The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  When she stepped out of the steamy bathroom, Harte was on the sofa, waiting with a sullen expression. On the table next to him, a neat pile of orange peelings sat atop a handkerchief. She could practically hear him think, the way he was sitting there—his hand scratching at the day-old scruff on the edge of his jawline as his eyes stared off into space.

  He was so deep in thought that he didn’t seem to notice her until she settled herself next to him.

  “Feel better?” he asked, looking up.

  “Yes. Much.” She tucked her legs up under her.

  “Wouldn’t you rather get dressed?” He looked troubled when his gaze drifted over the robe she was wearing. Almost nervous.

  Fine with her. She’d take any advantage she could get.

  “No, I’m good,” she said, leaning back comfortably. “It feels amazing to be out of that corset.”

  He gave her another uneasy look but didn’t say anything more. It felt to Esta like he was on the edge of making some decision but wasn’t sure whether to jump.

  So maybe she’d give him a little push.

  “Thanks for coming back for me,” she said softly, touching his hand.

  Harte looked momentarily surprised, but then he pulled away from her and composed himself. “Don’t think it means more than it does.” He picked up the newspaper and made a pretense of looking over the front page. But his motions were stiff and it was clear his eyes weren’t focusing on any headline. “I need you to get Jack. Otherwise, I would have happily let you rot in there.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t need your help after all,” she drawled, frustrated with his moodiness. This approach clearly wasn’t working, so she got up from the couch. She’d regroup and figure out another way.

  He caught her by the hand, gently this time. She could have pulled away, but instead she turned to look at him. There was an unreadable expression on his face that made her pause.

  “Don’t start telling yourself stories about me, Esta. I’m not some knight in shining armor.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “I don’t have some hidden heart of gold. I’m a bastard, in every sense of the word.”

  He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as her. “I never thought otherwise.”

  “I know how women are,” he muttered.

  She looked at him and saw him anew—the sadness in his eyes. The way he held himself as though he were bracing for a slap. “You don’t know half of what you think you do,” she said softly.

  “I know more than you can imagine. I saw where believing too much in a man got my mother.” His mouth went tight.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. I should’ve died in a gutter somewhere before my twelfth birthday. I would have deserved it after what I did.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from taking a step toward him. “What could you have possibly done to deserve that at only eleven years old?”

  “I sent my father away,” he said. He lifted his chin, like he was waiting for her judgment.

  She shook her head, not understanding. “You were a child. How could you send a grown man anywhere he didn’t want to go?”

  He looked at her, his stormy eyes dark with some unspoken emotion. “I can do more than get into your head to see what’s there. Do you remember that day onstage? When Nibsy brought you to the theater the first time? I put a suggestion into your mind. I told you what I needed for you to do to make the effect work. I gave you a command, and you obeyed.”

  She frowned. “That’s not how I remember things ending up.”

  His mouth turned down. “Yeah, well . . . you weren’t in the cabinet at the end, like you were supposed to be, but you did everything else. And you forgot everything the second the door of the cabinet opened, just like I told you to.”

  It felt right to her, answered one question that had been looming. But it raised so many more. “You really ordered your father away?”

  He nodded. “The only thing he spent more time doing than beating me and my mother was drinking. I wanted a break. I just wanted her to be happy again, so I told him to leave. He did.”

  “You tried to save her.”

  “He never came back. He left the city, or he tried to. But he didn’t get much farther than the Brink.” His eyes were flat, emotionless.

  “You were only a child. You couldn’t have known,” she said, thinking about her own inability to control her affinity at that age. She’d always been too impulsive, but then it had been worse. Like the time she was with Dakari and saw a tourist with an open backpack in Central Park. He’d warned her against it, but she thought she could lift the wallet inside before anyone noticed. But she hadn’t quite known how to hold the seconds for very long, and they caught her with her hand in the bag. It was only Dakari’s quick thinking that got her away, but he was a black man in a city where stop and frisk was the rule of law. He ended up flat on the pavement, his arms wrenched behind him while she couldn’t do more than stand by and watch, tears clogging her vision.

  He ended up spending the night in a holding cell. She’d never forgotten that day. Dakari had lived to forgive her, but from the sound of things, Harte’s father hadn’t been so lucky.

  “My mother didn’t care. When she found out what I had done, what I could do, she was horrified. She went after him. She hated me for what I’d done. She risked the Brink to find him.”

  “Oh, Harte . . .”

  “She didn’t get very far, but even getting that close changed her,” he said, his voice flat and almost emotionless, like he was telling her someone else’s story instead of his own.

  “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he told her. “It made me stronger. It made me who I am.”

  They weren’t so different, the two of them. They’d both been abandoned by their parents, but at least she’d had the Professor. He’d seen something in her worth saving, but Harte never had that. She still might not trust him, but she understood him. The drive that made him who he was, the determination to prove himself—the bone-deep need to belong somewhere—those were all things she knew very well.

  She understood the hurt, too. The fear that there was something intrinsically wrong with you to make the people who were supposed to love you leave. The way that fear either hardened you or destroyed you. It had turned into a sort of armor for her, another weapon in her arsenal, and she suspected the same was true of Harte.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” He narrowed his eyes.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you know something about me. It’ll be easier for both of us if you can get it through your head right now that I don’t need some girl to come along and fix me. Life’s carved away any softness I might have had, and all that’s left now are hard edges. That’s all I’ll ever be. That’s all I ever want to be.”

  She studied him—the stiff shoulders, the tight jaw, and the stormy eyes that dared her to judge him, and she had the sudden urge to ruffle his feathers again. She wanted to see the boy she’d met in the basement of the theater, the rumpled boy whose eyes glowed with possibility instead of desperation. She wanted to throw him off so he’d lose that distant look, just for a moment. She wanted to see if she could.

  “I’m not here to save you.” She sat next to him again and felt a surge of satisfaction when his brows furrowed.

  “No, you’re not, are you?” he asked, looking at her with the strangest expression.

  “Nope,” she said truthfully, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t bother trying.”

  “You wouldn’t?” He looked wary now, but he didn’t retreat. He seemed frozen, almost mesmerized.

  “Who said I want you to be anything but what you are? I like your angles and your edges,” she told him, hoping he could hear the truth in her words. “I have plenty of my own, you know.”

  “I know,” he said, his voice soft with a hint of hope and desperation.

  She smiled at
the nervousness in his eyes. “I’d slice right through anyone softer.”

  He stared at her for what felt like a lifetime, as though he was afraid to move.  As though he was afraid not to. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  She nodded. He smelled of oranges, and she could imagine what it would be like to close the distance between them and have a taste of his lips. Kissing Harte on purpose would be like everything else between them—a battle of wills. A clash of temper. An unspoken understanding that neither would back away or back down.

  And then what?

  The thought was like cold water. In the end, she’d have to take the Book from him, from Dolph as well, and leave them all here in this past to face their fates alone.

  “This is a terrible idea,” she murmured.

  “I know,” he said, leaning closer.

  Nothing is more important than the job. Professor Lachlan’s words echoed in her mind, reminding her of the last time she’d lost sight of what was important. Reminding her that she had another life, another set of responsibilities, waiting for her. Maybe she didn’t need to fight Harte, but she couldn’t let herself start believing there was any future possible for them. At least no future that didn’t end in betrayal.

  She pulled back, ignoring the way her throat had gone tight with something that felt too close to longing. But what she longed for—for him, for a rest from constantly being on guard, for a place to call her own—she wasn’t sure. “We have too much at stake to muck everything up with this.” She motioned between them.

  The urgency had drained from his eyes, and she could no longer read the expression on his face as he pulled farther back from her. The space between them, which was no more than the length of her arms, suddenly felt impossible. “You’re right.”

  “I’m sorry, Harte. I—”

  “No,” he said. “Don’t. There’s no need. We were caught up in a moment, that’s all. I’m the one who should be apologizing. But we can’t get caught up like that again.” He got up from the couch and headed into the kitchen.

  Still unnerved, she followed him. “So you said that last night went well with Jack?” she asked, her voice a bit higher than usual. Desperate to get things back on track.

  “It did,” he told her, pouring himself a glass of water. He seemed to want to keep the table between them. That was fine with her.

  “And?”

  He took a long drink of the water before he spoke. “The good news is that you were brilliant last night. Jack absolutely believes you’re the lost heir. It’ll be up to you to reel him in, but it shouldn’t be hard. He’s itching to prove himself, so he’s primed to make mistakes.

  “Jack will be at the show again tonight,” Harte continued. “It’s all arranged. All you have to do is pretend you’re interested in him when he comes backstage after. Stroke his ego a little and let him dig his own grave. Just lead him on enough to get us an invitation to Khafre Hall.  We’ll need a reason for him to want us there, though.”

  She remembered the men behind the wall at the Haymarket. “I think I have an idea of how to do that.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “I heard something at the Haymarket that might help us.” He gave her a quizzical look, but she ignored the question in his eyes. “The Order has a big party coming up for the equinox. It would be a shame if their entertainment canceled on them, don’t you think?”

  His expression shifted. “That should be easy enough. I’ll talk to Dolph—it’ll keep him happy to be in on the action.” Something like relief flashed in his usually stormy eyes, softening them. Suddenly he looked like the boy in the basement of the theater, the boy she’d wanted to know better.

  The boy she’d eventually betray.

  Her heart twisted, but she ignored it. The deception was necessary. It was like Professor Lachlan had taught her: Emotions were a trap. Nothing was more important than the job.

  THE BALANCE OF POWER

  Nearly a week later, Dolph Saunders watched from the window of Harte Darrigan’s apartment as Jack Grew helped Esta out of an unremarkable carriage. The girl smiled up at Jack and allowed herself to be walked to the door, but once the pair was close to the building, Dolph could no longer see them.

  “Are they back yet?” Nibs asked from the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Esta is. She’ll be up soon.”

  The rooms were large and airy, clean and comfortably furnished. The boy had done well, and he’d done it on his own. Dolph himself had never had the chance to create a life like this, but for a moment he imagined what it might have been like if he’d chosen another path. If Leena had married him, they could have built a life on lies, moving uptown and pretending to be a normal couple, a normal family.

  But they had started down this path together, and now he wouldn’t turn from it.

  A few minutes later the girl let herself in. She startled—but only a little—when she saw him and Nibs waiting.

  She took her time about removing her hat and cloak, placing them neatly on the rack by the door. “What are you two doing here?” she asked, turning back to him.

  “Waiting for one of you to return,” he said flatly. “We came to check on you.”

  “I didn’t know you were into personal service,” she said dryly. There was something brittle in her voice, and her expression was hard as flint. He had the unwelcome sense that something had changed for her, and he wasn’t sure why that bothered him. But he hadn’t survived so long by ignoring his instincts.

  “I’m not usually, but when I feel that people are hiding something from me, I’m willing to make exceptions.”

  “I’m not hiding anything. I’ve told him everything since you sent me over here,” she said, nodding toward Nibs. “You could call him off, you know. I don’t need him checking every day. Every other day might be a nice change.”

  Nibs gave her a wry grin. “And here I thought you were starting to like me.”

  “Enough,” Dolph said before Esta could respond. He’d already seen the table in the kitchen piled with papers and maps, drawings and diagrams. They were farther than he’d suspected. “You’re sure you’ve told him everything?” he asked, eyeing her.

  “Yes, of course.” She met his eyes, her expression calm and determined.

  He waited for the lie, but he didn’t sense it. Perhaps she was simply better at concealing her thoughts. She had the same straight-backed sense of her own abilities that she’d had the first night, and the air around her still tasted of desire and ambition. Dolph liked that about her, but it still worried him.

  “Well?” he asked, dispensing with the pleasantries. “Show me.”

  “Everything’s in the kitchen.”

  They followed her into the small room. Nibs took an orange from the bowl on the table as Esta leaned over a diagram of Khafre Hall and made a note on the western side of the building. Then she walked them both through everything—the four dinners she’d had with Jack, the way he seemed intent on boasting about his knowledge of the Order. It was clear he was trying to use his status to impress her and to take advantage of her, just as they’d expected.

  “He’s been bragging to Harte about how easily swayed I am by his pretty face and deep pockets,” she told Dolph. “As if I don’t know all his money comes from his family. I’d almost feel bad about the position he’s going to be in when we’re through with him if he weren’t so insufferable.”

  “You’ve done well,” Dolph said, glancing at Nibs. He’d left much of the details about their progress out of his reports. Someone was lying, but to his frustration, Dolph couldn’t have said who it was. He’d trusted Nibs for so long, but the girl seemed sincere as well.

  “The Mysterium has to be below this room,” she said, pointing to a spot on the map.

  “I thought the boiler room was there,” Nibs said, turning the paper to get a better view.

  “It is. But Jack mentioned something tonight that I think we can use.” Her excitement was palpable. “The building goes de
eper here than we thought.” She pointed to a spot on the plans beneath Khafre Hall’s central meeting room.

  “You know that for sure?” Dolph asked.

  “Pretty sure. Apparently, they picked this particular location for their headquarters on purpose. Something to do with the congruence of the elements.” She glanced up at him with a puzzled look. “I don’t really understand half of what Jack said, but the main point is that the whole place is built over one of the city’s lost rivers. Something about making sure the elemental powers were balanced.”

  “You’re sure about this?” Dolph felt some of his earlier concern about the girl receding.

  “I’m positive. Jack was so anxious to make sure that I knew he understood all about the importance of aligning the elements, he practically drew me a map.” She smiled up at him, and for a moment he had a thought of Leena.

  Ridiculous. Esta looked nothing like her. But there was something in the way she carried herself, something about her confidence that tugged at memories best left buried. Maybe Viola had been right—he was too soft on her. He could only hope he wouldn’t live to regret that.

  “Does that change anything?” he asked Nibs.

  The boy considered it. “If there’s a river under there, we would have a second way in—or out. We’d have to account for that.”

  “Have you told Darrigan about this?” he asked Esta.

  “Yes,” a voice said from behind them. “Have you told Darrigan about this?”

  AN INVITATION

  “Harte—” Esta looked momentarily surprised—maybe even a little guilty—when she turned to find him watching from the doorway. It was the guilt in her expression that made him wary.

  “This is cozy,” he said, stepping into his kitchen. He hadn’t planned on her being back from her date with Jack yet. She’d been staying out later and later every night, but he’d come home to spend some time in his apartment alone for once. He hadn’t been prepared to find her bent over their notes with Dolph. And Nibs. Seeing the boy there, in his own apartment, made his vision go red and his every instinct go on high alert. But he kept himself under control. “Having a little meeting without me, are you?”