The Last Magician Page 21

  There had been no way around talking to the squat police captain. He stood, dripping and smelling like a cheap clip joint, as he relayed a version of what he’d seen.

  He could have handed the girl and Dolph and the rest of them over, which would have certainly improved his standing with Jack, but that would’ve come with certain risks. Considering that the girl knew enough about him to make her dangerous, he hadn’t been sure that telling the police everything was the best idea.

  Better not to be caught in his own net. Better to have something up his sleeve against Dolph Saunders—and the girl—just in case.

  If he’d been smarter, he would have left the minute he saw the girl. He had known something was about to happen, and he should have left instead of trying to find out what she was up to. Now he’d missed his curtain, which wouldn’t go over well, considering the talk Shorty had given him the other day. He’d have to do damage control when he got back.

  “The papers are going to have a field day with this,” Jack said dully as he came up next to Harte. “The whole family is going to blame me, you know. So much for getting them off my back.”

  “It’s damn unfair,” Harte agreed, pretending more sympathy than he actually felt. “How much did they get away with?”

  “Nearly everything of any real value.” Jack glanced across the room to where J. P. Morgan and his son were still in tense discussions with the police chief. “At least three canvases were cut from their frames. Even if they’re returned, they’ll be irreparably damaged. And all the seals are gone, including the one I told you about.” Then he noticed Darrigan’s shirtfront and jacket were a mess—stained and damp. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Harte made a show of examining his damp lapels. “Accident with one of the servers.”

  “Accident, you say?” Jack frowned, looking over the ruined jacket. “Which one was it? I’ll look into it, make sure they’re taken care of for you.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” Harte said, waving it off.  The last thing he wanted was for Morgan—or anyone else—to look too closely at him. Especially not when they were investigating a crime. “It happened when the lights went out. I don’t think it could have been helped.”

  “Damn mess,” Jack muttered. He glanced over at Harte, lowering his voice so no one would hear. “The head of security told my uncle there were definitely Mageus involved.”

  “Oh?” Harte said, trying to mask his surprise with bored indifference. “They know that for sure, do they?”

  Jack glanced back at his uncle again and then pulled Harte away, steering him toward a quiet part of the room. “It’s something new the director was trying. Employing people with, shall we say, special qualities. My uncle—and the Order—approved of it, if you can believe that. They didn’t bother telling me, or I would have told them it was a mistake. As though they’d ever willingly give up one of their own.”

  “Thick as thieves,” Harte agreed, eyeing the guards, who were still watching the room.

  He reminded himself that the guards’ affinities couldn’t be that strong—they would have caught the girl, otherwise. Still, it wouldn’t do to linger. It wasn’t worth the chance. “Well,” he said, clapping Jack sympathetically on the shoulder, “I’ve already missed my curtain, and I need to get back to explain things.”

  “I am sorry about that,” Jack said with a frown.

  Darrigan pasted an easy smile on his face. “I’m sure when the story hits the papers tomorrow, I’ll be able to talk my way out of it,” he said.

  Jack snagged his arm. “You don’t know how they did it, do you?”

  Harte froze. “Excuse me?”

  “How did they get everything out of that locked room? I watched them secure it earlier myself. No one was in there, and no one could get in there, not with this gallery filled with people. The lights weren’t out for more than a minute or two.” Jack hesitated, eyeing Harte. “It was a little like one of your tricks.”

  Cold unease trickled down Harte’s spine. “I don’t do tricks,” he said carefully.

  “You know what I mean . . . onstage?”

  “Those are effects, Jack. Demonstrations of skill. Whatever magic might have been involved tonight isn’t any I’m familiar with, and I’m a victim here as much as anyone—someone managed to take my watch in the confusion.” He held up the empty chain to display the missing pocket watch.

  “I know that.” Jack rubbed his hand over his mouth. He looked tired and hungover, and it wasn’t even past midnight. He looked vulnerable. “I’m sorry for dragging you into all of this.”

  “You know,” Harte said carefully, taking advantage of the moment. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I could help you with this.”

  Jack looked up. “You could?”

  “Of course, Jack. That’s what friends do. They help each other. I don’t know anything about the old magic, of course . . . but you’re right. I know how to make things disappear better than anyone. Maybe I could figure out how they did it. I’m not making any promises, but I’d be more than willing to look into the matter.”

  A desperate hope lit Jack’s eyes. “I’d appreciate it, Darrigan. I really would.”

  “And if we happened to figure it out, your uncle would appreciate it too, wouldn’t he?”

  “I’m sure he would.”

  “He’d have no reason to keep you out of the Inner Circle, would he?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “And once you’re one of them . . . you could put in a good word for your friend, couldn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Jack said, understanding. He gave Harte a knowing smile. “It’s what friends do.”

  Harte nodded. “Let me think about it and see what I can come up with,” he told Jack. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said, grasping his hand to shake it.

  “But let’s not tell anyone yet, okay? I wouldn’t want to get their hopes up.” Or their suspicions, Harte thought as he took the risk to send a small pulse of his power against Jack’s hand.

  When he released Harte’s hand, Jack stared at him for a moment, a little dazed. “I’ll talk to you soon, then,” he said, before he turned away, heading toward the ransacked gallery.

  Harte watched him go, the mixture of the pull of his affinity and adrenaline singing in his veins. He was closer than he’d ever been to hooking Jack and gaining the entry to the Order that he needed if he wanted to get the Book. If he wanted to get out of the city. But he had to be careful and take his time. There was no room for a single misstep. The girl knew too much. Dolph was too powerful. And if Harte wasn’t careful, he and all his dreams could end up as shattered and pointless as the shards of crystal still littering the floor.

  HIDDEN DEPTHS

  Bella Strega

  Sitting cross-legged on her small cot of a bed, Esta chewed at her lip as she read Professor Lachlan’s news clipping again. Once they’d returned to the Strega the night before, Dolph had thanked her again and left her to herself. But Esta hadn’t been able to sleep much, not after she checked the clipping. She kept checking it throughout the night, hoping that something would be different. Yes, the letters had stopped wavering and the words had finally resolved themselves into clear sentences, but that hadn’t improved things.

  The story had changed.

  No fire. No destruction of Khafre Hall. Instead, the article was a bland piece about a party the Order had thrown to thank their newest member, Harte Darrigan, for apprehending the mastermind behind the Metropolitan Museum robbery, a saloon keeper named Dolph Saunders. Some items were still missing, but the article said that because Saunders died on his way to the prison on Blackwell Island, authorities didn’t have high hopes for recovering them. Especially since Saunders’ crew had scattered, abandoning his saloon and other holdings, which were being confiscated by the city.

  Of course he’d died, Esta thought as her stomach twisted. To get to the island, they would have taken him out of Manhattan . . . right through th
e Brink. Dolph wouldn’t have stood a chance. None of them would have.

  Somehow the future had changed. Most likely, her being there had changed it. The Magician’s treachery was even worse now, and she didn’t know what other implications that might have. She had to fix it, but she had no idea how.

  A knock sounded at the door, startling her. “Coming,” she called as she tucked the clipping back into its protective wax sleeve with shaking fingers and then slid the small packet down the front of her corset.

  When she opened the door, Jianyu was waiting on the other side.

  “Can I help you?”

  His expression was unreadable. “Dolph wants to see you.”

  Her chest went tight. “What for?” she asked, glad that her voice didn’t sound as shaky as she felt. She thought he’d been pleased with her when they arrived back in the Bowery late the night before, but with her unsettling discovery of the changes in the news clipping, she wasn’t taking anything lightly.

  “It was not my place to ask,” Jianyu said evenly. “He’s waiting in his apartment downstairs.”

  “Okay,” she told him, smoothing her rumpled skirt. “Give me a minute?”

  Jianyu nodded, but just as he turned to leave, he seemed to change his mind. “You dressed me as a woman.”

  “I did,” Esta admitted, feeling more uneasy with every moment that passed beneath Jianyu’s watchful gaze.

  “It was insulting.”

  Esta frowned. “Only if you think women are somehow less than men.”

  “Are they not?” Jianyu asked, sincerely surprised and confused.

  Frustration spiked.  This was a different time, she reminded herself, and yet . . . “A woman saved you, so you tell me.”

  Jianyu seemed to consider this. “It is true that things would have been difficult for me without your help.”

  Esta snorted. “More like impossible.”

  “Then I suppose I am in your debt.”

  “Or we could just call things even,” Esta said.

  Jianyu studied her for a moment, and then he gave the barest nod and left without another word.

  Esta watched him go, wondering what exactly had just happened between them. She wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe she’d found another ally.  That fact made her feel somewhat better as she made her way down to the door of Dolph Saunders’ apartment. She hesitated for a moment, calming herself and gathering her wits about her, before she knocked.

  “Come,” a familiar voice called from inside.

  The door was unlocked, so she eased her way into his rooms and was greeted with a welcome breath of warmth. A coal stove burned in the corner, and near it, Dolph sat at a small desk, making notes in his ledger. He didn’t bother to look up when she came in, but the sight of him so soon after she’d read about his death shook her. If she didn’t fix things, she was looking at a dead man.

  “Jianyu said you wanted to see me?”

  He must not have noticed the way her voice broke, because he never took his concentration from his ledger as he gestured for her to come in. “Give me a second,” he said.

  “Of course,” she told him, finally taking a look around his home.

  Dolph was a man of few words. He never dressed in anything but black or dark grays, which gave the impression that he was perennially waiting for a funeral to begin. With all his glowering, she didn’t expect his apartment to feel so comfortable.

  A faded floral carpet covered most of the bare floorboards, and the room had a softness that her own didn’t have. The furnishings were worn and well used, but the delicate spindles of the straight-backed chairs against the wall and the graceful camelback arch of the small divan were the selections of someone with an eye for decorating. In all, it had a distinctly feminine feel, which was only underscored by the wispy lace panels over the windows on the back wall of the front parlor.

  Above a small shelf lined with books hung a painting that Esta recognized. It was one of the larger oil paintings they’d liberated from Morgan’s collection the night before. In it, a young man reclined beneath an apple tree, a dog at his feet and a wide book open in his hands as he pondered a fallen apple. Dolph had, apparently, wasted no time in making it his own.

  The news clipping had mentioned the painting as part of the evidence they had against him, so seeing it hanging on his wall was another reminder of his new fate. She wanted to tell him to get rid of it, to get rid of all the evidence he might have, but she wouldn’t be able to explain herself. She needed him to continue to trust her if she was going to fix things, so instead she gestured to the newly framed canvas.

  “Is that supposed to be Isaac Newton?” she asked as she studied the scene.  With the apple resting on the ground by his feet, it could have been depicting him discovering gravity, but it was a strange painting, otherwise. A crescent moon hung opposite a bright sun, and the book the figure held in his hands bore odd symbols that looked like a series of interlocking circles and parallelograms, with a star in the center. It wasn’t any math or science she’d ever seen.

  Across the room, Dolph’s pencil stilled and he looked up, his pale eye taking her measure for a long moment. “It is.”

  “But this looks so . . . mystical. I thought he was a scientist.”

  Dolph’s brow furrowed. “There never was much of a line between science and magic, especially not that far back. Early sciences—alchemy or theurgy, for instance—were just ways for those without affinities to try to do what Mageus could do. Newton wasn’t any different, but Newton’s the least interesting thing about that piece.”

  Then Dolph turned back to his ledger, making it clear he wasn’t interested in further conversation on the topic.

  Esta was about to ask him what the most interesting thing was, when she heard Professor Lachlan’s voice in her head—Patience, girl. How many times had he reminded her to take her time, to avoid whatever impulse drove her forward until she thought the situation through and considered all the possible outcomes?

  Too many times. And there was even more at risk now.

  So she bit back the question and occupied herself instead by looking over the books in his small collection—Voltaire, Rousseau, and Kierkegaard, all in their original languages. She wasn’t surprised, somehow.

  Eventually, Dolph finished whatever he was doing in the ledger and closed it. “Tell me what you know of Harte Darrigan,” he said finally.

  “The Magician?” she asked, suddenly wary.  He can’t know, she reminded herself. “Not much,” she hedged. “Nibs took me to see his show the other night.”

  “I’m aware. He told me that Darrigan was quite taken with you.”

  Esta frowned. “I don’t know that I’d use those words, exactly.”

  “Really?” Dolph leaned back in the chair a little, crossing his arms over his chest and giving her the full weight of his stare. “What words would you use?”

  Pain in my ass, thought Esta, trying not to let her nervousness show. A pain in yours, too, if I don’t stop him. Not that she could tell him what she knew, how things might have changed. Dolph had no reason to believe her, and without her stone, she had no way to prove it.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He seems talented enough, but I was onstage with him for less than five minutes.”

  “You talked with him again at the museum.”

  Her stomach twisted again. “I didn’t plan that—”

  “I never said you did,” Dolph murmured. “But as I said, he seems taken with you.”

  “I’m not interested in him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “And if I want you to be interested?” Dolph asked.

  “I’m still not interested,” Esta told him, firm.

  He didn’t say anything else at first as she stood there, growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  “Was there something you needed from me?” she asked, breaking the silence when she couldn’t stand it anymore. “I still have my quota to bring in today, and it’s pointless
to steal wallets if the money’s already been spent.”

  “You won’t need to worry about that today,” he told her.

  “Why?” she asked, her throat tight. “Did I do something wrong?”

  He lifted himself from the chair without answering and took his time about rinsing his teacup and saucer in the long enameled sink in the attached kitchen. Esta shifted, trying not to let her impatience get the best of her as he set the cup aside to dry and crossed the room to fetch his coat. He’d already stepped past her and opened the door before he spoke again.

  “Walk with me,” he said, a command if ever there was one.

  Curious and more than a little worried about her position with him, she didn’t argue. They walked in a wordless, companionable silence through the dimly lit hallway, down the narrow stairs, and out onto Elizabeth Street.

  “Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?” she said once they’d gone more than a block without Dolph saying anything.

  He glanced at her. “If I said no, would that stop you?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted.

  “And if I don’t want to tell you?”

  “I’d probably be curious enough to follow you anyway.”

  “Fair enough,” Dolph said. “We’re going to be making some calls today.”

  “On who?” she asked.

  He gave her an unreadable look and didn’t answer as he continued on.

  Two blocks later, they arrived at a building that looked like all the other tenements in the neighborhood: same worn redbrick walls, same cluttered fire escapes, same small children playing out on the walk, watched over by a tired-looking woman with a scarf wrapped around her head for warmth. Inside, it smelled of coal smoke and garlic, of onions cooked days before and too many bodies. The halls were narrow, like the ones above the Strega, and the walls were stained with the residue of the lamps burning softly in the windowless space.

  On the fourth floor, Dolph knocked at a door and was let into an apartment by an older woman wearing a shapeless dress and an apron. Inside the apartment, the air was filled with a sharp chemical scent. The furniture had been pushed up against the walls, and five children—none older than ten or eleven—sat in the center of the floor around a pile of silk flowers. They barely looked up at the visitors, quickly turning their small faces back to the task before them as they glued the tiny silk petals onto wire stems one by one.