The Devil's Thief
Page 57
She let out a bark of laughter. “Those men use you, Paolo. Tammany and the men in the Order both. They don’t respect you or your money. It’s too new. And it’s too dirty for their liking.”
His expression was thunderous. “Maybe they think they use me, but my money’s as good as anyone’s, and the country is changing, sister. Soon the age of their purses won’t matter as much as what they contain, and I aim to have more.”
“Paolo—”
“You go with Torrio, or you don’t go at all, capisce?”
Viola clenched her teeth to keep from saying all the things she was feeling. If she didn’t need a way into the gala, she would have tried her luck with the spoon. “I understand,” she said, turning back to the pot she had been stirring before he’d interrupted her.
“I’ll have a dress sent to you. Be ready by six, eh?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to say more, but the minute he was out of the kitchen, she launched the spoon across the room, right at the place where his head had been moments before. She’d do his bidding just one more time and put up with John Torrio’s wandering eyes and too-free hands. But only because she needed her brother and his men to get close to the Order. After that, all bets were off.
MAROONED
1902—New York
Logan Sullivan was cold, hungry, and in desperate need of a shower, but at least he was free. In the days since he’d been taken off guard in that woman’s apartment, he’d been following her. Rather, he’d been following the stone, and he’d been collecting information.
Now, standing across from the Bella Strega, the witch on the sign stared down at him, as though daring him to run.
Maybe he should. The person Professor Lachlan was in the past wasn’t the man Logan had known and come to think of as a mentor—as a father figure of sorts. The kid was barely sixteen and as cagey and dangerous as a feral cat. Going back to him now might be the worst idea he’d ever had.
But what were his other options? He didn’t know anyone else in this version of the city, and at least he knew what the boy who called himself James Lorcan would become. If anyone could find Esta and force her to take Logan back to his own time, he would bet money it was the boy who ruled over the Bella Strega saloon.
Besides, now that he knew more about the stone—including where and when it would be—Logan had something to barter with. He’d never really paid all that much attention when Professor Lachlan had tried to teach him about the different parts of magic, but Logan hoped that if they could get ahold of that stone, then maybe—just maybe—it would be enough to get him home.
PREPARATIONS
1904—St. Louis
The brush felt cool as Julien dabbed the tip of it against Esta’s eyelids, putting the finishing touches on her makeup for the evening.
“Just a bit more,” he said, his tobacco-laced breath fanning over her face as he dabbed once . . . twice . . . “There. Finished.”
She blinked open her eyes and found him looking at her with a satisfied expression. Harte was standing nearby, frowning. “Well?” she asked.
“Perfection,” Julien declared, and then he turned to the mirror to do his own makeup.
Esta came up next to him to check her reflection, and her mouth dropped open. Her skin was too pale, and her lips, which were already big enough, looked enormous painted in the orangey-scarlet that Julien had used. He’d lined her eyes with dramatic sweeps of kohl and had painted the lids with turquoise and gold. Gold.
“I look like a clown,” she told Julien, pushing the long braids of the dark wig she was wearing out of her face.
Actually, she looked like one of the stylized paintings on the Streets of Cairo, but the effect was basically the same. They weren’t any more authentic than she was.
Julien glanced at her in the mirror. “That is entirely the point.”
“To look like some kind of circus freak?” she asked. Her mouth still felt sticky from the paint as she spoke.
“Don’t smear your lips until they’re dry,” he said, ignoring her outrage as he lined his own with a softer shade of red.
“Why do you get to look like a woman while I have to look like a clown?” she asked. He’d done something to make her features look stronger and more angular than usual, while his own makeup had the opposite effect, transforming the masculine lines of his face into something softly feminine.
He glared at her in the mirror. “Because you are a woman. Trust me. No one is going to notice that little fact with your face looking like it is. You look exactly the way you need to look—just like every one of the other men who will be riding on the floats tonight.”
She frowned at herself again and then caught Harte’s eyes in the mirror. He had an expression on his face that looked like a combination of horror and pain. Which meant that the makeup was every bit as bad as she thought.
He hadn’t talked to her since the other day, when they’d argued after the fire, but he was here now. He was going through with things as planned, so she’d won. Somehow, the victory didn’t feel as gratifying as she’d thought it would. She’d say it was just nerves, but she made it a practice not to do nerves, especially not before a job as important and as dangerous as this one.
Letting out a frustrated breath, Esta took some more of the cotton batting and shoved it into the overly large corset she was wearing beneath the flowing white dress. It was ridiculous, flattening herself out only to stuff herself back up again just so she could fill out one of Julien’s gowns. All because women weren’t allowed to actually ride on the parade floats—it was unbecoming or immoral or something. She still didn’t understand how a bunch of half-drunk men dressed as women was any better, but at least their hypocritical morality gave her a way into the parade and, even more important, a way to get close to the necklace.
A knock came on the dressing room door. “Your ride is here,” Sal called.
“Tell them we’ll be there in five,” Julien shouted. Then he pulled on his own wig—a black bob that made him look like Cleopatra—and turned to Esta and Harte. “Well,” he said. “This is it.” He looked nervous. Too nervous.
“Relax, Jules,” Harte said, patting him on the arm. “This is no different from any other show. It’s all a bit of flash and sparkle, and then it’ll be over.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Julien muttered.
He hadn’t been happy to see them when they’d gone to him to tell him that they needed his help again. If they hadn’t been in a crowded restaurant, Esta thought Julien probably would have laid Harte flat out just to get away. But in the end they’d explained their dilemma the best they could—without telling him anything about the Antistasi. If things went to plan, he’d never have to know—and he wouldn’t be in any more danger.
“No one is going to pin this on you, Jules. I promise,” Harte said, his voice as steady as his expression. “Ready, Slim?”
“You can stop with that name anytime now,” Esta said, but the truth was that it helped. The little spark of irritation it inspired grounded her. “See you at the parade.” She tried to give him a smile. Instead of replying, he gave her a terse nod, but his eyes were shaded and his expression was unreadable.
It had been a night not much different from this—and not that long ago—when she and Harte had ridden in an awkward silence to Khafre Hall. Then, she’d planned to betray everyone she had come to admire in New York. She’d had no idea that Harte had plans of his own. He’d been distant that night too, but somehow Harte felt farther from her now than he ever had before—even on that night back in New York when he’d believed her to be the worst kind of traitor.
He’d been pulling back for days now, she admitted to herself. Even before their argument, he’d been holding himself back, and any time they touched or she thought he might move toward her, a look came over him as though it was a mistake—all of it, an enormous mistake. But after the argument they’d had on the banks of the river? The tension between them had been worse.
Dammit. She let out an angry breath and steeled herself for what was to come. In a matter of a little more than an hour, they would have the necklace and the world would be a different place. They would make it a different place. Or she would die trying.
She gave Harte a sure nod before she followed Julien through the theater and then out to meet the waiting cab. Guardsmen flanked the doors, so she pulled her magic in, clamping down on it as she climbed into the back of the carriage.
But the carriage wasn’t empty as she’d expected. The Veiled Prophet was waiting for them, there in the dark velvety interior, and next to him was Jack.
THE DEVIL INSIDE
1904—St. Louis
After Esta and Julien left the dressing room, with the door closed solidly behind them, Harte had to fight to keep himself from following her. She’d looked up at him in the mirror a moment before, her face painted so that even he couldn’t recognize her, and he’d seen more than Esta—he’d seen the woman in his visions, the one with eyes that turned black as night and who screamed and screamed and—
It was a coincidence. Except he didn’t believe in coincidences.
He scrubbed his hand over his face and then, with a violence that even he didn’t expect, he kicked over the chair next to the dressing table before he swept the rows of makeup and paint to the floor. Porcelain pots shattered and the colors from the different powders splattered in a haphazard mess.
He should have stopped her. He should have tried harder to talk her out of this mess of a plan. She’d been taken in by Ruth and the Antistasi, romanced by their fantasy of a world remade, but Harte didn’t have the same stars in his eyes. He couldn’t see a world remade and free, not when the voice inside of him promised nothing but destruction and death.
Magic was nothing more than a trap. A trick.
Or maybe he should have let her go, as he did. Maybe he had to. Who was he to judge Ruth and her Antistasi? Especially not with the power inside Harte trying to make him doubt himself until he was so tied up with fear and indecision that it could break through the final defenses he’d managed to keep up.
Breathing heavily, he stared at himself in the mirror—the dark circles under his eyes, the two days’ growth of beard shadowing his jaw. If he looked close enough, he thought he could see the creature inside of him peering out from the depths of his own eyes.
Even now, his fingertips digging into the dressing table, Harte felt like he might fly away if he didn’t hold tightly enough. Every day that passed was a day Seshat grew stronger. Every day he had a harder time completely pushing down the voice that was rumbling and gathering its power. She was clearer now—anger and sadness and destruction and chaos was her song, and Esta was the melody she sang to.
She would rip apart the world.
No. He wouldn’t let that happen. Harte would do whatever he needed to in order to keep the Book from getting Esta—from using her. His visions, whatever they were, would not be his future.
Taking another deep breath, he pried his hands from the tabletop and stepped back. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, using every last bit of himself to control the power inside of him. Then he moved the panel from the wall long enough to go through it and made his way out the back of the building.
North was waiting for him at the end of the alley in one of the brewery’s wagons, which had been painted over to obscure the name. Ever since the fire, things had been easier between Harte and the cowboy, but North’s only salutation was a tip of his hat as Harte climbed up onto the driver’s bench.
“Your costume’s there,” North said, pointing toward the burlap sack on the floor.
As they drove, Harte pulled out a cape out and a matching mask. It was a grotesque-looking thing made of papier-mâché, with a snakelike face and straw to cover his hair.
When Harte was done dressing, North handed him a small flannel bag. He looked inside and found the necklace. If he hadn’t known it was a fake, he never would have been able to tell. Ruth’s people were good—damned good. The metal shone like the platinum of the real Djinni’s Star, and the stone in the center of the collar had nearly the same otherworldly depth as the original. “It’s perfect.”
“Of course it is,” North said. “Now, remember, when you switch it with the real necklace, fastening it will prime the activator. When they take it off, that should trigger the mechanism within it. This Julien fellow’ll have maybe ten minutes before the acid burns through and the serum vaporizes.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Once Harte switched it off Julien on the float, the next person to touch it would be the Veiled Prophet himself, when he transferred the necklace to the girl who would wear it at the actual ball. According to the plan, that should happen just before the Veiled Prophet escorted the unlucky debutante and presented her to the rest of the attendees of the gala. Julien wasn’t invited into that, so he’d be safe. “Everyone should be well on their way back to the meeting place when that happens. You have the bracelet Ruth took?”
“Maggie has it,” North told him. “She’ll give it to you at the Water Tower once it’s all done.”
“And then we’ll be out of your hair for good.”
North pulled the wagon to the side of the street and jumped down from the driver’s perch to hitch the horses to a post as Harte opened the back. Inside, more than a dozen Antistasi were waiting solemnly, each dressed in the same costume Harte himself was wearing.
They filed out in silence, one by one, until they were all gathered around North.
“You’ll need to make sure you get the right float,” North instructed, going over the plan one more time. Distraction was what they needed. Distraction and confusion so that Harte could slip up onto the float and make the switch.
“The Prophet will be near the end of the parade,” Harte told them, information Julien had been able to gather. “That’s where we need to cause the most fuss.”
“We’ll do just fine at causing a fuss,” one of the snake-people said, and the rest tittered in agreement.
“Remember,” North told them, cutting into their laughter, “when the lights go out, you all need to scatter. Ditch the costumes wherever you can, and then get yourself back to camp. Don’t go off together, either. Split up. If you get caught, do whatever you have to, but don’t betray the rest of us. We’ll get you out as soon as we can.”
There was a murmuring of assent through the group as Harte pulled on his own mask, leaving it propped up on the top of his head.
“Good luck,” North said, reaching out his hand.
Harte accepted the handshake. For a moment he considered pushing his affinity into North, just to be sure that Ruth hadn’t made any other plans, but he couldn’t afford North suspecting anything just yet. If they wanted to get both the necklace and Esta’s cuff away from a pack of other Mageus, they needed the element of surprise.
They studied each other for a second or two, neither one of them willing to be the first to surrender, until Harte decided to let North win.
He released the cowboy’s hand and gave him a silent salute as he pulled his mask down over his face. Then he joined the crowd of serpents and went to find the Veiled Prophet, the necklace, and the girl he would never deserve.
THE GALA
1902—New York
Jack Grew stood in the corner of his uncle’s ballroom and surveyed all that he had created. Around him, candles glowed and crystal clinked. The low murmur of anticipation wrapped around him like a mantle, fortifying him for what was to come. Everyone who was anyone in New York society was there, including all the memb
ers of the Order and a handpicked selection of the press who were most likely to cover the event in the best possible light. In one corner, Sam Watson was chatting with the younger Vanderbilt. Across the room, his aunt was preening over the state of the ballroom. Everyone was happy, content. Including Jack.
He was close. So very, very close.
Watson had noticed him and was approaching from across the room, but Jack pretended not to see. Instead, he ducked behind the nearest curtain that separated the guests from the area behind the temporary stages that circled one side of the ballroom. The mood there wasn’t the relaxed, champagne-tinged atmosphere of the crowd. Backstage, the nervous energy of the performers made the air feel almost electric. Anticipation flooding through him, Jack took the vial from his jacket and crunched two more of the morphine cubes. Then he slipped the vial back into his vest, next to the warmth of the Book, and made his way through the preoccupied performers to find Evelyn.
By the time he reached her, she was already wearing the gossamer gown that had been commissioned for her tableau. All the tableaux had been selected for specific reasons, but mostly to portray the strength of science and alchemy over the dangerous feral magic that had once nearly destroyed civilization. The Nightmare was to be the final tableau, the finale of sorts. In the painting, a fair-haired woman lay unconscious, draped over a low couch, with her head and hand hanging toward the floor. The way Fuseli depicted her, the sleeping woman might well be dead except for the faint blush of pink across her lips, and on her chest sat a gargoyle-like figure, a succubus that represented the idea of the nightmare, pressing down upon her, holding her in the deathly sleep.
Evelyn had already powdered herself even paler than usual for the tableau. Her skin was so white it practically glowed and was barely different from the ivory gown she wore. She touched up the pale pink paint on her lips in a small mirror, the gown hiding very little. It might as well have been transparent from the way it clung to her curves, and because it was so close to her powdered skin, at first glance it almost did seem transparent. That was all part of the fun, of course. Tableaux vivants were known for being titillating and risqué and for skirting the very edges of propriety.