including the plan to get the necklace. Her mind raced, but Esta couldn’t see any way to get both the Book and the necklace. Not without putting everyone and everything else at risk. And not before the carriage rumbled to a stop and the door opened.

  Outside, strings of electric bulbs lit a staging area that was swarming with people clad in outlandish costumes. Around one float, a band of people with their bodies painted in garish colors were dressed in feathers and buckskin. They stood talking with others dressed in Confederate gray. Around another float, men dressed like sultans, their faces darkened with paint and long false beards glued to their chins, stood laughing and drinking from a shared flask. On top of a miniature replica of one of the steamboats that crawled down the river, people stood in blackface and top hats, waiting for the parade to start.

  Esta hadn’t been expecting anything enlightened, but her stomach turned at the display around her. It was like the Klan had decided to throw a costume party, she thought, trying to affect bland indifference. She couldn’t afford for anyone to notice her disgust. “They do this every year?” she asked Julien.

  He nodded.

  “Is it always this . . . ?” She was lost for words.

  “It’s my first year,” he told her, frowning at a trio of men who were making lewd gestures to a fourth, dressed as a woman and laughing his fool head off. “But yes. I suppose it is.”

  They found the float that they were set to ride on—the Veiled Prophet’s own. It was designed to look like
a larger version of the boats in the Streets of Cairo. It had been built on the back of a large wagon, its sides painted in the same shimmering gold and bright indigo blue that adorned the attraction at the Exposition. On either side of the float, five men waited, oars in hand, for the parade to start. From the fact that they looked completely sober—unlike most of the revelers—Esta suspected they were the Jefferson Guard, added security for the Prophet and the necklace. In the center of the boat, a small raised dais held two golden thrones topped with an ornate canopy of jeweled silk.

  A pair of uniformed Guardsmen approached, one of them carrying a small valise.

  “Everything go as planned, Hendricks?” the Prophet asked.

  The Guardsman holding the case nodded. “It’s ready for you,” he told the Prophet, offering the case for inspection.

  The Prophet took a key from within his robes and opened the lock to reveal a glint of platinum and turquoise blue within. The Djinni’s Star.

  Esta clenched her hands into fists to keep herself from taking it now. It would be easy. Simple. She could get the Book and the necklace both. All she had to do was pull time still, take the necklace, and go. . . .

  And Julien will be left holding the blame. He’d brought her, after all. They’d look to him for answers when she disappeared, and when he didn’t have any, Esta doubted that it would matter. He’d be ruined.

  He’d be lucky if he was only ruined.

  Never mind that Ruth’s people were waiting, ready to put themselves at risk in front of the entire city, most of whom had turned out to watch the parade. And Ruth still had Ishtar’s Key. If Esta did anything to put the Antistasi at risk, it would make it that much harder to get her cuff back.

  There wasn’t any good option. She’d have to just carry on as planned, even if all she wanted was to reach for the necklace now.

  It was too late, anyway. The Prophet was already fastening it around Julien’s neck.

  “Now, Mr. Eltinge, just as we discussed,” the Prophet said. “If anything happens to this during the parade—”

  “No one will get past me, sir,” Julien told him, his jaw clenching. He glanced at Esta, who glanced away. For an actor, he was a terrible con.

  The Prophet nodded, his veil fluttering like an old woman’s lacy curtains. “Then I believe it’s time,” he said, gesturing to the dais.

  Julien climbed up first, unaided, and then the Prophet followed. Esta went after them, taking her spot close to Julien. In the confusion, she lost track of where Jack went, but the Djinni’s Star was so, so close. And it was still completely out of her reach.

  Little by little, the men who’d been milling around in half-drunk groups began to organize themselves, and the staging area grew less and less crowded as the individual floats departed. Esta could hear the thunder of drums as the bands began to move out and then, after what felt like an eternity, the boat lurched beneath her and they were moving.

  The parade route was packed with people, each straining to get a better glimpse of the brightly lit floats that traveled through the city. Above them, each float was attached to the electric trolley car lines, the source of power for the electric bulbs that glowed like small suns, hot and dangerous, around the papier-mâché decorations.

  As they rounded the corner of Linden and began the slow, steady progression toward the fairgrounds, Esta felt something sharp strike her cheek. She was rubbing the soreness when she was hit again, this time on the arm. “Ow,” she said, rubbing at the newly tender place.

  “It’s just some of the usual trash,” Esta heard the Prophet say. “Ignore it.”

  But the volley of projectiles assaulting them was only increasing.

  Two of the men dressed as Egyptian sentries came to attention, moving to the side of the float, where they searched the crowds on the sidewalk below them. A moment later they were pointing to someone, and Esta saw the police who had been lining the route turn into the crowd to find the culprits.

  “See,” the Prophet said. “A simple nuisance.”

  The parade continued, and in the distance, Esta saw the arched entrance to the fair. Soon, she thought, keeping her eyes peeled for any other sign of trouble. Harte will be here soon. And then it will be over.

  Or maybe, it will just be beginning?

  They were about a block away from the entrance to the fairgrounds when Esta heard a commotion from the crowd. A wild scream split the air, and suddenly masked men emerged from the faceless spectators. They were dressed in dark cloaks, and their masks were made to look like the faces of snakes.

  The Antistasi, Esta thought, her whole body feeling warm and ready at the sight of them. Just as they’d planned, and right on time. The men—and women, Esta knew—used the flash powder that Julien had supplied from the theater to distract and blind the line of police before they sprinted for the Veiled Prophet’s float. Esta backed up to Julien, pretending to be the security she was posing as, and watched as more than a dozen of the snake-people climbed aboard.

  The air was thick with unnatural magic, hot and icy together, as the Antistasi attacked, pulling the oarsmen from their perches and tossing them aside.

  “Protect the queen,” the Prophet shouted, and the remaining sentries formed a wall around them as the masked Antistasi attacked.

  Esta found herself surrounded by chaos as she pretended to fight off the snake-people. But then one of them was immediately behind her, attacking Julien. Harte. She launched into the fray, executing the choreography they’d practiced so that their fighting provided the misdirection Harte needed to slip the necklace from Julien’s throat and replace it with the replica. He gave her the signal, meeting her eyes with a look of sheer determination—and something else she couldn’t quite read—and she did what they’d practiced, fighting him off Julien and pushing him from the float, where dark-suited policemen waited.

  She didn’t have time to worry about whether he landed safely. She was being pulled back herself suddenly, and before she understood what was happening, the floor of the dais was dropping down and she found herself trapped with Julien in a small cell. The floor above them closed over the top of the opening, and everything went dark.

  COLLATERAL DAMAGE

  1904—St. Louis

  Harte fought against the hold the two police officers had on his arms, but it wasn’t long before he was being shoved inside the back of a long, dark wagon with a handful of the other Antistasi. The door shut behind them, and the carriage rumbled on as Harte checked to make sure that the necklace was still tucked into the secret pocket sewn into his shirt.

  During the fight, it had taken nearly all of his strength to keep himself from winning the mock battle he’d staged with Esta. The voice inside of him had rallied, urging him on—to take her down, to take everything she was. But that voice was quiet now.

  It was a quiet he didn’t quite trust. Maybe the power was pulling away from the stone tucked in his pocket, just as it had pulled away from the Book. But it could just as easily be lying in wait, preparing itself for its next onslaught.

  Someone lit a match as Harte was pulling off the mask, and the other people in the back of the carriage all looked at each other for a moment. Then someone laughed. “Damn, that was fun,” a man with a missing side tooth said as he wiped sweat from his brows and pulled off the gloves he’d been wearing.

  Harte couldn’t quite agree, not yet, at least. He’d relax when they were free.

  When the carriage stopped, he waited, his skin prickling with awareness, until the door opened to reveal a policeman standing there, his mouth twisted in disgust. “Looks like we got us a bunch of Antistasi snakes.” Then his expression broke into amusement, and he stepped back to let them out.

  Harte released the breath he’d been holding, and he felt the power shift inside of him. It didn’t feel half as weak as he did.

  He let the other guys go first. His nerves were still jangling from the adrenaline of what they’d just done, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get moving, but onc
e he stepped out, he was relieved to be outside the close, stale air of the carriage and into the warmth of the night. Ruth was standing next to the spot where the carriage had stopped, waiting with some of the other Antistasi.

  “You made the switch?” she asked when she saw Harte alight.

  Harte nodded. “It’s done,” he said.

  Though he still didn’t like it. If they couldn’t manage to get back to 1902 and to stop all of this from happening—if they were stuck going forward from here, now—who knew what the repercussions could be of an all-out attack on the president?

  He pulled out the necklace to show Ruth. “Now your part of the deal. I’ll take Esta’s bracelet.”

  “You’ll have to wait,” Ruth told him, reaching for the necklace.

  He pulled it back. “Like hell—”

  “Maggie hasn’t arrived yet,” Ruth said, cutting him off before he could get too worked up. “She should be here any minute.”

  “Then we’ll talk about you getting the necklace once she arrives with the bracelet,” Harte said, tucking the necklace into his jacket. Once Esta arrived, Ruth wouldn’t get either of the artifacts.

  They waited awhile as other people arrived, each breathing heavily and looking absolutely delighted with what they’d just done. Ten minutes passed and then twenty, and with each additional second, Harte grew more and more impatient. They should be here by now.

  But before too long, the sounds of wagon wheels and hoofbeats quickly approaching signaled an arrival.

  Not Maggie . . . Esta.

  The power inside Harte lurched at the sight of the smaller carriage pulling up next to the brewery’s wagon and swelled with need when Esta clambered out of the back before the wagon was even completely still.