“Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you excited?”

I was cold, snowflakes were finding every chink in my wintry armor, and I’d no idea how this would aid our current investigation. Perhaps he’d brought us here to get stabbed for giggles. “You brought me to a bawdy saloon, Thomas. I’m not quite sure how I feel.”

He grinned like there were more secrets he was keeping and held an arm out. “Once you sip some brandy and dance on the tables, I’m sure you’ll feel fine.”

“Honestly, what is your obsession with drinking spirits and dancing on tables?” I shook my head but followed him into the saloon, my curiosity piqued.

If the White City had been angelic, this saloon—appropriately named the Devil’s Den—was most certainly its opposite in every way. The interior was like stepping into an empty body cavity or deep cavern—deep plum curtains, ebony walls, and a long bar made of a wood so dark it might have been inspired by the blackest of nights. I stared at it, noticing that carvings of devils with raven wings decorated each end.

Electrical chandeliers sat like spiderwebs above us, every other bulb burned out. Absinthe bottles glowed an unearthly green while looking glasses sat behind them, magnifying their etherealness. I expected there to be music, some hedonistic drumming, but the only symphony was the sound of voices.

Men and women chatted happily, if a bit drunkenly. Some women wore burlesque costumes; others were covered to their necks in finery. People from every class mingled, though some seemed more uneasy than others. There was almost something familiar about the—A young dark-haired man bumped into me, apologizing a bit too zealously.

“It’s all right.” I didn’t spare him more than a quick glance. I was too worried I’d be swept into dancing the cancan like I’d done with the Moonlight Carnival. Which was exactly what this reminded me of—the performers-only party I’d attended on the Etruria. Thomas watched me carefully, his mouth twitching.

“What? Why are you smirking like that?”

He lifted a shoulder, his grin spreading.

“Let me buy you something to make up for my rudeness,” the young man insisted. I’d already forgotten him. “Have you tasted the green fairy? She’s quite delightful.”

Pushing Thomas’s amused expression away, I turned back on the drunken man, doing my best to hold both my tongue and cane in check. “That really won’t be—Mephistopheles?”

THIRTY-TWO

THORNE IN MY SIDE

THE DEVIL’S DEN

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

10 FEBRUARY 1889

I blinked as if he were an illusion. He was not. There stood the young ringmaster of the Moonlight Carnival, as proud as a peacock, practically preening. “What on earth are you doing here?” I asked. He looked at Thomas, brows raised, and I braced myself. In any universe where they were conspiring, it meant trouble. “Did you arrange this meeting?” Thomas gave me a sheepish look. Letting that anomaly slide, I studied the ringmaster. “Where’s your mask?”

“Safely tucked away for when we begin traveling again.” He chuckled. “It’s absolutely a joy to see you again, too, Miss Wadsworth.” His dark eyes traveled to the ring on my finger as he took the liberty of kissing my hand. “Or is it Lady Cresswell now?”

I might have imagined it, but it seemed as if his question held a note of sadness. Misplaced if so, considering we’d only known each other for a little over a week.

“Easy now, Mephisto,” Thomas interrupted. “She’s not interested in your games or paltry two-bit bargains.”

“My games?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “If I recall, Mr. Cresswell, you were the one who requested this meeting. And she seemed fond enough of our last bargain. I thought we’d become good friends.” He sniffed as if injured. “It’s rather rude, coming into my theater, spilling my drink, and flaunting your beautiful bride.”

Before they could devolve into one of their ridiculous battles of wits, I cut in. “Your theater? What’s going on?” I shifted my attention. “Thomas?”

Instead of responding straightaway, he studied the ringmaster. Another silent look passed between them. I found I didn’t care for this newfound camaraderie at all. The two of them were too much for me on their own; together I didn’t want to know what they could unleash.

“Do you remember what you said about Tesla earlier?” Thomas asked, catching me by surprise. “About his inventions?”

“Of course. But I still don’t understand.”

Mephistopheles signaled to someone across the room.

Faux lightning streaked around the darkened hall, hushing the crowd at once. Man-made thunder boomed, and the sound of waves crashing followed quickly after. People shifted, making their way toward a stage I hadn’t initially noticed. A tapestry of a churning ocean hung from each wall of the room, as if we were all standing in the midst of a violent storm.

I glanced at Thomas. “What—”

“Boatswain!” cried an actor rushing onstage, silencing my questions.

“Here, master: what cheer?”

“You’re putting on plays now?” I turned my attention on Mephistopheles, brows knitted. “The Tempest?”

“Romeo and Juliet seemed too macabre, though I needed some outlet these last couple of months.” He motioned to someone before bending close, his breath tickling me. I leaned away.

Jian, the Knight of Swords, slapped me on the back in greeting, then handed the ringmaster a suit jacket studded with clear gemstones. Stars set in constellations. Andreas’s old costume, I realized. As he quickly put it on, I spied thin wire crisscrossing on the interior portion of the coat. That was a new addition to it. He was up to more stage tricks.

Mephistopheles grinned. “Nikola’s a good man. He’s an even better showman.”

“You’ve met Nikola Tesla?” My mouth practically hung open. “The real Nikola Tesla?”

“Well, he’s certainly not the imposter Nikola. I’ve heard that guy is rather dull in comparison. We’ve spent some time together, exchanging notes.” He nodded toward a contraption hanging above the stage. “You’ve heard of the Tesla coil, I presume?”

“Of course,” I said, trying to work out the fact that Mephistopheles spoke of Tesla as if they were the best of friends. “It’s supposed to be incredible.”

Fake winds howled and the lights dimmed. “Ah”—Mephistopheles bowed—“that’s my cue. Enjoy the show.”

The curtains closed on the first scene and the ringmaster of the Moonlight Carnival disappeared behind them. I looked at Jian. “What was that about?”

“It’s nice to see you, too.” He gave me a sardonic smirk. “He moped around for weeks, you know. Human emotions are hard for him.” Jian crossed his massive arms. “Now you’ll see what he’s been up to. He likes putting his energy into inventions, helps occupy his mind.”

The curtains flew back as if on a huge breeze. Mephistopheles stood, his hands spread wide, as man-made thunder and lightning crashed and banged all around him and us. It was as if we were all part of the stage… lightning struck the ground in fizzling pops.

He thrust his head back, holding his arms toward the heavens. Veins of electricity buzzed from the contraption in the theater, snaking from his hands and shooting back out. He twirled about the stage, electricity flowing and bending from his fingertips as if he alone controlled the raging storm. As if he were the tempest.

“Prospero,” Thomas whispered. “Of course he’d take on the role of a wicked sorcerer.”

He turned his attention on me, though I could scarcely take my eyes from the stage. It was magnificent, witnessing such a machine up close. That explained the wires in the ringmaster’s jacket—it attracted the bits of electricity to him. I longed to reach out and touch a whip of white-blue electricity myself, just to see if it tingled like I imagined it did. I’d read that Tesla’s coils didn’t harm anyone; the ropes of wild electricity were just for show.

Thomas kissed my cheek right as sparks flew like glitter from Mephistopheles’s hands. I felt him smile against my skin. “Look at that, Wadsworth; when we kiss sparks literally fly.”

I twisted around, cupping his face and laughing as we kissed again. “You certainly have a way of making the impossible possible. Thank you for this. I know you don’t care for Ayden.”

“I’m glad this didn’t… disturb you,” he said, biting his lip. “I-I wasn’t sure if it would be another horrendous miscalculation.”

I tore my gaze from the magic, noting the worry etched into his features. “Why did you think I’d be displeased? Because of Mephistopheles?”

“Your brother…”

He allowed the statement to sit long enough for me to piece together his meaning. I inhaled sharply. My brother’s secret laboratory. The electricity that had shot through his body, leaving him convulsing on the floor. His death had been brutal. I hadn’t been thinking of that at all. I glanced away, ashamed. Perhaps I truly was wicked. It should have been my first thought, not my last. Thomas wrapped an arm around me.

“Don’t. It means you’re healing, Audrey Rose. Cherish it. Don’t condemn yourself for moving on, or for living.”

I kissed Thomas sweetly, then stood in front of him, his hands anchoring me in place, while Miranda stepped onstage, demanding her father cease the tempest he’d started. I leaned my head against Thomas’s chest, watching the storm rage. If only there were such things as sorcerers, I’d beg for a spell to find the devil before he struck again.

“Miss Wadsworth, Mr. Cresswell, I’d like to introduce you both to Miss Minnie Williams.” Mephistopheles brought us backstage, where performers sat in silk robes, sipping tea or spirits and celebrating their nightly success. “She’s an exceptional Miranda, but, alas, she’s moving on to calmer shores.”