Page 18 of A Heist for Filthy Rivals (Mythic Holidays #3)

Why is this such a big fucking room? Why did she have to carpet the floor with those damn ornaments? When am I going to catch a break?

“You seem tired and weak,” she purrs.

“Do I?” I grunt, reaching ahead to grasp the central beam. The muscles in my abdomen are tight, aching. I need a distraction, so I blurt out, “Did you kill your team, Devilry?”

She’s silent for a moment. “You heard the screams.”

I’m huffing with effort and can’t spare breath to reply. From my position, clinging to the ceiling beam, I can see the exit door. There’s a swath of clear space in front of it. She must have run out of bodach beads.

I double up, swing, and flip, landing in a crouch on the bare wooden floor. I stay frozen for a second despite the ache in my thighs, waiting to see if I landed in a trap. When nothing happens, I straighten and remove my climbing gear.

“I don’t think you caused those screams, love,” I tell her. “Maybe something else is in this fortress. Something you’re afraid of, too.” When she doesn’t answer, I grin. “Ah, so I’ve hit the tender truth.”

“You won’t be able to get through that door,” she snaps. “It’s shielded. I can shield anything I want from the observation room.”

“The observation room, eh? Now that’s a tasty bit of information. Where might this observation room be? The tower, perhaps?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re trapped.”

“Trapped?” I chuckle. “The thing about me, sweetheart, is I’ve never met a trap I couldn’t break out of.” I set down my pack and open it, taking out the can of gel paint. Not much remains, but it should be enough.

“That stuff won’t work on spelled doors in Faerie,” she says, but I know she’s bluffing.

“It worked on the outer walls, so I’m sure it would work on the door. But if I know you, as I’m beginning to, you’ve got yet another trap lying in wait right outside. Which means I’m not going to use it on the door, love.”

I daub the gel on the floor and light it. While counting down in my head, I tense my body and do another flip, this time to the top of a display case—not the one with the gauntlet, though. This case has metal framing and looks much sturdier than the first one.

Thankfully, my faith is rewarded. When I land on the case, it shakes, but it doesn’t break or collapse.

An orange glow snakes along the lines I painted, and the gel hisses as it ignites. The explosion shakes the room, and I nearly topple into the bodach beads, but I manage to stay on my perch.

There’s now a big hole in the floor, through which I can see another room below. This one looks pleasant and well-lit, with study tables and examination areas.

“It’s been a pleasure traversing your chamber of terrors,” I say.

“You’re an idiot,” she spits out. “You could have stepped down from the window, moved some of the beads gently out of the way, and cleared a space there to paint your explosive. You didn’t have to clamber across the ceiling like a roach.”

“I didn’t want to step down from the window,” I retort. “That fire trap could still have been active. Just let me use my own methods to avoid your snares, alright?”

“You’re going about this in the clumsiest, most awkward way possible.”

“And that offends you?” I snort. “It’s not enough that you might actually kill me? You also want to dictate how I try to survive?”

“By all means, forge ahead like a big, boorish bull,” she snaps. “You’ll die faster.”

“Either that, or I’ll drive you crazy by taking routes you didn’t expect and fouling up your carefully laid plans.

You’re terrified that I’m going to make you look stupid, aren’t you?

Face it, sweetheart—clever traps are no match for flammables and explosives.

I’ll just blast my way to what I want, while you fret and fume because your mind games have failed. ”

“You want explosions?” she seethes. “Just wait.”

“Bring it on, despot.”

“Ignorant fool.”

“Arrogant snob,” I retort.

“Doltish twat-waffle.”

I stifle a laugh. “Tyrannical cock-gobbler.”

“How dare you.”

“I do enjoy our little conversations. If you’ll excuse me.” I step to the edge of the hole I made, conscious that the nearest of the bodach beads seem to be creeping toward me.

“Truly, fuck you, you vile butt excretion.”

The sound of her angry breathing cuts off abruptly. She has ended communication between us, which is just as well, because I need to jump through the hole to the first floor and let Grisly in, before the spooky, sentient ornaments get too close to me.

I lower myself through the opening and drop down into the room below. It’s longer than the room I just left, and to my surprise, it feels warm and welcoming, rather like my workshop back in Talgus, only neater, with finer furnishings.

A pang seizes my heart as I remember my old lair, my favorite haunts, and the few friendships I cultivated back in my home city.

I gave it all up in order to humble the reigning oligarch of the region and gain more renown for myself.

I’m not sure which was my primary motive.

But I overplayed my hand, underestimated his power, and miscalculated what the reaction of the city’s residents would be.

I had a bit of a reputation in the area, and I was quite popular in certain circles, so I thought I would be safe.

I thought certain people would protect me and shelter me, but once the bounty posters went up, I found myself with no allies, only former friends greedy for an easy payday at the expense of my life.

Now here I am, striving for legitimacy and recognition again.

This time I’m trying to take a shortcut to the top, instead of working my way up for years like I did before.

I thought patience was supposed to come easier with age, but I feel more impatient and violent than ever these days.

I’ve always been somewhat callous, and now I’m even more dismissive of the feelings or pain of others…

except when it comes to a certain sharp-tongued thief.

In her case, it’s not that I want to spare her of pain entirely—it’s just that I prefer to deliver the pain and determine how far it goes.

She hasn’t done much work in this room as far as traps are concerned.

One of the exits is rigged with two heavy pans that will swing down from the ceiling when the door is opened and strike the person entering.

In front of the other door, she spread a thick, gooey substance—honey or molasses, I think—and she hung up a tablecloth covered in more honey, so anyone entering the room would blunder into it.

But she didn’t expect an intruder to drop in from above.

I smirk as I open the second door and step carefully over the mess, through the exit.

I stay put for a moment to take in my surroundings.

I’m standing in a long hallway. To my right, there’s a central staircase leading up to the second floor.

To my left, at the end of a red carpet, is the front entrance of the keep.

I’m intrigued by the lovely flowers in the urns along the hall.

For a moment I’m suspicious of them, wondering if they could be booby-trapped with poisonous pollen or some such thing.

But Devilry couldn’t possibly have had the time for something that involved.

I don’t need to waste precious minutes investigating a bunch of flowers.

The lightning trap that killed Needle seems to have run out of energy.

Not even the slightest flicker appears on the wire leading to the keyhole, nor is there any life in the trap itself, which is a strange device of metal and crystal components.

If I had time, I’d inspect that trap more thoroughly to learn how it works.

I’m sure I could use the information for my own future inventions.

But at the moment, letting Grisly into the fortress is my priority, and the path between me and the exit appears clear.

I start sauntering down the hallway toward the front door. But the instant my boots hit the carpet, my feet whisk right out from under me and I slam down hard on my back, the breath rushing from my lungs in a loud grunt.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling. As I try to rise, my elbows and hands slip this way and that on the shiny wood floor.

It’s been copiously slicked with oil, every bit of it.

Devilry cut the carpet into strips, oiled the floor, then placed the strips back together perfectly so the carpet looked intact.

And I, fool that I am, barely glanced at it before I went on my merry way to open the door.

Slowly, carefully, I get to my feet. Bracing one hand against the wall, I shuffle forward until my foot slips again.

My arms pinwheel for a few seconds while I do a little dance of desperation, trying to stay upright.

I crash-slide against the wall, striking my cheekbone against the frame of a large painting.

My hand touches one of the magical eyes, and I yell at the cold, slimy feeling of it.

Peals of laughter echo through the hallway, and Devilry’s sultry voice fills my ears. “That was so satisfying to watch. Better than sex.”

“You must not be having very good sex, then,” I reply.

“I get what I need.” Again, her answer is too quick. She’s not good at lying, which, for a thief, is interesting. She’s better at devising plans and staying in the background, using people and objects as pieces in her game.

I’ve found that people’s strengths usually reveal their weaknesses, and that attacking both is the best way to reach the most sensitive spots of their psyche.

“You’re not very brave, are you?” I taunt her.

“You hang back, you hide. You brag about your skills, but when it comes to actually using them, you’re a coward.

I’ll bet you’re only a half-decent lockpick and an incompetent thief, just like you’re only a half-decent climber and an unremarkable fighter. ”

She doesn’t reply, so I push harder.