CONSEQUENCES
1904—St. Louis
Had Esta not been trained since she was a child to suppress every flicker of emotion when faced with some sudden danger, her jaw might have dropped at Julien Eltinge’s words. Instead, she kept her features placid, the combination of boredom and cool poise that never failed to evade attention. As much as she now loathed the man who had raised her, she was grateful in that moment for her ability to hide her reaction so completely. But inside, her instincts were on high alert, and her stomach felt like she’d just been sucker punched.
“Infamous?” Esta asked. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard about me, but surely infamous is overstating things, Mr. Eltinge.”
Julien’s mouth hitched up around his cigar again. “Oh, I don’t think it’s overstating things at all,” he replied, his dark eyes glittering. They were too sharp. Too perceptive—and she had a feeling that so was he. Setting the cigar back in the ashtray, Julien turned back to the mirror and began removing the makeup on the other side of his face. “After all, you can’t destroy a train and not expect to get a reputation, you know,” he said as calmly and easily as someone talking about the weather.
Destroy a train?
The dressing room seemed to fall away, and all at once Esta felt as though she were back on the train out of New Jersey. The stone that she was wearing against her arm almost felt warm at the memory of how hard it had been to grasp the seconds, to find the right moment to pull them through to get away from Jack. Though she was on solid ground, Esta’s legs felt suddenly unsteady, just as they had when the ground beneath the train had seemed to quake, like the train was about to run itself off the rails. And even in the warmly lit dressing room, the darkness that had tugged at her vision and her consciousness haunted her.
No . . . that’s impossible.
“But please, let’s not stand on ceremony. You must call me Julien.” He glanced up at Esta in the mirror, smiling slightly as he wiped more of the makeup from his face. “After all, a friend of Darrigan’s is a friend of mine.”
“What are you going on about, Julien?” Harte asked. “She didn’t destroy anything—certainly not a train.”
“I suppose it would be the sort of thing one would remember. . . .” Julien gave her another of those too-perceptive looks. “It’s what all the papers claimed, though.”
“And you believed them?” Harte asked, scorn coloring his tone. “You of all people should know not to trust those muckrakers.”
Julien’s affable expression flickered slightly, but he didn’t immediately respond. Esta noticed that he was still watching her, and he continued to study her for a few moments longer, before turning back to the dressing table. He took his time wiping the rest of the cold cream and makeup from his face, erasing the woman who had commanded the stage until all that was left was the man beneath, a man who was no less compelling.
There was nothing remotely feminine about Julien’s features without the light base or the brightness of the rouge on his cheeks and lips. Instead, he had a rugged, almost Mediterranean look to him, with olive-toned skin, sweat-damp black hair that held the hint of a curl, and coal-dark eyes that were as perceptive as a raven’s. He picked up the cigar again—an affectation, Esta realized—wielding the thick stump of it like a sword.
Julien turned to face the two of them then, and his voice was serious when he spoke. “To be honest, Darrigan, I didn’t pay attention to the story when it first happened. There’s always some accident or another the papers are going on about. But then that one fellow claimed it wasn’t an accident. The only reason I even noticed it really is because he claimed you were there.”
“What fellow was that?” Harte asked.
“What’s his name—the one who always runs with Roosevelt these days,” Julien said, wagging the cigar in the air as he tried to think. “Grew, I think it is. Gerald or James . . .”
Esta’s stomach went tight. “Jack.”
“That’s it.” Julien pointed the cigar at her. “Jack Grew—one of the Morgans, isn’t he?”
“J. P. Morgan’s nephew,” Harte supplied, but his voice sounded as hollow as Esta suddenly felt.
Julien nodded, apparently not noticing either of their reactions. “Yes, that one. He got caught up in the mess. A few days after it happened, one of the papers came out with this whole story about how the derailment wasn’t an accident. Jack Grew claimed that the two of you were the ones who set some fire and burned down the headquarters of the Order of Ortus Aurea in New York to cover a theft and that he’d tracked you to the train and had almost apprehended you when you attacked him—”
“I attacked him?” Esta didn’t even try to hide the disgust in her voice.
“And blew up half the train to escape,” Julien finished. “A lot of people died in the crash, you know. After Grew claimed it wasn’t an accident, the powers that be started paying attention—oh, don’t look so offended, Darrigan. I’m just telling you what the papers said.”
“You’re accusing us of destroying a train, Jules,” Harte said, his voice lower and more dangerous now. “Of killing innocent people.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. You’re supposed to be dead, after all. Nasty fall off a bridge, from what I heard.”
“So you’re accusing me?” Esta asked, still trying to make sense of the strange person that was Julien Eltinge.
She knew men like him, men who used their good looks and easy confidence to get their way. Men like Logan, who she’d thought was a friend and a partner until he’d turned against her. Men like Harte, too, if she were honest with herself. Julien’s charm was a warning of sorts—a sign that she had to be on alert. But there was something else beneath the charm, and that part of him was still a puzzle.
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Julien said.
Harte let out an impatient breath. “You’re trying my patience, Jules.”
Julien gave Esta a wry look out of the corner of his eye. “You know, he can be a jackass sometimes.” He paused to consider what he’d just said. “Actually, he’s a jackass more often than not, isn’t he? But I never knew him for a murderer. You, on the other hand . . .” He looked at Esta full on now, a question in his darkly perceptive eyes. “I don’t know you at all.”
“She’s with me.” Harte stepped forward, slightly in front of her, to assert himself physically as he spoke. “That’s all you need to know.”
Esta barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes in exasperation. Harte had pretty much ignored her since they’d left New York, and now he was suddenly interested? Typical. But in front of Julien, she let him have his little moment.
Jules gave Harte an inquiring look. “I see,” he said, amusement brightening his expression when he finally looked at Esta again. Then he let out a soft chuckle. “Harte Darrigan . . . I never thought to see the day. . . .” He laughed again.
Esta lifted her chin slightly and affected what she hoped was a look of utter disinterest, even as she was still trying to process everything Julien had just told them. Something had happened to the train they were on after they had slipped through time—something that had never happened before.
“Tell me about the train,” Esta demanded.
Julien held Esta’s gaze a few moments longer before he began to speak. “There was a big derailment a couple of years ago. The accident tore a gaping hole into a section of track just outside the station in New Jersey. From the reports in the papers, the track was gone. Utterly demolished, and half the train with it. The inspectors said that damage like that could have only been the result of an explosion. At first they thought it was one of the anarchist groups that are always blowing things up when they don’t get their way, but then a couple days after, the Herald broke the story about this Jack Grew character. Apparently, he claimed that the two of you were responsible. Of course, most people thought he was cracked, seeing as how Darrigan here was supposed to already be dead—no offense—”
“None taken,” Harte said, but his jaw was tight, and Esta had a feeling he didn’t like to be reminded.
“And then there was his claim that it wasn’t a bomb. He said you used magic.”
“Magic?” Esta asked, pretending to be surprised.
“Claimed that you were Mageus,” Julien said, implying the unspoken question.
“We’ve known each other for ages, Jules. If I were Mageus, don’t you think you would know?” Harte asked, bringing Julien’s attention back to him. “If either one of us were Mageus, how would we have gotten out of the city?”
Esta tried not to hold her breath as she waited for Julien’s answer.
“That was the question everyone was asking,” Julien said finally. “Dangerous magic outside the protection of the Brink? It should have been impossible. But they never found your bodies in the wreckage, and Grew continued to swear you had both been there.
“Of course, his people used the whole thing as proof that the Order’s work was still important. The Order denied that magic could escape the confines of the Brink, just as they denied that the fire at their headquarters had been anything but an accident—faulty wiring or some such thing. Nothing could have been stolen from them because only the devil’s own thief could have broken into the Order of Ortus Aurea’s vaults. As you can imagine, the public loved that. The Devil’s Thief.”
“The Devil’s Thief?” Esta asked.
“That’s what they started calling you,” Julien said, stubbing out the cigar for good this time. “You were in all the papers for a while. Everyone was trying to figure out who you were and where you’d gone. Every reporter was trying to unmask the Devil’s Thief.”
“Damn stupid name,” Harte muttered.
Julien laughed. “Maybe, but it made a helluva headline, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Harte said flatly.
Julien ignored him. “It has the right . . . je ne sais something. Really grabs attention.” He glanced more directly at Esta. “It would play great onstage, if you’re ever interested in the theater business?”
Harte spoke before she could answer. “She’s not.”
Esta shot Harte a look, but he didn’t even see it. His focus was on Julien, and his impatience felt like a living, breathing thing.
Julien didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. With a shrug, he continued. “Damn shame. Tall girl like you? I bet you’ve got a great set of legs under those skirts—”
“Julien . . . ,” Harte ground out.
“I can’t believe you really don’t know any of this,” Julien said, confusion replacing the amusement in his expression. “I figured that was why you’d gone to ground—that you were either dead or hiding out somewhere. Either way, I didn’t ever expect to see you back here.”
“We were . . .” Harte paused as though unsure of how to explain.
“Out of the country,” Esta supplied easily.
Julien frowned, considering the two of them. “Still, you’d think that news like that would have reached—”
A knock sounded at the door, cutting Julien’s words off midsentence.
The sudden alertness in Harte’s posture mirrored Esta’s own feeling of unease. There was only one entrance—and, therefore, only one exit—to the dressing room. If Julien was right about them being wanted and if he had recognized her so easily, it was possible that someone else had too. They couldn’t be caught there. Not after how far they’d come, and not with all they still had left to do.
“You didn’t—” Harte started, but Julien held up a hand to silence him.
“Who is it?” Julien shouted, not bothering to move to open the door. He, too, seemed suddenly on edge.
“It’s Sal.”
“The stage manager,” he whispered to Harte.
“Well, what do you want?” he boomed. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“There’s some of the Jefferson Guard here. They’re doing a sweep of the whole theater,” the manager shouted through the closed door. “Thought I’d warn you in case you were . . . uh . . . indisposed.”
“Well, I am.” Julien’s gaze moved between Harte and Esta. “Can you hold them off for a few minutes?”
“I can probably get you five,” the voice called from the other side of the door.
“Do that and I’ll owe you a bottle of something better than your usual swill.”
The three of them waited in silence for Sal’s footsteps to retreat. The moment they could no longer be heard, Julien was on his feet. “Come on. You two need to get out of here.” He pushed aside a rack of beaded evening gowns that glimmered in the light as they moved.
“What’s going on?” Esta asked Julien. “What’s he talking about—the guards?”
“The Jefferson Guard. They’re a private militia here in St. Louis.” Julien began to work on loosening a panel on the back wall. “Their main job is to hunt down illegal magic, but they’ve been on higher alert than usual with the Exposition going on this year—especially since the Antistasi attacks that happened last October.”
“Antistasi?” Harte asked at the same time Esta said, “What attacks?”
“The Antistasi are a group of anarchists, but instead of the usual dynamite and bullets, the Antistasi use magic to make trouble. They started cropping up after the Defense Against Magic Act went into effect last year, but you probably don’t know about that, either.” When they shook their heads, he continued. “Basically, it made all forms of unregulated, natural magic officially illegal,” Julien explained as he continued to loosen the panel in the wall.
“The Antistasi . . . they’re Mageus?” Esta asked.
“That’s what they claim,” Julien said. “Once the Act went into effect, they suddenly seemed to be everywhere, making all kinds of trouble. Actually, you and the train became something of an inspiration for them.”
Harte’s eyes met Esta’s, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was.
Mageus living outside the city—outside the Brink? The old magic wasn’t supposed to exist anywhere else in the country. Wasn’t that what she’d always been taught? It was what she’d been brought up to believe. But she’d felt it herself outside the theater. There was magic in the streets of St. Louis. Strange magic, but power just the same. Had something changed because of what they’d done back in New York when they stole from the Order and let Jack get the Book? Or had everything she’d known been a lie?
Once, Esta had been grateful for the education she’d been given. Her deep knowledge of New York allowed her to be a master of its streets no matter when she landed, but now she was even more aware of the holes in that education. Had Professor Lachlan withheld the information about Mageus outside the city from her on purpose to keep her blind? Or was this some new future she couldn’t have been prepared for?
One thing was certain—in her own time, there hadn’t been any Defense Against Magic Act.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Julien said softly, misreading her concern. “We’ll get you out of here.” He worked at pulling the panel aside, to open a hole into the wall. “The Jefferson Guard might not be looking for you specifically, but I’m willing to bet the bounty on your pretty little head is a lot bigger than their usual price.”
“There’s a bounty?” Esta asked.
“Christ,” Julien said, half-disgusted and half-astounded. “You really have been away for a while. Of course there’s a bounty. J. P. Morgan himself offered it. You can’t just go blowing up trains without consequences, you know.”
“I told you, she didn’t do anything to that train,” Harte ground out.
“And I’ve already said I’m inclined to believe you, but it will be harder to convince the Guard if they find you here. They’re not known for fighting fair, so you’d have a hell of a time getting away.”
“But—” Harte started to argue.
“He’s right,” Esta interrupted before he could delay them any more. “Let’s go while we can.” She sent him a silent look that she hoped he understood.
“Smart girl,” Julien said.
She didn’t bother to acknowledge the compliment. Her mind was swirling with the implications of everything they’d just learned: She was a wanted criminal and there was magic—maybe even Mageus—outside the confines of the Brink.
By then Julien had completely removed the panel of the wall, exposing a passageway behind it. “I’ve used this in the past when I wanted to slip out without dealing with the stage-door crowd.” His expression faltered, and Esta couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. “Follow this passage to the left,” Julien instructed. “It’ll bring you to the boiler room. From there you should be able to find your way out easily enough.”
“About that bounty, Jules . . .” Harte’s expression was as sharp as the part that split his dark hair. “You sure you don’t have any interest in claiming it for yourself?”
Julien looked legitimately taken aback. His voice held a warning when he finally spoke. “I would have thought you knew me better than that, Darrigan.”
“Like you said, it has been a long time,” Harte said, and there was something unspoken, charged between them. “A lot seems to have changed while I was gone. I just need to know whether you have too.”
“I don’t want their blood money,” Julien said flatly as he nodded toward the opening. From the look in his eyes, Esta could even believe that he meant it. “Go on. When the Jefferson Guard comes through, I’ll make sure they’re distracted for a while so you can get well away from the theater.”
“We still need to talk, Julien,” Harte pressed.
“Sure, sure,” Julien said, waving them onward. “I’ll meet you at King’s in a couple of hours.”
“Where’s King’s?” Harte asked.
“It’s a saloon down on Del Mar—a hole in the wall where nobody should recognize you, or care even if they do.” Julien stepped back to allow them entrance to the tunnel behind the wall. “Go on, then. Before they come back.”