THE MAGICIAN
March 1902—The Brooklyn Bridge
The Magician stood at the edge of his world and took one last look at the city. The spires of churches rose like jagged teeth, and the sightless windows of tumbled buildings flashed in the rising sun. He’d loved it once. In those lawless streets, a boy could become anything—and he had. But in the end, the city had been nothing but a prison. It had borne him and made him and now it would kill him just the same.
The bridge was empty so early in the morning, a lonely span reaching between two shores. Its soaring cables were lit by the soft light of dawn, and the only sounds came from the waves below and the creaking of the wooden planks beneath his feet. For a moment he let himself imagine that a crowd had started to gather. He could almost see their tense faces as they stood in the shuffling silence and waited for his latest attempt to cheat death. Raising one arm in the air, he saluted the invisible audience, and in his mind, they erupted into cheers. His forced his face into the smile he always wore onstage—the one that was little more than a lie.
But then, liars do make the best magicians, and he happened to be exceptional.
As he lowered his arm, the silence and emptiness of the bridge wrapped around him, and his stark reality came into focus. His life might have been built on illusions, but his death would be his greatest trick. Because for once there would be no deception. For once it would be only the truth. His ultimate escape.
He shivered at the thought. Or perhaps that shiver was simply from the icy wind cutting through the fine material of his dress jacket. A few weeks later and there wouldn’t have been any chill to the air at all.
It’s better this way. Springtime was all fine and good, but the rank stink of the streets and the sweltering, airless buildings in the summer were another thing. The feeling of sweat always dripping down his back. The way the city went a little mad because of the heat. He wouldn’t miss that at all.
Which was, of course, another lie.
Add it to the pile. Let them sort out his truths once he was gone.
He could still leave, he thought with a sudden desperation. He could walk across the remaining span of the bridge and take his chances with the Brink.
Maybe he would make it to the other side. Some did, after all. Maybe he would simply end up like his mother had. It wouldn’t be any worse than he deserved.
There was a small chance he would survive, and if he did, maybe he could start over again. He had enough tricks at his disposal. He’d changed his life and his name before, and he could do it again. He could try.
But he knew already that it would never work. Leaving was just a different kind of death. And the Order, not bound by the Brink as he was, would never stop hunting him. Not now, at least. Destroying the Book wouldn’t be enough. When they found him—and they would—they’d never let him go. They’d use him and use him, until there was nothing left of who he’d once been.
He’d take his chances with the water.
Pulling himself up onto the railing, he had to grip the cable tightly to keep balanced against those gusting spring winds. Far off in the direction of the city, he heard the rumble of carriages, the cry of wild, angry voices signaling that the moment for indecision had passed.
A single step is such a small thing. He’d taken countless steps every day without ever noticing, but this step . . .
The noise at the mouth of the bridge grew louder, closer, and he knew the time had come. If they caught him, no amount of magic or tricks or lies would help. So before they could reach him, he released his hold on the cable, took that final step, and put himself—and the Book—in the one place the Order could never follow.
The last thing he heard was the Book’s wailing defiance. Or maybe that was the sound tearing from his own throat as he gave himself over to the air.
THE THIEF
December 1926—Upper West Side
It wasn’t magic that allowed Esta to slip out of the party unseen, the bright notes from the piano dimming as she left the ballroom. No matter the year, no one ever really looks at the help, so no one had noticed her leave. And no one had noticed the way her shapeless black dress sagged a bit on one side, the telltale sign of the knife she had concealed in her skirts.
But then, people usually do miss what’s right in front of them.
Even through the heavy doors, she could still faintly hear the notes from the quartet’s ragtime melody. The ghost of the too-cheery song followed her through the entry hall, where carved woodwork and polished stone towered three stories above her. The grandeur didn’t overwhelm her, though. She was barely impressed and definitely not intimidated. Instead, she moved with confidence—its own sort of magic, she supposed. People trusted confidence, even when they shouldn’t. Maybe especially when they shouldn’t.
The enormous crystal chandelier might have thrown shards of electric light around the cavernous hall, but the corners of the room and the high, coffered ceiling remained dark. Beneath the palms that stretched two stories up the walls, more shadows waited. The hall might have appeared empty, but there were too many places to hide in the mansion, too many chances someone could be watching. She kept moving.
When she came to the elaborate grand staircase, she glanced up to the landing, where an enormous pipe organ stood. On the floor above, the private areas of the house held rooms filled with art, jewels, priceless vases, and countless antiques—easy pickings with everyone distracted by the loud, drunken party in the ballroom. But Esta wasn’t there for those treasures, however tempting they might have been.
And they were definitely tempting.
She paused for a second, but then the clock chimed the hour, confirming that she was later than she’d meant to be. Tossing one more careful glance over her shoulder, she slipped past the staircase and into a hall that led deeper into the mansion.
It was quiet there. Still. The noise of the party no longer followed her, and she finally let her shoulders sag a bit, expelling a sigh as she relaxed the muscles in her back from the ramrod-straight posture of the serving girl she’d been pretending to be. Tipping her head to one side, she started to stretch her neck, but before she could feel the welcome release, someone grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the shadows.
On instinct, she twisted, holding tight to her attacker’s wrist and pulling it forward and down with all her weight, until he let out a strangled yelp, his elbow close to popping.
“Dammit, Esta, it’s me,” a familiar voice hissed. It was an octave or two higher than usual, probably because of the pressure she was still exerting on his arm.
With a whispered curse, she released Logan’s arm and shook him off, disgusted. “You should know better than to grab me like that.” Her heart was still pounding, so she couldn’t manage to dredge up any remorse for the way he was rubbing his arm. “What’s your deal, anyway?”
“You’re late,” Logan snapped, his too-handsome face close to hers.
With golden hair and the kind of blue eyes that girls who don’t know better write poems about, Logan Sullivan was a master of using his looks to his advantage. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him, but he didn’t try to charm Esta. Not anymore.
“Well, I’m here now.”
“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Where have you been?” he demanded.