by Lisa Maxwell
It was probably for the best, he thought, brushing aside any regret like the lint from his coat. He had too many secrets to risk entanglements. Especially now.
“Sneaking off without even a good-bye?” The voice came to him through the darkness, smoky and warm.
His hand tightened on the brim of his new silk hat. He was already on edge from Shorty’s warning, but he pasted on his usual charming smile. “Would I ever sneak away from you, Evelyn?” he asked as he turned to face her.
“You’re always sneaking away from me,” she purred, “but I can never tell why.”
The woman stepped forward into a beam of light, her ruby mouth pulled into a sultry pout and her eyes glassy from the drink. It didn’t matter that every night he passed within inches of her when he exited the stage and turned the spotlight over to her. Familiarity did nothing to mute the effect of Evelyn DeMure because every ounce of her attraction was calculated, manipulated, and most of all, imbued with magic.
In her act, she and her two “sisters” wore flesh-colored bodysuits beneath Grecian-inspired gowns that barely covered their most scandalous parts. With their legs visible almost to the thigh and the risk that at any moment the gowns might unravel completely, the three performed a series of songs filled with double entendres and bawdy jokes that kept the audience—male and female alike—on edge, hoping for more.
Evelyn wasn’t wearing the bodysuit now. Her eyes were still ringed in kohl and her lips were stained by bold paint, but her embroidered emerald robe hung low to reveal one creamy, bare shoulder and the slope of her full chest. Her henna-tinted hair, a red too vibrant to be real, was soft and untamed around her face.
An effective display altogether, he admitted. Even with her age showing at the corners of her eyes, she would have brought any man to his knees.
But Harte wasn’t one of those who filled the theater eager for a glimpse of thigh—or something more—and who fell at her feet at the stage door. He knew her appeal came from something more than simple beauty. Even drunk as she was on Nitewein, whispers of magic betrayed her attempt to entangle him.
Ignoring the tightening in his gut, he gave her a formal nod. He wouldn’t be taken in, especially not by the tricks of a siren like Evelyn.
“Where are you running off to so fast?” she crooned, taking another few steps toward him. Cat and mouse.
Desire coiled in his gut, but he held his ground, pretending his usual indifference to her many charms. “Urgent business, I’m afraid.” He gave her a roguish grin that promised his destination was anything but.
Evelyn’s expression flickered, and Harte thought he saw the hurt behind the pride she wore like armor. But for all he knew, that was also part of her act, another effect perfectly calculated to slay him.
He could find out, of course. It would be easy enough to strip off a glove, pretend that he was lured into her too-obvious seduction. It would only take a touch. . . . Harte took a step back instead, placing his hat on his head at a rakish angle and touching the brim in a silent farewell.
“You’re really not going to tell me where you’re going?” She crossed her arms, hitching the robe back up over her bare shoulder as her mouth went tight.
He’d upset her, not hurt her. “Sorry, love. I never kiss and tell.” And with a wink, he left her standing in the back of the empty stage as he stepped out into the night.
For a moment he permitted himself the luxury of letting go. There, in the shadows of the stage door, he allowed himself to breathe, imagining a future when he could be more than his starched lapels and expertly tied cravat. More than this mask he wore.
Just how much more, he wasn’t sure. . . . That depended on how well the evening went.
Adjusting his hat again, he tucked his cane beneath his arm and checked his pocket watch to see how much later he was than planned. It could be worse, he thought, glad to be away from the pull of Evelyn’s magic and the weight of Shorty’s warning.
Tonight things would start to change. Tonight he’d finally take his first steps toward true freedom. He started walking, making his way toward the part of the city called Satan’s Circus, and his certain destiny.
A STAR-BRUSHED SKY
Twenty-Eighth Street near Fifth Avenue
Esta stumbled to her feet, stark fear coursing through her. She didn’t notice the icy shock of the snowbank or the searing pain on her upper forearm where the silver cuff burned against her skin. The echo of the gunshot still rang in her ears.
Dakari.
She turned to where the entrance of the parking lot had once been, open and waiting, but now the street beyond was lit softly by an antique streetlamp. Unsteady on her feet, Esta took a tentative step forward, knocking the wet snow off her skirt as she went. Above, the sky was empty, completely devoid of the skyscraper that had been there moments before.
No . . .
Even with the snow drifting around her skirts, she staggered toward the street. Her muscles and bones ached as they always did after slipping through time. No, she thought as she came to the entrance of the alley.
But no amount of denial could change what was.
She stepped onto the wide, cobbled sidewalk and took in the changed city. A few minutes before, the tall shoulders and flat faces of uninspired, boxlike buildings had lined the streets. Now the structures were shorter, squat with rows of windows like watching eyes. A couple of the buildings hadn’t changed that much, but now their street-level shops were capped with faded awnings rolled back to protect them from the heavy weight of the snow. Where a canyon of buildings once stood, now barely a gully of shops remained, as though life in the city was the reverse of nature, time building up instead of washing away.
She took it all in, the silence of the streets and the swath of stars—she could see actual stars—above her. Marveling at how different and familiar everything looked all at once, she barely heard the muffled clattering of hooves. It was a sound so rare in her own city that it didn’t register as a danger, and she glanced back barely in time to avoid being run down by a horse-drawn carriage.
The driver gestured angrily and cursed her as he passed, and the wheels of the carriage caught at her skirts, making her stumble back. The heel of her boot slipped on the icy road, and she went down hard, landing in the slush-filled gutter.
Shaking from the adrenaline still pulsing through her, she stood up and brushed herself off—again.
A high-pitched whistle sounded, and Esta looked up to search for the danger. Instead, she found a red-faced old man, his filthy shirt open at the collar to expose the hairs climbing up from his chest. He was leaning far over a second-story fire escape, his eyes squinting at her like he was having trouble focusing.
“Süsse!” he called, grabbing at the front of his unbelted pants as he leaned drunkenly over the edge of the rickety railing. “You’re missing your brains tonight, ja, Süsse? I can help you to find them.” His words were slurred, his German oddly accented to Esta’s ears.
Some things never change, she thought as disgust swept away her panic. She made a rude gesture and cursed back at him in his own language. The man doubled over laughing and almost fell from the fire escape. By the time he’d caught himself, Esta had already retreated to the relative safety of the alley.
But her bag was gone. The only evidence that remained were the footprints in the snow leading off to the other end of the street.
“No,” she whispered. It was a stupid, rookie mistake that she never would have made if she hadn’t been so distracted by the attack and so shaken by the memory of Dakari’s body jerking and falling. The bag had contained everything she needed—
Except none of that mattered anymore. She had to get back. She had to help Dakari. To make sure he wasn’t . . .
She couldn’t even think the word.
Blinking back tears, she took a breath and focused on finding her own time—layers marked by brighter lights, blaring car horns, and the glow of the city stretching far above her.
But
No shimmers of past or future. Nothing at all but that present moment in an unfamiliar city filled with the cold scent of winter and a night so quiet it chafed.
Her chest was tight, her whole body shivering as she worked to unfasten the tiny buttons at her wrist. Finally, the last one came free. The icy air bit against her exposed skin as she pulled her sleeve up as far as it could go and reached beneath it.
As she pulled the cuff off, she let out a hiss of pain. She hadn’t noticed the injury before, but now her upper arm throbbed and ached where the top layer of skin had peeled away with the metal. But the shock of the pain was nothing compared to the shock of what she saw when she examined the cuff.
The burnished silver had turned black and the iridescent stone was covered in what looked like black soot. Confused by its appearance, she touched it gently with her fingertip, and the stone crumbled on contact, disintegrating like ash until only the empty, burned-out setting was left.
Ishtar’s Key was gone.
At first she couldn’t process what she was seeing. Her stone couldn’t be gone.
Had it burned up because she’d hesitated between present and past? Had she put too much pressure on it, cracked as it had already been?
As the reality of its disappearance began to set in, the loss hit her like the ache of a missing limb. Or maybe like something even more vital, like her heart. Without the stone, she couldn’t find the layers of time. Without the stone, she wasn’t anything more than an exceptionally good thief stuck in a city that wasn’t her own.
Panic emptied out her chest, leaving her breathless and panting.
She was trapped. In the past.
She would never again argue with Logan about who was in charge on a job or enjoy the surprise in Dakari’s eyes when she bested him on the mat. She would never again see the city she knew and loved, with its dizzying speed and clattering rush and brilliant buildings that erased the stars. She would die here, in this other city, not even a footnote in the history books. Alone and out of time.
She sank to her knees in the snow, laid low by the truth of her situation. But as the cold dampness began to seep through the layers of her skirts, a thought occurred to her: Her stone was gone, yes. But the stone wasn’t gone. Ishtar’s Key was still here, in this time, with all the other artifacts. With the Book she’d been sent to retrieve.
Was that it, then? Had Professor Lachlan been right about the stone’s properties? He said they were unique—singular. Maybe Ishtar’s Key had disintegrated because it was already there, waiting for her in the past.
But if that were the case, had he known this would happen, that she might be trapped here? And if he had, why hadn’t he warned her?
The whole situation felt like another one of the Professor’s tests, which meant it was another chance to prove herself to him. Only this time, her life—her very future—was at stake.
The thought only made her that much more resolved. If she could get the Book, she could get the earlier version of the stone as well. Once she had it in her possession, she could return to her own time. She could make sure Dakari was okay.
Another wagon clattered past the open mouth of the alley, the wooden wheels rattling and the muffled clip-clop of hooves disrupting the stillness of the night. In theory, she had been trained with all she needed to fit into the past, to blend with the people there and do what she was meant to do. But theory and reality felt like such different things from where she stood now, alone in a dark alley, listening to horse-drawn carriages clattering down streets that should have held the soft rumble of engines and blaring horns of automobiles.
But worrying about her fate wasn’t doing anyone any good. The city might have changed dramatically, but she hadn’t. She could still put the plan into action. She would make her way to the Haymarket and find Bridget Malone, as Professor Lachlan had instructed. She helped girls with magic find places to use their skills, places that weren’t the back rooms of brothels. If the rumors were right, the madam worked for Saunders specifically. Esta just had to get Bridget’s attention.
The only way to go was forward, as always.
Looking up and down the street, Esta got her bearings. Even though the streets looked so different, her own city was still there, pulling her in the direction she had to go and, with a little luck, toward Bridget Malone.
A SMART MOUTH
The Haymarket
By the time Harte turned onto Sixth Avenue, he could see the glow of the Haymarket ahead. It was the best-known—and most notorious—dance hall in the city. Inside, those who lived above Houston Street rubbed elbows with waiter girls from the slums, music played long into the night, and for the right price, the private stalls on the upper floors could be used for any entertainment a paying customer wanted.
Not that he needed any diversions of that type. He knew well enough what attachments like that could do to people. He’d seen what it did to his mother and knew firsthand how love and infatuation had made her desperate enough to throw everything away—including him.
He wasn’t that little boy anymore, though. If the evening went to plan, he might be able to leave all those memories and regrets far behind him.
Stepping out from the shadow of the elevated tracks that ran above the entrance of the dance hall, he climbed the three steps and passed through the narrow entryway. Even before Harte was completely inside, the bright notes of a newly popular ragtime tune and the discordant buzz of the crowd assaulted him.
The moment he stepped through the door, a girl with white-blond hair took his overcoat. She was so young, not even the paint on her face could cover her greenness. She was eager—new, perhaps. But he knew the innocence beneath the powder and paint wouldn’t last for long. Not in a place like the Haymarket.
Harte gave a tug to straighten his sleeves. “Mr. Jack Grew is expecting me,” he said, imbuing his soft voice with the same compelling tone that made his audiences lean forward to listen. He gave over his hat—but not his gloves. Those he tucked into his jacket.
“He’s not arrived yet,” the girl told him, her cheeks burning scarlet. Another mark of her doomed innocence.
“Let him know I’m at the bar when he does?” He slipped the girl a few coins.
He made his way through the crush of bodies, hating the too-potent spice of perfumes that were barely able to hide the stale odor of sweat beneath. It reminded him too much of how far he’d come, of those mornings his mother would stumble home smelling the same.
Shaking off the memories, he found a space at the crowded bar and ordered, tipping the woman who poured his drink more than necessary when she served him. Her eyes lit, but he turned from her, making it clear he wasn’t interested.
The first floor of the dance hall was already crowded. Women in brightly colored silk gowns with painted smiles clung too closely to the men who led them across the floor. The minutes ticked by as he nursed his drink. When it was gone, he didn’t order another. Half an hour past when they were to meet, Jack Grew still hadn’t shown.
The hell with it.
He wasn’t staying. He probably shouldn’t have come in the first place. Ever since Shorty had given him the warning, nothing about the night felt right, and Harte hadn’t survived so long by ignoring his instincts. He’d go back to his apartment, run a steaming-hot bath in the blessed silence, and wash off the grime of the day. He could deal with Jack some other time.
Harte placed the empty glass back on the bar, but as he made to leave, he felt the unmistakable warmth of magic nearby.
Impossible. No one would be stupid enough to use their affinity in the Haymarket, not when many in the room had ties to the Ortus Aurea. Not when the entire hall was monitored by the watchful eyes of Edward Corey’s security guards. Corey, the owner of the Haymarket, played both sides. He had close ties to the Order, but it was rumored that he also used Mageus as guards, people who were willing to rat out their own in exchange for a fat paycheck each week.
But there it was again—the rustling of magic calling out to him and anyone else nearby with an affinity.
Harte scanned the crowd. On the edges of the room, it was clear Corey’s men had sensed it as well. Already, they were on the move, searching for the person who’d brought the contraband power into the ballroom.
In the periphery of Harte’s vision, a flash of deep green caught his eye at the same time that he felt another flare of warmth. He turned and found the source of it—a girl smiling up at her much older dance partner, while her fingers dipped nimbly into his pocket.
Harte was halfway across the dance floor before he realized she didn’t look like the other girls. She was young, which wasn’t unusual in her line of work, but her face wasn’t covered in the usual powder and paint, and her eyes didn’t have the weariness of a woman who’d already given up. Her clothes, a gown in deep hunter velvet, fit her slender figure too well to have been ready-made. Clearly, she came from money, but from the way she was maneuvering her right hand into her dance partner’s pocket without him noticing, she was no novice dip. It was an intriguing combination.
By the time her partner looked up at him, Harte had already taken hold of the girl’s wrist, effectively drawing it out of the man’s pocket and stopping the couple’s dance.
“May I help you?” the old man sneered.
Harte smiled pleasantly, letting his eyes go a little glassy and soft as he turned to the girl. She tried to pull away, but he had her secure. “I’ve been looking for you, darling,” he said, allowing the words to slur together a little.
“I’m sorry, but this one is already taken,” the old man said, attempting to wrestle the girl back from Harte. “Go find one of the others.”
“But I love her,” Harte told him, refusing to relinquish control. He swayed a bit on his feet for effect.
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