The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  To her own eyes, she still looked too feminine. There was no disguising the soft skin on her face or her thick, dark lashes, but she knew enough about people by now to know that they only ever saw what they expected. If they even looked at the help at all.

  “You—boy,” a voice shouted from the end of the hall. “Get away from there!”

  Esta startled at the voice, and turned to find a large, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit coming her way. One of the museum’s guards. She stepped away from the portrait and lowered her eyes.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  “On my way now, sir,” she said, coughing out the words in a tone lower than her usual voice. She kept her head down and tried to put some swagger in her step as she moved past him.

  Steady, she told herself. Not much farther now . . .

  But as she passed, she felt tendrils of energy reach out and brush against her. Her skin tingled with awareness, and she nearly stumbled from the surprise of it.

  He’s using magic.

  There shouldn’t have been any other Mageus in the museum—Morgan was part of the Order, and the exhibition would be filled with its members—but the flicker of magic came again as she continued to walk away.

  She kept her eyes down and moved as fast as she could without looking suspicious, but she didn’t relax until she turned out of that gallery, into the quiet emptiness of a wide hall filled with statuary.

  When she was well out of earshot, she cursed to herself and broke into a jog. She rounded the corner and took the steps in a far stairway two at a time. At the bottom, she turned into a larger sculpture gallery and kept her pace up as she rushed through it.

  “Leaving so soon?” A shadow stepped out from behind a large urn.

  Esta stopped dead, her heart in her throat, and turned to find Nibs. “What are you doing in here?” He was supposed to be outside, waiting to orchestrate their getaway.

  “I could ask you the same,” he said with a frown. “You should be upstairs with the other servers. I vouched for you.”

  “I wasn’t trying to leave,” she said. “I was coming to find you.”

  He gave her a doubtful look.

  “We have a problem with the guards—they’re Mageus.”

  His brows bunched over his round glasses as he studied her. “You’re sure?” he asked, suspicious.

  “Of course I’m sure. I know magic when I feel it, and the guy who saw me upstairs? He was using it.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t followed. “I think he might have been checking me somehow.”

  Nibs frowned. He didn’t seem half as concerned as Esta thought he should be. “If he was checking for your affinity, he must not be strong enough to find it unless you use it.”

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “You’re still standing here.”

  The fact that he was right didn’t make her feel any better. “I thought Morgan was a member of the Order.”

  “He’s in the Inner Circle, their highest council.”

  “Then don’t you think Mageus are the last people who should be here tonight?”

  “You’re here,” Nibs pointed out. “I’m here.”

  “Yeah, to take the art. Not to guard it.”

  Nibs considered that. “It could be another team.” His brow furrowed again, and he stared off in that half-vacant way he did when he was thinking. “But that doesn’t feel right.”

  “They’re working for Morgan?”

  “Or the museum. But seeing as how Morgan’s on the main board of directors here, it amounts to the same thing.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” she told him. “The Order hates us.”

  “True, but it wouldn’t be the first time they used us against each other. There are plenty in this city desperate enough to do nearly anything, including working for the Order.” He glanced at her. “Look at the Haymarket. Corey might not be in the Order yet, but he’s trying to get in. He might not be all that powerful, but he’s a Mageus, same as the guards he employs. Even if he keeps his own identity a secret, his people all know who he rubs elbows with, but they think they’re protected because they work for him. They’re willing to rat out other Mageus, even though the unlucky ones get handed over to the Order.”

  Esta realized then how much danger she’d really been in that night. “That’s horrible.”

  “Maybe, but you can’t really blame them. Corey pays, and he pays well. Bad enough that the Order forces us to live in the worst parts of the city and uses their influence with the public to keep us in our place, but that’s not enough for them. No, they still have one weakness—they can’t sense magic like we can. But if they turn us against each other, it solves the problem.”

  “We didn’t plan for this,” Esta said. “We have to call it off and get out of here. Now. We can come back when we’ve figured out a different way in—”

  But Nibs wasn’t listening. He glanced down the hall toward where the guests were beginning to arrive, his eyes soft and unfocused. Then, all at once, he seemed to come to some decision. “No.”

  “No?” She gaped at him.

  “Jianyu’s already inside the gallery.”

  Esta went very still. “It’s already locked?”

  Nibs nodded. “And the room is half-full of Morgan’s guests.”

  “We won’t be able to warn him,” she said, as the realization of how tight a spot they were in sank heavy in her stomach. “The second the doors open, he’s done.”

  It had seemed simple enough when they’d laid it all out earlier. Without motion sensors or cameras, it should have been an easy job of evading a few guards. Morgan was set to inspect the gallery and his exhibition before the show. Concealed, Jianyu would slip in with him and wait until they’d secured the room. There were no windows, no other doors—no way in or out except through the locked and guarded entrance to the next gallery where the reception would happen.

  At eight o’clock, Morgan would give a speech, and then the doors to his exhibition would be opened to his guests. By then Jianyu would have cleaned out the room and hidden himself along with the loot. The guests—all the leaders of the city and newspapermen reporting on the event—would be the first to see that Morgan’s so-called great exhibition was nothing more than some empty frames and glass cases. All that would be left was for Jianyu to sneak out in the confusion. Easy.

  All the while, Esta would be using the distraction of the robbery to clean out the rest of the guests—jewels, cash, anything that would embarrass Morgan further.

  “We have to get him out of there,” she told Nibs.

  Except that now Jianyu was locked in a room, blocked by a crowd that contained Mageus playing for the enemy, watching for any sign of magic. When the doors opened, the walls would be bare and the guards would find Jianyu, who would be using his affinity to conceal himself. Once they found him, everything could be traced back to Dolph and the rest of his people.

  “Even if you could get him out, you can’t call off this job,” Nibs said. “Dolph wants this done, and he wants it done tonight.”

  There has to be a way. “So we’ll have to do it without magic, which means we’ll need a distraction,” she said, thinking through the plan and imagining what the Professor would have done, how he’d taught her to use what was available. “The best we can hope for is to throw them off, to point them away from Jianyu and away from Dolph. And we’ll need backup if everything goes wrong.”

  “What are you thinking?” Nibs said, curious now. Interested.

  “I think we need Viola,” she told him, hoping that the half-baked idea she was formulating on the fly would work. And hoping that Viola wouldn’t kill her for what she was about to ask her to do.

  CLEVER THIEF

  Harte made his way through an empty gallery toward the sound of voices ahead. He’d been to the museum before, countless mornings on the free-entry days, when he stared at paintings that promised a world beyond the narrow strip of land he was tr
apped on. Usually, on those days, the rooms would be filled with the chattering of women more interested in discussing the fashions of the other visitors than looking at the art. So that night, the silence felt like a gift. It transformed the whole place into his own private gallery, allowing him to imagine—just for a moment—that he’d attained the life he’d dreamed for himself.

  He stopped in front of a landscape, a dramatic vista of glimmering rivers and sky-capped mountains in the distance. Places like that existed. Places that were clean and open, free from the stink of the city with its coal-laden air and trash-filled gutters. He had to believe that someday he would see them for himself. He took a moment more to let the image fortify him, and then he continued on toward his destination.

  Eventually, the voices grew louder, and he came to the large, airy gallery that held a series of medieval altarpieces. It was currently serving as a space for less spiritual concerns—the cocktail party for J. P. Morgan’s many guests. Servers in brightly colored tunics carried trays of champagne to Morgan’s guests, who glittered in their jewels and silk.

  Harte handed his invitation to a doorman, who gave it only a cursory glance before handing him a program and nodding for him to continue. But as Harte passed through the entryway, he felt the warning warmth that signaled magic in the air. It crawled across his skin, tousling his hair as it inspected him.

  The guards are Mageus. It was an unexpected and unsettling development, to say the least, but Harte forced himself to keep walking into the crowded room as though he hadn’t felt anything. People without affinities could rarely feel magic the way Mageus could, so Harte didn’t allow himself to so much as pause. Instead, he pulled everything he was inward, locking down his own power with a speed that made his skin go cold.

  The guards weren’t the only challenge he faced in that room. The gallery was filled with a veritable who’s who of New York society—bankers from Wall Street and politicians from Tammany, and many of the millionaires who’d built their houses along Madison or Fifth. A few well-known reporters lurked by the far wall, making notes with stubby pencils in their palm-size tablets as they watched the crowd with sharp, perceptive eyes. Harte recognized Sam Watson, the Sun reporter who’d done a feature on his act the previous summer. The story had helped ticket sales, but Harte hated how it had made him feel like an insect on display.

  He also hated that at least a small measure of his success was owed to the same man who’d made it his mission to write so regularly—and viciously—about the dangerous Mageus that might be lurking among the newly arrived immigrants. Seeing Watson that night wasn’t all that surprising, but the last thing Harte needed was for Watson to start dropping hints about his pedigree—or lack of one—in front of Jack.

  Before Harte could turn away, Watson spotted him and began making his way across the room. “Harte Darrigan,” he called, extending his hand with a slick grin. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Oh?” he said, shaking Watson’s hand. It would have been easy enough to get rid of the reporter, but with the guards, Harte was forced to deal with him.

  “Doesn’t seem like your usual crowd.”  Watson nodded toward the full room. “Or maybe you’re here as the floor show?” he suggested with a less-than-friendly smirk.

  “I think you’re mistaking me for one of the chorus girls you like so much,” Harte said breezily, but he clutched his hands behind his back to keep himself from punching the ass. “Evelyn sends her regards, by the way.”

  “Really?” Watson said a little too eagerly, but when he realized Harte was only toying with him, his expression went dark.

  “How’re things in the newspaper business?” Harte asked before Watson could needle him any more.

  While Watson was prattling on about his latest editorial, something drew Harte’s attention to the far side of the gallery. One of the servers stumbled, nearly running into a man in tails in an attempt not to drop a tray of empty glasses. The man reached out to steady the boy, and when he did, the server’s hand dipped quickly into the man’s pocket.

  He watched with interest as the server used the confusion as a distraction, nimbly slipping whatever he’d taken into his tunic.

  No, not his . . . hers.

  Harte almost laughed out loud. With the shapeless tunic and her dark hair tucked beneath her cap, the girl blended in with the rest of the staff well enough. No one—him included, until that moment—was paying any real attention to the people bearing trays of drinks and canapés. But he was paying attention now.

  “Would you excuse me?” Harte asked Watson. He didn’t wait for a reply.

  He was almost halfway to her when he heard his name over the din of the crowded room. “Darrigan!” Jack’s voice called again, unmistakable this time.

  Harte turned to find Jack pushing his way through the crowd and lifted his hand in greeting. If he went for the girl now, Jack would probably follow him, so he gave Jack a short nod and gestured toward a server carrying a tray of champagne. After retrieving a glass for himself and a second for Jack, he made his way back through the crush of the room.

  “Good man,” Jack said, accepting the drink.

  “Thanks for having me.” Harte lifted the glass in a silent toast as he scanned the room, looking for the girl. “This is quite the event.”

  Jack downed the champagne, set the empty goblet on a passing server’s tray, and picked up another one. “Same as always, but my uncle seems pleased. Might even be happy enough to get him off my back for a while.”

  “Best of luck with that,” Harte said, barely sipping at the drink as he looked again for some sign of the girl. He didn’t see her, which didn’t make him feel any better, but he ignored his nerves and pulled on the mask he always wore for Jack. “Have you had a chance to look at the exhibit yet?”

  “I have.” Jack’s eyes lit. “There’s at least one piece that looked interesting—one of the Babylonian seals he collects.”

  “A seal?” Harte asked, trying to picture it.

  “A small cylindrical piece about so big.” Jack held up his thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “It makes an imprint when rolled across wet clay or rubbed with ink.  They were often used as signatures, but my uncle tends to be more interested in the ones used as amulets. Most are made from ceramic or stone, but I believe the one I was examining was carved from unpolished ruby . . . astounding, really, considering the size of it. But my uncle interrupted me before I could find out for sure.” He scowled. “Now it’s under glass for the foreseeable future.”

  Before Harte could ask anything else, a drumroll sounded through the room, ending with a sudden crack. A shout of “Aiiiieeee!” went up, and the crowd turned, almost as one, to see what was happening.

  “I believe that’s the entertainment. It’ll probably be the only redeeming thing about this bore of an evening,” he murmured. “Shall we?”

  “After you,” Harte said affably, following Jack through the press of bodies to a space where the crowd had moved aside to allow the performers room.

  A procession was coming through the grand arched entrance of the gallery. First came two men in the same sort of billowing pants the servers wore, but their outfits were more extravagant, with heavy embroidery and intricate details on their vests and shoes. They carried wide, flat drums on their hips and were followed by another musician plucking a driving tune made up of minor chords and melodies on a pear-shaped guitar.

  A figure wrapped in gauzy silken veils appeared in the doorway, and then she was spinning, dropping the veils as she undulated across the floor, until she was in the center of the room. The curves of her stomach and chest were exposed in flashes of skin and then hidden again by the gossamer fabric she whipped around her, and her fingers tapped tiny cymbals to the rhythm of the drums as her hips twisted and snaked.

  “Egad,” Jack said with a laugh as he elbowed Harte hard enough to nearly spill the champagne Harte was holding. “It’s a damn good thing the old man left me in charge of the entertain
ment, isn’t it?” He tossed back the last of his champagne, licking his lips as he watched the girl dance.

  Harte couldn’t blame him. He was also finding it difficult to take his eyes off the dancing girl. Her costume seemed to hide as much as it revealed, teasing the audience as her hips moved in an almost indecent rhythm. She was the embodiment of a mystery, especially with the bottom of her face covered by a veil that fluttered beneath her strange violet eyes—

  Viola?

  Harte looked more closely, awareness prickling. It was  Viola. First the girl, and now this? It had Dolph Saunders written all over it, and Harte didn’t want to be anywhere close when whatever they were planning happened.

  But how was he supposed to leave so early without making Jack suspicious?

  In the center of the room, Viola was still dancing. Harte was going to start backing away, using Jack’s interest in the performance to his advantage, but when the music changed, she dropped her finger cymbals and, in a dramatic motion, reached behind her back and withdrew a brace of thin, silver knives that glistened in the brilliant electric light of the gallery.

  Harte stopped short, watching warily as Viola danced with the knives splayed between her fingers. He’d heard about what Viola could do with a knife, the way she could hit any target from any distance. Whoever her target was that night didn’t stand a chance, but then again, neither did she. The second she used her affinity, she’d be found out.

  Without warning, the drum snapped out a rim shot, and Viola let a knife fly. Swiiip, it sailed through the air and took a cap off a server’s head, pinning it to the wall behind. The room erupted into wild applause, and Jack elbowed him, absolutely delighted at the show.

  But there had been no spike of energy, no telltale warmth to give away her magic. Maybe her skill with the knives is simply that—a skill, he thought, when none of the guards moved to stop her.

  As she spun, all eyes in the room were on her, waiting for her next move with the kind of nervous excitement Harte had seen before dogfights or before bare-knuckle matches. It was the desire to see violence done to someone else, to be close to the blade of danger without ever being cut.