“It’s damn unfair,” Harte agreed, pretending more sympathy than he actually felt. “How much did they get away with?”
“Nearly everything of any real value.” Jack glanced across the room to where J. P. Morgan and his son were still in tense discussions with the police chief. “At least three canvases were cut from their frames. Even if they’re returned, they’ll be irreparably damaged. And all the seals are gone, including the one I told you about.” Then he noticed Darrigan’s shirtfront and jacket were a mess—stained and damp. “What the hell happened to you?”
Harte made a show of examining his damp lapels. “Accident with one of the servers.”
“Accident, you say?” Jack frowned, looking over the ruined jacket. “Which one was it? I’ll look into it, make sure they’re taken care of for you.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” Harte said, waving it off. ?The last thing he wanted was for Morgan—or anyone else—to look too closely at him. Especially not when they were investigating a crime. “It happened when the lights went out. I don’t think it could have been helped.”
“Damn mess,” Jack muttered. He glanced over at Harte, lowering his voice so no one would hear. “The head of security told my uncle there were definitely Mageus involved.”
“Oh?” Harte said, trying to mask his surprise with bored indifference. “They know that for sure, do they?”
Jack glanced back at his uncle again and then pulled Harte away, steering him toward a quiet part of the room. “It’s something new the director was trying. Employing people with, shall we say, special qualities. My uncle—and the Order—approved of it, if you can believe that. They didn’t bother telling me, or I would have told them it was a mistake. As though they’d ever willingly give up one of their own.”
“Thick as thieves,” Harte agreed, eyeing the guards, who were still watching the room.
He reminded himself that the guards’ affinities couldn’t be that strong—they would have caught the girl, otherwise. Still, it wouldn’t do to linger. It wasn’t worth the chance. “Well,” he said, clapping Jack sympathetically on the shoulder, “I’ve already missed my curtain, and I need to get back to explain things.”
“I am sorry about that,” Jack said with a frown.
Darrigan pasted an easy smile on his face. “I’m sure when the story hits the papers tomorrow, I’ll be able to talk my way out of it,” he said.
Jack snagged his arm. “You don’t know how they did it, do you?”
Harte froze. “Excuse me?”
“How did they get everything out of that locked room? I watched them secure it earlier myself. No one was in there, and no one could get in there, not with this gallery filled with people. The lights weren’t out for more than a minute or two.” Jack hesitated, eyeing Harte. “It was a little like one of your tricks.”
Cold unease trickled down Harte’s spine. “I don’t do tricks,” he said carefully.
“You know what I mean . . . onstage?”
“Those are effects, Jack. Demonstrations of skill. Whatever magic might have been involved tonight isn’t any I’m familiar with, and I’m a victim here as much as anyone—someone managed to take my watch in the confusion.” He held up the empty chain to display the missing pocket watch.
“I know that.” Jack rubbed his hand over his mouth. He looked tired and hungover, and it wasn’t even past midnight. He looked vulnerable. “I’m sorry for dragging you into all of this.”
“You know,” Harte said carefully, taking advantage of the moment. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I could help you with this.”
Jack looked up. “You could?”
“Of course, Jack. That’s what friends do. They help each other. I don’t know anything about the old magic, of course . . . but you’re right. I know how to make things disappear better than anyone. Maybe I could figure out how they did it. I’m not making any promises, but I’d be more than willing to look into the matter.”
A desperate hope lit Jack’s eyes. “I’d appreciate it, Darrigan. I really would.”
“And if we happened to figure it out, your uncle would appreciate it too, wouldn’t he?”
“I’m sure he would.”
“He’d have no reason to keep you out of the Inner Circle, would he?”
Jack shook his head.
“And once you’re one of them . . . you could put in a good word for your friend, couldn’t you?”
“Of course,” Jack said, understanding. He gave Harte a knowing smile. “It’s what friends do.”
Harte nodded. “Let me think about it and see what I can come up with,” he told Jack. “I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” Jack said, grasping his hand to shake it.
“But let’s not tell anyone yet, okay? I wouldn’t want to get their hopes up.” Or their suspicions, Harte thought as he took the risk to send a small pulse of his power against Jack’s hand.
When he released Harte’s hand, Jack stared at him for a moment, a little dazed. “I’ll talk to you soon, then,” he said, before he turned away, heading toward the ransacked gallery.
Harte watched him go, the mixture of the pull of his affinity and adrenaline singing in his veins. He was closer than he’d ever been to hooking Jack and gaining the entry to the Order that he needed if he wanted to get the Book. If he wanted to get out of the city. But he had to be careful and take his time. There was no room for a single misstep. The girl knew too much. Dolph was too powerful. And if Harte wasn’t careful, he and all his dreams could end up as shattered and pointless as the shards of crystal still littering the floor.
HIDDEN DEPTHS
Bella Strega
Sitting cross-legged on her small cot of a bed, Esta chewed at her lip as she read Professor Lachlan’s news clipping again. Once they’d returned to the Strega the night before, Dolph had thanked her again and left her to herself. But Esta hadn’t been able to sleep much, not after she checked the clipping. She kept checking it throughout the night, hoping that something would be different. Yes, the letters had stopped wavering and the words had finally resolved themselves into clear sentences, but that hadn’t improved things.
The story had changed.
No fire. No destruction of Khafre Hall. Instead, the article was a bland piece about a party the Order had thrown to thank their newest member, Harte Darrigan, for apprehending the mastermind behind the Metropolitan Museum robbery, a saloon keeper named Dolph Saunders. Some items were still missing, but the article said that because Saunders died on his way to the prison on Blackwell Island, authorities didn’t have high hopes for recovering them. Especially since Saunders’ crew had scattered, abandoning his saloon and other holdings, which were being confiscated by the city.
Of course he’d died, Esta thought as her stomach twisted. To get to the island, they would have taken him out of Manhattan . . . right through the Brink. Dolph wouldn’t have stood a chance. None of them would have.