The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. Something inside you’s woken up, that’s all. The old magic is yours now.” He tried to infuse his voice with the same reverence that Ruth used, but it didn’t come out right, and the girl only frowned at him more.

  “Mr. Lipscomb—Caleb. There was an explosion. Is he—”

  “He’ll be just fine,” North assured her.

  “They wouldn’t tell us anything. They kept us locked up but wouldn’t tell us what was going on.”

  Of course. Now that these poor souls had the old magic, they’d be treated like the pariahs they’d become. “We’re here to free you,” he said gently.

  But her chin trembled, and the next thing North knew, the girl’s cheeks were wet. He thought it was from tears, but a moment later North realized his cheeks were wet too.

  “It’s raining,” Ben said, looking up. “There’s not a cloud in the sky, and it’s raining.”

  “I’m sorry.” Greta sniffed. “I don’t know why that keeps happening. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

  North didn’t know what to tell her. He’d imagined the people they’d given magic to as reborn, but these poor souls looked more like they were ready to curl up and die. He didn’t have the words to comfort that kind of sorrow, and he wondered if he had any right, considering what his part in it had been. Without another word, he helped Greta into the back of the wagon. Before closing the door, he popped the fuse on a bottle of Maggie’s Quellant and tossed it in with them.

  “Is that really necessary?” Ben asked. “They could barely walk as it is. I doubt they’re going to cause any trouble.”

  “They’re like children,” North explained. “They don’t know how to control what they have. We got one in there who sets fire to his own hands because he can’t stop it and another one who leaves a trail of growing vines on everything she touches. It’s a long ride back to the brewery, and we can’t risk them not being able to hold themselves together until they’re safely back and we can show them how to control it.” He glanced over at Ben. “You remember what it was like, don’t you? When you were just a kid and you didn’t realize everything you could do?”

  “Yeah . . .” Ben’s voice held the ghost of some past regret in it. “I remember.”

  “There you go,” North said, climbing up into the driver’s seat of the wagon and knowing without a doubt that he wasn’t the only one with ghosts following his footsteps through life.

  Bringing up his childhood apparently was enough to shut Ben up good and tight, which was fine by North. He didn’t care to deal with any talking when he had thinking to do.

  They rode in silence back through town to the brewery, with the first light of dawn setting the horizon aglow. But it was Ben who saw the smoke first.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing in the direction of a glowing place on the horizon, where a plume of black rose up like a nightmare, blocking the stars in the sky.

  The brewery was on fire.

  LIBITINA

  1902—New York

  By the time Viola made sure that Theo and Ruby were headed toward the safety of their own part of town and she made her way back to the New Brighton, Paul had already heard about the fire. He was pacing and shouting at his men, while the one they called Razor stood nervous and waiting nearby.

  “Where have you been?” Paul asked, turning on her the second she was through the door. His face was mottled an ugly, angry red.

  “Out,” she told him, pretending that she didn’t notice his agitation.

  “Out?”

  She shrugged. “I needed air.” After the meeting with Ruby, she still felt like she needed air, not that Paul had to know about that.

  “I needed you here,” he snapped. “Station thirty-three, she’s on fire, and it isn’t any normal fire.” He glared at her as though it were somehow her fault.

  “You think I did this?” She glared at him in return.

  “You were, as you said, out.”

  She frowned, realizing that all of the Five Pointers were now watching her with a question in their eyes. “Fire is not my style, Paolo. You know that.”

  “If that station burns, Tammany is not gonna be happy,” Razor said. “We have to do something.”

  Paul let out a frustrated growl and took Viola by the arm. “These are your people, so you’re going to help me.”

  By the time they got over to the station, the air was heavy with smoke. Flames were tearing from the arching windows, and the front of the brick building was black with soot as the fire brigade pumped water toward the blaze. The steady stream from the pump truck didn’t seem to be doing anything to stop the fire, probably because the heat of the flames wasn’t the only warmth in the air.

  Someone with an affinity for fire had to be nearby, feeding the flames, but where? She scanned the crowd, searching for some sign. The old magic was about connecting with the larger world, so it required focus and often needed contact—a sight line or direct touch. Whoever was at fault would be close.

  “Find the maggot doing this or don’t bother coming back to the New Brighton,” Paul said.

  Viola shrugged off the slur on her brother’s lips. He’d called her worse. “And what am I supposed to do when I find him?”

  “You’re my blade, aren’t you?” Paul glared at her.

  “I don’t have a knife,” she told him. “You made sure of that.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t need one?” he said, his meaning clear. “Go on. Before it’s too late.”

  She thought about arguing, but before she could, she heard the shattering of glass as a window cracked and flames poured out of it. If this station was destroyed by someone with the old magic, Tammany would retaliate. Innocent people would be at risk of being caught in the cross fire.

  Without much choice, Viola ducked into the crowd, her eyes sharp for some sign of the perpetrator as she focused the warm energy that had nothing to do with the flames. She was halfway through the crowd when she saw a familiar figure standing on the steps of a building about half a block away. Nibsy Lorcan.

  The boy’s gold-rimmed spectacles flashed in the light from the blaze, and next to him was a boy with hair the color of flame focusing all his attention on the burning fire station.

  She sent her affinity out, searching for the heat of the boy’s affinity, the beating of his heart, and when she founded it, she tugged, just a little. Not enough to kill him, but more than enough to make him collapse to the ground.

  Nibsy watched him go down, and then he began to scan the crowd. A moment later he found her, and his mouth curved up, as though he knew exactly how useless she’d become.

  Too soft, an assassin who couldn’t properly kill.

  But that boy—he’d been one of Dolph’s once. What was his name? She couldn’t remember, but she knew that he wasn’t the one who needed killing. That honor belonged to Nibsy, who was smiling at her as though he knew what she was thinking—and didn’t care.

  What she would give to wipe that smile from his face.

  Viola let her affinity find the steady pulsing of the blood in his veins and reveled in the understanding that she held Nibsy’s life. It would be so easy to end him. She could trade what was left of her soul for vengeance for Dolph’s murder. Her soul, tarnished as it was, was hardly a worthy trade, but in that moment she felt as though it might do.

  Better. She would kill him with her own hands.

  Around her the street was in chaos. The crowd, who had gathered to watch a fire that could not be quenched, jeered their disappointment as the water began to have an effect on the flames. But Viola barely heard the noise, and though her eyes watered from the smoke, she didn’t care as she walked toward Nibsy.

  He started down from his perch, to meet her halfway. The nearer she came, the more amusement shone in his eyes.

  “I hope you’ve made peace with your god, Nibsy,” she said as she approached him. “I’ve come for you.”

  He didn’t so much as f
linch. “If I believed in a god, I would have lost faith in him years ago. You don’t scare me, Viola. If you wanted to kill me, I’ve no doubt I would already be dead.”

  She curled her mouth into a deadly smile. “Perhaps, in your case, I prefer to play with my prey.”

  “I see that spending time with your family has only improved your delightful personality,” Nibsy said, rocking back on his heels a bit.

  “Bastardo,” she spat. She would wipe the smugness from his face, and she would do it with her bare hands.

  “I’m not your enemy, Viola,” he said softly.

  “Funny,” she said. “You look just like him. I know what you did, how you betrayed Dolph. How you betrayed all of us.”

  “I never betrayed you. Dolph Saunders was a danger to himself and to our kind. He would have started a war that we couldn’t have won. I protected the Devil’s Own—and all of those like us,” he said, sounding like he actually believed it.

  “I never needed your protection,” she sneered.

  “No?” he asked, his tone mocking. “You’re enjoying your time with your brother, then?” When she only glared at him, he spoke again. “You were meant for more than being Paul Kelly’s scullery maid, Viola. Yes, I know how he uses you. He brags about it to me. His blade. His sister, who has learned her place.” Nibsy shook his head. “Some blade—sharp enough to cut his potatoes and not much else these days, from what I hear.”

  “I could cut you,” she told him.

  “With what?” he asked, taunting her. “You miss her, don’t you?” he asked, the glint in his eyes mocking her as much as his words.

  Libitina. “You aren’t man enough to wield her. But don’t worry. I’ll take her from you soon, and then I’ll cut your heart out and leave it on Dolph’s grave as a tribute.”

  “So bloodthirsty,” he said, a laugh in his eyes. Then his face grew serious. “You’re welcome to try to take your knife, but I’d rather give her to you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. It was a trick. This one, he was slippery as an eel, and just as treacherous. “Why would you? A boy as smart as you pretend to be should know I would only turn around and sink her into your heart.”

  “Because, despite everything that’s passed between us, I think we could be friends.”

  A FINAL GAMBIT

  1902—New York

  James Lorcan watched the disbelief flash in Viola’s eyes and then harden into hatred.

  “Never,” she said, practically spitting the word.

  It was no more than he’d expected, but it wasn’t enough to dissuade him. He inclined his head, conceding her point. “Then allies, perhaps.”

  She shook her head, and he knew she wanted to argue—she always wanted to argue—but he continued before she could deny it.

  “We want the same thing, don’t we?” he asked, measuring her mood. True, she could kill him in a blink, knife or no, but he knew her weakness, the secret that Dolph had hidden from everyone else—a misplaced sense of morality that kept her from killing with her affinity. Besides, if there had been any indication that she might strike, he would have known long before she did. So he pressed on. “We both want the end of the Order. Freedom for our kind.”

  “Dolph wanted those things as well, but you killed him,” she pointed out.

  “Is that what he wanted? Truly?” James paused, letting his words penetrate. He’d watched Dolph and Viola in the days before everything fell apart. Dolph’s preoccupations had made this particular play more than easy for him. “Did Dolph tell you that himself? I don’t think he did. He never told any of us the entirety of his plans. He didn’t tell you what might happen at Khafre Hall, did he? He let you walk into a trap set by Darrigan without bothering to warn you.”

  He watched as her jaw tensed, but she didn’t deny it—she couldn’t.

  “I would wager the Strega itself that he didn’t tell you how he drove Leena to her grave.”

  “Lies,” she hissed. “He did no such thing. He would never have hurt her.”

  James forced himself to keep his expression doleful and to hide every ounce of satisfaction this conversation was giving him. “You wear his mark, don’t you, Viola? How do you think he found the power to make them into weapons against us?” he asked. “He took it from her. Why else would she have been taken so easily by the Order?”

  She shook her head, as though refusing these truths, but he could tell that his words were worming their way beneath her skin, wriggling into her thoughts. Eating away at her sureness.

  “You don’t have to take my word for it,” James said, pulling a package from his coat. “Here—” He offered it to her.

  The moment she took the paper-wrapped parcel in her hands, he could tell she knew what it was. Her eyes narrowed at him, as though waiting for the trick. She wasn’t stupid, after all. But that didn’t mean that she was any match for his cunning.

  “It’s just a little gift, to show that I mean you no harm. You’ll find everything you need to know within it,” he told her. Thanks to the notebooks in the apartment, he could offer her proof in Dolph’s own hand that everything he’d told her was true . . . or at least it would appear so. “Unlike Dolph, I don’t keep secrets from my friends.”

  “We are not friends, and I don’t need your tricks,” she told him, but he didn’t miss the way she held the package close to her. “But I will keep my knife.”

  “No tricks, Viola.” He took a step back and started to go. He took three steps toward where Mooch was still lying unconscious—but not dead—on the ground. He gave her those three steps to think about all that had just happened, to let her doubts start to grow, before he turned back to her. “One thing, though. Why are you so sure that I’m the traitor? What of Jianyu? He wasn’t with us on the bridge. He’s never returned to the Strega. I’m convinced he was working with Darrigan.”

  “Why would he?” she asked.

  “Why not?” James said. “He wasn’t ever really one of us, was he? I always told Dolph he was too soft for trusting one of them. But if you don’t believe me, perhaps you can ask Jianyu yourself. I’d put good odds on him being at the Order’s big gala. Word is that one of the artifacts might turn up there—a ring that has the power to amplify an affinity. Jianyu has already tried to get it for himself once. I imagine he’ll try again.”

  And when the two of them faced off against each other, James would be the one left standing.

  A BLIND RUSH OF FEAR

  1904—St. Louis

  In the driver’s seat beside Harte, North urged the horses on as they raced toward the burning brewery, but the tired team barely picked up any speed. Or at least that was how it felt to Harte, who watched the flames grow in ferocity as they approached.

  By the time they pulled into the driveway, at least half the brewery’s warehouse—where the kegs of prepared ale and lager were stored—was completely in flames. The main building, with the offices and bunk rooms, wasn’t burning, but Harte wouldn’t feel better until he saw Esta for himself, safe and whole.

  At the thought of losing Esta, it wasn’t only Harte who felt the blind rush of fear. The demon inside of him, Seshat, was also afraid. He could feel her pawing and clawing at him, urging him on with a desperation that let him know exactly how important Esta was to both of them.

  He jumped from the moving wagon as North slowed and ran toward Ruth, who was standing in a small clutch of people with her hands on her hips and murder in her eyes.

  “What happened?” North gasped.

  The flickering light of the flames only served to highlight the furious expression on Ruth’s face. “We’ve been accused of aiding criminals,” Ruth said, her voice jagged with anger. Her eyes darted to a line of men in dark coats with familiar armbands. The Guard.

  “Criminals?” Harte asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ruth told him. “They’ve drummed up some false charge, and now they’re making their point because we dared to help the children.”

  “The Guard started the
fire?” Harte asked.

  “Not that there’ll be any proof of it,” Ruth told him. “They have people who can start fires without touching a match, same as us. They’ve just chosen the other side.”

  “Where’s Esta?” Harte asked, looking around the group that had gathered and not finding her.

  “She’s with Maggie and a couple of the others,” Ruth said. “They’re getting the children out the back, so the Guard doesn’t notice.”

  “I’ll help,” Harte said, and took off toward the building.

  “They won’t let you through,” Ruth called, but Harte wasn’t listening. All he could think about was finding Esta and making sure that she was safe.

  He had just reached the line of Guardsmen when an explosion erupted, and windows on one side of the main building shattered as flames burst from them. Harte picked up his pace, but Ruth had been right. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps before the Guards were on him, roughly wrestling him back.

  “No one crosses,” the tallest of them said. His mouth hitched up. “For safety reasons.”

  “There could be people in there,” Harte said, lunging toward them again in an attempt to get past, but there were five of them, and it was easy enough for them to push him back.

  There was dark smoke pouring from the doors of the main building, where the large vats of lager were fermenting. Flames had already started eating the roof, but in front of them, a line of Guards was preventing anyone from doing anything to stop the fire.

  A moment later, North was at his side.

  “Maggie’s in there,” North told him, and Harte heard his own fear echoed in North’s voice.

  “Ruth said there was a back entrance?” The fire hadn’t reached the end of the building that housed the living quarters, but the smoke would be a problem. “Maybe they’re already out.”

  “There is a back entrance, but there’s also a dozen babies to get out of there.” North looked at the burning warehouse, where the flames had grown to consume even more of the building. “If that fire starts to spread—”