Page 6 of A Heist for Filthy Rivals (Mythic Holidays #3)

Somehow Lace knew that I hate seams with a passion.

The shirt and pants are practically seamless, so impossibly smooth that I’ve always wondered about her true parentage, even suspected that she might have Fae blood in her veins.

How else could she create such a perfectly tailored garment without taking measurements?

I don’t even know what the fabric is—it doesn’t feel like the typical cloth one might find at a market or at a dress-maker’s shop.

Whatever its source, it hugs my body just right and glides so gently against my skin that I’m able to focus on the job at hand without the subtle frustration of seams eating away at my brain.

I fasten my hooded cloak over my other gear.

While buckling one final strap, I survey my team.

The other Javelins all seem to be ready for the job.

Goggles in case of wind, sleet, or glare.

Iridian crystal sticks that we can shake to produce flameless light.

Climbing gear and thin, tough rope. Kits for mending wounds.

Knives, brass knuckles, throwing stars. Maven’s mini-crossbow and Flex’s poison rings.

Scriv’s pack is stocked with his glass-cutters, ventilation testers, and other gadgets.

Earlier this morning, Maven slipped a stone in my pocket that she thinks is spelled to lend extra strength, grant wishes, or provide luck. None of her tests on it yielded anything conclusive.

“I’m giving it to you, but don’t try doing anything with it unless we’re in a really dire situation,” she advised.

I agreed, resolving to leave the stone in my pocket unless I’m literally on the brink of death.

Maven doesn’t accompany the crew on every job.

Since she’s our resident researcher, antiquities expert, and appraiser, there’s always work for her to do back at the Hearth.

But she’s indispensable for this job. We’ll need her expertise if we’re to survive in Faerie.

And while she doesn’t climb as well as the rest of us, she’s a strong fighter with a powerful punch.

I’ve seen her choke out a man with her thick thighs, and her skill with a crossbow will come in handy if we run into any guards.

Judging by what we’ve learned, Annordun is guarded only by powerful magic aimed at keeping out all Fae except the Stewards. But we can’t rule out the possibility of other defensive measures, or a species of guard we don’t expect. Faerie is, after all, a land notorious for its strange creatures.

We take a moment for last minute checks—testing blades, tightening straps, and securing our packs.

We’ve kept the load as light as possible, leaving plenty of space in our packs for treasure.

Boulder’s pack is stuffed with extra bags that we can fill with valuables and tie onto his back.

As the biggest and strongest member of the team, he’s capable of carrying large amounts of loot.

“How are your fingers?” I ask Flex.

“Nimble as ever, or so the ladies tell me.” He smirks.

“And Maven, how are you feeling about the wall?”

“Boulder will go up first, and he’ll let down a line to help me climb,” she says.

“Good plan. Boulder?”

“Ready, boss.” He gives me a short nod.

I turn to Scriv, but he only says, “Let’s get this done. I hope the take is as good as you say.”

“It will be.”

Maven sets the Doras álainn on the floor and says, “Annordun,” in a crisp, clear voice. She pricks her finger with a pin, then presses her fingertip to the translucent white stone. She wipes the pin with a cloth soaked in alcohol before handing it to me.

I prick my thumb and speak the fortress’s name aloud while marking my blood on the stone. Then I wipe the pin and hand it to the next Javelin.

Once all of us have wet the artifact with our blood, we wait.

I count twelve seconds before the black roots begin lifting and untwisting from the pale circle, which is simultaneously widening into a flat, white disc like a sheet of ice, big as a coach wheel.

The translucent mushrooms lift from its surface, taking three-dimensional shape and forming a ring along the border of the circle, while the black roots rise high into the air and braid themselves into an archway tall and wide enough to accommodate someone bigger than Boulder.

Our portal into Faerie stands before us, visible and tangible—a wide ring of pale moonstone mushrooms circling a twisted black arch. I can’t see our destination through the entrance, but the air between the braided vines shimmers with a silvery mist.

Flex whoops in triumph, and Maven’s eyes are starry with delight. A sick thrill passes through my stomach, because this mad idea of mine has suddenly become all too real. Maybe Scriv was right. Maybe I’m not as ready for the danger as I thought.

But it’s too late now. I can’t back down. If I tried to withdraw from this foray into Faerie, the others would just go without me, and I’d be signing my own resignation from the crew.

I’m conscious of Scriv’s eyes on me, even now. Watching. Calculating.

I force my mouth to shape what I hope is a confident, excited smile. “Now we go through?” I ask Maven.

“Yes. I’ll go last, and then the Doras álainn should close down automatically since all the blood contributors have passed through. I’ll keep it in my pack for the return trip. When we’re ready to head back, we just do this again, except with the Hearth as the destination.”

“And the Doras álainn knows what the Hearth is?” Scriv asks, his eyes narrowed.

“It’s a magical device,” Maven says. “It connects with whoever touches it, so it knows where they want to go.”

“So it reads our minds. Isn’t that kind of creepy?” asks Flex.

“No creepier than you are on a daily basis,” she retorts. “Who’s going first?”

They all look at me. I figured I’d be the first to enter Faerie, but that doesn’t make it any easier to approach the portal.

As I stand before the arch, it strikes me that the Javelins could let me walk through, then deactivate the portal from their side. They could be rid of me that easily.

Of course they wouldn’t do it, since they want Drosselmeyer’s treasure. But mentally I make a note that when we return, I will not be the last to walk through. I refuse to be abandoned in Faerie.

Lack of trust is something thieves and brigands have to live with, even among their friends. Skull always said, “You don’t have to trust your crew completely, but you have to know that they’ll follow the thieves’ code.”

In Belgate, under the purview of the Consortium, the thieves’ code is simple.

Everyone does their part. Everyone gets an equal share.

No double-crossing your crew. If someone gets left behind, make a reasonable effort to help them—but if saving them puts the rest of the crew in jeopardy, cut your losses and run with the loot.

I would never leave any of my people behind. I only wish I could be sure they felt the same about me.

“Devilry, you should go now,” urges Maven. “I don’t know how long this thing will stay active. We don’t want to risk it running out of the energy that enables it to function, whatever that is.”

“Right.” Taking a deep breath, I step onto the pale, glossy disc and proceed through the arch.

A misty chill runs over me, like passing through condensed fog. I emerge onto a dark beach scoured by wind so cold I gasp with the shock of it. Ahead, gray sand slopes upward to a snowy bank, from which rises the dark outer wall of Annordun, the resting place for Faerie’s most volatile treasures.

The fortress is huge, threatening, dominant. But the most terrifying part is that its walls are full of eyes.

The shock of the sight rips the breath from my lungs more effectively than the icy wind.

All over the outside of the fortress, eyes of different sizes stare and swivel, their irises blood-red or icy gray.

Some are the size of my fist, others as big as my head or larger.

Occasionally, they all close at once, leaving the wall perfectly blank and normal for a few seconds before they all open again.

At first I feel like screaming, but then I realize that the eyes don’t seem to be focused on me particularly.

They don’t look alive in the way that a person’s eyes are.

There’s no keenness or consciousness in them, only a vague, glassy stare.

Maybe they’re not really capable of perceiving us; maybe they’re only present as a fearsome deterrent.

That’s what I’m going to assume until I find out otherwise.

The wind bites straight through my clothing and whips my face. I put on my goggles and pull up the loose cowl of my cloak around my neck, covering my mouth and nose.

Clouds scud across the sky too thickly for any moon or stars to shine through, but the snow itself glows with a stronger light than any snow in the mortal world—so bright, in fact, that it makes me instantly suspicious. I walk cautiously forward, peering at it.

The other Javelins are coming through behind me. I hear gasps and ragged curses as they’re confronted with the searing cold, the blasting wind, and the multitude of enormous eyes.

“I don’t think they can actually see us,” I call out over the wind. “They look rather blank and unfocused.”

“By my balls, you’re right,” Flex says.

“Still makes me uneasy,” Boulder growls.

“As it does all of us,” says Maven. “But we keep going, right, Devilry?”

“Right. We persist until we run into an obstacle we can’t overcome, and then we figure out a way to circumvent it. We don’t stop, and we don’t give up. We are Javelins. We always find a way through.”

“Javelins,” they chorus heartily in response.

My anxiety is still there, gnawing in the pit of my stomach, but it’s always worse in the hours before a job. Once we’re in the thick of things, my skills and experience take over, and the immediacy of the task sublimates my nervous nature a bit.