TABLEAUX VIVANTS
1902—New York
As the carriage rattled onward, Jack crunched two more cubes of morphine between his molars to deaden the pain throbbing in his head and to clear his mind. With the drug coursing through him, he felt like he could breathe again, and as the world came into sharper focus, he took the Book from the inside of his jacket. He used those final few minutes before he arrived at the Morgan mansion to pore over its pages—especially the notations that were in his hand, despite his having no memory of making them. He’d stopped worrying about that particular issue, though, and had decided to take it as a sign that the Book had chosen to reveal itself to him. A sign that he was not only worthy, but destined.
That knowledge had buoyed his confidence and made him that much surer of his path. He wasn’t meant to be meek and obedient. With some help from the Book, he’d managed to take control of planning the Order’s little gala so that he could direct the drama of the evening. But with the event only days away, Jack still had one aggravation that he hadn’t quite managed to deal with, and her name was Evelyn DeMure.
He knew that the ring the actress wore was something more than it appeared. With the smooth perfection of the stone and the sizzle of power that he swore filled the air when it was near, he would have realized as much even without the details that the Book had revealed to him. The Inner Circle had always kept the contents of the Mysterium a closely guarded secret, known only to the very highest levels of the Order, but during his nights of study, the Book had handed those secrets over to Jack. So he knew that the ring must be the Delphi’s Tear, a stone created by Newton himself. He knew, too, how it had been created—by sacrifice—and what he could do with its power.
That night at the theater, he’d realized what Evelyn was and why she’d been able to defend herself—and the ring—from his advances. But now he had the answer to the problem she posed. The pieces were all coming together, and everything would be revealed at the gala, where Jack would take the ring and deal with Evelyn once and for all.
When the carriage finally stopped at the front door of his uncle’s house on Madison Avenue, Jack tucked the Book back into his jacket. There, close to his chest, he could practically feel the power in it, a twin heartbeat pulsing in time with his own. He alighted from the carriage, ignoring the faint throbbing in his head. The morphine had helped with that. So did the knowledge that soon he would have everything he needed—everything he’d ever wanted. He directed the driver to bring in the crate that was strapped to the back of the carriage, a piece Jack had prepared himself for the spectacle of the gala.
He watched as one of his uncle’s servants helped the driver carry the crate into the house, and then he followed, feeling more and more sure about what was to come. There was a new maid at the door waiting, a brown-skinned girl who wasn’t to Jack’s tastes at all. He gave her his coat and hat without a second thought and went to find out how the preparations were going.
In the ballroom, things had progressed nicely from two days before. Curtains of wine-colored velvet cascaded around the large pillars that skirted the room, transforming the open dance floor into four distinct stages, where the tableaux would be displayed.
Tableaux vivants were all the rage in the city. All the most exclusive events seemed to be featuring the often-scintillating displays of art come to life. Even the stuffiest members of society were drawn to the voyeurism of gazing upon their peers in any number of poses reproducing the scenes of classical art. Rumors were already scuttling through the city about which artworks the participants might be creating at the gala. To his aunt’s infinite delight, the papers were abuzz about which of the year’s debutantes would be involved, and what they might—or might not—be wearing. Reporters at every paper were practically frothing at the mouth for an invite. Just as the Order had hoped.
The Order might have planned the event to consolidate their standing in the city, but Jack would use it to his advantage. He would demonstrate his importance, his consequence, once and for all—not only to his family, but to the Order. To the entire city as well.
Evelyn was already there. She was standing on a small stool surrounded by seamstresses who were fitting her in the diaphanous bit of chiffon that she would be wearing in the tableau he had planned for her. She waved at him, and he felt the usual answering burst of lust deep in his gut that he now knew for the feral power that it was. Thanks to a talisman he’d inscribed on his chest that morning, a secret he’d found in the Book, her influence no longer had the effect on him that it had before. At least not from a distance—he still didn’t trust her to get close.
He waved back, feigning more interest than he felt as he examined the costume. It was nearly perfect—Evelyn would be portraying the unconscious beauty in Henry Fuseli’s enigmatic painting The Nightmare. By the end of the gala, Jack had the suspicion that she would find the image she portrayed more than apt.
He turned his attention to the other stages and preparations. He was discussing the best positioning for the Circe tableau with one of the other Order members when he was summoned into his uncle’s office.
Jack had only once before visited Morgan’s private study, when he’d returned from Greece, weak and broken and an embarrassment to himself and his family. He didn’t relish being called back there, but he kept his head high as he entered, remembering that he had the Book and the favor it had conferred upon him.
Morgan’s office was an ostentatious place, with burnished wood and vaulted ceilings barreling overhead. It was the sort of place meant for a prince of business, an emperor of commerce, but with the Book’s warmth radiating against his chest, Jack barely noticed the grandeur.
Morgan turned when he entered, a look of disgust clear on the old man’s face. “How are the preparations?”
“Nearly there,” Jack said, confident.
“They should be finished,” Morgan told him. “We’re only two days away.”
He allowed the sneering quality of Morgan’s tone to roll off his back. In a matter of days, his uncle would be eating those words and begging Jack to share the knowledge and power he had with the rest of them. And Jack would happily laugh in his face.
He shrugged, hiding his true emotions. “They’ll be done in plenty of time.”
Morgan’s bulbous nose twitched a bit. “They’d better be perfect,” he demanded. “Have you seen this?” He thrust a newspaper at Jack.
“Seen what?” Jack asked, trying to discover the source of his uncle’s agitation in the equally titillating headlines.
“The one about the fire,” Morgan said, leaning over the desk to jab his thick finger at the newsprint. “The damn animals burned one of the stations down on Great Jones Street. That’s Charlie Murphy’s district—Tammany Hall’s territory.”
“I don’t see how this matters to you—or to me, for that matter,” Jack said. Tammany Hall was filled with upstarts, crooked Irish politicians who thought they had a chance at becoming something more than they were destined to be.
“It matters because we have an understanding with Tammany. They’ve been helping us put pressure on the maggots downtown.”
“It’s just a fire—”