The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  “I don’t know what he took,” she pleaded, playing dumb.

  Jack gave her a mocking look. “I don’t believe that for a second. We both know that Darrigan stole some very important pieces from the Order—a book called the Ars Arcana and the five ancient artifacts. I want them back.”

  “I’m sure you do, but I can’t give you what I don’t have,” she said, meeting his eyes. “For all I know, the things you’re looking for are at the bottom of the river—with him.”

  “Darrigan might be at the bottom of the river, but I don’t believe the things he stole are.” He leaned down so that his face was close to hers. With his strong patrician features and his shock of blond hair, he might have been handsome. But there was a detached arrogance in his icy blue eyes that made her skin crawl, and his skin had a sallow, puffy appearance, the effect of the whiskey already scenting his breath that morning. “No . . . I think there’s a reason you were on the bridge yesterday. I think Darrigan told you where the Order’s things are. Perhaps he even gave them to you.”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t—”

  He shook her into silence. “Then he told you something. He wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to steal them only to toss himself from a bridge. You know more than you’re admitting. But don’t worry. . . . I have ways to get the information out of you.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” she said, straightening her spine against the threat. He wouldn’t get what she did have, either. As soon as he had her alone, she would do what she couldn’t do here. She would make him regret touching her.

  He cocked his head slightly at her boldness. “Do you know what’s happening right now, as you stand here pretending innocence? The Order is turning the city inside out to find its lost treasures. And they will destroy anyone who stands in their way. The longer you delay the inevitable, the more who will suffer.”

  He was right. People were being punished because of her. Because of what she had failed to do. But she wouldn’t allow him to use that against her. “To go to that kind of trouble, the Order must be awfully scared. They must know that without their little baubles, they’re nothing.”

  His eyes raked over her, too perceptive. “They’re the most powerful men in the country.”

  “They’re cowards. Preying on the poor and the weak. I’m glad Darrigan stole their precious trinkets. I’m glad the Order is afraid.”

  He did something then that she didn’t expect—he laughed. “Even without their trinkets, they could destroy you.” Then the amusement drained from his expression, and he pulled her close, his eyes not quite focused. He traced one finger down the side of her face. “But I could protect you from them. Once I have what Darrigan stole, you won’t need to fear the Order any longer.”

  At first his words made no sense. Then realization struck. “You’re not going to give any of it back to them, are you?”

  “Why should I?” Jack’s voice had gone bitter. “You’re right. The Order is nothing more than a bunch of feeble old men. Look how easily trash from the gutter broke through their defenses. If they had only let me consult the Ars Arcana, I could have rid the entire city of the danger. Their precious Khafre Hall would still be standing. I could have protected them.”

  With the machine. Harte had told her everything about the dangerous invention Jack had been working on, a modern solution to expand the Brink’s power and wipe out magic—and the people who had an affinity for it. “You would have killed innocent people.”

  “There are no innocent maggots,” Jack sneered. “The old magic corrupts everyone the same.” He paused, as though something almost humorous had occurred to him. “I suppose I owe Darrigan a debt of gratitude for liberating the Ars Arcana for me. With it I’ll prove to the world who I really am and all that I can do, and the Order will come on their knees, begging.”

  The nearby train let off another hiss of steam, a reminder that she was running out of time.

  “Because you’re smarter than them,” Esta said softly, infusing a breathiness into her voice as she tried another tactic. “You always have been.”

  Jack’s eyes widened, just a bit, and his breath caught. For a moment he paused, and Esta thought her ploy had worked. But then his grip on her arm tightened again. “Did you really think I would fall for your lies again?”

  She shook her head. She’d only hoped. “They weren’t lies, Jack.”

  The flicker of uncertainty passed through Jack’s expression.

  Ignoring the scent of liquor on his breath, she leaned in closer. “I never lied about my feelings for you, darling.” Then, before she could second-guess herself, she tipped her head up and pressed her lips against his.

  Jack’s mouth went stiff with surprise at first, but then he was kissing her. Or rather, he was mauling her, his lips overeager and without finesse, as though he could claim her simply by bruising her mouth with his. It took everything she had not to pull away or gag.

  An eternity later, Jack came up for air, his blue eyes glazed with satisfaction, and she thought he might even loosen his hold on her, as she’d hoped. Instead, his grip only tightened. “If you’re lying again—”

  “No, Jack . . .” She fought to keep herself calm, but inside she was screaming. It hadn’t worked, and now she had the stale taste of Jack coating her mouth. She began to gather her strength to fight him—to do anything she needed to do to get to platform seven before that train pulled away.

  “If you betray me, I will kill you myself. And no one will miss you when you’re gone. Not the trash in the Bowery and certainly not your con man of a magician.” A dark amusement flashed in his cold eyes. “He’s too busy feeding the fish in the Hudson.”

  “You sure about that, Jack?” a voice said, and Esta didn’t need to look behind her to know that Harte had finally found her.

  A VISION OF LIGHT AND POWER

  1902—New Jersey

  Harte Darrigan knew he was a bastard in every sense of the word, but he couldn’t stop the wave of possessiveness that flashed through him when he saw Esta tip her chin up and press her lips against Jack Grew’s.

  The train to Chicago was about to leave, and there had been no sign of her on the platform where they’d agreed to meet, so Harte had gone looking. He’d come around the corner and found her with Jack, and there was no mistaking what he saw—she had kissed him. On purpose. Even now, pinned against Jack, she wasn’t struggling to get away. And if anyone could get away, it was Esta.

  For a moment the only thing Harte could bring into focus was the way her fingers were curled around the lapels of Jack’s coat. The voice inside of him had roared up, shrieking with a deafening pitch as it clawed at its confines, and by the time he had pushed it away and shoved it back down, Jack was speaking.

  “. . . con man of a magician . . . too busy feeding fish in the Hudson.”

  Rage had slammed through Harte, and the voice echoed in approval. “You sure about that, Jack?” he asked, gratified to see the surprise drain Jack’s face of color. But in the space of a heartbeat, Jack’s expression rearranged itself—surprise transformed to confusion and then to recognition—and he pulled Esta back against him, pinning her to him.

  Harte took a step forward, but Esta shook her head.

  For an instant the fury within him rose up again, but then he saw how wide her eyes were. There was a fear in them so uncharacteristic that Esta almost looked like a different person. Suddenly the station seemed to fall away, and it felt as though the entire world had narrowed down to the whiskey-colored irises of her eyes.

  Her eyes were wide, and her expression was blank with terror. The stones around her glowed, a fiery circle of light and power. One by one the stones went dark, and then the blackness of her pupils seeped into the color, obliterating it, spreading to the whites of her eyes, until all that looked back was darkness. Emptiness. Nothing. And the darkness began to pour out of her. . . .

  He stepped forward blindly, not knowing what he could possibly do. Not sure what he
was even seeing.

  “No!” she told him, the fear in her voice stopping him in his tracks. “Stay back.”

  All at once, the vision dissipated. They were in the station once more, and Esta’s eyes were golden. They were still frightened, but there was none of the yawning blackness he’d seen just moments before. And Jack was smiling as though he’d already won.

  “I’d listen to her if I were you,” Jack said, his voice calm and level, as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather or the price of bread. “Or don’t listen. It doesn’t much matter to me. If we’re being honest with one another, I’ll probably shoot her either way.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “But then, honesty isn’t something you’re familiar with, is it, Darrigan?”

  Honesty? The voice suddenly roared inside of him. What could he know of honesty?

  Disoriented and filled with a combination of guilt and rage that he didn’t quite understand, Harte tried to pull himself together. “Playing with guns again, Jack?” he asked, amazed that he managed to keep any tremor of fear out of his voice. “I’m sure the police over there would be interested in knowing about that.”

  “She’d have a bullet in her back before you finished calling them,” Jack replied lazily.

  The other passengers streamed around them like water parting for a rock in a stream, ignoring the tableau they must have made standing there, tense and clearly at odds. But then, wealth like Jack’s granted a certain amount of invisibility, Harte thought. No one questioned you when you appeared to own the world.

  Harte kept his focus on Jack so he wouldn’t have to deal with the fear in Esta’s eyes. “You don’t really want to hurt her, Jack. Your family might own half the city, but murder is murder. There will be consequences for shooting a girl in the middle of a train station.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll find that you’re wrong about that,” Jack said, and Harte didn’t like the gleam in Jack’s eyes. “Even if there are certain inconveniences, I think you’ll find that I’m willing to deal with quite a lot to get what I want. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

  The determination in Jack’s tone was a stone in the pit of Harte’s stomach. “I know you are, Jack. But you don’t have to—that’s what I’m trying to tell you. We can make this easy. You don’t need to hurt her. She doesn’t have what you’re looking for.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed, but Harte could read the anticipation and eagerness in his expression. Just keep him interested. Because without Esta . . .

  He couldn’t let himself think about that.

  “And you do?” Jack asked.

  “No—” Esta started to say, but another jerk from Jack had her gasping instead.

  Harte tried to send Esta a silent message, what he hoped was an encouraging look to let her know everything would be fine. They’d get out of this mess. He would get them out.

  “Of course I do,” Harte answered lazily. He knew what Jack wanted. It was the same thing Jack—and everyone else—had wanted from the beginning: the Book. And all the knowledge and power it contained. Well . . . Jack could have one of those things.

  “Where is it?” Jack demanded.

  Harte didn’t know whether the decision he was about to make was the right one or if it was his biggest mistake yet. But from the wild look in Jack’s eyes, Harte knew that Jack would do everything he was threatening. After all, to Jack, Esta was expendable. Jack didn’t know what she was, couldn’t even begin to imagine how useful she might be to him, so Jack wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her. And if that happened—if Esta died here and now—Harte would be lost as well.

  He shuddered as the voice tried to claw its way to the surface of his mind. Pushing him forward. Compelling him.

  Harte took the Book from inside his coat.

  “You can’t—” Esta said when she saw it, but Jack pushed her forward, silencing her with the threat of the gun in her back.

  Jack’s eyes widened slightly, and a hungry gleam shone within them. “Give it to me,” he snapped.

  “I know how much you want this, Jack,” Harte said, pulling around him the familiar role he’d perfected over the past few years—the even-tempered, ever-confident magician. “How many times did you tell me about how your uncle and his friends kept you from everything you could be by refusing to let you have access to this Book? Well, here it is, Jack. You can have it—the power of the Ars Arcana and all the knowledge it contains. You simply have to release Esta, and it can be yours. All of it can be yours.”

  Jack’s icy eyes were determined, and Harte could sense that Jack’s desire for the Book burned hot and bright. He wanted to accept. . . .

  Then Jack’s expression shifted, and his lip curled slightly on one side. “Now I know you’re lying. You expect me to believe you would give up all that for her? After all you’ve done to get it?” Jack shook his head. “No girl is worth that.”

  Harte let out a derisive chuckle, even as his stomach threatened to turn itself inside out. “Well, by all means . . . keep her, then—I’d rather have this anyway,” he lied, making a show of tucking the Book back into his pocket as he turned to leave.

  Ignoring the way Esta’s body went tense, Harte shoved down the voice that roared its displeasure at the idea of leaving her behind. All around him, the station seemed to recede. The smell of coal smoke in the air and the noise of the early morning travelers. The hiss of steam from a train nearby and the final call of the conductor. None of the noise or sights of the station touched him, because all his energy was focused on walking away from Esta.

  Harte got exactly three steps away before Jack did exactly what he had hoped.

  “Wait!” Jack shouted.

  Harte turned slowly, pretending to be annoyed at Jack’s change of mind. “Yes?”

  Jack lifted his chin, a sharp jerk that punctuated the demand in his words. “If it’s really the Ars Arcana you have there, you should be able to prove it. Some demonstration of the Book’s power will suffice.”

  Harte kept from showing any bit of the relief he felt at Jack’s words. “Of course . . .” He withdrew the Book again. His heart was pounding away in his ears as loudly and as steadily as a train careening down the tracks.

  Esta’s eyes were determined, frantic to convey a single message that Harte was just as determined to ignore—no.

  Trust me, he pleaded silently, but he couldn’t be sure she understood.

  He made a show of examining the Book, of riffling through its uneven pages and admiring it. “Despite its humble appearance, this Book is quite amazing. I’ve learned so much from it already,” Harte told Jack, settling deeper into the role and taking comfort in that familiar, reliable part of himself. “I think you would be very impressed to see what I can do with it.”

  Jack only glared at him. “I doubt it. If that book had any real power, you wouldn’t still be standing here talking.”

  Harte gave a conceding shrug. “You’re right, Jack. So let’s not talk any longer.” He held the Book out in front of him.

  Esta’s face was creased in pain, her expression urgent with panic. “No, Harte. You can’t—”

  But before she could finish, Harte tossed the Book into the air, high over their heads.

  THE CHOICE

  1902—New Jersey

  Esta had stopped worrying about the ache from the gun shoved against her lower back the moment she saw Harte take the Book from his coat and hold it out to Jack like an offering.

  “No!” she screamed as Harte launched the Book into the air.

  It felt like everything happened all at once: The moment the Book was airborne, Jack loosened his hold on her and leaped for it. In almost the same moment, Harte lunged toward her and took hold of Esta’s wrist, urging, “Now!”

  With a sudden flash of realization, she understood what Harte had intended all along, and with a speed and sureness that came from a combination of instinct and years of training, she drew on her own affinity and pulled time slow . . . just as the Book fell into Jack’s outstr
etched hand.

  Esta nearly crumpled in relief as the station around them went eerily silent—steam from the nearby engine hung in the air, an immovable cloud of vapor and dust that cloaked the figures trapped within it, and the people on the platform froze around them. Jack, too, had gone still mid-leap, his face fixed in a wild-eyed look of frenzy, while his fingertips had just barely grasped the small leather volume that was the root of all their problems.

  Her affinity felt wobbly, unsure, but it was still there.

  Almost immediately, she was being crushed to Harte’s chest and surrounded by the familiar scent of him as he wrapped his arms around her.

  “Thank god you understood.” His breath was warm as he tucked his face into her neck, and she could feel him shaking.

  His words barely registered. She hardly noticed the warmth of his body, strong and solid, because every ounce of her concentration was now on the shaky hold she had on the seconds around her.

  Without releasing his grip on her, Harte pulled back and searched her face. There was a question in his gray eyes that she couldn’t quite discern, and for a moment she thought she saw the flash of strange colors in his irises.

  “Are you okay?” he asked finally.

  “I’ve been better,” she told him, shrugging off his concern with an instinct that years of training under the stern hand of Professor Lachlan had impressed upon her.

  In truth, her legs felt like jelly, and the place where the gun had prodded her—just above her right kidney—still ached from the pressure. She’d have a bruise there later, but she would gladly take the bruise over the bullet that would have certainly been deadly.

  All around her, the material net of time seemed to waver and vibrate . . . or maybe that was her own magic. Her power was there, but it felt slippery and too volatile, and she was concentrating harder than she usually had to. The more she focused on not losing hold of time, the more she felt a pain building behind her temples.