The Last Magician

“Just focus on what we have to do,” Harte told her. “Nothing else matters.” He turned to her. “Block all of that out. You can’t let them get into your head, especially not right now.”

The High Princept raised his arms until the crowded amphitheater went quiet. “In celebration of this night, we have for your enjoyment a demonstration of the power of Reason . . . the very power our hallowed organization champions. May I present Mr. Darrigan, who has pulled himself up from obscurity through the study of the occult sciences, and his assistant, Miss von Filosik, daughter of the late baron, to whom the study of alchemy owes so much.”

It was time. There was nowhere to go but out onto the stage. Harte offered his hand, and she placed her gloved palm in his as she pasted a brilliant smile on her face and allowed him to lead her onward into the glow of the footlights.





THE CARD SWITCH


If he hadn’t spent so many years learning the delicate art of pretending, Harte might have hesitated. He might have felt weakened by the onslaught of the Princept’s speech, by the ragged anger simmering in the room. But he’d lived on the edge of survival for so long that he simply relied on the skills that had become instinct and took the stage with his usual practiced flair. Esta, he could tell, was nervous. He could sense the tension in her posture, and he could see the fear in her eyes. He only hoped the footlights were too bright for the audience to see it as well.

He launched into some of his better effects—the Indian needle trick and a daring manipulation of fire, to start with. Then he gestured offstage for their final demonstration of the evening, and the stagehands rolled out a large, gleaming vault.

Esta looked at Harte, her eyes wide. Confused.

He knew what she was thinking. They had prepared all week for her to perform the Glass Casket. They’d prepared for her to be the one who stole the Book and the artifacts. But after what he’d learned from Nibsy, he hadn’t trusted her not to fall for the boy’s innocent act like everyone else. While they’d practiced, he’d made his own plans—a card switch on a much larger scale. At first he had thought to protect her so she couldn’t be implicated when Dolph or Nibs found out what he’d done. But now that he knew what she’d planned, he was glad he’d kept his secrets.

He gave her a wink that would look like little more than a playful exchange to the audience, but he knew she would understand. I’m a step ahead of you. Because he’d worked too long and had come too far to be stopped by something as cliché as a pretty face now. ?And with the threat of Jack’s machine, there was too much at risk.

Stepping to the front of the stage, Harte lifted his arm and saluted the audience. Never before had there been so much at stake in a performance. Never before had an audience been so dangerous. But having the odds stacked against him had never stopped him before, and it wouldn’t stop him from doing what needed to be done now.

“Gentlemen . . . ?” He turned to the Princept who’d introduced him and the other high-ranking man at his side. “If you would come up and inspect this vault? Be thorough. Leave no doubt as to its durability.”

“Actually,” the Princept said, “we’ve arranged a little surprise for you.” He gave a nod to someone offstage, and Sam Watson appeared with a set of chains and cuffs. Evelyn walked beside him, eating up the spotlight as she came closer to them.

Harte’s throat went tight as Sam gave him a sharp-toothed smile that promised nothing good. But he kept his expression calm, indifferent, even as his mind raced with all the possibilities about how everything was about to go sour.

“We’ve all heard what you’re capable of, Mr. Darrigan, so we hope you’ll agree to a little challenge. Instead of using your own chains, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind testing your abilities against the locks we provide. These cuffs were brought straight from the Halls of Justice, and all the locks and chains have been kept under my supervision until this moment to ensure they haven’t been tampered with in any way. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

“Of course not.” Harte gave Sam his most charming smile, relieved. Handcuffs and chains were nothing to him. He’d made an art of escaping his whole life. If this was all they could throw at him, he could take it.

Esta, however, looked considerably less sure.

As they clapped him in the handcuffs and wrapped him in chains, the Princept checked over the safe, and when he was satisfied, he confirmed its integrity to the waiting crowd.

When they were finished securing him, Harte turned to the audience. “This safe is two-inch-thick steel with a double-bolt mechanism,” he told the waiting crowd. “Once inside, a person would have ten minutes to escape before the air begins to thin. After twenty minutes, they would become light-headed and lose all sense of reason. At thirty minutes, they would begin to lose consciousness. At forty-five minutes, the air would run out.” He paused dramatically, allowing the silence to settle over the audience. “To remain trapped so long would mean certain death . . . unless, of course, a person could manipulate the very matter of these bonds and free himself before that happens. Unless a person could command the very air to sustain him.”

An interested murmuring rustled through the audience.

He ignored the unfamiliar weight of the handcuffs. “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the men who had chained him. “If you would be so kind as to lock me in?”





CHECKMATE


Dolph Saunders stepped from the noise of ?The Devil’s Own into the blessed, blessed silence of the night. He didn’t waste time, but made his way swiftly along the empty street, sticking to the shadows. He had one more stop to make before he returned to the Strega to wait for news.

The cemetery was bathed in the wan light of the moon. He was only twenty-six, but he felt the aches of a much older man. He was weary, wrung out. Tired of the constant games. The constant need to be two steps ahead of the danger dogging at his heels.

If all went well tonight, those games would be at an end. One way or another.

“It’s finished, Streghina. Tonight it will be done. And you will be avenged,” he added softly. Though he wasn’t sure why, for surely the dead could hear what was in the deepest recesses of his worn and fractured heart.

He knelt at the foot of the grave Leena now shared with their child, the one she’d lost because of what he’d done, and prayed for her forgiveness. He prayed that what he was doing—his attempt to get the Book and to bring down the Brink and the Order once and for all—would make up for all he had done, but before he was finished, Dolph sensed that someone had entered the cemetery.

The intruder waited in the shadows near the gate, allowing Dolph the privacy of his audience with the dead, but Dolph could feel his impatience.

“What is it, Nibsy?” he said, speaking into the night. He didn’t take his eyes from the grave as the boy approached him. “It can’t already be done?” he asked, knowing that no good news would have come so soon.

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