by Lisa Maxwell
The moment his finger touched the ring, he felt cold energy prickle along his fingertips, but he pulled it off as quickly as he could. As soon as it slipped free of Krzysztof’s finger, the man’s body fell lifeless to the floor. Viola cursed and crossed herself again, but Harte forced himself to keep moving. They were taking too long already.
“I’ll work on this one. You do Frieda.”
He found the location for the ring and then together they found the indent where the crown fit, before they turned to Bridget.
“We’ll have to take out the knife,” he realized. His stomach turned with the very thought of it. “You’re better with knives than I am.”
Viola only glared at him, so he traced the seal around the place where the knife was protruding from Bridget’s stomach, and when he couldn’t delay any longer, he grasped its garnet-encrusted hilt and pulled hard. He felt the resistance of flesh and muscle against the knife, heard the suck of her body as it released the metal. Bridget fell, deadweight, to the floor, and blood began to ooze from the wound.
Harte turned away before his stomach revolted and focused on the task at hand. There was one space left, and he had to insert the knife vertically, so its blade sank into the glittering floor. When the stone in its hilt finally clicked into place, the last branch lit and the entire floor began to shake. And then it began to move.
The altar in the center began to rise, floating on the silvery discs. Beneath it, a portion of the floor lifted as well, and as the thick column of the floor rose, Harte saw that the altar was actually the top of a much larger cabinet, and within the cabinet was a book.
They approached slowly, watchful in case the table above them was some kind of trap. The Book didn’t look like anything special—it was small, no bigger than any of the ledgers Shorty used at the theater to keep track of ticket sales. The cover was crackled and dark with age, and it bore the same geometric design as the silver disks on the floor. Its pages hung out unevenly, as if the book had been added to over the years.
“That’s it?” Viola asked, her voice laced with disgust. “All of this mess, all of this waste, and it’s an ugly little thing?”
Harte reached his hand out slowly, waiting for some other trap. The moment his fingertips made contact with the cover, the green flames on the walls rose, flashing in a bright explosion of color that both he and Viola backed away from. Smoke filled the air, sickening and sweet and too familiar. Opium.
“We need to go,” she said, reaching for the Book.
But Harte had not come so far to lose now. Before she could get the Book, he grabbed it.
The moment his fingers were around its cover, a hot, searing energy shot up his arm and into his chest, and his head was filled with the sounds of hundreds of voices. Thousands of voices. The noise lasted only a few seconds, but to Harte it felt like a never-ending barrage of screams and chants and voices in languages he didn’t have words to describe. It felt as if time were standing still as they assaulted him, and then, just as quickly as they came, they were gone.
Or if not gone, they quieted. He could feel them still, inside of his head. Inside of him. They felt hungry.
He shook himself, trying to dismiss the last of the noise still whispering at the edges of his mind. He shouldn’t have been able to understand the strange languages, but he understood what they were trying to tell him. Touching the Book felt like reading a person—all impressions and images—but stronger, clearer.
All at once he understood how wrong he had been about everything. How shortsighted they all had been to misunderstand so thoroughly. All at once he knew what had to be done.
“What is it?” Viola asked when he just stood there with the Book in his hands.
“Nothing,” he said as he placed the Book in a bag and then went around the room to collect the other artifacts. “Let’s go.” He tucked the bag under his coat as the table began descending again. “I need to get back into the safe before they realize I’m gone or the whole thing is blown.”
“I’ll take that first,” she said, holding him at knifepoint. He began to feel a sharp driving pressure inside his skull, Viola’s way of warning him not to push.
He hesitated for a moment. But with voices still haunting his mind, urging him on, he knew what he was meant to do.
The opium smoke was growing thick in the room, but he wasn’t sure how much it had affected her. He’d have to take his chances that it had weakened her enough for him to get away. Before she could make the pain in his head any worse, he threw the bag into the air, and when her eyes followed it, he attacked.
THE REVEAL
The minutes ticked by.
Ten.
Fifteen.
What’s taking so long? Esta didn’t doubt that Harte had a way out of the safe. She’d seen him do more difficult escapes before—at least the safe wasn’t filled with water—but he wasn’t a thief. Once Harte was out, she had no idea how he would be able to manage the rest on his own before the Order realized what was happening.
Twenty minutes.
The audience began to murmur expectantly. Esta forced herself to keep a pleasant, unworried smile pasted on her face, but she felt every pair of eyes in the audience focused on her.
“It’s taking him quite a while,” the High Princept said, his expression unsure.
She knew he was worried. It was one thing to play a harmless prank on a performer, but it was another to watch a man possibly dying onstage while you stood by doing nothing to help.
Sam Watson looked a little too pleased. He leaned over as though to whisper but spoke loud enough that anyone onstage could have heard him. “Perhaps the great Harte Darrigan isn’t quite the master of the elements he claims to be?”
Across the stage, Evelyn smirked.
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Esta said, trying to pull away without much luck. “I have every faith he will succeed. He has command over forces far beyond your understanding.”
But as the seconds ticked by, that faith began to falter.
At half an hour, the audience was shouting for them to open the safe and let the magician out, but Esta told them to wait. If there was any hope that giving up all her secrets had worked, she needed to give Harte time—to get the Book and the artifacts and to get back into the safe, so they could both escape together.
Across the stage, the High Princept was growing more agitated, and Evelyn was watching with her red mouth drawn into a smirk and her eyes bright with anticipation. A moment later she touched the High Princept on the arm and leaned over to whisper something into his ear.
The old man’s eyes went curiously blank, and though he seemed completely calm, he barked for the vault to be opened. Evelyn’s doing.
The audience went quiet as the combination was given and the large tumbler of the lock was rotated carefully. Esta tried to pull herself away from Sam Watson, who seemed to have a grip of steel. If she could just get away, she could slow time and find Harte. She could maybe even get him back into that safe before anyone understood what was happening.
But before she could find a way to disentangle herself from the reporter, the door swung open.
A gasp swept over the theater when the audience realized Harte was no longer in the safe.
“It’s the girl!” Evelyn said, pointing at Esta as she came across the stage to where Sam still held on to her. “I told you, didn’t I? I warned you they were up to something.”
“So you did,” Sam Watson said as he gripped her arm even more tightly and jerked her around to face the High Princept.
“This is all part of the effect . . . part of the act,” Esta tried to tell them, but she couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice. “You simply have to close the safe and give him a chance to reappear.”
“She’s lying,” Evelyn said, walking across the stage to where Sam Watson held Esta. “Harte Darrigan makes other people disappear. He never gives up the stage on his own. He’s up to something, and she’s helping him, just like I told yo
u. She’s no baron’s daughter. It’s all a con. I heard them myself. ‘Here’s to bringing down the Order.’ Isn’t that what you said?”
Esta shook her head, but she couldn’t force out the words.
“Where’s the magician?” the Princept snarled, so close to her face that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Where is Darrigan?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. Not that he would believe her. Not that any of them would believe her.
“Lock the entire building down,” the High Princept shouted, his aged face turning an alarming shade of red. “I want every inch of this place searched until he’s found. And you—” He pointed at Jack Grew, who was sitting white-faced and wide-eyed in the front row. “This is your fault. I won’t forget that you were the one who brought them here.” Then he turned to Sam Watson. “Take her to the safe room, and if you ever want a chance at full membership, do not let her get away.”
The Princept stormed off down the steps, into the chaotic crowd, leaving Esta trapped by Sam Watson’s strong grip. The theater had erupted into chaos.
She tried to shake off Watson, but every time she tried to maneuver, he countered it easily. Finally, he had her pinned, so she couldn’t move.
“Please . . . this is a simple misunderstanding. I had nothing to do with him disappearing.”
“Shut your lying mouth,” Watson said, pulling her arms back until her joints screamed in pain. “You don’t think I know you were a part of this too? I know you’re one of them—” Before he could finish, Watson went stiff and released his hold on her. Suddenly, his head snapped backward, and then he buckled forward, doubling over and falling to the floor.
Esta stared, shocked. “Jianyu?” She didn’t have time to react before Jianyu materialized before her.
“Come,” he said, gesturing toward the back of the theater, where a large man stood in their way.
Jianyu put his arms up, ready, but she grabbed his hand instead and pulled at time. All around them, the movement in the room went slow. The frantic activity stilled. Men in tuxedos halted midstep as they tried to climb over one another, their faces portraits of rage and fear. Evelyn’s overly painted face froze in its look of shocked surprise as she reached for Sam, who was now lying on the floor.
Jianyu’s eyes went wide, and then he gave her a slow smile. “I see,” he said, nodding with appreciation. “Come. We’ll go together.” She watched as he maneuvered the small disks in his hand and saw the shadow fall around them. “It’s safer this way.” Then he started to lead her in the direction of the rear of the stage.
“We have to stop Harte,” she told him, pulling in the opposite direction. “He changed the act. He’s going after the Book.”
“I know,” Jianyu said, refusing to go.
“You know?”
“It was all part of the plan.” Jianyu gave her another tug, and she was confused enough that she let herself be pulled toward the room styled like an Egyptian tomb. When they found themselves back in that ornate chamber, she pulled him to a stop.
“I don’t understand.” All around them the building was silent, and the eyes of the enormous figures lining the walls seemed to watch them. “You knew he was going to switch the act on me?”
Jianyu nodded. “He came to Dolph with the idea a couple of days ago. He said he wanted to draw suspicion away from you.”
“No, that’s not right. It’s another trick,” she said, sure that it was only one more level of Harte Darrigan’s game. It had to be.
“If it’s a trick, Viola will dispense with him soon enough. Come.”
She didn’t trust Harte, but she knew what Viola could do, so Esta allowed Jianyu to lead her through the chaos of the building and out into the street.
Outside, the night was alive with confusion. Already she could hear the clanging sound of the fire brigades rushing toward them. There were flames lighting the western edge of the building, the dark smoke pouring out of broken windows. They used the confusion to dart away, toward the place where Dolph’s carriage was waiting.
When they made it to the carriage, Nibs looked down at them from the driver’s seat.
“Where’s Darrigan?”
“He’s not out yet?” Jianyu asked.
Nibs shook his head.
Esta’s chest felt too tight to draw breath. All she’d shown him, and it hadn’t been enough.
She heard the sound of footsteps coming toward them, and they all turned as one. For a heartbeat, hope flared in Esta’s chest. For the space of a second, she expected to see Harte.
But it was Viola, dressed all in black and running toward them. “Go!” she shouted as a group of men stormed out the door behind her. She turned long enough to throw a knife back at them, hitting one in the throat so he crumpled to the street.
“But Darrigan—” Nibs said as Viola climbed into the cab.
“It doesn’t matter. I have the Book,” Viola told him.
“You’re sure?” Nibs asked, his eyes flashing up to the building.
“I took care of him.”
“What do you mean?” Esta asked, not wanting to really understand. But understanding just the same.
“He’s gone, capisce?” She held up the bag. “We have what we came for.” Viola slammed the door of the carriage.
Nibsy whipped the horses into action, and the carriage leaped away, leaving Harte Darrigan behind them.
Viola’s eyes met Esta’s. “I’m sorry,” she said, and there was real regret, real pain in them. “I know the two of you had grown close, but I couldn’t let him take this.” Viola reached across the carriage and touched Esta’s knee gently. “If there was another way—”
“I know,” Esta told her truthfully. But she couldn’t stop the burn of tears behind her eyes.
“You truly killed him?” Jianyu asked.
“He attacked me first.”
Jianyu frowned. “Dolph trusted him.”
Viola’s eyes met his. “He shouldn’t have.”
Esta turned away from them both, pretending to stare out of the window of the carriage. Instead, she removed the clipping from the bodice of her dress. Despite everything that had gone wrong, it gave her some relief to see that it had returned to its original form.
No, Dolph never should have trusted Harte Darrigan, but at least he hadn’t won. The past seemed to have been returned to its original path, and the Book was safe in Viola’s care, which meant Esta still had a chance to complete the job she’d been sent to do.
She’d stolen from Viola and Dolph before. She could do it again.
She should have felt relieved, satisfied the job had been salvaged, so she didn’t understand why the ache in her chest when she thought of Harte dead felt as though the night would swallow her whole.
MADNESS IN THE STREETS
Bella Strega
When they made it back to the Strega, Dolph was nowhere to be found.
“We should wait for him,” Viola said when Nibs tried to take the bag she had carried from Khafre Hall. He tugged a bit harder, but Viola refused to relinquish it. “I give this to Dolph and no one else.”
Nibs frowned. “Then I suppose we should send someone to fetch him.”
No one expected that the bowler-hatted boys would return bearing his body instead.
They’d found Dolph shot in the back and already dead, lying across Leena’s grave. The boys carried him in with a quiet solemnity that seemed at odds with the garish shirts and vests, and they placed him on the zinc bar top. Even in death, his skin nearly as pale as the flash of white in his hair, Dolph’s very presence commanded the room.
The motley bunch of men and women he’d unified under his mark stood in an uneasy silence. There was no sign of the usual warmth of magic in the barroom. It had all but drained from the air, as though Dolph had taken it with him as he took his last breath, as though each of them understood that the one thing that had linked them was now gone, and in his absence—in the absence of the power of his mark—a
new consensus would have to be negotiated.
“He’d want us to go on,” Nibs said, his voice grave. “He’d want us to finish what we’d started.”
Dolph’s closest crew gathered around his usual table—Viola, Jianyu, and Nibs. Esta hung back at first, but Viola took her by the arm and escorted her back with the rest. Jianyu gave Nibs an encouraging look, and Nibs opened the bag and looked inside.
Esta knew from the way his expression changed that something was wrong. With shaking hands, he dumped the contents on the table. A few misshapen rocks. A small ledger bearing the theater’s logo. And the dried peelings from an orange.
They all stared at the items in a horrified silence.
“No . . .” Nibsy shook his head as he pawed through the items, turning them over, examining them. “No!” he shouted, pushing them from the table with a vicious swipe of his arm. He turned on Viola. “This is your fault,” he said. He had his finger in her face, and his expression was murderous. “You let this happen!”
Viola stared at the now empty table, shaking her head as though denying what they were all seeing. “No. I took the bag from him. I killed him.”
“Are you sure about that?” Nibs’ brows drew together.
“Certo! I know when I kill someone,” she snarled, looking every bit like Nibs would be her next victim.
“Did he touch you?” Nibs asked.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Did he touch you?” Nibs shouted. His face had turned a violent shade of red, and he was up in her face, so close that she could have bitten him.
Viola pushed him back and wiped his spittle from her face. “He fought me for the Book, so yes. He touched me. But he was dead a moment later.”
“If he touched you, he could have altered your mind.”
“What are you talking about? I killed him.”
“It’s what Darrigan does,” Nibs sneered, shaking his head at her. “He can read minds, and he can put ideas into them as well. All it takes is a single touch, skin to skin. You probably wouldn’t have even noticed.”