The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  Until then, hiding had to be enough for people like him—a quiet life, a quiet death.

  It had never really been enough. And sometimes death wasn’t quiet or easy.

  It had not been enough for his father, who’d withered away because of it. He’d done his best to raise North after his mother had run off, but by the time he died in the Chicago slaughterhouses where he worked, he’d become a small man, tired and far older than his years. The day North buried his father, he didn’t have enough money even for the plainest of tombstones, and there was less than a week left before his landlord would knock on the door, demanding the rent. He could have gone to the same plant where his father had worked and died, and they would have taken him on, tall and strong as he was even then. But he’d decided to go west instead, hoping that in the wide-open spaces of the country, he could find some kind of life for himself.

  He’d traveled to the endless sweeping plains and realized that no matter how far he went, no matter how big the sky above him, there wasn’t really any way to live free. Not for someone like him.

  The first time he’d heard of the Devil’s Thief, North was working at a stockyard in Kansas. He’d looked at the picture of the girl staring up from a crumpled piece of newsprint and had felt a spark of hope that had set him off to search for others who were also tired of never having enough. He’d ended up in St. Louis before he finally found the Antistasi, and once he saw Maggie, that was about it for him.

  If he’d been a little younger, he probably would have done something just as stupid as those kids. Had his daddy not been around to keep him in line for so long, he probably would have done something that stupid even without hearing about the Thief.

  He wondered for a second if those kids had fathers who would tan their hides for getting caught up by the Guard, or if they were on their own, like so many kids were these days. North supposed he’d have to take care of them later—get them out of the holding cell the Guard were bound to put them in and either get them back to their parents or find them a safe place to go. But before he worried about those kids, he needed to get to Maggie.

  Her building was a monstrosity of a thing, flanked by two enormous towers. Inside, a row of some mechanical contraptions helped to keep tiny infants alive. Ruth hadn’t wanted Maggie to bother with working at the fair. They had plenty of people to do reconnaissance, and Ruth thought she would have been better served to keep working on the serum. But small and delicate as Maggie might look, his girl had a spine of steel when she wanted something. In the end, Maggie had won . . . mostly. North still escorted her to and from work, but she tended to the children and watched for any with an affinity all the while.

  North moved along with the crowds until he came to the railing and could catch her attention. She looked up from her work and frowned when she saw him. They didn’t need words. From just a look, he understood her point, and he maneuvered his way through the crowd of mostly women to the side hall. A moment later, Maggie was there.

  “What is it?” she asked, clearly irritated that he’d interrupted her.

  “We might have a problem.” He told her about what he’d seen, about the Thief and the other guys she was with. “There’s only one thing they could want in there.”

  “The necklace,” she agreed.

  North remembered the first time he’d gone through the Cairo exhibit and had seen the necklace. He’d thought the five artifacts were nothing but myth, just as he’d doubted the Thief’s existence before he saw her, but there one was, real as anything else. He’d known it wasn’t a fake because he’d felt its power. Like the watch he had tucked in his pocket, there was an energy around it—an energy that was eminently compelling. But unlike his watch, the necklace had felt like so much more. He figured that every Sundren in that room felt it, even if they didn’t know why they were all enthralled by the display.

  There was no way the Society or any of the Brotherhoods could be allowed to have power like that. Ruth had planned to take the necklace in the confusion of the deed, but maybe that couldn’t wait. “Everything depends upon us having that necklace when the smoke clears,” North said. Without it, there would be little chance of uniting the Antistasi and leading them. Without the necklace and the power it could impart, the deed wouldn’t change who was in control—the members of the Brotherhoods were all rich men, living in a country where money could buy anything at all, especially power. No, the Antistasi needed the necklace so they could stand above the rest with power of their own. “We can’t let her get it first.”

  “No . . .” But Maggie was still frowning, her gaze distant like she was thinking through all the implications of this most recent development. Then she blinked and looked up at him. “Or maybe we just can’t let her keep it.”

  INVISIBLE ENERGY ALL AROUND

  1904—St. Louis

  The heat of the day had waned some by the time Jack Grew finally pulled himself out of bed, popped two more morphine cubes into his mouth, and made his way to the Exposition. St. Louis was a dump compared to the grandeur of New York, no matter how glorious the Society believed their little fair was. They’d never reach the status of the Order, now that he had transformed it, and their city would always be a backwater town wishing it were something more.

  Still, begrudgingly, he had to admit that the lights were something to behold. They covered every surface of the fair, reflecting in the enormous lagoon and shining brightly, late into the night. The crowds had started to dwindle, and the Streets of Cairo were nearly empty. They were also nothing more than a second-rate attempt at resurrecting the splendor of a long-lost civilization. It was nothing compared to what Khafre Hall had been, or what the Order’s new headquarters would be when they were complete. They didn’t even have an authentic obelisk, he thought with some disdain, not like Manhattan, where one was planted in Central Park for everyone to see.

  But none of that stopped Corwin Spenser and David Francis from preening about their Society’s offering at the fair—a singular stone set into an exquisite collar of platinum and polished so that it seemed to gleam from within.

  An artifact that had once belonged in the Order’s vaults.

  Do they know what they have? Jack wondered as he stared at the necklace in the velvet-lined case before him. Could these two men—and the rest of their ridiculous Society—know that the stone was one of the treasures taken from Khafre Hall? Were they gloating because they thought he cared about the Order’s power? Or did they truly believe they’d discovered some new object of power? He couldn’t be sure.

  He didn’t actually care. The Order and its business only interested Jack insomuch as he could use them. He had already proven how easily the Inner Circle’s leadership could be made inconsequential back at the Conclave nearly two years ago. Impotent old men, all of them.

  What Spenser and Francis didn’t realize while they boasted about the Society’s power was that the Order was simply a means to an end, a convenient tool for gaining Jack access to the right people and the right places. Places like this chamber, which had been closed for the night to the public but which Jack now had free access to, without the worry of being watched.

  “Where did you say you found this piece?” he asked, keeping his voice casual and easy.

  “Oh, we couldn’t reveal our contacts,” Spenser said, sheer satisfaction on his face.

  “With the number of people coming through, it must be difficult making sure that you secure a treasure like this,” Jack mused. “Quite the feat, really.”

  They took the bait. “Not difficult at all,” Francis boasted. “This chamber is fitted with the most modern security conveniences around. The walls are two feet of steel-reinforced concrete, impervious to bombs or bullets, and should anyone try to disturb the case, the doors seal over with vaults thicker than the bank downtown.”

  Inconvenient, but not impossible.

  “We’ve also protected against any . . . less desirable elements,” Francis added, his chest puffed out. “The vent
ilation system in this chamber is equipped with a machine that distributes a low level of suppressant for anyone who might think to use illegal powers to access it. Any disturbance and it increases the dosage tenfold, incapacitating the miscreant before they can cause any trouble.”

  “And the Antistasi?” Jack asked. “I hear your city has had trouble controlling that element of late.”

  Spenser bristled at that. “The Antistasi are not a threat to this city. The Society and their Guard have dealt with that problem, and should any other troubles arise, they too will be dealt with, swiftly and judiciously.”

  “Perhaps, but you failed to deal with the Devil’s Thief, did you not?” Jack asked, keeping his tone mild and enjoying the way their faces flushed in consternation.

  “We have it under control,” Francis insisted.

  “Do you?” Jack asked. “Because she will come for this piece, gentlemen. You must know that?” He paused, letting his implication sink in. “But you must have everything in hand, because it would be quite the embarrassment to have her take it from you before the ball, especially after all you’ve promised. I know my brothers at the Order are well familiar with the sting of that particular humiliation,” he said, clearly implying that they’d enjoy witnessing the same thing happening to others. “And they’re eager to see if the necklace is all that you’ve promised.”

  Spenser looked uneasy. “I’m sure you’ll be able to tell them that it is,” he said.

  “Of course,” Jack said. “Most definitely. Congratulations, gentlemen.” He offered his hand to Spenser first. “You’ve outdone even the Order, I think.”

  Spenser still looked somewhat uneasy as he took Jack’s hand. Perfect. Let them worry. It would keep the necklace safe from Darrigan and the girl until Jack could get his hands on it.

  Across the room, Hendricks—the Guardsman from the hotel—was watching the group. Jack said his good-byes and motioned for Hendricks to follow him as he headed for the exit.

  Outside, the Pike was as overcrowded as it was gauche. Jack led Hendricks away from the scene until they came to the building that housed displays of electricity. Inside the templelike structure, the De Forest Wireless Telegraphy Tower was sending messages through the air to Chicago and back. From what he understood, a similar technology combined with the hermetical arts was responsible for the Jefferson Guard’s ability to communicate so effectively and efficiently. According to Hendricks, the Guardsmen each wore a small medallion that could be activated to alert the others when a danger was spotted. It was, he reluctantly admitted, ingenious.

  It was also a development that had captured Jack’s attention, since it wasn’t all that long ago that he himself had been interested in building his own machine. He’d nearly forgotten about how close he’d been those years ago, but this exhibit made him want to revisit the idea. The Book, after all, held answers he could only imagine, and a secret within its pages that might make his machine finally possible.

  “Is there something you needed, sir?” Hendricks said. If he had any concerns about their excursion, he didn’t show it.

  “I want to know where the Society found the piece they’ve displayed in the Streets of Cairo,” he said. “The necklace that everyone comes to gawk at.”

  Hendricks’ brows went up, a question in his eyes.

  “I’m hoping they might help me find another,” Jack said easily. “I’m a bit of a collector myself.” He slipped the Guardsman a large bill.

  “I’m sure I could look into it,” Hendricks said, tucking the bill into his dark-coated uniform.

  “There’s much more where that came from if you do. I want to know everything about the necklace—where they store it, when it will be moved, everything. I need a good man to help me, Hendricks. I’m hoping that good man will be you.”

  “Of course, sir,” Hendricks said, his eyes shining with avarice. “Happy to be of service.”

  “Excellent, Hendricks,” Jack said, thumping him roughly on the back and leaving him there, with invisible energy all around.

  THE VEILED PROPHET

  1904—St. Louis

  Julien Eltinge was trying to catch his breath from the exertion of his final number as he walked to his dressing room, his heart still pounding from the excitement of the ovation he’d just received. It had almost been enough to erase the stress of earlier that day. When Darrigan and Esta had announced their plans to steal the necklace, Julien had seen his future crumbling. All his work, all his careful plans, destroyed on a whim. As though anyone could steal something from a place like the Exposition or from an organization as powerful as the Society. But his performance had recentered him, and the roar of the applause had eased the tension that had been building behind his eyes and the worry he’d been carrying in his limbs, just as it always did.

  He still remembered the first time he’d understood what applause meant to him. Not the sound of it or even the way people looked standing and cheering, but the way it felt. How it had hit some essential part of him, deep down in the very marrow of who he was. That first round of applause had broken open something in him, and it had sent him on a chase to find more. For a long time, he chased it high and low, as eager and determined as a terrier after a rat. Now he knew better. Now he let the applause come to him.

  All that he’d worked for, the success he’d dreamed of for so long, was almost within his reach. Every night he took the stage, the applause was louder. Every night, more and more people came to see his act, his artistry. And they understood.

  His parents had scoffed at him when he’d tried to explain it, but they hadn’t stopped him when he’d gotten on the train, his dreams packed in his suitcase next to the costumes he’d made for his act. They probably thought he would fail so miserably that he would be forced to crawl back to them and admit they were right.

  He had vowed that would never happen, and he’d kept that vow. He’d fought tooth and nail—and often with his fists—but in the end, he’d won. St. Louis wasn’t New York, but he was a star here, and that star was rising, and rising fast. Why, just that night he’d caught sight of Mr. Albee in the box to the left of the stage. It was a good sign that he’d come all this way to take in Julien’s act. He was one of the most powerful vaudeville promoters around, and Julien had a feeling he’d come to make good on his promise.

  An entire show of his own—a musical revue starring him, Julien Eltinge—in one of the biggest and most luxurious houses on Broadway. That could still come to pass, he told himself. Darrigan would keep his promise and retrieve that damned necklace before anyone realized Julien’s connection to it. Things would work out. He and his career would be fine.

  Julien closed the dressing room door soundly behind him and took the wig from his head, relishing the coolness of the air as it hit his sweat-damp hair and the solitude. Carefully, he arranged the curls on the dummy, making sure not to rumple any of them—it was more of a pain to fix them later than to take the time now. Then he grabbed his customary cigar from the dressing table and lit it, letting the richness of the tobacco coat his mouth and fill his senses. A reward for a job well done, as always.

  In the mirror, the sight of the thick cigar held between his painted lips made him chuckle to himself. With her dark lashes and brightly painted lips, her blushing cheeks and the way he’d used makeup to sculpt her features into something more delicate, a woman looked back at him. It was the transformation—not the femininity—that gratified him, not the corset that was currently cutting into his rib cage or the gowns with their heavy beading and ruffles that scratched at his skin or even the way women would cut their eyes in his direction, their jealousy proof of his success. No. It was the performance itself. It was the artistry of making one thing into something else entirely. The impossible magic of it.

  A sharp knock came at his dressing room door, and Julien called to see who it was.

  “You got visitors,” Sal said, poking his head into the dressing room.

  After the day he’d had, Julien si
mply wasn’t in the mood. “Tell them I’m not available.”

  The stage manager shook his head. “Not these visitors,”

  “Then tell them I’ve already gone,” Julien said, turning back to his reflection in the mirror.

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” a voice behind Sal said.

  In the mirror, Julien watched as the door opened wider to reveal a tall figure, its face shielded by a white veil of lace. The stage manager gave Julien a half shrug and moved out of the way to allow the Veiled Prophet to enter the dressing room. The figure closed the door behind him, and the sound of the latch engaging was as loud and resolute as a gunshot.

  “Mr. Eltinge,” the figure said.

  “Mr. . . .” Julien trailed off, unsure of how to address the man who was taking up all the air in what had been a sanctuary moments before. He was suddenly aware of his in-between state. Without his wig, he wasn’t completely one version of himself or another, and without either role to fall back on, he was at a loss.

  The night that the Veiled Prophet had come to demand the necklace, he’d made it clear that the Society had kept careful tabs on Julien from the moment he’d arrived in town. They’d believed his act to be a danger at first, a corruption of the true values of the esteemed people of the city. They didn’t need any of the tawdriness of the East, and if he misstepped, if he thought to bring any depravity to their town, they would act. They would end his career.

  He knew then that they hadn’t understood the first thing about him, and because of that, Julien had given in to their demands. He’d sold them the necklace for a song and everything had been fine—at least until Harte Darrigan and the girl had shown up and dragged him into this mess.

  The Veiled Prophet, whoever it was behind the screen of lace, didn’t bother to answer. “We have a proposition for you, Mr. Eltinge.”