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“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.
