“I ain’t trying to say nothing. What I am saying is that you’ve gotta do something to get more people in the seats. Something new.”
Harte turned back to Shorty. “I did add something new, or weren’t they watching? The escape I did tonight was new. ?Two sets of handcuffs, shackles, and ten feet of iron chains—”
“Yeah, yeah. You got yourself out of a locked box. Big deal. Houdini’s been breaking out of things for years now. Nobody cares anymore. You want top billing? You need something bigger. Something with some more flash.” Shorty put the cigar back between his teeth.
Harte clenched his jaw to keep from saying something he’d regret. “Is that all?”
“Yeah, kid. I guess that’s it. ?Just wanted to tell you what’s what. Thought you’d want to know.”
Harte didn’t thank him. He stood silent and expressionless as Shorty shrugged and took his leave. Once the door was closed and he was alone, he cleaned up the fallen ash.
Still unsettled, he turned to the mirror and took a deep breath before giving himself a smile, his clear gray eyes searching his reflection for any indication that his old life was showing through. There wasn’t room for a misstep or a crack in the carefully cultivated facade he presented to the world. That night, nothing could be left to chance.
Finally satisfied, he let the smile fall from his face, as heavy and sure as a curtain falling between acts. He pulled on his gloves and coat and took up his hat from where it rested on the dressing table before extinguishing the lamp and letting himself out of his dressing room.
It was barely past midnight, and already the theater was empty and silent. Playing this house was nothing like the rough-and-tumble theaters of the Bowery, which remained open at all hours of the night, their drunken audiences roaring for more—more skin, more laughter, more of the brittle pieces of self-respect Harte had tried to hold on to night after night.
Harte had escaped those beer-stained halls well over a year ago, but Shorty’s warning was one more reminder that it wouldn’t take much for him to find himself back there again. With nowhere to go but farther down.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
Far-off sounds echoing through the cavernous building told him there were still a few stragglers left. No doubt they were gathered in the chorus girls’ dressing room, drinking Nitewein to burn off the excess energy brought on by the crowd. Or to numb the constant ache of hiding what they were.
The theater world was filled with Mageus. The stage was a good place for those with magic to hide in plain sight, but for many in the business, using their affinity onstage made them crave it that much more. The rumbling approval of the crowd only amplified that yearning to answer the old call of magic, to embrace what they really were. Many resorted to using the opium-laced liquor to stop the resulting ache. Usually it was enough to get them through to the next performance.
For Harte it was exactly the opposite—the applause was the only thing that made the ache any better.
He’d been invited to their after-hours gatherings plenty of times before, but he hadn’t been invited that night. Actually, he hadn’t been invited for quite a while, come to think of it. At some point the others must have given up on their well-meaning attempts to bring him into their circle.
It was probably for the best, he thought, brushing aside any regret like the lint from his coat. He had too many secrets to risk entanglements. Especially now.
“Sneaking off without even a good-bye?” The voice came to him through the darkness, smoky and warm.
His hand tightened on the brim of his new silk hat. He was already on edge from Shorty’s warning, but he pasted on his usual charming smile. “Would I ever sneak away from you, Evelyn?” he asked as he turned to face her.
“You’re always sneaking away from me,” she purred, “but I can never tell why.”
The woman stepped forward into a beam of light, her ruby mouth pulled into a sultry pout and her eyes glassy from the drink. It didn’t matter that every night he passed within inches of her when he exited the stage and turned the spotlight over to her. Familiarity did nothing to mute the effect of Evelyn DeMure because every ounce of her attraction was calculated, manipulated, and most of all, imbued with magic.
In her act, she and her two “sisters” wore flesh-colored bodysuits beneath Grecian-inspired gowns that barely covered their most scandalous parts. With their legs visible almost to the thigh and the risk that at any moment the gowns might unravel completely, the three performed a series of songs filled with double entendres and bawdy jokes that kept the audience—male and female alike—on edge, hoping for more.
Evelyn wasn’t wearing the bodysuit now. Her eyes were still ringed in kohl and her lips were stained by bold paint, but her embroidered emerald robe hung low to reveal one creamy, bare shoulder and the slope of her full chest. Her henna-tinted hair, a red too vibrant to be real, was soft and untamed around her face.
An effective display altogether, he admitted. Even with her age showing at the corners of her eyes, she would have brought any man to his knees.
But Harte wasn’t one of those who filled the theater eager for a glimpse of thigh—or something more—and who fell at her feet at the stage door. He knew her appeal came from something more than simple beauty. Even drunk as she was on Nitewein, whispers of magic betrayed her attempt to entangle him.
Ignoring the tightening in his gut, he gave her a formal nod. He wouldn’t be taken in, especially not by the tricks of a siren like Evelyn.
“Where are you running off to so fast?” she crooned, taking another few steps toward him. Cat and mouse.
Desire coiled in his gut, but he held his ground, pretending his usual indifference to her many charms. “Urgent business, I’m afraid.” He gave her a roguish grin that promised his destination was anything but.
Evelyn’s expression flickered, and Harte thought he saw the hurt behind the pride she wore like armor. But for all he knew, that was also part of her act, another effect perfectly calculated to slay him.
He could find out, of course. It would be easy enough to strip off a glove, pretend that he was lured into her too-obvious seduction. It would only take a touch. . . . Harte took a step back instead, placing his hat on his head at a rakish angle and touching the brim in a silent farewell.
“You’re really not going to tell me where you’re going?” She crossed her arms, hitching the robe back up over her bare shoulder as her mouth went tight.
He’d upset her, not hurt her. “Sorry, love. I never kiss and tell.” And with a wink, he left her standing in the back of the empty stage as he stepped out into the night.
For a moment he permitted himself the luxury of letting go. There, in the shadows of the stage door, he allowed himself to breathe, imagining a future when he could be more than his starched lapels and expertly tied cravat. More than this mask he wore.