Page 1 of A Heist for Filthy Rivals (Mythic Holidays #3)

“To a successful bout of thievery!” Scriv lifts his tankard high, and the other Javelins raise theirs, too. The chorus of triumphant voices blends with the usual background chatter of the Night Goose, our favorite pub in the sprawling city of Belgate.

The Night Goose is both spacious and oddly-shaped, with multiple staircases, alcoves, and balconies opening onto a central atrium with a flagstone floor and several clusters of rough-hewn tables and chairs.

Erda, the proprietor, has decorated the gray stone walls with framed portraits of outlaws, rogues, and rebels of all sorts.

She’s the only one in the building who uses her real name—the rest of us are known by our thief names, even to our closest friends.

The pub is a place of warm light and loud laughter, good ale and hearty food, candles dripping wax onto barrel-tops, big hands mopping beer off the bar, glowing iron lamps swinging from chains overhead, and the occasional roar of merry song.

“To thievery!” roars Boulder, a full ten seconds after everyone else. He excels at thumping heads and breaking down doors, but I do wish he’d learn to modulate his voice in rooms full of people.

“Maybe don’t crow quite so loudly about it,” I advise, knocking my mug briefly against his.

“Lighten up, boss.” Maven, our researcher, bumps her shoulder against mine. “We’re in the Night Goose. We’re all villains and vagabonds here. Besides, your part of the job’s done. Mine begins tomorrow, when I have to test and catalogue all the loot from those Fae-Hunters.”

“What is your part of the job, anyway, Devilry?” Flex, our lockpicking expert, props both bony elbows on the table and gives me one of his wicked grins.

“I handle the locks and the gymnastic bits, Maven does the research and cataloguing, Boulder is the skull-knocker and nose-breaker, and Scriv does the counterfeiting and mechanical work. And you’re what…

grand high worrier? Chief lady of anxiety? ”

He’s teasing, of course, but Flex’s jokes always have thorns, sharp little spikes of truth.

“That’s right,” puts in Scriv between mouthfuls of noodles. “What essential role did you play in our latest venture, eh? I seem to recall a lot of pacing and muttering and shuffling of maps, and not much else.”

“You forgot something monumentally important,” Maven interjects. “She drove the wagon.”

“Oh, she drove the wagon,” purrs Flex. “Of course. No one else could have performed such an essential function. A glorious feat, really. I was astonished by the skill with which she rounded corners.”

“And if we had been pursued, you would have been grateful for her deftness,” says Maven.

I force a laugh and take a drink so I won’t have to reply.

On the surface, it’s all good-natured ribbing—drunken jokes at my expense.

But there’s something real behind it. I sense it in the restless shift of Maven’s arm away from mine, in the daggers behind Flex’s smile, in the way Boulder won’t meet my eyes.

This isn’t just friendly teasing. The Javelins are beginning to wonder what I bring to the table.

They’re starting to openly question whether they really need me, their actual fucking leader.

I had this niggling doubt in my gut when I added Scriv to the team, but we needed him.

The newly elected magistrate of Belgate is working with local constables to crack down on unsavory activities—and his idea of managing crime seems to primarily revolve around reams of additional paperwork, including identity booklets and work permits that every citizen must carry with them at all times.

It’s unfortunate that the Magistrate is focusing on busywork and foolishness, rather than on the hessen lords who run drug dens and sex rings through Belgate.

More than one constable is on the hessen lords’ payroll, but the worst of them is Constable Tremlin.

I’ve had my eye on his mansion and his personal vault for a while, but to do that job, I’d need an explosives expert with a very specific set of talents, and I’m not about to add anyone else to my team without thoroughly vetting them.

Thanks to the new identity requirements, our crew desperately needed someone with counterfeiting skills to create reliable documentation, and Scriv seemed like the most promising candidate.

He’s a skilled forger and artificer, but since I brought him on board, I’ve realized that he’s a snake, too.

No, he’s slipperier than a snake—he’s an eel.

And I have a feeling he’s behind the not-so-subtle hints at my uselessness.

“Maybe you’ve all forgotten that I put this team together.” I set down my mug a little harder than strictly necessary. “I’m the one who comes up with the plans.”

“Plans that often have to change,” mutters Scriv.

“Of course. Because no matter how brilliant a schemer someone may be, things can always go wrong. That’s why I’m here.

I take responsibility if we screw up. I make decisions about supplies and strategies.

I choose the partners and suppliers we work with, ensuring they’re trustworthy and quiet about our business.

I pay our dues to the Consortium. And I find us jobs.

I have more connections in the underworld of Belgate than anyone else at this table. ”

“Alright, Devilry, simmer down,” says Flex, already bored of the topic. “We were only having a little fun.”

But Scriv looks me straight in the eyes and says, with a challenge in his tone, “I have connections, too. And I’ve found us our next job.”

“That’s not your role here,” I begin, but the others are already leaning forward, eager to hear what he has to say.

I’m losing them. After everything I did to create this crew, everything I risked and sacrificed to get where I am—they’re rejecting me.

I’m a child of the streets, the daughter of criminal parents, both jailed in different kingdoms for different reasons.

Always a chatty little brat, I got used to talking my way out of bad situations.

I learned how to find leverage and apply it, and where I couldn’t find leverage, I ingratiated myself to the narcissists and befriended the lonely.

I know the role I need to play for everyone, in every situation.

My middle name might as well be “adaptable.”

Yet here in my favorite pub, surrounded by the people I should trust most in this world, I’m at a loss.

My edge is dulled for some reason, and I can feel myself losing influence, losing ground.

The serpent I crafted has turned on me, swaying to the tune of another piper.

I need to grab it by the throat and remind it who its true master is.

Scriv is already telling them about the job, and they’re listening like it’s a sure thing. Like they’re already committed to it. Which means I don’t have a choice. I’m going to have to reveal the information I have about the fortress of Annordun.

I’d hoped to keep the information to myself for a few more hours, at least until I could formulate a more detailed plan for what will be the most dangerous and lucrative job we’ve ever pulled—but if I want to reclaim my crew’s attention and loyalty, I have to show my hand now.

“That’s all very well,” I say loudly. “But where’s the glory? Where’s the big payoff that will set us all up for life?”

Every face at the table turns toward me.

“Imagine doing one more job, and then never having to steal again, unless you want to,” I say.

“Imagine living like kings and queens for the rest of our lives. Imagine making history among thieves. Imagine our faces on the walls of this tavern—and not the wall by the latrine—oh no. We’ll be right there, by the bar, or maybe there, at the front door, where everyone can see us.

Everyone will say, ‘Those are the Javelins. They used to sit in this very pub. This is where they planned the greatest heist of all time.’”

Scriv sits back in his chair, folding his arms. “Greatest heist of all time, eh? That’s some big talk.”

“Big talk for a big haul. I heard about it a week ago, but I didn’t mention it because I wanted everyone focused on the Fae-Hunter job.

I knew if we pulled that one off, we might have what we need to do this big one.

I wasn’t sure the hunters would have the right artifacts, or that we’d be able to lay hands on them.

But I did a preliminary survey of the haul this evening, and I found this. ”

Stuffing one hand into my satchel, I pull out a thin, round disc, no larger than my palm, made of translucent white stone and covered in twisting black roots.

Maven’s eyes widen. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes.”

“Goddamn,” she breathes. “Can I touch it?”

I toss it over, and she catches it. Her fingers run reverently over the black roots and the raised images of mushrooms on its surface.

“What am I missing?” says Boulder. “What is that thing?”

“Something I learned about recently, a device known as the Doras álainn,” I reply. “It creates a portal that lets humans walk from this world into Faerie and back.”

“Wait... did she say into Faerie?” exclaims Flex. “Into fucking Faerie?”

“That’s not the best part,” I say. “Have any of you heard of an inventor called Drosselmeyer?”

“I have!” exclaims Flex, and Maven nods.

“Of course we’ve heard of him,” says Scriv. “Every thief worth his salt knows how valuable Drosselmeyer pieces are.”

Boulder looks unsettled. He has difficulty grasping and remembering things as readily as the other Javelins do. For his benefit, I decide to explain further.