♦series, duology
Stop the Magician.
Steal the book.
Save the future.
In modern day New York, magic is all but extinct. The remaining few who have an affinity for magic—the Mageus—live in the shadows, hiding who they are. Any Mageus who enters Manhattan becomes trapped by the Brink, a dark energy barrier that confines them to the island. Crossing it means losing their power—and often their lives.
Esta is a talented thief, and she's been raised to steal magical artifacts from the sinister Order that created the Brink. With her innate ability to manipulate time, Esta can pilfer from the past, collecting these artifacts before the Order even realizes she’s there. And all of Esta's training has been for one final job: traveling back to 1902 to steal an ancient book containing the secrets of the Order—and the Brink—before the Magician can destroy it and doom the Mageus to a hopeless future.
But Old New York is a dangerous world ruled by ruthless gangs and secret societies, a world where the very air crackles with magic. Nothing is as it seems, including the Magician himself. And for Esta to save her future, she may have to betray everyone in the past.
•EXCERPT•
Harte
Darrigan cursed himself ten times over as he pushed his way through
the crowd of The Devil’s Own, a smoke-filled boxing saloon on the
Lower East Side named for the gang that ran it. The sound of bones
crunching as fist met face caused the crowd to surge with an
eagerness that made Harte’s pulse race and turned his resolve to
mush.
The
dive was filled with the type of people Harte had done everything he
could to avoid becoming. They represented the most dangerous parts of
humanity—if you could even call it that—south of Houston Street,
the wide avenue that divided the haves from the have-nots and
probably-never-wills. Harte himself might have been a liar and
a con man, but at least he was an honest one. Or so he told himself.
He’d risked everything to get out of Paul Kelly’s gang three
years ago, and he didn’t want the life he’d managed to build for
himself since then to get muddied by the never-ending war between the
different factions that ruled lower Manhattan.
Yet
there he was.
He
shouldn’t have come. He was an idiot for agreeing to this meeting,
a complete idiot to let Dolph Saunders goad him into being drawn back
into this world with an impossible promise—freedom. A way out of
the city. It was fool’s dream.
He
must be a fool, because he knew what Dolph Saunders was capable of
and had still agreed to meet him. He’d seen Dolph’s cruelty with
his own eyes, and if Harte were smarter, he’d turn tail and leave
before it was too late. . . .
But
then a familiar voice was calling his name over the crowd, and he
knew his chance had passed.
The
kid approaching him was probably the skinniest, shortest guy in the
room. He wore a pair of spectacles on the tip of his straight nose,
and unlike most of the crowd that populated the Devil’s Own,
he wasn’t dressed in the bright colors or flamboyant style that
characterized the swells of the Bowery. Instead, the kid wore
suspenders over a simple shirtwaist, which made him look like an
overgrown newsboy. Unlike the barrel-chested men that curled
themselves around their drinks after a long day of hard labor, Nibsy
Lorcan had the air of someone who spent most of his time indoors
poring over books.
“Harte
Darrigan,” Nibsy said, giving a sharp nod of his head in greeting.
“It’s good to see you again.”
“I
wish I could say the same, Nibs.”
The
kid tucked his hands into his pockets. “We were beginning to think
you wouldn’t show.”
“Your
boss made it sound like I’d be an idiot not to come and at least
listen to what he had to say.”
Nibsy
smiled genially. “No one could take you for an idiot, Darrigan.”
“Not
sure I agree with you, Nibs, seeing as I’m here and all. Where’s
Dolph anyway? Or did he send you to do his dirty work for him like
usual?”
“He’s
in back, waiting.” Nibsy’s eyes flickered over the barroom. “You
know how he is.”
“Yeah,”
Harte said. “I know exactly how he is. Just like I should have
known better than to come here.”
He
turned to go, but Nibs caught him by the arm. “You’re already
here. Might as well listen to what he has to say.” He gave an
aw-shucks shrug that Harte didn’t buy. “At least have a drink.
Can’t argue with a free drink, now, can you?”
He
glanced at the door at the back of the barroom.
Harte
might have been an idiot, but he was a curious idiot. He couldn’t
imagine what would have made Dolph desperate enough to ask for his
help after the falling-out they’d had. And he wanted to know what
would possess Dolph—a man much more likely to hold his secrets
close—to make such wild promises.
“I’ll
listen to what he has to say, but I don’t want any drink.”
Nibs
shifted uneasily before recovering his affable-looking smile. “This
way,” he said, leading Harte toward the back of the bar and through
double saloon doors to a quieter private room.
It
might have been years since Harte had seen him, but Dolph didn’t
look all that different. Same lean, hard face anchored by a nose as
sharp as a knife. Same shock of white in the front of his hair that
he’d had since they were kids. Same calculating gleam in his icy
eyes. Or at least in the eye Harte could see—the other was capped
by a leather patch.
There
were four others in the room. Harte recognized Viola Vaccarelli and
Jianyu Lee, Dolph’s assassin and spy, respectively. The other two
guys were unknowns. From their loud pants and tipped bowler hats,
Harte guessed they were hired muscle, there in case things went
south. Which meant that Dolph trusted Harte about as much as Harte
trusted Dolph.
Fine.
Maybe they’d been friends once, but it was better this way.
“Good
to see you again, Dare,” Dolph said, using an old nickname Harte
had long since given up. Harte didn’t miss that Dolph hadn’t
offered his hand in greeting, only gripped the silver gorgon head on
the top of his cane more tightly.
“Can’t
say the feeling’s mutual.”
The
two peacocks in the corner shifted, but Viola’s mouth only
twitched. She didn’t reach for her knives and he wasn’t dead yet,
so he must be safe for the moment.
“You
want something to drink?” Dolph asked, settling himself back in his
chair but not offering a seat to Harte.
“Let’s
cut the bullshit, Dolph. Why’d you want to see me? You know I’m
out of the game.”
“Not
from what I’ve heard. Whatever freedom you pretend, Paul Kelly’s
still got you on a leash, doesn’t he?”
“I’m
not on anybody’s leash,” Harte said, his voice a warning. But he
wasn’t surprised that Dolph knew the truth. He always did manage to
find out the very things a person wanted to keep hidden. “And I
know there’s no way you can do what you hinted at. Getting out of
the city? I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Then
why did
you come?” Dolph asked.
“Hell
if I know,” Harte said. He realized he was crushing the brim of his
hat and forced himself to relax his fist.
Dolph’s
eye gleamed. “You never could resist a challenge, could you?”
“Maybe
I wanted to see if the rumors about you were true,” he said coldly.
“If you’d really lost it after Leena, like everybody said.”
“I
don’t talk about that.” Dolph’s expression went fierce, even as
his face went a little gray. “Nobody
talks about that if they want to keep breathing.”
“I
bet they don’t,” Harte said. He shook his head. “This was a
mistake.” He turned to go, but Jianyu stepped in front of the door,
blocking his way. “Call him off, Dolph.”
“I’ve
got a proposition for you,” Dolph said, ignoring Harte’s command.
“I’m
not interested.” He turned his attention to Jianyu. “I bet your
uncle’s real proud of you right about now, isn’t he? He must love
you being a lapdog for that one there.”
Everyone
knew that Jianyu Lee was the nephew of Tom Lee, the leader of the On
Leong Tong over in Chinatown. The kid could have had his own turf,
maybe even run his own crew, but here he was working for Dolph. But
that was the thing about Dolph Saunders—he had this way of pulling
people in. Even people who should’ve had some brains.
Jianyu
just smiled darkly, an expression that warned Harte not to push.
“I
said call him
off, Dolph,” Harte said again, trying not to let
his nerves show. He might be a fool, but he wasn’t stupid enough
not to realize how dangerous his position was.
“I
think you’d be interested if you gave me five minutes,” Dolph
said. “Or I can always have one of my boys convince you.”
“Threats?”
Harte looked back over his shoulder. “That doesn’t seem your
style, old man.”
With
a handful of years on Harte, Dolph couldn’t have been older than
his mid-twenties. But with the streak of white hair and the way he’d
been born to lead, Dolph had always seemed even older. Once, “old
man” had been a term of endearment between friends. Not anymore.
Now Harte slung the nickname like an insult.
Dolph’s
mouth curved to acknowledge the slight, but he didn’t otherwise
react. “Never used to be,” he admitted. “But it turns out you
can
teach an old dog new tricks.”
•ABOUT THE AUTHOR•
Lisa Maxwell is the author of Sweet Unrest, Gathering Deep, Unhooked, & The Last Magician (Simon Pulse, Spring 2017). When she's not writing books, she's an English professor at a local college. She lives near DC with her very patient husband and two not-so patient boys.
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