The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Does that include you?”

  He inclined his head. “Most definitely. Although, if I had not known him, I would also not have met you, and it seems to me more than a fair trade to know that someone with your strength and kindness is a part of this world.”

  She looked away, her cheeks flushing with what could have been embarrassment or pleasure, but at least the sadness in her expression had eased, if only a little. “You know,” she said after an almost comfortable moment of silence between them, “I could help you with that hair of yours.”

  His hands went to the shorn strands that hung around his face. There cannot be any help for this.

  “I’m pretty good with a pair of shears, and I used to cut my brother, Abel’s—” She lifted her fist to her mouth, as though she was trying to keep the pain inside instead of letting it out. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice softer this time. “I used to cut Abel’s hair all the time after our mother died. I can’t put things back the way they were, but I can clean up the edges for you.”

  This was an offering he had not expected. It was also a gift he did not deserve, but somehow he could not stop himself from accepting it.

  They sat in the small kitchen, a worn towel around Jianyu’s shoulders to catch the clippings. At first, Cela was tentative, as though she was afraid even to touch him. But eventually the shyness and reluctance between them dissolved, and her fingers were strong and sure. The scissors whispered their steady tale as she worked.

  “So, tell me about this ring,” she said, letting her voice trail off, giving him the space to speak.

  He told her what he could of the ring and of the rest of the artifacts, and once he started speaking, he found that he could not stop. He had often sat with Dolph in the evenings, speaking of any number of things—news of the city and hopes for the future and even thoughts about power and magic and its role in the world. But in the days before Khafre Hall, Dolph had been too busy plugging leaks on the bursting dam that was the Devil’s Own to sit and visit, and after Khafre Hall they had all been alone in their grief—Jianyu, maybe, most of all. He had been so silent for days now that just having Cela’s ear felt like a balm.

  Cela listened without interrupting, her fingers and the scissors moving steadily over his head.

  “So I must find the ring and keep it from those who would do harm with it,” he finished.

  She was silent for a moment as she worked, snipping at the hair along the nape of his neck. “You know, all this fuss over magic. People are so busy trying to keep it and control it that they’re willing to do all sorts of evil for it.” Her hands went still, and she stepped back to look him over. “But maybe nobody’s meant to have it. Maybe it’s just meant to fade away.” She tilted her head to the side and then trimmed another piece of his hair.

  “If you ask me,” she continued, “it’s because there’s something wrong with this land. The people who were here first—the ones who truly belong here—got killed off or pushed aside, and that does something to a place, all that death and violence. Magic can’t take root in blood-soaked earth. If you ask me, maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe nobody should have that kind of power over anyone else.” She brushed off his shoulders. “Go on. See what you think.”

  There was a small square mirror hanging on the other side of the room. Jianyu stepped toward it tentatively, in part because he was already unsteady on his feet, and in part because he was afraid to see the person who would greet him in the cloudy glass.

  He didn’t really look like himself. The hair that he’d once worn pulled back now framed his face. It wasn’t his father’s son that looked back, but some new version of himself. American and unrecognizable. He felt a thrill of something that might have been fear . . . or maybe it was simple readiness.

  Cela was safe. He would find the ring. He had not yet failed, and he would not allow himself to.

  THE MAP OF THE WORLD

  1902—New York

  James felt the map of the world shift as he finished reading the final page in the notebook he’d taken from Logan Sullivan. He wanted to believe that it was a hoax because the alternative was too impossible. He wanted it to be a fabrication meant to lead him astray, but his senses told him that the notebook and all that it held was nothing short of the truth.

  He placed the notebook on the worn desk in front of him, next to its twin.

  Taking his glasses from his nose, he polished the lenses and considered the possibilities. Every victory and every mistake he would ever make were contained in the book Logan had brought him. With the strength of his affinity and the knowledge in those notebooks, he could remake his future. He could rewrite his own history—and more.

  But first James had to be sure—absolutely sure—of who this Logan Sullivan was. He’d spoken of the Delphi’s Tear, and so James would give him an opportunity to retrieve it. If Logan proved unable to do what he’d promised, James doubted it would be much of a loss to dispose of him.

  He considered the identical notebooks before finally taking up the one Logan had brought him and tucking it into his pocket. Until he knew for sure whether to trust the stranger, he would keep it close. After all, since it possibly held a record of his life, it wouldn’t do for anyone else to find it. Then he grabbed his jacket and pulled on his cap, locking the door securely behind him as he left, and he went to talk to the newcomer—the boy who would change his future.

  THE PIKE

  1904—St. Louis

  The Pike was its usual circus of noise and confusion as Esta entered it, prepared to carry out her part of the plan. She had about ten minutes to get from the entrance, next to the huge monstrosity that was the fake Alps, to where she would meet Harte just outside Cairo. He’d take a different path—around the back of the Pike and entering from the east side of the boulevard—so that there was no chance of them being seen together.

  In her pocket she had packets of smoking powder rigged with fuses. They were nothing more than some harmless stage props that Harte and Julien had made in preparation for the day, but it would take a while for the people who saw the smoke to realize that.

  She passed the concessions for Asia and Japan and continued toward the enormous domed building that was the Creation attraction. Like the Nile boats in Cairo, it was also a ride. Like everything else, it was brash and too bright and overdone. She stopped near a vendor selling huge salted pretzels and checked the pocket watch she’d taken from Harte. Five minutes to go. She had at least two more to wait. In the distance, faintly, she heard the stirrings of the parade, the rumble of drums that told her the time was close.

  She checked her watch again, and as she did, she had the strangest feeling she was being watched. Glancing up, she realized her instincts were right. Across the street, close to the entrance of the Incubator building, was the cowboy she’d seen disappear that first day at the theater. And he was looking straight at her.

  There was no way she could do what she needed to do as long as he was watching her. Taking a breath, she pushed aside the panic and used a play from the cowboy’s own book. She gave him a wink, and then she darted into the crowds of the Creation attraction, making herself as unnoticeable as she could while she pushed her way deeper into them. She looked back only once and saw that the cowboy was following her, so she shoved on until she found a small alcove to the right of the ticket window, where she pulled time slow.

  Releasing a breath, she relaxed a little as the world went silent around her. Only a couple of days had passed since she’d tested her affinity when Harte left her at the boardinghouse, but during those days they’d been extra careful not to use their magic, just in case the Guard was nearby. It felt like it had been so long since she’d been able to flex her affinity, and now the sureness of her magic gave her the impetus to get on with it. She dodged through the crowd, until she was face-to-face with the cowboy who’d been following her. This close, she saw that he had eyes as green as a cat’s, but one was fl
ecked with brown enough that it looked like they were two different colors.

  This should keep him busy. Lighting the fuse on the first packet, she tucked it into the outer pocket of his coat. Then she darted away, releasing time as she went.

  She let her feet carry her toward Cairo, watching for marks. Pausing next to a trash bin, she pulled on time just long enough to light another fuse and place the packet into the bin. Then she moved on, releasing time once she was safely away. She had eight packets, which meant she needed to place six more before she reached Cairo. Working her way up the Pike, she found an empty baby carriage here, a half-drunken man there. Each time she approached, she used her affinity just long enough to place the packet.

  It was working. Already she could see the Guards, who were stationed at odd intervals around the Pike, coming to attention as they sensed the magic in the air, but she was always far away from the location by the time they detected it.

  When she reached the Cliff Dwellers attraction, where she and Harte were to meet, Esta knew she was later than they’d planned. The parade was too close, and she could tell by the thin set of Harte’s mouth that he was trying not to be too obvious as his eyes searched the crowd for her. But his features relaxed and his mouth parted slightly in relief when he saw her.

  “You’re late,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I had a little trouble.”

  His brows went up. “What kind of trouble?”

  “The cowboy from the other day? He saw me.”

  Harte frowned. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

  “It’s fine,” she told him before he could finish his statement. “I took care of it—made sure that he didn’t see me. And I left him a little surprise.”

  “I see,” Harte said, but he still had that nervous, worried expression on his face.

  “Let’s go,” she told him. “The parade’s almost here.”

  She didn’t give him time to argue before she started across the wide boulevard, toward Cairo and the necklace.

  THE WEIGHT OF BELONGING

  1902—New York

  Leaving under the cover of darkness without so much as a good-bye was hardly any way to repay the kindness Cela’s family had shown him over the past six days as he had healed, but Jianyu had already allowed too much time to pass since the ring had gone missing from her possession. He had been delaying the inevitable, but now he had another promise to keep. A wider world to protect.

  Jianyu told himself that Cela would be fine, even if the tension in the house was thick enough for him to swim through. He saw the way they looked at her, but they were her family. She would be safe now that the stone was no longer in her possession, and they would take care of her until she was on her feet.

  Perhaps he was a coward for not telling Cela that he was leaving, but if anyone came looking for him, she would be safer for not knowing.

  He could have used his affinity to conceal himself, but his head still ached occasionally, and using the bronze disks would be too much of an effort. Besides, he was still unsteady, and he needed to save his strength for what was to come.

  When he reached the corner of Amsterdam Avenue, a familiar figure stepped from the entrance of one of the saloons. He could have opened the light to hide himself, but it was too late. She had seen him. To run now would be disrespectful and insulting.

  “I had a feeling you’d leave tonight,” Cela said when he finally came to where she was waiting for him, her hands crossed over her chest. “That’s it, then? You were just gonna go without so much as a good-bye?”

  He did not respond. What was there to say? She was correct in her words and in the anger stirring behind them.

  “After all I did for you? After I made my family take you in?”

  “I owe you all a debt of gratitude—” he started, but Cela’s temper snapped.

  “This don’t look anything like gratitude.” She glared at him. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “It is better that you do not know,” he said softly, hating the emotion in her eyes. Suspicion. Disgust. It was the emotion he regularly saw mirrored back to him in the eyes of those he met, the eyes of those who looked at him and saw not the person he was or the heart he carried, but the skin he wore. “You will be safer,” he tried to explain.

  “Safer?” she asked, a bark of ridicule in her tone. Then her brows beaded together. “You’re going after that ring, aren’t you?”

  He did not respond, but from the way her expression shifted, she understood.

  “Why? After all the trouble it’s caused for everyone, why not just leave the blasted thing be?”

  He gave her the only answer he could: “Because I have to.”

  “Why?” she pressed.

  “I made a promise,” he told her. “I gave Darrigan my word that I would see you safe and protect the ring. I have done the first, and now I must turn to the other.”

  “You don’t owe Darrigan anything,” she said, more softly now, a frown tugging at her full lips. “Neither of us owe him a single thing more.”

  “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I explained to you what the ring could do, did I not? In unworthy hands, it could have devastating effects. I cannot allow that to happen. I cannot allow the Order or anyone else who might do harm with the stone to obtain it.”

  Cela stared at him for a moment, her dark eyes sharp in their intensity as she considered his words. Then she let out a jagged breath that was as much frustration as it was understanding. “I’m coming with you, then.”

  “No—”

  “I’m the one who lost that ring, so I’ll help you find it.”

  “This is not your fight.” Jianyu shook his head. “You will stay here, with your family, where you belong.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “Were you in that house with me? I don’t belong there.”

  He had seen, had felt the tension between them, but . . . “They are family. Your blood.”

  “They might be my mama’s people, but they’ve never really been mine, blood or not.” Her jaw was set and determined. “My grandparents didn’t ever approve of the choice my mama made when she married my daddy for lots of reasons, but mostly it boiled down to his skin being too dark. Didn’t matter that he worked his knuckles to the bone to give us a good life: a roof over our heads and shoes on our feet. According to them, he was low class, and when we came out with skin every bit as dark as his, so were we,” she told him. “They never said it outright, but we knew.”

  Her shoulders seemed to sag with the weight of her confession. “My mama’s people put up with us for her sake, but they never were any sort of safe harbor, even when she was alive. They blamed my daddy when she died a few years back from consumption, and now they’re blaming me for Abel’s death. I can see it in their eyes. They heard the whispers about how I ran from the house, and maybe they don’t say it outright, but they’re sure as hell thinking I had something to do with it. So no, I don’t belong there. If you’re leaving, I’m coming with you.”

  Jianyu understood the expression Cela wore as she lifted her chin, daring him to contradict her. It was the same as the mask he often wore himself, the steely armor that served as protection from the never-ending menace of a world that did not welcome him. But because he recognized it, he also knew what was beneath—the soft, essential parts of the soul that could be damaged beyond repair.

  He frowned. “This is my burden to carry.”

  She let out a long sigh, and she looked suddenly fragile. “That’s where you’re wrong. The moment they came and took my brother, it became mine, too.”

  “But—”

  She cut him off. “Tell me, did you have a plan for finding Evelyn?” She paused for his answer, and when it did not come, she shook her head. “What were you gonna do, wander around until you ran into her? It’s a big city. At least I know where she lives.”

  NOT AS PLANNED

  1902—New York

  Nothing had gone the way Logan Sullivan had expected. When he�
��d left Professor Lachlan’s building that morning, he hadn’t planned to end the day tied up in the dark, dank cellar of some rotting building, guarded by two guys who looked like they’d started shaving when they were eight.

  The redheaded one was especially worrisome. He kept rubbing his fingertips together, causing flames to dance at the tips of them, all the while leering at Logan. It was like he was just waiting for Logan to make a wrong move.

  Which wasn’t going to happen.

  Maybe things hadn’t gone that smoothly. Maybe Professor Lachlan had been wrong about how easy it would be—about how his younger self would certainly be able to tell that everything Logan said was the truth. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if those big goons hadn’t caught him first, and it definitely would have been better if Esta hadn’t made off with the package Professor Lachlan had entrusted Logan to deliver; the Book and the stones would have gone a long way toward smoothing things over.

  But he’d still had the notebook, Logan reminded himself. Once the Professor read about himself, he’d know that Logan was telling the truth. He’d know exactly how helpful Logan had been to his future self, and he would believe him now. Maybe he’d even be able to help him get back to his own time. Although Logan had a sinking feeling that without Esta, that was going to be impossible.

  Shit.

  Footsteps echoed on the staircase that descended steeply into the cellar, an uneven gait that Logan recognized immediately. There. He’d been right all along.

  Logan gave the redheaded guy—Firebug McGee, or whatever his name was—a smug look. It was only a matter of moments before Logan would be vindicated.

  It was still a shock to see just how young the Professor was here, in this time. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, close to the age Logan himself had been when he’d received a ticket and an invitation to fly across an ocean and start a new life. His uncle, a low-level fencer of stolen goods, had been one of the Professor’s contacts in England, and he hadn’t given Logan a choice in the matter. To the thirteen-year-old Logan, the whole thing had seemed almost too good to be true: He got out from under the constant threat of his uncle’s fists, and the professor paid for his mother to have the house in the country, like she’d always wanted. And if Logan had to deal with a life behind the Brink or the headache of traveling through time or Esta’s smart-ass tendencies, it had been worth it for the comfortable life and for the respect the Professor had given him.