The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  They waited five minutes, ten, the time kept only by the smack of the other man’s fist against the canvas bag. Finally, Paul appeared, dressed in his usual well-cut suit and with his dark hair slicked neatly into place, looking more like a banker than the thug he actually was. He embraced their mother and fawned over her for a minute or two, ignoring Viola completely. She wasn’t fooled into thinking he hadn’t seen her, though, so she wasn’t surprised when he finally turned his attention to her.

  Viola saw the attack coming—had expected it—and could have dropped Paul in his tracks to prevent it, but instead, she accepted the blow when the back of his hand collided with her left cheek. She stumbled and saw actual stars as her vision threatened to go black and she struggled to stay upright. But at least she had not so much as yelped at the pain. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  The next blow came before she was completely upright again. And then the next, until she felt the warmth of the blood trickling from her nose and tasted its coppery tang in her mouth. Her head spun too much for her to remain standing any longer, and she stumbled to her knees. It felt as though the world had narrowed to the pain her brother’s fists had brought to the surface of her body.

  Gingerly, Viola touched her mouth where her lip felt split. But she didn’t look up at Paolo and she didn’t say a word. She simply listened to the dull thump . . . thump . . . thump of fists hitting canvas, a sound that matched the beating of her own tired and scarred heart.

  Paul pulled her to her feet, and Viola’s head swirled as she tried to focus on him. His face was close to hers when she heard her mother’s voice saying “basta.”

  “I’ll decide what’s enough, Mamma,” Paul said, tightening his grip on Viola’s arm where their mother couldn’t see.

  Viola could smell his expensive cologne, could feel the heat from his body as he crowded her with his size. He was trying to intimidate her, as he had when they were children. But she wasn’t a child anymore. She hadn’t been for a very long time.

  “She needs to know her place,” Paul said.

  “You’ve shown her,” their mother said, her tone indicating that nothing more was to be said about this. “Whatever she’s done, she’s still family.”

  Paul glared at Viola, who met his eyes without flinching. He held her a moment longer, though, his viselike grip on her arm painful, before he finally released her. Then he walked over and, placing his hands gently on his mother’s shoulders, leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Mamma. I know how to take care of family. I take care of you, don’t I?”

  Viola didn’t have to look to know that her mother’s eyes had softened and her stern mouth had tugged up at the corners. She could hear the fondness in her mother’s voice. “You’re a good boy, Paolo.”

  It took everything Viola had not to snort at that.

  Paul called for one of his boys, and when two arrived, scurrying from the back room like rats, he told them to take his mother home.

  Before she left, her mother came over and took Viola’s chin with a sure grip. With an almost warm expression, her mother examined Viola’s bloodied face. “Listen to your brother, mia figghia. Later we visit Father Lorenzo, and you can confess.”

  “Yes, Mamma,” Viola murmured, lowering her eyes as the bitterness of the words mixed with the blood pooling in her mouth. She ignored the weariness that felt like a weight, the hurt that couldn’t be brushed away any more than the tattoo inked between the blades of her shoulders.

  After their mother left, Paul came over and looked at her face, disgust—and also jealousy—shining in his eyes. “I know why you’re back.” His wide mouth curled into a sneer. “Mamma, she thinks you came to your senses, but that’s not it, is it?” He gave her still-sore cheek a less-than-friendly pat. “No . . . It’s because the damn cripple isn’t around to protect you now, isn’t it?”

  She wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to curse his name and tell him that Dolph Saunders had been more of a man than Paul would ever be. But Viola kept her mouth shut and tried to keep the hate from her eyes.

  “What? Nothing to say for yourself?”

  “What does it matter why I’m here?” she said, her words thick on her swollen lips. “I came back. I’m yours to use again, aren’t I?”

  His wide mouth turned down. “You’re no good to me if I can’t trust you.”

  “Who else would I be loyal to?” Viola asked. “You’re right. Dolph Saunders is dead, and I’m not interested in dying or getting caught by some Order patrol. You think I haven’t seen your boys working with them? You think I don’t know you have friends in high places?” She shook her head. “I’m not an idiota, Paolo. I don’t have nowhere else to go. I’ll do what you need so long as you keep the Order away from me.”

  Paul didn’t speak at first.

  “I know what you want. . . . You want to control the Bowery,” she persisted. “Everybody knows what I can do. Everybody. You don’t think it will be a boon if they know I’m for you now?”

  He considered her, his face so much like her late father’s and yet so different. It was harder, less forgiving. Much, much more determined than her father’s had ever been.

  Paul stepped toward her, and before she realized what he’d planned, he had her by the throat, his large, meaty hands squeezing her neck so tightly she couldn’t draw breath. Tight enough that she would wear the mark of them. “You were smart to go to Mamma, little sister. I’ll take you on, for her sake. But if you go against me again, it will be the last time.”

  With every ounce of strength she had left, Viola pulled her affinity around her and pushed it toward her brother until his eyes went wide and he gasped, releasing her throat and bringing his hands up to his own. The man who had been punching the bag stopped his assault and started to approach them.

  “Call him off,” Viola told her brother.

  Paul’s eyes were filled with rage, but his face was turning purplish already from his inability to breathe. Finally, he lifted his hand, and the man halted.

  “I didn’t come back to hurt you, though the good lord knows I have every reason to, after what you’ve done. But you touch me again—if you let any of your men touch me—I will end you.”

  She released her hold on him, and he gasped, stumbling forward. “I’ll kill you myself,” he rasped.

  Viola simply stared at him, unimpressed. “The bullet better be quick, Paolo.”

  He glared at her. “It will be.”

  “And how will you explain that to Mamma?” Her lips felt tight as she forced her mouth into the semblance of a cold smile. “Don’t think I haven’t made arrangements to expose you if anything happens to me. Mamma will know all about your other activities, the whores and the criminals you depend on for your money.” It was a lie, of course. If she’d had anyone else to turn to, she wouldn’t be standing there, humiliating herself. “I need your protection, and in exchange I’ll be your blade, but you and your scagnozzi can keep your damn hands off me.”

  The siblings studied each other in tense silence until, finally, Paul huffed out a hollow breath that sounded like he was vaguely amused.

  Va bene. She needed him to respect her power, even if he didn’t respect her.

  “Go get yourself cleaned up.” He gestured to the blood staining her shirt. “Can’t have my blade tarnished, can I? You want my protection? You’ll work for it.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Viola was too tired, too jaded by the violence of her life to feel anything close to relief. But she did feel a certain satisfaction. Paul would have killed her already if he didn’t mean to keep her. Until she figured out what she needed to do next, she’d be safe. Or as safe as any Mageus could be in this city.

  But before she could go, the bell over the front door rang, signaling that someone else had come into the club.

  “James,” Paul said, stepping past Viola to greet the new arrival.

  She turned to see who had arrived. Silhouetted by th
e morning light was a familiar face, a boy of no more than sixteen with dirty-blond hair and gold spectacles. What is he doing here, when he’s supposed to be leading the Devil’s Own? He was leaning against a familiar cane, one topped with a silver Medusa head that wore the face of Viola’s friend Leena. It had once belonged to Dolph Saunders.

  Viola took a step forward, ready to rip the cane from Nibsy’s hands. He has no right. But the sharp look Paul gave her made her pause. It was too early to cross him. Too early for him to know where her true loyalties lay.

  “Thanks for meeting with me, Paul.”

  “Of course. You know my sister,” Paul said, gesturing absently toward Viola. “She’s recently come back into the family.”

  “Has she?” Nibsy Lorcan said as he limped into the room.

  She could see the questions in Nibsy’s eyes, but she didn’t say anything to answer them.

  “Hello, Viola. I can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Nibsy said, gesturing to his injured leg. His eyes glinted behind his glasses. “But it is certainly a surprise.”

  “I’ll give you a surprise,” she growled, taking a step toward him.

  “You already did.” Nibsy’s voice was lower and more dangerous than she’d ever heard it. It was enough to make her pause. Then he looked at Paul. “If you can’t control your sister, I’m not sure our arrangement will work out. Which would be a shame, since I brought the information you wanted.” He pulled a small packet of paper from his coat pocket and held it up, drawing everyone’s attention to it.

  “Enough,” Paul said, barely glancing in Viola’s direction. “Go clean yourself up, like I said.”

  “I’m not leaving until he gives me what’s mine.” She met her brother’s eyes, determined. “You want me to be your blade? It works better when I have a good knife.”

  Paul’s expression barely flickered, but Viola had known her brother long enough to recognize the cold calculation in his eyes. “You forget, little sister, that I know you don’t need a knife to kill. As far as I’m concerned, if Mr. Lorcan has something of yours, he can keep it . . . as a gift from me.”

  “You can’t—”

  “But I can,” Paul said softly. “You’re either back with the family or not. You’re either loyal to me—obedient to me—or we are finished.”

  Viola glared at him. She thought briefly about ending the entire farce—about ending Paolo. But if she did, then what? She would never be able to face her mother, and she would be on her own again. The beating she’d just taken would have been for nothing. And she might never discover what was in the package that Nibsy had offered Paul.

  She held Paul’s gaze a moment longer, to make sure he understood that she wasn’t afraid. This was a choice. She would bide her time and pretend to be dutiful, but when the moment came, she would make sure they regretted what they had done. Death was too easy for her brother. Family or not, first she would make him crawl.

  A SERPENT’S SMILE

  1902—New Jersey

  I knew it was you,” Jack said, his grip tight on Esta’s arm.

  He can’t be here.

  Shock paralyzed Esta for a moment—but only for a moment. Quickly on the heels of shock came the cold sureness of an emotion much darker than fear. Of course Jack Grew could be here. The nephew of J. P. Morgan, Jack was practically royalty in New York. His family would have simply paid the right people, whispered in the right ear, and Jack’s little indiscretion on the bridge would have been brushed away like the morning’s ashes. Never mind that the indiscretion was attempted murder.

  If it hadn’t been for Esta’s quick thinking—and her ability to pull time still and move Harte out of the bullet’s path—Jack would have killed him. With the terrible machine he’d been trying to build, Jack would have killed every Mageus in the city. Since he still had the same barely leashed wild-eyed look that he’d had the day before, Esta knew he was still dangerous, and she was not about to give him the chance to kill her, too.

  Gathering her wits and swallowing down the sharp taste of hatred that had coated her mouth, she drew a serpent’s smile across her lips and fell into the fake accent she’d used with Jack before. “Jack, darling,” Esta purred, gently testing the strength of the grip he had on her arm. “Is it really you?”

  “Surprised?” he asked, his mouth twisting into an answering smile that was all teeth and anticipation. His fingers on her arm just missed the cuff she wore beneath her sleeve.

  Esta ignored the fury in his expression and stepped closer. “When the police took you, I was so worried.”

  Jack blinked, taken off guard by her words, just as she’d hoped. He almost seemed unsure about what to do next, but he did not loosen his hold on her. Then his expression went brittle and cold. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “You were the one who helped Darrigan make me look like a fool. You ruined me.”

  “No, Jack,” she said, her eyes wide with feigned surprise. “You mustn’t say such things.”

  “You think I haven’t realized that you and Darrigan were in it together from the beginning?” Jack’s fingers were digging into Esta’s arm hard enough to leave a mark. “You don’t think I know that everything you told me was a lie?”

  Esta shook her head. “No . . . Darrigan used me,” she said, forcing her voice to tremble a little. She had one chance to get this particular performance right. “I didn’t know what he had planned that night. Don’t you remember? He left me there, alone on that stage, to take the blame. You have to believe me. . . .”

  “No. Actually, I don’t.” Jack glared at her. “If anything you just said was true, the Order would already have you. But you managed miraculously to get away—twice.”

  “I was afraid no one would believe me—”

  “Because you don’t deserve to be believed,” he snapped. “Darrigan got you out of Khafre Hall somehow, and then you managed to get yourself off the bridge, which means you know more than you’re saying.” He started to yank her along, pulling her away from platform seven.

  No. She wasn’t going anywhere with Jack. Panic was making her pulse race, but Esta drew herself up, and even though fear put an edge to her voice, she leaned into the role she had perfected to hook Jack. “Let me go,” she told him, using her most imperious voice as she tried to pull away.

  If it weren’t for the crowd, Esta would have dropped him in a second. Even with the crowd, a twist of her arm, a shifting of her weight, and Jack would be on his back. The problem was that if that happened, everyone in the terminal would be looking at her.

  Any other time she might have risked it, because as soon as she was free, she could have pulled the seconds slow and been gone. But disappearing like that would mean revealing what she was to Jack, and if her affinity was as weak as she felt or if she lost her hold of it—as she had on the bridge—she would be stuck with more witnesses than she wanted. She’d be at the mercy of the crowd . . . and of Jack.

  Esta’s mind was racing as she stumbled along, doing everything she could to slow Jack’s progress. The train nearby let off a hiss of steam, a sign that the boilers in the engines were nearly ready and a reminder that the train to Chicago would also leave soon. Other than the odd whispers of energy earlier, she hadn’t seen any sign of Harte. She had to hope that he would still be waiting where they’d agreed, but Jack was dragging her in the wrong direction.

  If she didn’t show up, would Harte assume the worst and believe she’d betrayed him? It wouldn’t be a stretch, considering their history. Would he come looking for her, or would he leave without her?

  A cold thought struck her: He can leave. She’d given him the Book. She had the stone, true, but she’d given Harte the Book as an assurance that she wouldn’t run. Why hadn’t she considered that he might? After all, he was out of the city now. Free.

  And she was trapped with Jack.

  It doesn’t matter. Whether Harte was waiting for her, as he’d promised, or had already abandoned her, she needed to focus. If sh
e could just get away from Jack, she might still be able to get out of town. She knew where the first stone was. She could find it—and since she knew where Harte was headed, she could find him, too.

  People around them were beginning to stare, so she decided to use that to her advantage and struggled more, putting up a fight to attract even more attention.

  “Please, sir,” she whimpered at a man in an ill-fitting vest and a scuffed derby hat, whose steps had slowed as he eyed the two of them. “I don’t know this man,” she pleaded.

  But Jack jerked her back, putting himself between her and the person she was appealing to. “She knows exactly who I am,” Jack told the confused stranger. “She’s our maid. Tried to leave town with my mother’s necklace.”

  The man eyed the two of them again, and Esta knew what he was seeing: Jack’s expensively cut suit, contrasted with the rumpled skirts she’d lifted from a clothesline that morning. That, along with her fake accent, and the man in the vest paused only a second longer before making up his mind. He gave Jack a nod and kept walking toward the train platform, taking all hope Esta had of a rescue with him.

  “Did you really think that would work?” Jack laughed.

  Esta glared at him. “Did you really think I wouldn’t try?”

  “What did you think would happen—that the police would come and take me away?” He laughed. “Not likely, and not long after the police took you into custody, the Order would have made you wish you’d ended your life on that bridge with Darrigan.”

  “Like you aren’t going to hand me over to them anyway.”

  The amusement that lit Jack’s eyes made Esta go cold. “Maybe eventually I’ll give you to my uncle and his friends . . . after I’m finished with you.”

  Her skin crawled. “If you think I’d let you touch me—”

  “If you think you have a choice, you’re not half as smart as you pretend to be,” Jack told her. “But I don’t want you. Women like you are a dime a dozen. I want what Darrigan took from the Order.”