The Last Magician

by Lisa Maxwell

  “Sam Watson. He’s a reporter for the New York Sun.”

  “Sam Watson?” Her face drained of color.

  “She and Sam go way back,” Harte explained, making a show of smiling at the people passing with questioning eyes. “It’s possible he looked her up because I teased him at the museum.” But his instincts were screaming that Esta was right—Evelyn was up to something. And if she did know about the lost heir . . . After all the times he’d turned her down, and then after Esta humiliated her that day in his dressing room, she’d have plenty of reasons to hurt them. Especially if she got something out of it herself.

  “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But she must be mad to come here tonight.”

  “But the payoff would be enormous,” Esta said. “She wouldn’t be the first Mageus to betray her kind in the hopes of a better life,” she added, her expression unreadable. She seemed lost in thought and very, very far away from him.

  “Are you okay?”

  She blinked and, pressing her lips together, gave him a sure nod. “We should go. I can fake sick, and we’ll keep Jack on the hook and try again some other time. It’s too much of a risk with her here, especially if Evelyn knows.”

  They probably could get away with calling the whole thing off, but the Order wasn’t the only thing Harte had to worry about. If they didn’t go through with this, he didn’t doubt that Nibs would take it as a reason to retaliate. Harte might be able to save himself tonight, but that would mean damning his mother . . . again.

  “We’ve already tossed the dice,” he said numbly. “And now we’re just going to deal with where they’ve fallen.”

  “But—”

  “Come on.” He tucked her arm securely through his and led her into the cavernous space of the theater, all the while feeling like he was walking toward his certain doom.

  A GOLDEN DAWN

  The auditorium looked like one of the old movie palaces that people in Esta’s own time were always trying to preserve. It was designed to look like an outdoor Roman amphitheater set under a canopy of sapphire blue. Long-limbed nude statues graced marble railings and towering columns. Above, instead of a ceiling, wisps of enchanted clouds plodded in a steady path across a star-studded sky.

  Jack waved to them from the front of the room, near the stage, his expression anxious.

  “Are you ready?” Harte murmured.

  “Not even a little.”

  Evelyn knew what they were planning—Esta would stake her life on it—and nothing good could come from that. Especially with how she’d treated the other woman.

  She could still fake sick or create some kind of diversion to get out of there. They didn’t have to go through with this. They could leave, regroup. Try again when things were safer or more certain . . . But she knew instinctively it was too late for that. There was the news clipping tucked against her skin—the one with Sam Watson’s name in the byline—to remind her what was at stake. If she ran now, she might never have another shot at the stone, so she allowed Harte to lead her through the crowd toward where Jack waited near the stage.

  At least everyone was in a mood for celebration. The members of the Order and their bejeweled wives were floating on the rivers of champagne they’d been drinking during the cocktail hour, and laughter punctuated conversations all around them.

  It’s a good sign, she told herself. It has to be.

  But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hours, minutes away from knowing once and for all whether everything she’d done was enough. She would either succeed and be back in her own city by daybreak, or she’d—

  No. She wouldn’t even think about the alternative.

  Jack seemed to have relaxed a little, though that might have had something to do with the glass of amber liquid in his hand. He led them backstage, where they would wait for their cue, and then he left them to take his own place in the audience.

  From their vantage point, they could see the entire crowd as they took their seats and turned their pale faces to the man on the stage.

  The men and the women in the audience didn’t look like monsters. None of the crews of rough boys who patrolled the Bowery looking for Mageus were sitting in those seats. The silk-clad women, the tuxedoed men . . . she would wager that none had ever gotten their hands dirty in that way. Maybe they didn’t know what the effects of the Order were. Maybe they didn’t realize the pain and suffering the Order of Ortus Aurea caused for the people in the streets of lower Manhattan.

  But the moment the High Princept—one of the highest-ranking members—stepped forward to speak, any charitable thought she might have been entertaining evaporated.

  “As above,” the High Princept called out, and the audience responded as one with the rest of the phrase, “so below.”

  “We gather tonight to celebrate the equinox, that time of balancing, of new birth, a reminder of our solemn duty to our people, to our way of life.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Esta whispered.

  Harte shushed her, but his jaw was tight, his hands clenched in fists at his sides, so she had a feeling he felt the same.

  “We gather together this night, brothers who have dedicated themselves to the principles of Reason and the project begun by our forefathers, pillars of the Enlightenment,” the High Princept droned on. His tone and cadence made clear that this was a well-worn speech. “We stand on the shoulders of giants, and we build on what the founders of this great nation have accomplished. As the great thinker John Locke reminds us, no man’s knowledge can go beyond his experience, and so we have made it our duty to immerse ourselves in experience, to push the boundaries of what is known about the Great Chain of Being, unlocking its secrets with our dedication and work.”

  The audience erupted into applause, and the speaker waited for it to subside, a small smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. The energy in the room was electric, but it wasn’t the warmth of magic. Instead, the room was filled with the pulse of excitement that often runs through a mob before they explode into action: the sizzle of electrons, the tang of ozone, and the heady sense of righteousness that can only come from belief in purpose, no matter how insidious that belief may be. No matter the hate that might sustain itself from that darkly beating heart.

  The Princept went on, buoyed by the crowd: “We have worked tirelessly for more than a century now to increase our knowledge for the good of our land, and this land owes our Order a great debt. Since its beginning, the Order of Ortus Aurea has continued the project of Enlightenment on these shores. But now we face an ever-growing threat. Hidden among those who would come to our shores with an innocent willingness to become part of our great nation is an undesirable element.”

  Someone in the crowd shouted out a slur, as the rest of the audience rustled. But the High Princept merely smiled benevolently.

  “Yes. These Mageus come not with open hearts, willing to throw off the superstitions of their past, but with insidious intent. They hide in the shadows of our society, using their powers to take advantage of the innocent, set on the degradation of our standard of living and the debasement of our citizenry. It is against this element that we have worked tirelessly, for there is no cause more important than the character of our citizenship and the standard of living of our people.

  “So let us join together to reaffirm our purpose and our dedication to this great land. Let us welcome all those who come to our shores willing to take up the mantle of democracy and Reason. But let us be always aware that there are those who pose a threat to our very way of life. For their power, uncontrolled and based not upon study and Reason but from uneducated impulse, is the antithesis of the foundations of democracy. Should their power be allowed to take root in this land, it would leave the once fertile soil of our nation barren and drained of promise.

  “Let us recommit this day to our divine calling and prepare for a new dawn, a golden dawn of Reason and Science to balance against this d
anger in our midst. . . .”

  “I’m definitely going to be sick,” Esta whispered to Harte as the High Princept finished his speech to a thunderous round of applause from the audience. She’d known—of course she’d known—what the Order stood for, but to have to stand and face it, to pretend that the words weren’t about her, about everyone she knew and cared for?

  “Just focus on what we have to do,” Harte told her. “Nothing else matters.” He turned to her. “Block all of that out. You can’t let them get into your head, especially not right now.”

  The High Princept raised his arms until the crowded amphitheater went quiet. “In celebration of this night, we have for your enjoyment a demonstration of the power of Reason . . . the very power our hallowed organization champions. May I present Mr. Darrigan, who has pulled himself up from obscurity through the study of the occult sciences, and his assistant, Miss von Filosik, daughter of the late baron, to whom the study of alchemy owes so much.”

  It was time. There was nowhere to go but out onto the stage. Harte offered his hand, and she placed her gloved palm in his as she pasted a brilliant smile on her face and allowed him to lead her onward into the glow of the footlights.

  THE CARD SWITCH

  If he hadn’t spent so many years learning the delicate art of pretending, Harte might have hesitated. He might have felt weakened by the onslaught of the Princept’s speech, by the ragged anger simmering in the room. But he’d lived on the edge of survival for so long that he simply relied on the skills that had become instinct and took the stage with his usual practiced flair. Esta, he could tell, was nervous. He could sense the tension in her posture, and he could see the fear in her eyes. He only hoped the footlights were too bright for the audience to see it as well.

  He launched into some of his better effects—the Indian needle trick and a daring manipulation of fire, to start with. Then he gestured offstage for their final demonstration of the evening, and the stagehands rolled out a large, gleaming vault.

  Esta looked at Harte, her eyes wide. Confused.

  He knew what she was thinking. They had prepared all week for her to perform the Glass Casket. They’d prepared for her to be the one who stole the Book and the artifacts. But after what he’d learned from Nibsy, he hadn’t trusted her not to fall for the boy’s innocent act like everyone else. While they’d practiced, he’d made his own plans—a card switch on a much larger scale. At first he had thought to protect her so she couldn’t be implicated when Dolph or Nibs found out what he’d done. But now that he knew what she’d planned, he was glad he’d kept his secrets.

  He gave her a wink that would look like little more than a playful exchange to the audience, but he knew she would understand. I’m a step ahead of you. Because he’d worked too long and had come too far to be stopped by something as cliché as a pretty face now.  And with the threat of Jack’s machine, there was too much at risk.

  Stepping to the front of the stage, Harte lifted his arm and saluted the audience. Never before had there been so much at stake in a performance. Never before had an audience been so dangerous. But having the odds stacked against him had never stopped him before, and it wouldn’t stop him from doing what needed to be done now.

  “Gentlemen . . . ?” He turned to the Princept who’d introduced him and the other high-ranking man at his side. “If you would come up and inspect this vault? Be thorough. Leave no doubt as to its durability.”

  “Actually,” the Princept said, “we’ve arranged a little surprise for you.” He gave a nod to someone offstage, and Sam Watson appeared with a set of chains and cuffs. Evelyn walked beside him, eating up the spotlight as she came closer to them.

  Harte’s throat went tight as Sam gave him a sharp-toothed smile that promised nothing good. But he kept his expression calm, indifferent, even as his mind raced with all the possibilities about how everything was about to go sour.

  “We’ve all heard what you’re capable of, Mr. Darrigan, so we hope you’ll agree to a little challenge. Instead of using your own chains, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind testing your abilities against the locks we provide. These cuffs were brought straight from the Halls of Justice, and all the locks and chains have been kept under my supervision until this moment to ensure they haven’t been tampered with in any way. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

  “Of course not.” Harte gave Sam his most charming smile, relieved. Handcuffs and chains were nothing to him. He’d made an art of escaping his whole life. If this was all they could throw at him, he could take it.

  Esta, however, looked considerably less sure.

  As they clapped him in the handcuffs and wrapped him in chains, the Princept checked over the safe, and when he was satisfied, he confirmed its integrity to the waiting crowd.

  When they were finished securing him, Harte turned to the audience. “This safe is two-inch-thick steel with a double-bolt mechanism,” he told the waiting crowd. “Once inside, a person would have ten minutes to escape before the air begins to thin. After twenty minutes, they would become light-headed and lose all sense of reason. At thirty minutes, they would begin to lose consciousness. At forty-five minutes, the air would run out.” He paused dramatically, allowing the silence to settle over the audience. “To remain trapped so long would mean certain death . . . unless, of course, a person could manipulate the very matter of these bonds and free himself before that happens. Unless a person could command the very air to sustain him.”

  An interested murmuring rustled through the audience.

  He ignored the unfamiliar weight of the handcuffs. “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the men who had chained him. “If you would be so kind as to lock me in?”

  CHECKMATE

  Dolph Saunders stepped from the noise of  The Devil’s Own into the blessed, blessed silence of the night. He didn’t waste time, but made his way swiftly along the empty street, sticking to the shadows. He had one more stop to make before he returned to the Strega to wait for news.

  The cemetery was bathed in the wan light of the moon. He was only twenty-six, but he felt the aches of a much older man. He was weary, wrung out. Tired of the constant games. The constant need to be two steps ahead of the danger dogging at his heels.

  If all went well tonight, those games would be at an end. One way or another.

  “It’s finished, Streghina. Tonight it will be done. And you will be avenged,” he added softly. Though he wasn’t sure why, for surely the dead could hear what was in the deepest recesses of his worn and fractured heart.

  He knelt at the foot of the grave Leena now shared with their child, the one she’d lost because of what he’d done, and prayed for her forgiveness. He prayed that what he was doing—his attempt to get the Book and to bring down the Brink and the Order once and for all—would make up for all he had done, but before he was finished, Dolph sensed that someone had entered the cemetery.

  The intruder waited in the shadows near the gate, allowing Dolph the privacy of his audience with the dead, but Dolph could feel his impatience.

  “What is it, Nibsy?” he said, speaking into the night. He didn’t take his eyes from the grave as the boy approached him. “It can’t already be done?” he asked, knowing that no good news would have come so soon.

  “No, it’s not. Not yet,” Nibsy said.

  The shot went off, shattering the night before Dolph even realized the boy was holding a gun, before he could turn and fight.

  “But you are.”

  As Dolph slumped onto Leena’s grave, everything fell into place.

  In that instant, Dolph knew what he should have figured out long before but had been too willingly blind to see. Of course it had been Nibs, the very person who had guided his every decision after he lost Leena. The one who had known what the Brink took from him, who had suggested that he use Paul Kelly to pressure Harte.

  Even before all of that, it was Nibs who had assured him that Leena would be safe. How deep had the boy’s game gone? How blind had Dolph been
in his willingness to trust?

  He’d wanted an ace in his pocket and had chosen a serpent instead.

  But the knowledge had come too late. He felt his heart beat once, twice more, and then the cold night faded as the world around him went dark.

  A SECRET TOLD

  Khafre Hall

  The click of the heavy safe door swinging open echoed through the room. Esta could only watch as the men began to wrestle Harte into the massive safe. They’d rehearsed for this moment, and every single time, the rehearsal involved her getting into the Glass Casket. Her making her way into the Mysterium. Her finding the Book and the stone, and then her taking them, sifting through the layers of time and giving them to Professor Lachlan, where they belonged.

  She’d been so stupid not to be prepared for him doing something like this, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  “Wait!” she shouted, drawing the attention of the men to her. “A kiss for luck?”

  The men exchanged glances before shrugging and stepping aside.

  “She could have a key,” Evelyn said. “You should check her to be sure.”

  But if Evelyn had thought to expose her, it didn’t work. It took only a moment for Esta to open her mouth and demonstrate that she hadn’t hidden a key or pick there, and then they let her by.

  Harte’s expression was stony as she approached him.

  “Good luck, darling,” she said, loud enough for anyone onstage to hear as she slid her arms around his neck and tilted her face toward him. As her lips came closer to his, she saw the question—the challenge—in his eye. And she pulled time still.

  He gasped as the world went slow around him, his eyes wide with confusion, and then, with wonder. “So this is what you do,” he murmured. “This is your affinity?”

  “Shut up and focus,” she snapped. “We don’t have much time.”

  “It looks like we have all the time in the world,” he said wryly as he nodded to the nearly frozen room around them.