The Devil's Thief, Page 4

  Cela didn’t answer. Silently, she willed the woman to go away.

  “Hellooo . . . ?” the voice trilled. “Is someone down here?”

  She knew that voice, Cela thought with a sinking feeling. She heard it often enough. Every time Evelyn DeMure had an idea for a new way to make her waist look trimmer or her bust look larger, Cela was the one who got to hear about it . . . and boy did she hear about it. Evelyn was the type of performer the workers backstage tried their best to avoid. Though she was undeniably talented, Evelyn thought she was more so, and she acted as though the world owed her something for her very presence.

  Evelyn DeMure peered around the doorframe and found her. “Well, Cela Johnson . . .” Without her usual lipstick and rouge, Evelyn looked like a corpse in the dim lighting. “What ever are you doing here so late at night?”

  Cela kept the scissors in her hands but picked up a piece of fabric to go with them. “I had some odds and ends to work on,” she told Evelyn.

  “At this hour?” Evelyn asked, eyeing her. “I would have expected you’d be home.”

  Home. Cela fought to keep her expression placid and to keep any trace of pain from her voice when she answered.

  She intended to lie and brush Evelyn off, but suddenly Cela couldn’t remember why she hadn’t liked Evelyn. There was something soothing about the singer, like her very presence was enough to make all the pain and fear that Cela was carrying fade away. Cela hadn’t wanted to face her family with all that had happened, but somehow she found herself telling Evelyn everything.

  She told her about the white lady who’d died on her watch and the brother she would never see again . . . and about the ring, with its perfect, brilliant stone. It all came pouring out of her, and by the time she was done, she felt sleepy. So tired and relaxed now that she’d cried out all the tears left in her body.

  “There, there,” Evelyn cooed. “Just rest. Everything will be fine. Everything will be just fine.”

  Her eyes felt heavy . . . so heavy.

  “That’s it,” Evelyn said, her voice soft and warm. “Just rest your head there. . . .”

  Vaguely, Cela felt herself releasing the scissors. Her body, once wrung out with grief, felt soft now. Her chest a moment before had felt cold and empty. Hollow. Now she felt warm. Safe.

  Her eyes fluttered shut, and when they opened again, Evelyn was gone. The lamp had long since gone out, and her workroom was as silent as a tomb.

  With a groggy moan, Cela pulled herself upright, rubbing at her head, which still felt muddled and fuzzy. Evelyn’s visit and the whole night before it felt like a dream. A very bad dream. For a moment she allowed herself to believe that it was.

  Cela didn’t need the light to make her way to the door. She knew her workroom well enough. But when she went to open it, she found it stuck. No. It was locked.

  Not a dream, then.

  Which meant it had happened—all of it had happened. Abe, her home. Evelyn.

  Evelyn.

  Cela was trapped, and she didn’t need to feel her skirts to know that the ring Harte Darrigan had given her was gone.

  COMMON RABBLE

  1902—New York

  Jack Grew smelled like shit. He’d been sitting in a stinking cell, surrounded by the foulest dregs of the city’s worst denizens, for who knew how long. Since they’d taken his watch, he certainly didn’t. There were no windows, no clock to mark the passing of time. It could have been hours or days for all he knew, and the whole while, he’d been surrounded by flea-bitten filth who were happy to wallow in their own excrement.

  Most of them were asleep now, which was better than before. When he had first been tossed into the cell, the five other men had eyed him eagerly, and the largest of them, a tall, bearded man who didn’t say much—probably because he didn’t even speak English—had crowded him into a corner.

  Touching his tongue to the space where a tooth had once been and wincing at the pain in his jaw, Jack told himself that he’d held his own. He’d managed to defend himself, at least. Maybe he hadn’t stopped the man from taking his jacket, but he’d put up enough of a fight that the animal had given up and left him alone. They’d all left him alone eventually.

  He lifted a hand to scratch at his hair. It had probably become infested with vermin the moment he’d entered the cell, but the movement caused a sharp ache in his shoulder. That damned policeman had nearly jerked it out of its socket on the bridge.

  Not one of the idiots had understood what he’d been trying to tell them—that it was Harte Darrigan they should be arresting. That damned magician had been right there, and the police had done nothing.

  They’d taken in Jack instead. And the worst part? He’d been arrested for attempted murder. He’d had a clear shot and was sure the bullet would hit its mark, but then . . . nothing. The bullet hadn’t even grazed him. Darrigan was like a damned ghost evading death.

  The filth of the cell and the stink of the slop bucket in the corner might have been easier to deal with if Darrigan were dead. The missing tooth and sore arm and hair filled with lice might even have been worth it if Jack had been the one to end the magician’s useless life.

  The echo of footsteps came from the darkened corridor outside the barred doors of the cell, and the inmates around him started to wake and rustle uncertainly. As the steps approached, men in other cells rattled their bars and called out curses. Animals, all of them. When the guard stopped outside the cell where Jack sat, the small barred window of the door was eclipsed by the guard’s face, and then Jack heard his name being called as a small window slid open below.

  Finally. He hadn’t doubted that someone would come for him. He didn’t belong there with the common rabble. He placed his hands through the opening, as expected of him.

  “Enjoy your stay?” the policeman asked, his voice mocking as he handcuffed Jack through the door. “I s’pose them’s not as fancy as the accommodations you’re used to.”

  Jack ignored him. “Where are you taking me?” he asked as the guard pushed him toward the staircase at the end of the corridor.

  “You’re being arraigned,” the guard told him. “Time to answer to the judge.”

  Once they made their way down the stairs, Jack was led through a heavy set of doors and found himself in a courtroom. A dour-looking judge sat at the high bench, listening to whatever the man in front of him was saying. At the sight of the man’s back—the graying hair, the small patch of baldness at his crown, the fine wool of his overcoat—Jack’s stomach sank. Not his father or cousin . . . This was worse. Much worse.

  The man in front of the judge turned, and J. P. Morgan himself stood scowling at Jack as he approached the bench.

  When that peasant bitch had caught Jack in her web of lies back in Greece last year, she’d wrapped him up so deeply that he’d practically lost himself. He still didn’t remember most of the drunken days and nights he’d spent under her spell, but even then, the family had simply sent his cousin to round him up. If he found himself short of funds at closing time, one of the family’s men would show up to pay the bill. His uncle didn’t usually bother himself with the minutiae of the family’s life, especially not the life of his wife’s sister’s oldest boy. But there was Morgan himself, in the flesh: his bulbous, cankerous nose, stooped shoulders, and a scowl on his face that meant trouble for Jack.

  Shit.

  Jack stood in front of the bench, trying to listen to whatever it was the judge was saying, but he couldn’t concentrate. Not when his uncle was staring at him like he was something from the gutter.

  The judge finished talking. “Do you understand?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Jack answered, not really caring what he was answering to. He wasn’t some damn little boy to be put into a corner. As long as it meant freedom, he would have agreed to anything.

  Another officer stepped forward to remove the heavy cuffs, and Jack rubbed at his wrists.

  “I expect that I won’t have to see you here again,” the judge tol
d him. It wasn’t a question.

  “No, sir,” Jack said, silently cursing the judge and his uncle and the whole lot of them put together.

  Morgan didn’t say anything until they were both in the private carriage, closed away from the prying eyes of the city. Outside, the sky was just beginning to go from the pale light of dawn to full day. He’d spent the whole night in that rotting cell.

  After the carriage began to move, his uncle finally spoke. “You’re damn lucky Judge Sinclair is up for election this fall, or it wouldn’t have been so easy to get you out of there, boy. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, trying to shoot a man in broad daylight.”

  “I was trying to—”

  “You can’t possibly think I actually care?” Morgan snapped, his cold eyes silencing Jack as effectively as his words. “You had one job—to meet Darrigan and get the artifacts he stole. All you had to do was to stay out of the way so the Order—not you—could dispose of him.”

  “Darrigan made me look like a fool,” Jack said, his temper barely leashed. “I couldn’t let what he’d done to me stand.”

  “You made yourself look like a fool,” Morgan said. “All that damned magician did was give you enough rope to hang yourself with. None in the Inner Circle wanted you on that bridge, but I convinced the Order to give you another chance, and what happens? You go off half-cocked, as usual. It’s bad enough you brought those miscreants into our sanctuary, bad enough that Khafre Hall is in rubble and the Order’s most important artifacts are missing. But to go and draw even more attention to the situation? You’ve embarrassed the entire family. You’ve embarrassed me.”

  You’ve embarrassed yourself. Jack, at least, had tried to do something. If the Order had given Jack the access he’d wanted months ago, Harte Darrigan wouldn’t have been an issue. “I’ll find Darrigan,” he told Morgan. “I’ll get back the Book and the artifacts.”

  “Darrigan is dead,” Morgan said flatly.

  “Dead?” No. That couldn’t be. Not when Jack had plans to kill the magician himself.

  “Jumped from the bridge right after you were taken away. If he had the Order’s possessions, he either hid them or gave them to someone else. Not that it matters . . . We’ll find the artifacts sooner or later.”

  “I’ll help—”

  “No,” Morgan said bluntly, cutting him off. “You won’t. You’re finished. Your membership to the Order has been revoked.”

  The finality in his uncle’s tone told Jack that it wasn’t worth it to try explaining or apologizing. Especially not when his uncle had that look on his face. He would just have to bide his time, as he had after the fiasco in Greece. Eventually his uncle would cool off, and Jack would make them all understand.

  “Further,” Morgan continued, “you will be leaving the city immediately. Your bags have already been packed and are waiting at your mother’s house. Once we arrive, you will have exactly thirty minutes to clean yourself up and say your good-byes. When you’re presentable, you’ll be taken to the train station.”

  Jack huffed. “You can’t force me to leave.”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps not. But tell me, how do you plan to live? Your parents have decided they will not be paying any more of your bills until and unless you prove yourself. The town house you leased will need to be paid for. The carousing you do—the drinking and the whoring—will now be yours to deal with. Who do you think will hire you in this town after the embarrassment of yesterday?”

  Utter disbelief made Jack’s head feel as though it were in a fog. His uncle had ruined him. Morgan had turned Jack’s own parents against him, and with nothing more than a word, he could make sure no one in the city would have Jack. The truth of his own impotence burned. “And where will I be going?” he asked, his own voice sounding very far away from himself.

  “Where you should have gone yesterday—the job is still waiting for you in Cleveland, just as it was before the fiasco on the bridge.”

  “And how long will I be working there?” Jack asked flatly.

  “Indefinitely.” Morgan picked up a newspaper that was sitting on the carriage bench next to him and opened it with a snap. The front-page headline glared darkly at him: THE MAGICIAN’S TRAGIC TUMBLE. Beneath the words was an etching of Darrigan himself, staring from the surface of the newsprint, his half smile mocking Jack.

  Indefinitely. “That’s it, then? I’m exiled.”

  “Don’t be so damned dramatic,” Morgan growled from behind the paper.

  Once, Morgan’s authority would have made Jack tremble, but now there was something about the sneering quality of J. P. Morgan’s voice that made Jack bristle. They still don’t understand. The Inner Circle of the Order, with their comfortable boardrooms and palatial mansions on Fifth Avenue, saw themselves as kings—as untouchable. They didn’t realize that peasants start every revolution, and when the peasants rise up, royal heads are the first to roll.

  But Jack knew. He understood.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Jack said coldly. “You have no idea what these maggots are capable of. You have no idea the threats they pose.”

  With another violent snap, Morgan brought his newspaper down, practically tearing it across his lap, and glared at Jack. “Watch yourself, boy.”

  “I am not a boy,” Jack said through gritted teeth. “I’ve been studying the occult arts, learning everything I can to understand the hermetical sciences and the threats the old magic poses, and still you refuse to recognize the progress I’ve made or to see me as an equal.”

  “That’s because you are not an equal,” Morgan said, his voice absolutely cold in its dismissal. “You imagine yourself the hero of some grand drama, but you are not even the fool. Do you honestly believe the Order is not aware of the growing threats? You’re not the only one who has seen that Ellis Island has turned out to be a disappointment, that every new arrival threatens the very fabric of our society. Why do you think we’ve organized the Conclave?” Morgan shook his head, clearly disgusted. “You are nothing more than an insolent pup, too concerned with your own ego to see how little you know. The Inner Circle’s work does not concern you, and yet your own arrogance and recklessness have cost more than you can even imagine.”

  “But the Mageus—”

  “The Mageus are our concern, not yours. You think yourself somehow more aware, more intelligent than men who have years of experience beyond yours?” he scoffed.

  “The Order is too focused on Manhattan. It doesn’t realize—”

  “The work of the Order goes far beyond keeping a few ragged immigrants in their place in the Bowery. You imagine me an old man, out of touch with the realities of the world, but you are the one who does not understand. The country is at a turning point. Not just our city, but the country as a whole, and there are more forces at work than you can comprehend, more forces than you are even aware of.”

  He leaned forward slightly, a movement more menacing than conspiratorial. “The Order has a plan—or we had one before Darrigan mangled it. The Conclave at the end of the year was to be our crowning achievement, a meeting to bring together all the branches of our brotherhood, and the Order was to prove our dominance—our readiness to lead—and once and for all to wipe the dangers of feral magic from our shores. But you brought vipers into our midst. Now, because of you, everything we have worked for is at risk.”

  “So let me stay,” Jack demanded. “I have knowledge that could be useful. Let me help you. My machine—”

  “Enough!” Morgan’s bulbous nose twitched, as though he smelled something rotten. “You’ve done more than enough. Go to Cleveland. Keep your head down. Look around and learn a thing or two about how the world really works. And perhaps, if you manage not to make an even bigger ass of yourself, we’ll let you come back and visit for Christmas.”

  BLOOD AND WATER

  1902—New York

  Viola Vaccarelli pretended to examine the produce of one of the Mott Street vendors as she watched the door of the c
hurch across the street. The shop’s owner, an older man with his long, graying hair plaited neatly down his back, stood at the doorway watching her warily. She wondered if this was what Jianyu would look like as the years passed. But the memory of Jianyu, who Dolph had trusted to be his spy—and who had abandoned them all on the bridge—made Viola’s thoughts turn dark.

  When the shopkeeper took a step back, Viola realized that she had been scowling. To make amends, she pulled her mouth into a feeble attempt at a smile. The man blinked, his brow creasing even more, as though he knew her for the predator she was.

  Basta. Let him be nervous. A tiger didn’t apologize for its teeth, and Viola didn’t have time to make nice with some stranger. She offered him a few coins for the ripe pear she’d selected, and he reached out tentatively to take them.

  Across the street, the side door of the church opened and the first of the worshippers appeared. Viola stepped away from the old man, not bothering to wait for her change, and watched as a stream of women emerged from the side entrance of the church. They were mostly older, though there were a few younger women whose faces were already starting to show the same lines that mapped over their mothers’. They were the unmarried daughters—girls who had been unfortunate in their search for a husband and who still lived under their families’ roof and rule. Viola had refused that future. She had turned her back on her family and on every expectation they held for her.

  And now she would have to pay for it.

  The older women wore the uniform of their generation: sturdy dark skirts, heavy, shapeless cloaks, and a fazzoletto copricapo made from lace or plain linen to cover their heads and preserve their modesty and humility before the lord and everyone else in the neighborhood. Viola had also pulled a scarf over her dark hair for the morning, but she had little interest in modesty. Concealment was her aim.

  To anyone else, the line of Italian women might have seemed indistinguishable, but Viola could have picked out her mother in a crowd of a thousand such women. The way her mother’s heavy body swayed as she turned west toward the blocks of Mulberry Street had been the rhythm of Viola’s childhood.