The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  “It won’t hold,” the old man said, shielding himself behind a large metal toolbox as he started to pull on the wires.

  But Jack was confident, or if not confident, desperate enough to give it a chance. “No! We’ll wait. See what she can do.”

  Egad, it’s a thing of beauty. Sleek and modern, powerful in its promise. The arms spun, crossing each other in a blur of motion, like erratic rings of Saturn. Bolts of energy—of magic—leaped between the twin poles of the sphere. A perfectly contained universe. Only this was a cosmos he would control.

  Let the Order laugh about his other failures. They would eat their words in the end. With this machine, he would do what they had only ever dreamed of doing. He would put a stop to the ever-encroaching threat of the Mageus. He would end them, once and for all. And when they were gone, when the city was clean and free from their corruption, the Order would recognize his brilliance, would reward him as they moved into the future, returning the city—the entire country—to the promise it had once held.

  “Mr. Jack,” the old man shouted.

  “I said to wait!” he yelled, barely able to hear himself over the noise the machine made. His eyes were wide and his hair whipped at his face, lifted by the wind the machine created in the center of the room. It felt as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice between the past and the future, and the violent charges of energy that licked at his skin only made him want to move closer to the edge.

  His machinist pulled himself farther behind the metal box, but Jack stood in the open, daring fate to contradict him again. If the blasted thing exploded, let it take him with it. That would be easier than admitting he’d failed again. Or having to explain to his father where the money in his trust fund had gone.

  But the machine didn’t explode. It picked up steam, the bolts of energy dancing around the central globe, chilling the air that whipped around them. Sparks of life, of power.

  “It’s holding!” he said, unable to contain the laugh as the wonder and a dangerous hope grew in his chest. “It’s working!”

  The old man peered out from behind the toolbox, his eyes wide.

  Jack laughed again, relief and excitement mixing in a heady cocktail that had his blood humming. It worked. “This is only the beginning,” he said, more to himself than to the man who had built the machine.

  It would be his beginning. No one else’s.

  He walked to the controls and made a few adjustments, levering the machine until its power was focused exactly where he wanted it. He pointed that power toward the part of the city that was no better than a rat’s nest, considering the vermin that hid themselves there. He would take back his city.

  Jack smiled. Balance, indeed.

  “Send word if anything changes,” Jack called, fitting his hat on his head as he made his way out into the cold. His machine worked. He’d been right about the diamond. Everything would work out. He needed a drink to celebrate.

  A DIFFERENT KIND OF DANGER

  Wallack’s Theatre

  After the week he’d had, Harte needed a good night. He’d managed to talk his way out of missing the performance when he got caught up at the Metropolitan—the front-page spread in the Sun had helped with that. But because it had mentioned him by name, Paul Kelly’s boys had been back. Kelly hadn’t been happy to see that Harte had been making progress with Jack and not cutting him in on the action.

  Harte thought he’d managed to convince Torrio and Razor that he needed a little more time, but then he’d spent the rest of the week waiting for the other shoe to drop. And avoiding Jack, because he still had no idea how he was going to explain the museum robbery without putting himself at risk.

  It didn’t help much that the audience had been cold so far, barely impressed with his sleight of hand and only somewhat amused as he made the impossible seem possible. But they hadn’t turned on him yet. The almost full house had everything to do with what was about to happen—they were waiting with growing impatience for the debut of his newest, most death-defying escape.

  The man he’d selected from the audience to secure his handcuffs and chains had already returned to his seat with the smug assurance that there was no way Harte could get out. He made a show of wriggling and writhing to demonstrate how secure they were, because it never hurt to add a bit of drama. When two stagehands lowered him into the clear tank of tepid water, bound in chains and wearing nothing more than a pair of bathing shorts, the audience went gratifyingly silent as he sank to the bottom.

  The screen hadn’t yet been lowered in front of the tank when the theater lights surged, pulsing like a heartbeat for a moment, and then went completely dark.

  Even under the water, he could hear the frantic murmuring of the crowd, and he felt an answering panic. He knew it was impossible, but he swore the flare of the lights before they went out had pulled at his affinity, had made him feel a hollow ache that darkened the edges of his vision and caused his head to swirl.

  But when he gasped, the mouthful of water he took in reminded him of where he was and what was at stake. He forced himself to let go of his panic and to focus on taking advantage of the unexpected drama of the situation.

  Working quickly, he slipped the metal pin from its hiding place under a false fingertip, and contorting himself as he’d practiced hundreds of times before, he wedged it into the locks on the cuffs. By the time the stagehands lit the kerosene lanterns at the foot of the stage a few minutes later, Harte was already out of the tank, dripping wet and holding the heavy chains in his outstretched hands.

  The crowd went wild. Even in the dim light, he could see the amazement on their faces as wonder replaced fear. He’d not only escaped the water—this time, he’d also defeated the utter darkness that had alarmed even the most cynical men in the audience.

  He gave the house his most dazzling smile and took his bow, letting the rumble of the crowd’s approval roll over him. But their thunderous applause did nothing to alleviate the unease that clung to him, as cold and uncomfortable as his wet drawers. He gave his audience one last grateful salute before he ceded the stage to Evelyn and her so-called sisters.

  As the first of the three girls sashayed into the spotlights, the crowd erupted again, this time in hoots and whistles. Apparently, a pair of legs was all it took for the audience to forget their amazement. The realization dulled the usual shot of adrenaline he got from being onstage, leaving him feeling jittery and nervous, aching to flex his affinity again.

  Harte handed the unlocked chains to one of the stagehands and pulled a robe around himself as he navigated the maze of ropes and pulleys backstage and made his way back to his dressing room.

  He wasn’t surprised, somehow, to see the girl waiting for him. He’d been expecting something like this for days now, ever since he’d almost ruined her chance to escape at the museum. Still, her appearance, a burst of color and fire in his drab little dressing room, made him pause.

  “I’m guessing Dolph sent you,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  She was dressed in a deep-plum-colored skirt and a creamy blouse that draped over her curves without hiding them. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and gathered loosely at the nape of her neck. Delicately carved jade combs accented the burnished-chestnut curls. Dressed as she was, she could have passed for one of the ladies on Park Avenue, but the wicked spark in her eyes was at odds with the polish of her clothes.

  It wasn’t that long ago that John Torrio had been sitting in that same place, and Harte had the sudden thought that he wasn’t sure which of the chair’s occupants might be more of a threat to his own well-being.

  “Back to assault me again?” He tucked his hands into the pockets of the robe and wished like hell she hadn’t come.

  Most of all, he wished there wasn’t a part of him that was glad to see her again, safe and whole. And in his dressing room.

  “Unfortunately,” she said, leaning toward him almost conspiratorially, “I’m under strict orders not to. This time,
at least.”

  “How disappointing that must be for you,” he drawled, relaxing a little into her humor.

  “You have no idea.” She sighed dramatically and leaned back in his dressing chair. Shadows thrown by the lamp flickered across her face, and he had the distinct feeling she was laughing at him, despite the serious expression on her face. “I did want to thank you, though,” she said, and he could tell that the words cost her.

  Amused despite himself, he crossed the room to where his clothes were waiting for him on the radiator. “For?”

  “For not telling anyone what you saw the other night,” she said.

  He glanced back at her. “Who says I haven’t?”

  She frowned, her dark brows pulling together. “Morgan looked pretty upset in that picture on the front page. I doubt I’d be here if he had any idea who was involved.”

  “He was,” Harte admitted. “Very upset. I wouldn’t thank me just yet, though.”

  “No?” She tilted her head slightly, an almost imperceptible shift, but enough to tell him she was worried.

  Good. Let her worry. She kept him on his toes every time they met, so it was only fair he got to do the same. Never mind how much he was growing to like their games.

  “You never know when I might happen to remember something.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Something that the police might find interesting.”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me?” she asked.

  “Not trying, no. Not yet, at least.” He smiled pleasantly, because he had the sense it would irritate her even more. “But give me time, and I might find something I want from you.”

  She let out a derisive laugh. “In your dreams.”

  He winked. “Every night, sweetheart.”

  “Look, as much fun as this has been, I’m only here because Dolph needs a favor from you.”

  “I’m well aware of what Dolph wants from me. I’m also pretty sure I’ve already made my answer clear about that particular topic.”

  “I’m supposed to change your mind,” she said, fluttering her thick lashes in his direction.

  Understanding the ruse for what it was, he laughed. “Seeing as there isn’t any shortage of beautiful women in my business, even a figure as fine as yours probably won’t be enough to turn my head.” He gave her a wry look as he stripped off his robe and hung it over the dressing screen. “No offense, of course,” he said as an afterthought.

  “None taken.”

  If he’d been hoping to make her uncomfortable, it didn’t work. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned now that he was standing in little more than a pair of sodden shorts. Or that she was in a mostly darkened room alone with him. She didn’t even look away. If anything, she seemed to be enjoying herself. Her expression was one he recognized too well—the anticipation of the game. Which only served to irritate him more.

  “Considering I have information that could make Dolph’s life much more uncomfortable, it seems like I’m the one who should be asking for favors,” he said.

  “What sort of favor would you like?” she asked, her gaze unwavering.

  He’d just stood on a stage in front of three hundred people, but he felt suddenly, inexplicably bare. Like she’d turned his own state of undress against him.

  “I’d have to put some thought into it,” he said.

  “Be careful you don’t hurt yourself,” she said, her eyes wide in mock concern.

  He shook his head at her cheek and stepped behind the dressing screen to shuck off his wet shorts and pull on dry ones. And to give himself some space so he could think.

  It was unnerving, the way she looked at him so directly, without a blush to her cheeks or any sign of discomfort at all. But he also admired her for it . . . not that he had any plans to let her best him again.

  “There’s got to be something you want,” she said. “Something Dolph can do for you to change your mind.”

  “Dolph Saunders doesn’t have anything I want,” he said truthfully as he pulled on his warm pants. From the other side of the screen, he heard the sound of metal on metal, and he looked to see what she was doing. “There’s no key for those,” he warned when he saw her playing with the handcuffs that hung from his dressing table.

  “Really? Then I suppose I should be extra careful.” With a flick, she locked one of the iron cuffs around her wrist. “Oops.” She brought her gloved hands to her mouth, which only drew attention to how pink her lips were. How soft they looked. How they’d felt against his.

  He remembered those lips. . . . He also remembered the teeth behind them. Some things weren’t worth the trouble.

  “Guess I’m stuck.” Her eyes never left his. “I’ll just have to hang around here for a while . . . until you see things my way.”

  “Like I said, I’m not interested in whatever Dolph wants from me.” Which wasn’t the complete truth. He was more interested than ever in getting himself out of town, especially with Paul Kelly’s boys breathing down his neck. It just wasn’t enough to make him interested in getting caught in Dolph Saunders’ web. Whatever Dolph had planned, it would be dangerous and reckless, like it always was. Now that Dolph didn’t have Leena to ground him, it would probably be even more so. “I’ve never really had a taste for suicide.”

  “Your act indicates otherwise,” she drawled, the handcuff still dangling from her wrist like a bracelet. “You were dying out there.”

  “Funny.” He gave her a dark look.

  “It’s a bit stale, don’t you think?” She stepped toward him slowly, a challenge if ever there was one. “Houdini already has the market on escape acts. You need something”—she waved her hand vaguely, letting the cuff swing loose on her wrist—“you know, to spice things up. I’d be happy to give you some pointers, if you’d like.”

  If she hadn’t been so bad at seduction, he would have been more irritated about the Houdini comment. She would have been better to come at him straight, not that he’d be telling her that anytime soon.

  “You’re going to give me pointers?” He wanted to laugh, but then she leaned close, and the scent of her strangled his senses and made his throat go tight.

  “Don’t you remember?” she whispered in his ear. “The crowd loved us.”

  “Did they?” He turned his head so their faces were barely a breath apart, and he sensed that she had to steady herself.

  Interesting. She didn’t want him to touch her, but she also didn’t want him to know she was avoiding it. He could use that.

  “Well, they loved me,” she said, her pink lips twitching in amusement. “They were simply tolerating you.”

  He could feel the warmth radiating from her, and she smelled like sunshine. Like fresh laundry and soap. That close, her eyes looked even more like dark honey, but they also held a challenge, and he never could refuse a dare. He leaned closer still, enjoying the way she tensed as she stopped herself from backing away. Enjoying turning her game back on her.

  “Tolerating me, you say?” He stopped short of touching his lips to her neck.

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured, suddenly sounding awfully breathless.

  “What if what I want is you?” he asked.

  “I’d say you couldn’t have me.”

  “No?” And then he latched the other handcuff around her wrist.

  Her eyes widened, and she backed away from him, but to his surprise, she didn’t panic or curse him for seeing through her ruse, as he’d expected. She didn’t look thrown at all, just examined her locked wrists and did the one thing he didn’t expect: She laughed. Delight sparked in those glittering eyes of hers.

  “You said there’s no key?” She didn’t seem the least bit worried.

  “I lost it years ago,” he told her with a shrug. He turned away from her to take his shirt from the radiator and slip his arms into its warmth, satisfied with the spot he’d managed to maneuver her into. Until he remembered the lock she’d picked at the museum.

  But by the time he turned back around, her wrists were already fr
ee, and she was dangling the unlocked handcuffs from her fingertip.

  YOU CAN’T CON A CON

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be harder than that to get rid of me,” Esta said, enjoying the look on Harte Darrigan’s face at how quickly she’d managed to escape.

  It was a pretty enough face, she supposed. He had rough, brooding good looks at odds with the refined act he put on, both of which were only improved by the smudges of kohl beneath his eyes. But she knew from her experience with Logan that charm and good looks often only went skin deep. Darrigan was too good of a performer to reveal whatever was beneath that charm of his, and she was too smart to be taken in by the charm itself—or whatever was beneath, come to think of it.

  Still, she had to admit, she’d enjoyed the view when he’d taken off the robe to expose the wet shorts he was wearing.  Who wouldn’t? They’d clung to his well-muscled thighs, which only complemented his flat stomach and broad, defined shoulders. He had an angry-looking, angular welt on his right shoulder, like a brand or a scar, which was at odds with the uptown act he put on.  An injury from some past life, she suspected. Otherwise, his body was damn near perfect—definitely the result of a lot of hard work.

  She couldn’t help but admire that, and not only because he was nice to look at. It meant he knew what it was to work at something, to master it. He knew what it meant to not only depend on magic.

  It was a lesson she’d learned as a girl. When Professor Lachlan first taught her how to dip into a pocket for a fat purse, he never let her use her affinity. Only once she could lift a wallet without tipping off the mark did he show her how magic could amplify and augment her already developed skills.

  Admiration or not, she wouldn’t let herself be distracted. Not by the magician’s corded arms or by his teasing smile, which was probably another mask. According to the news clipping, the Khafre Hall job wasn’t a fact anymore. She had to get Harte Darrigan on board, to make sure he was part of the team and to make sure he wasn’t the one who gave up Dolph. She didn’t have time to swoon over some boy, no matter how pretty he was.