The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  “I know,” he said tightly, because it was easier to agree than to argue. “It’s all my fault.” Which was the only truth that mattered anymore.

  He’d only been a boy. He hadn’t known what he was capable of or how to control what he could do. When she found out he’d made his father, a drunk who’d rather use his hands to beat them than to make a living, leave, his mother had turned on him. She’d risked everything to try crossing the Brink to find his father.

  She didn’t get through it, though. Even her desperation to find the man she loved wasn’t enough to push her past the terrible boundary. But she’d tried. She’d touched its power, and it had certainly changed her. There were days Harte wondered if death wouldn’t have been a kinder fate. When he found her again, years later, she wasn’t the woman she’d once been. Instead, she spent her days chasing anything that would take away the ache of the emptiness the Brink and his lout of a father had left behind.

  Maybe Harte should have hated her for abandoning him. Maybe there was a small part of him that did. But in the end, he reserved his true hatred for the father who had deserted them long before he’d actually left.

  And for himself. For driving her away.

  She raised her hands slowly and gazed at them with unfocused eyes, as if noticing them for the first time. “These used to work miracles. The women used to come to me even when I was a girl,” she said, her voice still carrying the soft notes of his childhood. Then her expression turned sour. “But you took it from me.”

  His jaw tensed. “You can blame me later. Right now we need to get you home.”

  She looked up at him, her pale green eyes lost in her own memories. “Little Molly O’Doherty can make you pretty enough to win any man, they’d say. I can’t anymore, and it hurts—” Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes again. “It aches so terribly, and I wanted it to stop, if only for a little while. I needed—”

  “You don’t have to explain it to me,” he told her, his throat tight with regret and shame for what she’d become. What he’d pushed her to. “Can you get up?”

  He didn’t want to have to touch her again. The rank sweat—or worse—was overpowering enough from where he was. It reminded him too much of what her leaving had cost him—of nights spent in trash heaps trying to get warm, the stink of unwashed bodies that had hunted him because they could.

  Because no one had been there to stop them.

  Because deep down, he had known he deserved it all.

  He cursed when his mother wouldn’t move, and wondered if maybe he could pay the man at the door to keep her until the drug wore off. He could collect her then—or maybe send someone else for her.

  He needed to go. He’d moderated his breathing, but he was still starting to feel the haze of the poppy’s smoke wrap around him, leaching out the frantic energy that the girl and Kelly’s note had left him with, and he hated it. Hated the way it dulled who and what he was. Hated the way that part of him wanted to stay for a while and allow the quiet emptiness to fill him up. Just for a little while . . .

  “I’m going now, Ma,” he said, shaking off the temptation. “I’ll be back in the morning, when you’re feeling better.”

  Standing to leave, he looked at her one last time, hating her and loving her just the same. She was yet another thing tying him to the city, his duty to her like a straitjacket holding him against his will. A locked box he couldn’t find a way out of.

  He was barely out the door when he heard frantic shouts and realized that a crowd had gathered down the block. The smell of wood smoke and something else, something harsher and more chemical, hung in the air, and he saw that buildings nearby were on fire. On either end of the block, the blaze raged toward the center—toward the building where his mother was.

  It couldn’t have been an accident, two buildings burning like that. Two buildings bookending the room where his mother lay half unconscious. Not with the note he had still crumpled in his pocket.

  The note, it seemed, wasn’t the only message Paul Kelly had sent him.

  Cursing the whole way, he ran back down the short flight of steps into the basement den, shouting for the sleepy-eyed guard to rouse the others. He grabbed his mother, his stomach turning and his throat tightening as the stink of her unwashed hair and clothes assaulted him. The smoke-filled night would be a reprieve compared to what she smelled of, but he pushed through his revulsion and got her out of the building, through the crowd, and into the waiting taxi at the curb. He gave the driver her address, and tried to keep her upright as the carriage rattled to a start across the uneven pavers.

  When he leaned out the window, away from the smell of her, he saw Paul Kelly’s men watching him from the shadows.

  THE CENTER WON’T HOLD

  Bella Strega

  Usually, the noise of the crowded barroom was enough to settle Dolph’s nerves on even the most frustrating of days. He always sat against the back wall, in part because he only had to watch one direction for an attack, and in part because he could watch the events of the night without being involved in them. From his usual table, he could observe everything he’d built, test the mood of the Bowery, and plan for all he still wanted to accomplish without anyone bothering him.

  Though the room was already nearly filled with people drinking and laughing, Dolph found himself restless. There had been reports of a fire down on Broome Street. He’d sent some of his people to help stop the flames and get the innocent out, but there was only so much they could do without alerting suspicion. People would be hurt, and he was impotent to do anything about it.

  Tilly had gone out on some errand, or he would have been in her kitchen, allowing her easy way to soothe him. He needed some of her soup, its heady, golden broth laden with matzo balls, or some of her fresh bread that tasted like life itself.

  He needed the Book. But to get the Book, he needed Harte Darrigan’s help.

  The girl wasn’t his last chance to hook Harte Darrigan—he knew that—but she was close to it. And she’d been gone a long time.

  It rankled, still not knowing what she was capable of. A thief for certain. Most likely trustworthy, based on her performance at the museum. But she was still hiding something from him, and since he didn’t know how her affinity worked, he couldn’t predict how she might move against him. And he couldn’t ask, not without revealing his own lost affinity. His crew expected him to already know.

  Not that long ago, he wouldn’t have worried at all. Leena, with her calm strength, would have been able to neutralize the girl if she attacked with her magic. And before the Brink, he would have been ready, would have known the flavor of that magic from the moment they’d met.

  Before the Brink, he would have been able to do so much more. With a shake of her hand, he could have used her affinity for himself for a time, without harming her, just as he could with any Mageus. Once, his talent had made him seem limitless. Now he had to settle for pretending, for running a long con on those who trusted him.

  He wasn’t so green as to think that the game could last forever. Someone would eventually realize his weakness . . . and take advantage of it. The only question was who—and when the betrayal would come.

  As though spurred on by his dark thoughts, a commotion erupted from the front of the building. He went on alert, ready for the danger, as the double doors of the barroom sailed open, clanging against the wall from the force. The crowd turned almost as one to see who had arrived. And then murmuring began, sweeping through the saloon like the fires that often tore through the Bowery’s most dilapidated tenements. Like the one earlier that night had.

  Dolph was nearly halfway across the room when he saw it wasn’t any danger at all, but Jianyu, standing in the open doorway.  The look of distress on the boy’s face had Dolph’s neck prickling in alarm, but he moved faster when he saw who Jianyu carried.

  “We’re closed,” Dolph shouted. “Viola! Shut it down. Mooch, Sean—get everyone out of here.”

  His crew was well trained. Th
ey didn’t ask questions or hesitate, but snapped into motion like a well-oiled machine. His employees were already gently guiding the other patrons toward the exit, but everyone was craning their necks to see what had caused the confusion.

  “He’s killing her!” someone shouted, and Dolph felt the anger and fear of the crowd turn, almost as a single unit, toward Jianyu. Their once-unsettled murmurs grew into an angry, noisy jumble of languages. Energy spiked throughout the room as each person drew their affinity around them—whether for protection or to attack, Dolph didn’t know. A moment later, the first slur tore through the room, its guttural sound as vicious and ugly as the hatred behind the word, and the tenor of the crowd changed, transforming into something more dangerous.

  Dolph raised his cane and brought its silver cap down with a vicious crack against the last-call bell with an earsplitting clang. “I said we’re closed! Out! All of you!” He took a step forward, swinging his cane in front of him and not caring who it hit, as he helped to herd the crowd out into the night.

  “Push those out of the way,” Dolph called, pointing to a pair of shorter, square tables that lined the wall as he latched the door. “Put her over there on the floor, where she won’t hurt herself.”

  WHAT HAPPENED ON FULTON STREET

  Jianyu carried Tilly, writhing and moaning in his arms, toward the spot that had been cleared for them. Around him, Dolph’s people drew closer. He could feel their wariness, their distrust.

  Before he could settle her,  Viola pushed her way to the front, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Che cos’è?” she started to say, but the words died on her tongue when she saw who he had, and she went dangerously still. “What did you do to her?”  Viola growled.

  Jianyu felt her magic before she had even drawn her knives. Hot, angry, it assaulted him like a blast from a furnace, and the pain that gripped his entire body had him gasping for breath. His blood felt like fire, his lungs like dried cement. He struggled to stay upright, to keep from dropping Tilly, whose writhing made her difficult to hold.

  “Viola! Enough,” Dolph barked, catching him by the elbow before he toppled over. “Unless you want him to drop her, leave him be. Someone get Nibs in here. Now!”

  Viola’s eyes were sharp and bright, but a moment later, the heat receded from his blood, and Jianyu drew in a deep, heaving breath. Suddenly aware of the grip Dolph had on his arm, he pulled away and took the final few steps on his own to settle Tilly on the floor.

  “Hold her legs for me, Vi,” Dolph directed, as he took hold of Tilly’s upper arms to keep her from scratching at her face and neck. Already the skin there was red with raised welts from her own nails.

  She was still thrashing about as she moaned in agony, but her color had all but drained on the long walk back—she looked deathly pale.

  “What happened?” Dolph demanded, his expression cold.

  Jianyu went on alert at the suspicion in Dolph’s voice. He’d been stupid to let his guard down, to believe that he could make a life for himself away from his own people. To believe that he could be accepted outside the streets of Chinatown, when he was barely accepted within their boundaries.

  Of course he’d heard the same slurs hurled at him before, and at others on the streets of the city. He should have been used to it, but the surprise at hearing it here, in the place he thought of now as his home? To be accused of killing the girl he was trying to save? It shouldn’t have been any more than he expected. But then Viola turned on him as well. And now Dolph was looking at him with ice in his pale eyes.

  He expected at any moment to feel the burn of the tattoo on his back, but to his surprise—and relief—it never came. Which meant Dolph must trust him still. The knowledge was enough to unclog his throat and allow the words to break free. But he wasn’t sure it was enough to heal the rift he felt in the room.

  “I cannot say for sure. . . .”

  “Try,” Dolph commanded, his temper flaring. “What was she doing near the Brink?”

  “She wasn’t at the Brink,” Jianyu told him. “This happened on Fulton Street.”

  SOMETHING NEW

  By the time Esta made it back to the Bowery, the shock of whatever Harte Darrigan had done when he kissed her had mostly faded, but she didn’t feel any better about her situation. On the streetcar ride downtown, she couldn’t help herself from checking the clipping. It still hadn’t changed back. Whatever success she’d had with Harte Darrigan, it hadn’t been enough. She wasn’t sure what would be enough.

  She carried that worry with her back to the Bowery, and the moment she stepped into the Strega, it swelled. Something was very, very wrong. It was late, well into the time when the bar should have been packed with throngs of Mageus drinking away their sorrows and stress, but the saloon was nearly empty.

  “We’re closed!” one of the bowler-hat boys grunted, standing to block her way. His name was Sam or Sean—something with an S—but she was new enough that he didn’t recognize her.

  Luckily, before she had to really argue her point, Nibs came and waved her in.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, taking in the small crowd at the back of the room. The energy in the air was hot, erratic. Even from across the barroom, she sensed that everyone was on the edge of using whatever magic they had, and their fear snaked through the space like a living thing.

  “Dolph shut us down about an hour ago,” Nibs said, his expression more uncertain than she’d ever seen him. “It’s Tilly.”

  When Nibs finally pushed them through the gathered crowd, she saw Dolph talking in low tones to Jianyu, while Viola held Tilly’s legs to the ground to keep her from thrashing about. The mouse-haired girl was writhing like she was on fire. Her eyes were wide, staring at the ceiling, and her throat and face were red from where it looked like she’d raked her own nails down her skin.

  “What happened to her?” Esta asked, watching as Tilly grimaced, moaning and trying desperately to get free.

  “We don’t know,” Nibs told her.

  “Bring me some Nitewein,” Dolph told Jianyu. “Double the poppy.”

  Jianyu looked grim as he nodded. He pushed his way past the group and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of inky liquid. Dolph told a few others to help Viola hold Tilly, and then, kneeling over her, he coaxed the liquor down her throat himself.

  Tilly took one halting sip at a time, choking on the liquid at first and then gulping it desperately. Little by little the writhing stopped, and Tilly’s arms went limp at her sides, her eyes glassy and vacant.

  Dolph waited to make sure Tilly was calm before pulling himself stiffly to his feet. His skin was flushed, and a sheen of perspiration glistened on his upper lip as he ran a hand through his wavy hair.

  “Take her upstairs,” Dolph told a pair of the bowler-hatted boys, one of whom scooped the girl up into his arms. “Go on and be with her,” he said to Viola as he handed her the bottle of Nitewein. “Let me know if there’s any change.”

  Nibs spoke to Esta in a hushed tone, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Dolph thought it was the Brink, but Jianyu said it happened down on Fulton Street, near the Dead Line.”

  “What was she doing on Fulton Street?” Esta asked.

  “Trying to help someone,” Dolph said, approaching them. “Golde’s son, Josef.  You remember her?” he asked Esta. “We visited their home just the other day. He was with a group of boys. They were playing some game, daring each other to go farther downtown, when something went wrong. One came back here for help. Everyone else was out dealing with a fire over on Broome Street, so Tilly went. Found Jianyu on the way.”

  “I felt the cold energy in the air, warning us away,” Jianyu told them. “But she insisted on helping the child. She’d barely reached for him when she went straight as a rod and fell backward.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if remembering what he’d seen. “Then she began shaking and moaning, as though being flayed by a thousand whips. She could not hear me when I called to her,
so I pulled her back, away from the boy’s fallen body. I brought her back here.”

  “What about the boy?” Nibs asked.

  “I could not carry both, and I could not risk being struck down if I wanted to get her back safely. She was still breathing, and I thought maybe . . .”

  “You did fine,” Dolph told him, clapping Jianyu on the shoulder. “You could have left her—plenty would have. I’m grateful you brought her back, and I’m grateful you came back to us as well.”

  Jianyu’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look as though he agreed. From his wary, unsure expression, it was clear he thought he had failed in some way.

  Dolph didn’t seem to notice.

  “We’ll need to send someone down to check and see if the boy’s still there,” Dolph said to Nibs. “If he is, I don’t want anyone getting close enough to end up like Tilly. Jianyu said it felt like the Brink, so until we know more, that’s how we’ll treat it. Be sure to take someone who won’t be at risk with you.”

  “What about his mother, Golde?” Nibs asked.

  “I’ll go tell her myself.”

  Nibs frowned. “You don’t think it could be the entire Dead Line?” he asked Jianyu.

  “I don’t know,” Jianyu said.

  “We better hope it’s not,” Dolph said. “It would cut the city in half. Still, something as big as this . . . Someone has to know something.” Dolph glanced at Jianyu. “I need information. Someone will have talked.”

  Jianyu gave a serious nod. “I’ll go myself,” he said.

  “Do that,” Dolph murmured.

  After Jianyu bowed slightly and headed out into the night, Dolph turned his attention to Nibs. “After you take care of the boy, people will need to be warned.  We’ll need to be vigilant, at least until we figure out what’s causing this.”

  “I’m on it,” Nibs said, and hurried off in the direction of the Bowery, taking a group of the bowler-hat boys with him.