The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  “Blame us?” Ruth laughed. “They’ll thank us. But you’re right. That wasn’t a bomb. It was something infinitely more powerful—a gift of sorts that Maggie created.” Ruth walked over and tipped the girl’s chin up affectionately. “The Society and those like them might think they understand alchemy, but my sister has a talent for it they can only dream of.”

  “It’s what you used in the attack last fall,” Harte realized. And in the fog that they used to keep him and Esta subdued. It wasn’t just opium and it wasn’t simple magic. It was some combination of the two, some new thing altogether. At this realization, the power inside of him swelled, and he heard a voice echoing in his mind. See? It seemed to whisper. See what they are capable of? The damage they will continue to do?

  But he shoved the voice aside, even as part of him realized that it was right. It was bad enough that men like those in the Order would pervert magic to claim power, but for Mageus to do it as well . . . ?

  “No,” Ruth said, releasing Maggie’s chin. “Not quite like last fall.”

  Maggie turned to them. “Then, we were simply trying to slow down their progress,” she told them. “My serum wasn’t ready quite yet, and we needed more time.”

  “Serum?” Esta asked. She met Harte’s eyes, but he didn’t have an answer to the question.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Ruth called for the person to enter. It was one of the guys from before—one who had been close to the wagon.

  “You have news?” Ruth asked, her expression rapt.

  “It worked,” the guy said, beaming at Ruth. “They just brought in the first case to City Hospital. A girl who causes flowers to sprout from everything she touches.”

  Ruth let out a small breath, and Harte could see the relief—the victory—flash across her features. “Good. Have Marcus keep track of them and let me know if anything changes.” Then she turned to Maggie. “You did it. This time, you finally did it.”

  “Did what?” Harte asked, frustration getting the best of him.

  “She solved the problem that has been plaguing our kind for centuries.” Ruth’s eyes were practically glowing with satisfaction.

  Harte shook his head, not understanding.

  “Why do the Sundren hate what we are? Why do they cut us off and round us up and force us to suppress what we are until we become shells of ourselves? Until generations pass and the power in our veins passes with it?”

  “Because we have an affinity for the old magic,” Esta said, her voice oddly hollow. “Because we’re different, and they know we have power they can’t ever equal.”

  “Yes. Because they’ve forgotten,” Ruth said fervently. “There was once magic throughout the world. Everyone had the ability to call to old magic. But through the ages, people have moved from where their power took root, and they left their memories behind them. Those who had forgotten what they might have been began to fear and to hunt those who kept the old magic close. Do you know what it means to be Sundren?” she asked. “It means to be broken apart, to be split from. Those who have let the magic in their bloodlines die are separated from an essential part of themselves. They’re wounded and broken, and they have no idea what lies dormant deep inside. It’s why they claw at the world, destroying anything in their path to get some relief from the ache they cannot name, the hollow inside themselves.” Ruth paused. “But what if we could awaken that magic? What if we could heal that break? What if we were no longer different, because everyone had the magic that they fear in us?”

  “The fog—” Esta’s brows drew together.

  “Don’t you see?” Maggie asked, her expression hopeful. “We cured them.”

  But Harte wasn’t so sure. He knew the difference between the warm, welcoming natural power that Mageus could touch and the cool warning of ritual magic. Everything he’d seen and experienced in his short life had told him that unnatural magic was a corruption. A danger. Dolph had believed he could use it, and he’d died instead. He’d taken Leena along with him.

  “You mean you infected them,” Harte said. “You didn’t ask their permission or give them a chance to refuse.” He couldn’t see how that would turn out well.

  North took a step toward him, but Ruth held up her hand. “What we did goes far beyond the individual people in that building tonight.” Her voice carried the tremulous surety of a true believer. “We proved tonight that those ancient connections to the old magic are still there, waiting and latent. We simply woke them up and reminded them of what this world was supposed to be.”

  “According to whom?” he wondered. Harte had known people like Ruth, people who were so certain of the path before them. Dolph Saunders, with all his plotting and planning, willing to hurt even those he loved for what he thought was best. Nibsy Lorcan, who saw a different vision but believed it to be no less valid. Even the Order and men like Jack, who thought they knew exactly what the world should be. It was clear to him that Ruth and her Antistasi weren’t so very different.

  The mood in the room shifted as Ruth’s eyes went cold. “You think this is my plight alone?” she asked. “The Antistasi are as old as the fear and hatred of magic. Their mission is one that has come down through the centuries. The Thief has proven herself admirably tonight as an ally to that cause. I wonder . . . will you?”

  Esta’s expression was pleading with him to keep quiet, but with the unsettled power inside of him, he couldn’t help himself. “I make my own choices. I’m not a pawn, and I won’t be used,” he said, and the moment the words were out. Esta’s jaw went tight, and her gaze dropped to the floor.

  Ruth’s mouth curved, but her expression was devoid of any amusement. “Well, then, if I were you, I’d choose quickly, Mr. O’Doherty.”

  THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT

  1904—St. Louis

  Jack had been standing at Roosevelt’s side earlier that evening when word came of the attack. The president had just arrived on the morning train, and they’d gone straight to the fair, where he was presiding over an event in the Agricultural Building of the Exposition. Roosevelt had been examining a bust of his own likeness carved entirely out of butter, of all things, and as he posed for a photograph with his buttery image, Hendricks had come up next to Jack.

  “There was an event last night,” the Guardsman whispered into Jack’s ear. “We have it under control now, but I thought you—and the president—would want to know right away.”

  “What happened?” Jack asked, leading Hendricks away from where anyone could hear. This could be exactly what he’d been waiting for. He’d known all along that sooner or later, the maggots would go too far and he would be able to use their mistakes against them.

  “One of the factories down by the river, sir,” the Guardsman told him. “A group of socialists were having a meeting. Lipscomb was injured in the explosion.”

  “Lipscomb?” Jack asked, not really that interested.

  “He’s one of ours, from here in St. Louis. A socialist rabble-rouser who works for the SWP. From the evidence we found, it looks as though his group was planning an attack on the parade next week.”

  “Did the explosion kill them?”

  Hendricks shook his head. “No, sir. But there were . . . other injuries.”

  Roosevelt was already looking over at Jack and indicating that it was time to go. “What do I care about the injuries of a few damn socialists?” he asked, impatient at the apparent pointlessness of the interruption.

  The Guardsman lowered his voice. “The attack used magic, sir, and the people who were injured, they have very . . . peculiar ailments.”

  “Peculiar how?” Jack asked.

  “They’ve isolated the ones who’ve been brought into the hospital, but they’re exhibiting some strange symptoms. One keeps setting fire to his bedclothes with nothing but his fingertips. Another makes it rain every time she cries. They reported a cloud of mist after the bomb went off, and the ones who’ve come in so far have said that they started experiencing their symptoms after it touched them
.” He hesitated. “They seem to be infected, sir.”

  Jack searched Hendricks’ expression for any sign that he might be exaggerating. “Infected?”

  The Guardsman’s expression was grave, but there was a look of distaste in his features, like he’d just smelled something rotten. “By magic.”

  Roosevelt and his party had left the Exposition immediately, of course. No one was willing to take the chance of another attack until the perpetrators were rounded up and dealt with. Jack had overseen that, too. Roosevelt had left it to him, as he usually did. The president didn’t understand, not really. His politics were nearly as popular as he was. He’d supported the Defense Against Magic Act in private, but he never made a fuss about it publicly. There were still too many who thought the old magic was nothing but a superstition, those who saw the maggots as ordinary people just trying to get by.

  But Jack could already sense that the wind was shifting. These attacks were new, different, and infinitely more dangerous. If things kept up like this, the maggots would dig their own graves. And Jack would be there to bury them.

  THE CUFF

  1904—St. Louis

  Ruth looked out over the floor of her brewery and watched the final few women clean up for the night. A total of fifteen had been brought to the hospital showing signs of magic. Fifteen Sundren whose affinities had been awakened—it should have felt like more of a victory, but there certainly had been far more than fifteen people present at Lipscomb’s meeting.

  Perhaps others would appear tomorrow. Perhaps even now some were keeping themselves concealed because they knew what their symptoms meant. Because they knew what the world thought of the powers that were growing within them. If not, the serum would need to be adjusted further, and they were running out of time to get it right.

  On the Fourth, dignitaries from all over the country would pour into the city for the Veiled Prophet Parade and Annual Ball, and her Antistasi needed to be ready. This year marked an opportunity unlike any other—with the Exposition, the Society was hosting more than their usual ball for the rich men of St. Louis. Instead, this year’s ball was an attempt by the Society to wrest control of the country from the Order. A desperate bid to move the center of power from the east to the west. The list of attendees included not only the members of the Society and the usual dignitaries, who made an impressive enough target on their own, but also representatives from the various Brotherhoods across the country. Everyone of any importance would be there—politicians and titans of industry, oil barons and railroad tycoons—and most important of all, Roosevelt himself.

  The boyish president was popular, but Ruth knew the truth: He was a friend only to those who could help him consolidate his power, which meant he cared nothing at all for those like her. He’d allowed the Defense Against Magic Act to pass without so much as a word against it, and now he would know the cost of that decision. If the Antistasi could unlock within him the magic that others feared, everything would change. A new civilization would be born, with the old magic as the equalizer between them all. But if the serum didn’t work, or if it did not affect the most important targets, they would not have another chance.

  Maggie was a smart girl—this early evidence of their success was proof of that. If need be, she would make the adjustments and her serum would work as it was intended. Ruth would accept no other alternative.

  She turned away from her workers and went back into the solitude of her office, closing the door against the sounds of the storeroom below. In the top drawer of her desk, wrapped in a piece of flannel, was the bracelet they’d taken from the Thief when her men had searched the girl for weapons. It was an elegant silver cuff with an enormous dark gemstone that seemed to hold the colors of the rainbow within its depths.

  The stone was too heavy for something so small. And it stank of magic. . . .

  It wasn’t the old magic, not completely. But it also wasn’t the same as the objects she’d run across before, pieces like North’s watch, which had been infused with freely given power to augment an affinity. The trade in those objects was cutthroat, but this piece was different. Older and more powerful.

  Objects like the cuff she was holding took more than a simple ritual to create. Objects with power so deep and heavy took a life sacrifice, and they took a very special, a very rare sort of affinity.

  Ruth knew that all Mageus had a unique connection to the very essence of existence. Most had an affinity that aligned with either the living, the inert, or the spirit. Affinities were as unique as people and might show up as strong or weak, as highly specialized or relatively vague. Over time and across distance, they tended to wane. All Mageus knew that.

  Once, though, there had been another kind.

  Mageus with the power to affect the bonds of magic itself had always been rare. Most thought that such an affinity was nothing but a myth, like the tales of gods and goddesses of old. But every story held a kernel of truth deep within its heart, and the fear that this particular kernel would find root had been enough to spark the violent frenzy that was the Disenchantment. Those with an affinity for the very essence of magic had been eradicated, and thousands of others had become collateral damage as well.

  Magic had suffered in those dark years, but it had not died, as its enemies had hoped. And it would not die now. Instead, with Ruth’s plan and the help of Maggie’s serum, it would flourish once more. But the appearance of this cuff was an unexpected windfall. Both the necklace and this cuff were powerful objects, capable of giving their holders power beyond the pale. Both would be essential in consolidating the Antistasi’s power once magic was awoken, or at least they would once she had the necklace, too.

  North appeared in the doorway of her office. “We got the two new ones set up. The girl’s in with Maggie, and I locked the other one in a separate bunk. He won’t be any trouble until morning, at least.”

  “Make sure the others know to watch him,” she told him. “I want to know if there’s any sign he’s going to prove troublesome.”

  “Will do,” he said, going off again into the darkened building.

  Ruth wrapped the stone back in the flannel and then, for good measure, she locked it in her safe. She would keep it close, but she would keep the girl who had carried it closer. It wouldn’t take much—the right words, a gentle push, and Ruth could mold the Thief into a weapon for her own use. And if the other one caused trouble? She would take care of it, just as she took care of all the problems that crossed her path.

  IT’S QUIET UPTOWN

  1902—New York

  There were too many men around, taking up the air in the place, Cela thought as she watched her brother and Jianyu eye each other from across the room. At the rate they were going, someone was going to draw first blood before morning. If the boys kept up their preening and posturing, it was going to be her.

  “Would you two quit it already?” she said as she handed Abel a cup of the strong coffee she’d just brewed.

  “I’m not doing anything,” her brother said, still giving Jianyu an appraising glance.

  “You’re trying to lay him low with nothing but a look,” she told him, her heart easing a bit at the very idea that he could give such a look. Abel is alive. “I should know, since you’ve tried to do it to me often enough.”

  “I just want to make sure we haven’t made a mistake by bringing them here,” her brother told her, gesturing to Jianyu and the boy they’d taken from Evelyn’s apartment. “I didn’t exactly ask Mr. Fortune’s permission to have any more.”

  Abel had brought them to the house he’d been staying at ever since the fire, a nondescript building on 112th Street, in a part of town called Harlem. The building belonged to one of the publishers of the New York Freeman, the most important newspaper for the black community in the city. They’d apparently taken a recent interest in the labor issues that Abel had gotten wrapped up in.

  “Jianyu is fine,” Cela told him. “I told you already, he’s a friend.”

  “M
aybe he is, but what about that other one?” Abe asked, nodding to the white boy. He’d still been unconscious when they’d arrived uptown and was lying on his side, dead to the world.

  “He’s my responsibility,” Jianyu said. He’d been quiet and watchful ever since they’d arrived at the building, cramped full of too many people. “I am in your debt for all that you have done for me tonight, and I will not impose on that generosity any further. I will take the boy and go.”

  “That’s fine,” Abe said, but Cela was shaking her head.

  She knew what it was like to walk into Wallack’s every day, the only brown face in a sea of white. It didn’t matter that they wanted her there for her talent and skill. She was always separate from the rest, from the basement workroom they gave her to the way the performers acted around her. She wondered if Jianyu felt that way as well when he walked through the streets of this city that would always see him as an outsider, and whether he felt that way now, in a too-tight room filled with people he didn’t know. But her brother’s friends were all huddled together, turned away from the newcomers and talking among themselves.

  “No,” she told them. “You don’t need to leave. Tell him, Abe. Tell him he’s welcome to stay.”

  Her brother hesitated, and her irritation spiked.

  “Tell him,” she demanded. “You left me alone for nearly a week, Abel Johnson. I was at Uncle Desmond’s most of that time, and you never once came for me, but Jianyu did. He got me out of that theater where that harpy actress had locked me up, so I’d say we’re about equal in owing debts, wouldn’t you?”

  Abel frowned. “This isn’t our fight, Cela,” he said softly. “We have our own worries right now, our own battles to wage.”

  “Maybe it’s not,” she told him, “but have you ever considered why it’s not?”

  “Because we have enough problems without worrying about Mageus, too.”