The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  Harte had kept Jack at arm’s length . . . until the night Dolph Saunders summoned him to propose that suicide mission of a job. After that, Harte saw Jack in a different light and had started cultivating a careful friendship with him, all the while figuring out how he could best use him. And how he could keep Jack away from Dolph.

  “It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen you,” Harte said, accepting one of the glasses. “I was surprised to get your message earlier.”

  “Sorry about that.” Jack grimaced. “I haven’t had time to do anything lately,” he said before taking a long swallow of his drink. “My uncle’s been on my case all week to help with a reception for an exhibition he’s planning at the Metropolitan. Opens Friday, though, so at least it’ll be over with at the end of the week.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t heard about it. . . .” Harte let his voice trail off, as though his not hearing was some mark against the reception itself.

  “Some big fund-raiser,” Jack said sourly into his nearly empty glass. “It’s a waste of everyone’s time.”

  Harte gave him a wry smile. “Kind of you to help with it.”

  Jack snorted at the joke. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I would have found a way to get out of it, but there are a couple of things I wanted the chance to examine.”

  “Oh?” Harte asked, his voice breezy and his expression disinterested, because he’d learned over the past few months that it was the easiest way to egg Jack on. At first Jack had been careful and closed off in their conversations when it came to his family or the Order, but Harte knew how to work an audience. It wasn’t long before Jack was willingly handing over information in an attempt to prove his own importance and win Harte over.

  “He’s got quite the collection of art from the Ottoman Empire, but some of these pieces are fairly unique. He tends to keep his most valuable and rare pieces to himself, but with the Conclave at the end of the year, he couldn’t resist showing off.”

  “Anything I’d be interested in?” Harte asked, careful to keep his tone easy and light.

  Jack nodded. “Maybe. A couple of the seals and tablets go back to ancient Babylon, and there’s at least one manuscript owned by Newton himself.” Jack smiled. “It won’t exactly be a burden to take a close look at those. Especially since they haven’t granted me access to the collections at Khafre Hall.”

  “Still holding you off, are they?” Harte asked with a disapproving shake of his head.

  “Of course,” Jack grumbled. “Only the Inner Circle has access to the records, and until I prove myself, my uncle’s not going to sponsor me. If this event goes well, though, maybe I’ll be a step closer. It’s not as if they can hold me off forever.” He glanced at Harte. “They know as well as I do that they’re all basically fossils. They don’t want to face facts—it’s only a matter of time before they’re completely obsolete. The world’s changing too fast to stay in the past.”

  “It’s a damn disgrace,” Harte murmured, pretending to take another drink. “And they’re damn fools to underestimate you, Jack.  You’re the best of the lot of them.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to it being over quickly, so you can get back to more important endeavors.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Jack lifted his glass, but he stopped before he could return the toast. “Speaking of damn fools,” he muttered as a trio of young men in well-tailored coats approached.

  When they stopped at the table, three pairs of eyes appraised Harte with the kind of bored indifference that only the truly rich could affect.

  “Gentlemen,” Jack said, reluctance tingeing his voice as he stood to greet them.

  Harte followed suit. He recognized the three easily. Considering how often they were in the society columns, anyone would. One was a Vanderbilt, another was Robert Winthrop Chandler, who was a cousin of the Astors, and the last was the younger J. P. Morgan, Jack’s own cousin. These men were the sons of the city, kings of their world—or they would be when their fathers finally decided either to hand over the reins of their empires or die.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Jack,” Chandler said with a cold gleam to his eyes. “Though I can’t say I know your friend.”

  Jack made the introductions, but if any of the three recognized Harte’s name, they didn’t show it. They also didn’t bother to extend their hands in welcome.

  “It’s an honor to meet you all,” Harte said, not letting his pleasant, impassive expression falter as he gave them a small bow, an answer to the insult of them not greeting him properly.

  “Aren’t you going to invite us to join you?” J. P.  Morgan,  Jr. said, lifting one brow in challenge.

  Harte could practically feel the reluctance rolling off Jack, but there was nothing for it.

  “Please,” Jack said, waving at the empty chairs at the table. “Why don’t you join us?”

  The men traded cool glances with each other and then, seemingly in amused agreement, took the offered seats. The three men were all older than Jack, closer to thirty than twenty. Harte immediately understood that they viewed Jack as a joke and Harte himself as an intrusion.

  Not that they would say anything outright. Jack wasn’t the richest or the most powerful person at the table, but he was still one of them—even if his family had recently dragged him back home, humiliated, after he’d almost married a Greek fisherman’s daughter on his grand tour.

  But their good breeding would only get him so far.

  A waiter girl brought an extra chair for the table. She gave Jack a drunken smile and draped herself over his shoulders to whisper something close to his ear that made him roar with laughter. Her appearance only reminded Harte of how unique the other girl had been, the one responsible for his aching tongue. The one who had made him lose all sense before she disappeared.

  He gave himself a mental shake. He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander back to the girl now. Not surrounded by these men—every one of them members of the Order. Every one of them more powerful than Jack himself.

  Harte was careful to keep his face pleasant as they all waited for Jack to finish with the girl, who was now sitting squarely on his lap. The one sitting directly across from him was J. P. Morgan, Jr., the heir to Morgan’s fortune and his standing in the Order. The younger Morgan wore a knowing expression, as though he understood exactly how uncomfortable Harte felt.

  Morgan lifted a neatly rolled cigarette to his mouth and took a long, squinting drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose as he spoke. “Jack’s mentioned you before. Says you’re quite the man to see perform.”

  Harte inclined his head as though he hadn’t noticed the way Jack’s cousin sneered the word “perform.” Like he was no better than an organ grinder’s monkey. “I’m happy to hear that he’s spoken so well of me.”

  Morgan, still squinting, gave a shrug. “He’s mostly mentioned how you’re wasting yourself—your talents—on the stage.”

  Harte let his mouth curve up ever so slightly. “My talents were made for the stage.  And the stage has done well enough by me in turn.” He gave his left sleeve another small tug, well aware that he was drawing attention to the jeweled cuff link that glinted there.

  Vanderbilt leaned forward. “You’re quite the enigma, Mr. Darrigan,” he said. “What is that, Irish? Or is Darrigan simply your stage name?”

  “I’m afraid it’s the only name I lay claim to,” Harte answered, his voice dangerously even.

  “A man of mystery, are you?” Jack’s cousin drawled. “I’ve heard about you. A classic tale—come from nowhere and here you are, the toast of Broadway. Why, even my mother has seen your performance. She swears you gave the most amazing demonstration.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Insisted that you must have some sort of real power.”

  “Your mother is too kind.”

  “Is she? I’ve often thought she was rather flighty,” Morgan said with an indifferent shrug. “She was nervous, but I told her, of course, that it was impossible. We all know that if you were that sort of filth, you wou
ld have already been taken care of, don’t we?” The threat was clear. “The Order would have heard about it. So, it must be mere tricks you do, I told her. Illusions. Not true magic at all.”

  Harte kept his face in that careful, pleasant mask that had been his ticket out of the slums and into the footlights. “I’m sure the Order would have already taken care of any threat if I posed one. I have the utmost respect for the work they do to keep us safe from those who would threaten our way of life. But I assure you, there’s nothing simple about my tricks,” he said easily, while dread inched along his skin. He was in too deep. There were many variables he hadn’t prepared for—first the girl, now this circling around magic.

  Damn Jack for throwing me into this.

  “No?” the younger Morgan challenged, a smirk creeping at the corners of his mouth.

  Harte didn’t react to it. “If Jack’s spoken of me, then I’m sure he’s told you—I’ve made a careful study of the hermetic arts,” Harte said, inclining his head. “Alchemy, astronomy, theurgy. The usual branches of the occult sciences. I don’t perform tricks.” He forced himself not to glance over at Jack for help, keeping his focus steady on Jack’s cousin. “I present demonstrations of my skill and the knowledge I’ve acquired through my many years of study.”

  “Yes. He might have mentioned something like that,” Morgan said.

  “You didn’t believe him.” It wasn’t a question. The smug certainty in his own superiority was clear as day on Morgan’s face.  As was the disbelief that anyone not of their own class could have mastered any sort of power. It took a considerable amount of effort on Harte’s part not to smile at the irony of it.

  “I make my own decisions,” Jack’s cousin told him, squinting through another deep drag on his cigarette before he snubbed it, violently, on the marble tabletop. “Though when it comes to Irish filth”—he raked his eyes over Harte’s pristine, perfectly tailored clothes—“or whatever it is you are, there’s rarely anything to decide.” He leaned forward, malice glinting in his eyes. “What was that rumor I heard about you? Oh, yes . . . the bastard son of a Chinaman.”

  The other men at the table shifted. Even if Jack was the wastrel of the family, good breeding and manners went deep.

  Luckily, Harte didn’t have the problem of good breeding. His mouth curved wickedly, the barbing response already loaded on his tongue, but before he could speak, he felt the familiar brush of magic and the unsettling feeling that someone was watching him. His words were forgotten, and he went on alert.

  He was on his feet instantly, searching.

  Morgan laughed. “Going somewhere, Darrigan?”

  The others chuckled, but Jack was still too busy with the waiter girl to even notice how badly things were progressing at the table.

  Harte couldn’t find any sign of the girl’s green velvet dress or whiskey-colored eyes. Maybe it was Corey’s security, he thought, which wasn’t any better. There had already been too much magic in the air, and magic was something Harte Darrigan couldn’t risk being associated with. Not with these men, members of the Order who posed an even greater threat than Corey’s security.

  Morgan smirked over his glass of champagne. “Feeling out of your depth, are you?”

  Jack finally looked up from the bit of silk and muslin on his lap. “You can’t be leaving already,” he said, sputtering in confusion. “You . . . you haven’t even finished your drink.” As if that was the point that truly mattered.

  Harte ignored Morgan and gave Jack a wry look. “I’m not really thirsty anymore.”

  “But—”

  “Jack, gentlemen, the one thing my many years onstage have taught me is when to make an exit.” He gave the other men a nod, allowing his cold gaze to linger on Morgan, to send the message that he wasn’t afraid of him. “I’ll see you later, Jack.”

  Truth be told, Morgan’s barbs hadn’t hurt nearly as much as Harte’s swollen tongue.

  A moment later, he was pushing through the crowd toward the door, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching, tracking him, as he moved steadily into the cool freedom of the night beyond.

  IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

  He’d barely made it to the end of the block when Harte heard Jack’s voice calling him through the din of the crowded sidewalks. He didn’t stop at first, just continued barreling down the sidewalk—away from the Haymarket. Away from the whole mess of a night. But Jack was determined.

  With a sigh, Harte stopped and turned, giving Jack a chance to catch up. He might as well get this over with. . . .

  Jack had the kind of patrician good looks most of his class sported: straight, narrow nose; light eyes; strong, square forehead. He wasn’t that much older than Harte himself, but the humiliation in Greece had done a number on him. Away from the glittering lights of the dance hall, he looked worn, run-down. His face was flushed and damp from the exertion caused by his sprint. It made his puffy skin and the shadows beneath his eyes look that much worse.

  “What is it, Jack? Coming back for another round? Was there some insult you forgot to get in yourself ?”

  “You left,” Jack said, ignoring Harte’s sarcasm and his anger. His bloodshot eyes betrayed his sincere confusion. As though no one had ever walked out on him before.

  It was probably the truth. Even if Jack was his family’s current black sheep, few would have risked word of an insult getting back to his famous uncle. Harte probably couldn’t afford it either, not if he wanted Jack to trust him, but he was too on edge to care. Morgan Jr. and the rest had come too close to the truth, and in that instant he’d seen all his careful plans crumbling between his fingers.

  “Look, Jack, I only came tonight because you invited me. I wasn’t expecting to be the evening’s entertainment. Usually my audience pays for that particular pleasure.”

  “It’s not like that, Darrigan—”

  “It was exactly like that, Jack.”

  “I didn’t expect them to be there, and then . . .” Jack took a deep breath, as though he was trying to steady himself.

  “And then you sat there with your hand down a girl’s dress and let your cousin insult me.”

  Jack had the decency to look the slightest bit uneasy at this charge. “I’m sorry, Darrigan, but—”

  “But nothing, Jack.  Aren’t those the same ones you’re constantly complaining about? They don’t understand your genius. They don’t understand the dangers we face,” Harte mimicked. Then he pinned Jack with a caustic glare. “I thought we understood one another—”

  “We do!” Jack protested.

  “But tonight you tossed me to the wolves,” Harte continued.

  He took a breath and stepped back from Jack. It was too easy to call up the old indignation, the bitterness he thought he’d long ago put to rest. It was too easy to still let their words affect him. Which wouldn’t do, not in a situation as delicate as this one.

  He needed to keep his wits about him and his head cool. He needed to make sure he—and not his emotions—were in control. He’d been working on earning Jack’s trust for too long to screw it all up now.

  “Look, let’s go somewhere and talk,” Jack offered. “I’ll buy you a drink and make it up to you. We can talk. Without them.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” Harte hedged, making a show of checking his watch. Let Jack be the eager one, he told himself, mentally pulling back.  You couldn’t force a con. The mark had to believe it was his own idea.

  Jack was already stepping to the curb. “Let me get us a cab. There’s a quiet bar over on Fortieth—”

  “It’s getting late, and I have an early show tomorrow,” Harte said, staying where he was.

  Because the last thing he wanted was another smoky barroom. He needed to walk, to clear his head. He needed some space away from Jack Grew and all the feelings the evening had stirred up.

  He needed Jack to want it.

  “Anyway, I’m more than finished with this evening.” Harte pulled his overcoat around him against
the brisk winter air.

  Jack let his arm fall to his side, and for a moment he looked like he wasn’t sure what to do. Then he straightened, his eyes wide and his expression suddenly eager.

  “You know,” Jack said, “you should come.”

  “Come where?” Harte asked. He kept his tone flat, so Jack wouldn’t guess at how the invitation affected him, how his heart had kicked up in his chest and how it felt suddenly too much even to breathe.

  “Come to the gallery opening. As my guest.”

  I’m close. So very close. “I have the eight o’clock show . . . ,” he started.

  “Oh, right,” Jack said, his shoulders sinking.

  “But I’m not on until well after nine,” Harte continued. “I’m sure I could swing by for a little while.”

  “You should,” Jack insisted, looking relieved.

  “I’ll think about it,” Harte said, the thrill of this small victory coursing through him. But he forced himself to keep his expression noncommittal, placid.

  “I’ll send you over an invitation, just in case.”

  “Sure, Jack. You do that.” Harte gave a small salute. “I’ll see you around,” he said, and without another word, he turned and left Jack Grew behind with the noise of Satan’s Circus.

  As he walked, the elevated train thundered by overhead, coughing its coal-fired way to its final destination, and the city grew quiet. The crowded sidewalks gave way to streets lined with serene townhomes, but in that silence he felt a chill, and he knew danger of some sort had followed him.

  Keeping his gait steady, he turned right, following to where the street opened onto Madison Square. Then he slipped into the quiet of the gardens and waited.

  It didn’t take long before he saw his stalker pause at the gates of the park. Harte recognized him immediately. Cursing under his breath, he considered his options. Finally, he decided that the direct route would be best.

  “Why are you following me, Nibsy?” he asked, stepping out from the shadows.

  The lenses of the boy’s spectacles flashed in the moonlight. “Harte Darrigan? Is that you?” Nibs called, like he hadn’t been following Harte all the time. Like it was a surprise to run into an old friend in an empty park in the dead of night.