The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  A NEW CITY

  1904—St. Louis

  Compared to the brisk spring they’d left in New York, the St. Louis night felt sultry and close against Esta’s skin as she walked next to Harte. None of the people crowding the sidewalks around them seemed to mind, though.

  Esta and Harte had crossed the Mississippi and arrived in the city earlier that day. After sending a few telegrams in Baltimore, they discovered that Julien was no longer in Chicago. The vaudeville circuit Julien performed on had taken him to St. Louis, and the two of them had followed on the first overnight train they could find.

  It had been something of a shock, arriving in the enormous train station filled with tourists in town for the world’s fair, but together they’d managed to find their way to a hotel and to get themselves some clothes. Esta told herself that she and Harte were just partners and nothing more, but a night sharing the close quarters of a Pullman berth had left her feeling unsettled and restless. It had been a relief to get a few hours to herself. Now they were outside the theater where Julien Eltinge was performing, waiting to purchase tickets. The excited murmuring of the people out for the night felt electric.

  St. Louis certainly wasn’t New York. The streets were wider than in lower Manhattan, and most of them were paved with pounded gravel rather than cobblestones. The air hung thick with the coal smoke coming off the barges and riverboats down on the Mississippi. While the streets were lined with restaurants, their gilded names gracing plateglass windows, the lights seemed dim compared to those that shone on Broadway or even in the Bowery.

  Esta wondered what Harte thought of it all. Ever since learning that she’d slipped them forward through time, he’d been keeping everything close to the vest. Even now his storm-gray eyes were steady as the line inched forward. But he was frowning slightly, as though he were weighing and measuring the world he was now a part of against expectations it could never live up to. Still, he looked calm, ready for whatever the evening held.

  Actually, considering that he’d spent most of the trip green from motion sickness, he looked damn good, dressed in a sleek black evening suit with his dark hair combed back away from the sharp features of his face. Esta wasn’t sure how he could possibly look so fresh, considering all the layers of linen and wool that he was wearing. He barely even looked warm, while she felt like she was wrapped in a blanket beneath the layers of corset and skirts. As a bead of sweat rolled down her back, she started to think that maybe picking the raw silk gown for the evening hadn’t been the best idea.

  It was too late to change now, though. Behind the walls of the theater in front of them, beyond the crowd with its champagne-tinged murmurs, was the first of the stones—the Djinni’s Star.

  “What time does Julien go on?” she asked as they stepped forward with the line.

  “He’ll be late in the show,” Harte said, glancing up at the marquee, where Julien Eltinge’s name was spelled out in the glow of electric lights. “Maybe around nine?”

  “I still think it would be easier to slip into his apartment and take the necklace,” she told him. They’d argued about it earlier on the train, but Harte had been insistent.

  “Maybe—if we knew for sure that the stone was there. But it’s not worth the risk of getting caught breaking in when I can just ask him for it.”

  “I never get caught,” Esta said, cutting a look at him. “And do you really think using your affinity on him is the best idea?”

  “It’s the simplest way.”

  But Esta wasn’t so sure. If her affinity felt off—shaky and unsettled—what must his be, with the Book’s power inside of him?

  The wind kicked up, providing some relief from the warmth of the night as it gusted between the buildings, rustling Esta’s silken gown and taffeta wrap. It had a cool metallic scent to it that promised rain, and the clouds overhead, heavy and gray in the twilight sky, seemed to agree. But it also carried something else—a warm energy that was the unmistakable mark of magic.

  “Did you feel that?” she asked, but Harte didn’t seem to know what she was talking about. He stepped up to the ticket counter, and she focused her attention on the people around them. At first nothing seemed amiss, but then she saw the girl in blue.

  If Esta herself hadn’t been a thief, she would have thought nothing of the way the girl tripped or of the way the guy leaning near the lamppost reached out to keep the girl from falling. But Esta was a thief, so she didn’t miss the flick of the girl’s wrist or how the guy palmed the small package in the exchange, using the girl’s clumsiness to cover for tucking it into his vest.

  It took only a moment. The girl in blue thanked the guy and kept walking onward. The guy continued to lean against the lamppost, his broad-brimmed cowboy hat shielding his eyes and hiding most of his features except for a hard mouth. His shoulders had a slouch to them that Esta suspected couldn’t be taught.

  She was still trying to figure out what the girl might have given the guy when the shrill trilling of a whistle split the air. A moment later Esta turned to see a trio of men running toward the theater. They were wearing long, knee-length dark coats and had white bands with some sort of insignia wrapped around their right arms. On their lapels, golden medallions flashed in the lamplight. They were a bit smaller than normal police badges, but they had the same official look to them.

  The guy with the broad hat glanced up at the commotion, but that stiff mouth of his didn’t betray any surprise or fear. Instead, the corner of it kicked up, like he’d been expecting them all along. He pulled out a pocket watch that flashed in the light cast by the lamp when he opened it. Lazily, he twisted the dial of the watch, like he had all the time in the world.

  Then he tipped back the wide brim of his hat—and looked straight at Esta. He blinked, and then his eyes widened ever so slightly. The motion pulled the sleeve of his shirt back enough to expose a black circular tattoo that wound around his wrist. If he’d been surprised to see her staring, the moment passed quickly. He gave her a wink as he snapped the watch shut, and a burst of icy-hot energy ricocheted through the air . . . and he was gone.

  She was still staring at the place where he’d disappeared when Harte pulled her back, knocking her off-balance as the three men burst through the line of people waiting. As they passed, Esta felt another wave of magic in their wake. Instinctively, she pulled her own affinity back as she caught herself against Harte.

  She felt his arms tighten around her, and her skin burned from his closeness.

  But if Harte noticed the same electric pull between them, he didn’t show it. “I felt that,” he said, frowning as he looked for any evidence of danger. “Come on . . .” He led her toward the entrance to the theater as the trio reached the lamppost and grabbed an unsuspecting man who’d been sitting on a bench near where the cowboy had been.

  “But—” She was craning her neck, trying to see what was happening and looking for some sign of where the guy with the watch had disappeared to.

  “We don’t need to get wrapped up in whatever that is.” Harte had his arm around her still as he led her into the lobby of the theater.

  “That was magic,” she said. “How can there be magic here?”

  “I don’t know,” Harte told her, glancing back at the doorway of the theater. “But it didn’t exactly feel natural.”

  “It felt . . . off, didn’t it?” She should have pulled away from him now that they were inside, but she didn’t. Even through the layers of material between them, she could feel the warmth of him, an antidote to the cold, unnatural energy that still sifted through the air. Instinctively, she shifted closer, wanting to dispel the unease the event had left in its wake. As she breathed in the warm scent of him, clean and crisp and so familiar, she leaned into him.

  It was a mistake. Harte’s posture went rigid, and his expression went carefully blank as he unwrapped his arms from her waist and stepped back. “It reminded me a little of the Brink,” he said, his tone neutral and matter-of-fact, like he’d never touch
ed her—or at least as though he hadn’t meant anything by it. “But what caused it?”

  Esta shook off the sting of his indifference. If that’s how it’s going to be . . . “From what I saw, they seemed to be after some cowboy wannabe with a magical pocket watch.” She told him about the girl and the drop, and how the guy had looked right at her before he’d disappeared. “It was like he’d already known that they wouldn’t catch him.”

  “But he saw you?” He frowned as though this was a problem.

  “Looked right at me,” she confirmed, remembering the way his expression had shifted slightly when he’d seen her. “But then, I’d been watching him first. Maybe he noticed.”

  “Do you think they could have been from the Order?” Harte asked.

  “The way they were dressed?” The Order only admitted the richest and most exclusive men in the city—old money. “They didn’t look the type.”

  “Then who were they?” Harte asked, frowning. “And who were the people who seemed to be after them?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like anything about this,” she told him. When they had arrived in Baltimore the day before, nothing had seemed obviously different, and she’d breathed a little easier, hoping maybe it meant that Jack having the Book hadn’t changed things too dramatically. But the cowboy with the watch and the uniformed men set off alarms. She’d never heard of anything like that before—not outside the Brink. “Let’s just go. We can check out Julien’s house tonight and come back here tomorrow, if we need to.”

  Harte looked back at the lobby doors and then at the street beyond like he was considering their options. “We’re here already,” he said after a moment. “Whatever that was seems to be over now, and no one out there was all that alarmed by it. We’ll keep alert, but for now let’s just get on with it and get out of this town before we run into anything else.”

  Esta didn’t like it, but Harte was right. They’d come this far, and for her to back out now would mean admitting she was afraid. And she wasn’t about to do that, especially when he didn’t seem to be.

  The theater’s marbled lobby gave way to crimson carpet and walls dripping with crystal and gold. Compared to the spare brick exterior, the opulence of the theater itself was a surprise. When they made their way into the theater proper, the cavernous domed ceiling was painted with scenes of angels and gods, while crystal chandeliers lit the entire space with a soft, sparkling glow. Although the bill was vaudeville, the audience could have been attending a night at the opera as they sat in their velvet-lined seats draped in silks and furs and ornamented with jewels. Dressed in their finery, no one seemed bothered by the stuffy warmth of the air. Women lazily fanned themselves and men quietly dabbed at the beads of sweat on their foreheads without complaint.

  Esta’s fingers itched. In the dark, it would be so easy to take one or two of those jewels, especially since she didn’t know what else lay ahead for them. The security that one emerald brooch might offer was more than tempting . . . but they still had to find Julien and get the necklace from him. Sticking around long enough to be caught was a rookie mistake, and Esta was anything but a rookie.

  They’d only just gotten to their seats when the lights went down, leaving the theater in darkness except for the expanse of the crimson velvet curtain over the stage and making it impossible to talk anymore about what had happened. Next to her, Harte leaned forward ever so slightly, waiting for the curtain to rise. She used the cover afforded by the darkness in the theater to study him, his sharp features all shadow and light from the glow of the stage. His eyes were serious as the first act came on and split the silence with song.

  For Esta, the next hour felt like it would never end. Stuck in the seat between Harte, who was leaning away from her like he didn’t want to even bump her elbow, and an old woman whose furs smelled so strongly of mothballs that Esta’s eyes watered, she couldn’t manage to work up any interest in the acts. She didn’t care about the troupe of dancers who kicked their bare legs to the ceiling or the small, goateed man who performed a monologue that at any other time might have had Esta in stitches. Not even the svelte woman dressed all in black who swallowed swords while telling bawdy jokes. It was more than an hour into the show when an act finally caught her attention—a woman who sang in a sultry contralto.

  The woman wasn’t classically pretty, but there was something completely compelling about her. She had an interesting face, with pale, milky skin and lightly flushed cheeks. Her wide mouth was painted in a bow, and she was dressed in a glittering aquamarine gown accented with pearls. The woman consumed the stage without moving more than a foot or two in either direction, and her voice . . . It was clear and resonant and contained all the pain and hope and wonder of the lyrics of the song.

  “It’s time,” Harte whispered, leaning forward and gesturing for Esta to go.

  “What?” She turned to him, confused. The plan was to leave while Julien was on the stage, so they could beat him to his dressing room.

  “It’s time,” Harte repeated, nodding toward the woman on the stage.

  “I thought we were going to wait for Julien’s act,” she whispered.

  “We were.” Amusement sparked in his eyes. “That’s Julien.”

  INFAMOUS

  1904—St. Louis

  Harte knew that he should have prepared Esta for Julien’s act, but the look of surprise on her face made keeping the secret worth it. The delight in her expression was also an enormous relief. The truth was, Harte hadn’t exactly been sure how she would react to learning that Julien Eltinge had made a name for himself by impersonating women on the stage—not everyone accepted Julien’s particular talent. But Esta took one more look toward the stage, her full mouth parted in a sort of awe as Julien hit a heartrending and impossibly high note, and she smiled. Then she gave Harte a sure nod and gathered her skirts in preparation to leave.

  She was dressed in a gown of cloud gray, one she’d picked because she’d thought it was sedate enough to avoid notice. He didn’t have the guts to tell her that it had the exact opposite effect. Made from a silk that looked almost liquid, it rippled against the ground as she walked, making her look like some sort of otherworldly apparition. It had drawn the eyes of men—and women—all the way from the hotel to the theater, and it had taken everything in him not to reach for her, to put a proprietary arm around her, so that every one of those onlookers—and Esta herself—knew who she was with.

  But he didn’t, because after he’d spent the last twenty-four hours in close quarters with her—first on the train and then as they navigated the unfamiliar city to find a hotel and buy evening clothes—what little self-control he had was fraying.

  It had been a mistake to touch her earlier. He’d acted on instinct to pull her out of the way before those men in the dark coats had knocked her over, but the moment his arms had gone around her, he’d sensed her—the energy of her affinity, the heart of who and what she was—even through the thin leather of his gloves and the layers she was wearing. And then she’d settled into his arms as though she belonged there. He could have kissed her right there in the middle of the crowded lobby and damn all the repercussions.

  The power inside of him had certainly wanted him to, but the way it had swelled at Esta’s nearness had been enough to bring him back to himself, and he’d held it together. He had pushed the power and all of its wanting down and let go of her. He’d managed to keep his hands to himself ever since. He’d just have to keep managing.

  “Harte?” Esta asked.

  “What?” He blinked and realized she was staring at him. She’d been saying something, and he’d missed it.

  “I said, which way?” she asked, unaware of the true direction of his thoughts.

  Once they were back in the lobby, Harte could hear the rumble of applause within as Julien finished his first song, even through the closed theater doors. They’d have fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before his act was over—not much time considering that Harte hadn’t had a chance to
case the building.

  But theaters were all pretty much the same, and Harte understood the rhythm of life on the stage and the way the world behind the curtain ticked like the gears of a clock, hidden and essential. He went with his instincts and led the way to an unremarkable door at the end of the lobby. Once through it, the lights were dimmer and the familiar energy of backstage enveloped him. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust as he took off his gloves—just in case. He prepared himself, making sure that the power inside of him was locked down tight as he took Esta’s hand in his. Ignoring the surge of warmth and wanting that rose up within him, he led her through the maze that was backstage, toward where the dressing rooms were housed.

  When they turned a corner, they ran into a woman with dark blond hair and an armful of fabric. From the look of it, she was a costumer, one of the backstage workers who took care of the performers in between acts, and for a moment Harte thought of Cela—of his mother—but when the woman’s eyes went wide at the sight of them, Harte knew it meant trouble.

  “You’re not supposed to be back here,” the woman said, her brows drawing together as she looked the two of them up and down, taking in the evening clothes they were wearing.

  Esta’s hand tightened around his, but Harte simply pasted on his most charming smile—the one that usually got him whatever he wanted. “No wrong turn at all,” he said as he dropped Esta’s hand and extended his now-free hand toward the woman. “Charlie Walbridge.”

  The woman only frowned at him as she looked down at his bare, outstretched hand with brows bunched. Her nose scrunched up as though he were offering her a rotten piece of meat.

  “Walbridge, as in the son of Cyrus P. Walbridge . . . the owner of this theater,” he added, dropping his hand and infusing his voice with a hint of impatience. “This is my fiancée, Miss Ernestine Francis.” It hadn’t taken much effort earlier to figure out who the owner of the theater was, along with the names of a couple of the other more important men in town. He had no idea if Councilman Francis even had a daughter, but he knew that names—certain names—had power.