THE VEILED PROPHET
1904—St. Louis
Julien Eltinge was trying to catch his breath from the exertion of his final number as he walked to his dressing room, his heart still pounding from the excitement of the ovation he’d just received. It had almost been enough to erase the stress of earlier that day. When Darrigan and Esta had announced their plans to steal the necklace, Julien had seen his future crumbling. All his work, all his careful plans, destroyed on a whim. As though anyone could steal something from a place like the Exposition or from an organization as powerful as the Society. But his performance had recentered him, and the roar of the applause had eased the tension that had been building behind his eyes and the worry he’d been carrying in his limbs, just as it always did.
He still remembered the first time he’d understood what applause meant to him. Not the sound of it or even the way people looked standing and cheering, but the way it felt. How it had hit some essential part of him, deep down in the very marrow of who he was. That first round of applause had broken open something in him, and it had sent him on a chase to find more. For a long time, he chased it high and low, as eager and determined as a terrier after a rat. Now he knew better. Now he let the applause come to him.
All that he’d worked for, the success he’d dreamed of for so long, was almost within his reach. Every night he took the stage, the applause was louder. Every night, more and more people came to see his act, his artistry. And they understood.
His parents had scoffed at him when he’d tried to explain it, but they hadn’t stopped him when he’d gotten on the train, his dreams packed in his suitcase next to the costumes he’d made for his act. They probably thought he would fail so miserably that he would be forced to crawl back to them and admit they were right.
He had vowed that would never happen, and he’d kept that vow. He’d fought tooth and nail—and often with his fists—but in the end, he’d won. St. Louis wasn’t New York, but he was a star here, and that star was rising, and rising fast. Why, just that night he’d caught sight of Mr. Albee in the box to the left of the stage. It was a good sign that he’d come all this way to take in Julien’s act. He was one of the most powerful vaudeville promoters around, and Julien had a feeling he’d come to make good on his promise.
An entire show of his own—a musical revue starring him, Julien Eltinge—in one of the biggest and most luxurious houses on Broadway. That could still come to pass, he told himself. Darrigan would keep his promise and retrieve that damned necklace before anyone realized Julien’s connection to it. Things would work out. He and his career would be fine.
Julien closed the dressing room door soundly behind him and took the wig from his head, relishing the coolness of the air as it hit his sweat-damp hair and the solitude. Carefully, he arranged the curls on the dummy, making sure not to rumple any of them—it was more of a pain to fix them later than to take the time now. Then he grabbed his customary cigar from the dressing table and lit it, letting the richness of the tobacco coat his mouth and fill his senses. A reward for a job well done, as always.
In the mirror, the sight of the thick cigar held between his painted lips made him chuckle to himself. With her dark lashes and brightly painted lips, her blushing cheeks and the way he’d used makeup to sculpt her features into something more delicate, a woman looked back at him. It was the transformation—not the femininity—that gratified him, not the corset that was currently cutting into his rib cage or the gowns with their heavy beading and ruffles that scratched at his skin or even the way women would cut their eyes in his direction, their jealousy proof of his success. No. It was the performance itself. It was the artistry of making one thing into something else entirely. The impossible magic of it.
A sharp knock came at his dressing room door, and Julien called to see who it was.
“You got visitors,” Sal said, poking his head into the dressing room.
After the day he’d had, Julien simply wasn’t in the mood. “Tell them I’m not available.”
The stage manager shook his head. “Not these visitors,”
“Then tell them I’ve already gone,” Julien said, turning back to his reflection in the mirror.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” a voice behind Sal said.
In the mirror, Julien watched as the door opened wider to reveal a tall figure, its face shielded by a white veil of lace. The stage manager gave Julien a half shrug and moved out of the way to allow the Veiled Prophet to enter the dressing room. The figure closed the door behind him, and the sound of the latch engaging was as loud and resolute as a gunshot.
“Mr. Eltinge,” the figure said.
“Mr. . . .” Julien trailed off, unsure of how to address the man who was taking up all the air in what had been a sanctuary moments before. He was suddenly aware of his in-between state. Without his wig, he wasn’t completely one version of himself or another, and without either role to fall back on, he was at a loss.
The night that the Veiled Prophet had come to demand the necklace, he’d made it clear that the Society had kept careful tabs on Julien from the moment he’d arrived in town. They’d believed his act to be a danger at first, a corruption of the true values of the esteemed people of the city. They didn’t need any of the tawdriness of the East, and if he misstepped, if he thought to bring any depravity to their town, they would act. They would end his career.
He knew then that they hadn’t understood the first thing about him, and because of that, Julien had given in to their demands. He’d sold them the necklace for a song and everything had been fine—at least until Harte Darrigan and the girl had shown up and dragged him into this mess.
The Veiled Prophet, whoever it was behind the screen of lace, didn’t bother to answer. “We have a proposition for you, Mr. Eltinge.”
“A proposition?” Julien said, hating the way his voice cracked.
They can’t know. . . .
“A job,” the figure said. “One that would make good use of your talents.”
Julien didn’t miss the scorn in the Prophet’s voice, but he wasn’t a clown to be paraded out and made fun of. “And if I’m too busy for any extra employment at the moment?” he asked, taking another puff of the cigar, just to prove he couldn’t be bullied.
The figure inclined its head, making the heavy lace in front of his face wave. “You know how far our influence reaches, Mr. Eltinge. We saw that Mr. Albee was at the theater this evening. He is a particular friend of ours.”
Julien’s stomach clenched. They could destroy all that he’d worked for if they had the ear of Mr. Albee. His show, his dreams, his future—all gone. “I suppose I could make a little time to hear you out,” he said. “I’ve got a busy schedule with the show. Tomorrow evening, maybe? We’re dark then.”
“Tonight, Mr. Eltinge. Now, in fact.”
“Now?” he asked, looking down at the gown he was still wearing.
“We’ll give you time to make yourself more . . . presentable.” His tone rang with distaste. “Our carriage will be waiting,” the Prophet said before he took his leave.
Julien had a very bad feeling about this whole situation. He looked at himself in the mirror, but it was Darrigan and the girl he cursed. If the necklace was so dangerous, Harte should never have sent it to him in the first place. At the very least, Darrigan should have had the courtesy to stay dead.