The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  Sensing trouble, the patrons in the barroom murmured uneasily as Kelly and his men stopped just inside the doorway and surveyed the saloon. Most kept their eyes down, studying their cups as though the liquid within them might burst into flames at any moment. A few drained their glasses and left, giving Kelly and his men a wide berth as they departed.

  Seemingly pleased with the reaction his entrance had caused, Paul Kelly made his way through the unusually quiet room. As he approached, James rubbed his thumb along the silver topper of his cane—a gorgon head with the face of an angel. Leena’s face. The silver snakes that coiled beneath his thumb felt unnaturally cool, a reminder that whatever strength the Five Pointers might have in the streets, James and those he now controlled had power that Paul Kelly could only dream of.

  But the coolness was also a reminder of how much was at stake. There was power locked within the silver gorgon head—the part of her affinity that Dolph had taken from Leena and used to ensure his control over the Devil’s Own. But that power was useless to James, who didn’t have the affinity to reach it . . . not until he had the Book to unlock it.

  Kelly was nearly across the barroom, and James was still sitting. He refused to be seen as weak—not there on his turf and in front of his own people—so, ignoring the pain in his wounded leg, he stood up and steadied himself with the cane.

  Sundren as he was, Paul Kelly could not have felt the way the magic in the room flared as he walked through the saloon. The air filled with the nervous warmth of affinities on the verge of becoming, as each Mageus present watched, wary and ready, for whatever would happen. To James Lorcan, it felt in that moment as though the whole world was no bigger than that particular smoky barroom and the people within it, each of them holding their breath and waiting.

  “Paul,” James said, greeting Kelly like they were old friends. “What brings you to the Strega tonight?” He glanced beyond Paul Kelly to the boy the Five Pointers was holding. “Or maybe I should ask what you’ve brought me?”

  Kelly smirked. “My guys picked him up down on Broome Street. He’s got a pretty enough face,” he said, giving the blond a couple of sharp smacks on the cheek that had the boy wincing. “But not too many brains. He demanded I bring him to you.”

  “Did he?” James asked, ignoring the unsettled energy that permeated the barroom as he examined the blond.

  “He did,” Kelly said. “Which causes a problem for me. We need to get something clear, Lorcan—whatever mutually beneficial understanding we might have between us, I don’t take orders from you or yours. Got it?”

  “He’s not one of mine,” James said, turning his attention back to Kelly and assessing the danger in the air.

  “He says otherwise.”

  The blond was breathing heavily, as though he were in pain, and staring at James from his one good eye. James ignored his face and focused on the Aether around him. It was hazy, indistinct, but it didn’t seem to indicate that the stranger posed any threat. If anything, the way it was already fusing with the set patterns was a positive sign. He stepped toward the trio, the tap of his cane punctuating the uneasy silence in the bar.

  “Who are you?” James asked the blond when they were face-to-face. There was definitely something to the boy—the warmth of magic hung around him, clear to anyone who shared it.

  “Logan,” the boy told him, never once flinching under James’ steady stare. “Logan Sullivan.”

  “Who sent you, Logan Sullivan?” James asked.

  The guy’s expression never flickered. The Aether around him never wavered. “You did.”

  “I did?” James said, studying the stranger for some sign of deception.

  “That’s what he kept telling my guys,” Kelly said.

  “He’s lying,” James told Kelly as he continued to eye this new entity. “I don’t know any Logan Sullivan, and I certainly don’t know him.”

  “You do, and I can prove it,” the boy said.

  James got the sense this Logan Sullivan, whoever he was, wasn’t lying. At least he didn’t believe he was lying. Which wasn’t going to help James’ position with Kelly. He had to neutralize this danger quickly, before everything he’d so carefully positioned started to fall apart.

  “I’m not interested in listening to your lies,” James said, starting to turn away.

  “Maybe you’d be interested in the Delphi’s Tear,” Logan said. “It’s here, you know. In the city . . .”

  James turned back to Logan. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Logan told him, his expression never wavering. “You want the ring? I can find it for you. It’s not far from here, but it’s moving even as we speak.”

  “What’s this?” Kelly asked, his voice dark and suspicious.

  It was a delicate thing, to lead Kelly on without giving him too much. Information was power, and knowledge was the noose that could be slipped around a neck. But James didn’t hesitate in his answer.

  “It’s one of the jewels I told you about—the ones that Darrigan and the girl made off with.”

  “The ones I sent my guys after?” Kelly narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You’d better not have sent me on a chase, Lorcan.”

  “I didn’t,” James said, ignoring the threat. “Darrigan and the girl are out there, and when you find them and the things they stole, the Order will reward you handsomely.”

  Or they would if I wasn’t planning on taking them first.

  James considered Logan. “Where’s this proof you claim to have?”

  “Left inside jacket pocket,” Logan told him.

  Again James was struck by the stranger’s steadiness, but he didn’t read any danger here . . . quite the opposite.

  James approached Logan again. “If I may?” The Five Pointers looked to Kelly, who gave them a subtle nod, and then James reached into Logan’s jacket and fished out a small, paper-wrapped package. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Open it,” Logan said, his gaze calm and sure.

  Too sure.

  James tucked the cane under his arm and made quick work of the wrapping. His eyes told him what he was holding before his brain could accept it. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “Like I said, you gave it to me.”

  It wasn’t possible. The small notebook he was holding in his hand was instantly recognizable. After all, he had an identical one in his own jacket pocket.

  “I didn’t give you any—” His words were lost as he flipped through the book to find his own cramped, familiar handwriting on its pages. He stopped and went back to the beginning. . . . It was definitely his notes.

  And his own notebook was definitely still in his pocket. Even now he felt the comforting weight of it.

  Flipping forward, James stopped at the page he’d written earlier that morning. But this notebook continued on, still all in his own hand.

  “What is it?” Kelly asked, clearly impatient to know what James saw in the notebook.

  “It’s nothing,” James said, closing the notebook. “He’s lying. This doesn’t tell me anything at all.”

  Kelly frowned at James as though considering whether to believe him. Finally, he seemed to relent. “What should we do with him, then? I can have my guys take care of it if you want.”

  “Leave him to me,” James told him.

  “You?” Kelly seemed surprised, and more than a little disappointed.

  “He’s dragging my name through the mud. I think I should be the one to deal with him,” James told him. Kelly wouldn’t have respected him otherwise. “He won’t bother you or yours again.”

  Kelly studied James for a long moment, and the unease permeating the room around them seemed to swell in the silence. But then he gave his two men another nod, and they dropped the boy, who crumpled to his knees, clearly injured.

  “Mooch,” James said. “Would you escort our guest to the cellar? Tie him up and make sure he’s quiet until I get there. With force, if need be.”


  “No—” Logan tried to scramble to his feet, but Mooch and one of the other boys were on him before he could get far. With his soft features, he didn’t stand much of a chance.

  James waited until they were gone before he gestured to the table he’d been sitting at a few minutes before. “Have a drink with me? I owe you for bringing that bit of trouble to my attention.”

  Kelly studied him for another long moment before agreeing. “What could it hurt?” he said with a shrug. “Let’s see what kind of swill Saunders stocked this place with.”

  “Better than you might imagine,” he told Kelly, well aware of the nervous energy around them as he thumped the other man on the back.

  James knew that every person in that barroom feared Kelly and the damage his Five Pointers could do. Even Dolph hadn’t been able to protect them from the Five Pointers’ viciousness in those final days.

  Let them see, James thought. Let them all see and understand exactly who I am and what influence I have.

  He poured two fingers of the house’s best whiskey for each of them and raised his glass in a salute. Kelly watched him toss back the liquid before drinking his own.

  “So,” James said as he poured another glass for each of them. “How is your delightful sister these days . . . still raising hell?”

  Kelly smirked. “Viola?” He laughed softly into his glass. “She doesn’t raise anything unless I tell her to.”

  Perfect, James thought. Exactly what I wanted to hear.

  A LAND SOAKED IN BLOOD

  1902—New York

  Barefoot and wearing nightclothes that were too large for him, Jianyu took a moment to test his balance while he had the bedpost to hold on to. The movement still made his vision waver, like he was looking through a fog, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to stay upright. It had been too long. Far too long.

  By now, certainly, the boy Esta had warned him about would have arrived. By now the boy would have made contact with Nibsy. Which meant that he’d failed. Again.

  He was not completely sure where he was, and he could not be sure how long he had been there. The times he had woken, he found that he could barely hold on to consciousness before the ground fell out from beneath him and he drifted back into the heavy darkness. But finally he had managed to claw free. The sun was slanting in through the thin curtains covering the single window in the room, and the air was warm and heavy with the smell of something laden with spices that were unfamiliar to his nose. But then he realized that he could pick out the sweetness of clove and the pungency of garlic, scents that reminded him of a home he would not see again.

  Spurred on by that thought, he forced himself to take a step, pausing to make sure that the earth remained steady beneath him, unlike a day—or was it two?—before. Then, his desperation to find the boy Esta had warned him about had been so urgent, he had pushed too far and instead collapsed to the floor, jarring his already tender head again.

  He took slow, tentative steps at first, testing himself, and when he was satisfied that his legs were steady, he followed the sound of voices through the door of the small bedroom and down a short hallway to a narrow living area, where he found three women sitting and stitching piles of men’s pants. Cela was one of the three, but where the other two were engrossed in conversation with each other, she was working with her head bowed, concentrating on the task in front of her. She seemed separate from them somehow. Where the other two wore simple dark skirts and faded shirtwaists, Cela was wearing a gown the same shade of pink as a tea flower. It was a simple day dress, like any might wear, but again he was struck by the cut of it, the sharp tailoring that made it seem like something more. Her nimble fingers finished the cuff of one leg and moved on to the next, but her expression seemed far away—more sad than thoughtful.

  He had spent only a few moments in her workshop at the theater, but that space had been neat and organized, the bolts of fabric stacked in straight lines and the bowls of beads and crystals arranged without even a spangle out of place. But nothing in this room sparkled. There was no silk or satin, and Cela herself looked tired.

  The older of the other two glanced up and noticed Jianyu standing there, leaning against the doorway to keep himself upright. She cleared her throat, causing Cela to look up as well.

  “You’re awake,” Cela said, the low tones of her voice making it sound like an accusation. “You shouldn’t be up.”

  She was right, of course. The words were no sooner spoken than Jianyu felt himself swaying, and Cela was on her feet in an instant, helping him to the chair she had just been sitting in.

  He thanked her, but along with gratitude, he felt the burn of shame. To be so weak here in front of these women. To be unable to fulfill his promises . . .

  “You okay?” Cela asked, settling herself on the floor and taking up the pants she had been working on a moment ago.

  He nodded rather than speaking, but the movement of his head caused his newly shorn hair to brush against his cheek, reminding him of all that had happened.

  The older woman was watching him as she stitched, while the other one, a woman just a few years older than Cela, kept sliding glances his way as well. But it was the older woman who was the first to speak. “So, Mr. Jianyu . . . how long will you be staying with us, now that you’re up?”

  “Auntie—” Cela said, a note of warning in her voice. But the words that came next, Jianyu could not follow. They seemed to be in English, or some of them did, but Jianyu had trouble making sense of them. His head, perhaps . . .

  But Cela’s aunt seemed to understand. She answered back using the same unfamiliar tongue. The two women spoke for a minute, trading words, and Jianyu did not need to know the language they were speaking to discern their meaning, especially when the older woman’s eyes kept cutting to Jianyu as the two spoke. After a moment, the older woman put down her sewing and motioned for the other to come with her, leaving Jianyu and Cela alone in the suddenly quiet apartment.

  Cela made a few more stitches, but then her hands went still and she let out a long breath. Jianyu could see the tears turning her dark eyes glassy, but he had nothing to offer her.

  “If I have caused you trouble with your family—”

  Cela shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “My auntie is just like that sometimes. My cousin Neola is a bit easier to abide.”

  “The other girl?” Jianyu asked.

  Cela nodded. Then she put aside the sewing she’d been doing. “How are you?”

  “Well,” he said, feeling that it was not a lie so long as he remained sitting.

  “You look better,” she told him. “That knock to the head you took was something awful. For a couple of days, I wasn’t sure that you’d wake up.”

  There was something in her voice that sounded broken and brittle, but Jianyu felt he had no right to ask. “Thank you,” he told her, his voice stiff. “You did not need to trouble yourself for me.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “You’re right about that, but seeing as how you got me out of the theater and away from Evelyn, I couldn’t just leave you half-dead on the streetcar. And don’t worry about my family,” she said.

  “Your aunt . . . she seemed angry,” he told her.

  “She usually is, around me,” Cela said, waving away his concerns, but at his questioning look, she let out a sigh and began to explain. “My mama’s family came from the Windward Islands. They always did think they were better than the people who’ve lived here for generations—definitely thought they were better than my daddy, who came from down South and whose parents weren’t even born free. She’s probably happy to see me sitting here stitching pants. They all told me I was a fool for trying to find a job in the white theaters. Said I didn’t know my place, and if I just listened to Mr. Washington, I’d know I need to cast down my bucket where I was, not go looking for other oceans.” She shrugged. “I always thought they were jealous because they didn’t make half as much money as I did. Maybe my mama didn�
�t give me her light skin, but she did give me her skill with a needle and her backbone. . . .” She hesitated, her gaze sliding away. “But maybe they were right all along.”

  Her words stoked something inside of him, some small ember of frustration he had carried over an ocean. He didn’t understand her situation, but he understood the note of disappointment in her voice. “I doubt that,” he told her, hoping that it was true for him as well.

  “I don’t know,” she said with another deep sigh. Her eyes were shining again with the wetness of unshed tears. “Maybe I should have just been happy with the lot I’d been given rather than searching out greener fields. I got that from my daddy, though. He was never happy with good enough—and neither am I. But all his wanting cost him his life in the end, and all mine cost me everything I had. My home. My brother.” Her voice broke, and she paused for a second as though trying to collect herself. “Now I’m back here, stitching some old pants, just like they said I would be. And the one person who understood me no matter what is gone.”

  “It seems, then, that I am doubly in your debt,” he told her.

  She shook her head. “We’re even now, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Darrigan sent me to protect you and the ring,” Jianyu told her. “I have done neither.”

  “I didn’t ask for no protecting,” she told him, her expression tight.

  “That matters little,” Jianyu said. “It was not well done of him to give you the burden of the ring, to put you in such danger without warning you of what might come. But it was I who failed to protect you.”

  “That stupid ring,” Cela said, pulling herself from the floor. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on it, or Harte Darrigan.”

  “I’m sure there are more than a few people who feel that way about the magician,” Jianyu said dryly.