Page 8 of A Heist for Filthy Rivals (Mythic Holidays #3)

I don’t know how long it takes me to cross the bridge. I don’t look up to see how far I have left to go; I just continue shuffling along on hands and knees, keeping my eyes focused on the next bit of stone.

Once I’m across, I pull myself onto the broad ledge beyond.

This ledge goes nowhere—it’s basically a shelf on the fortress’s second layer of fortification, overlooking the chasm.

The wall continues upward, but there’s a door at the end of the ledge, so I don’t think we’ll have to climb anymore.

Eyes blink along the inner wall, too, but they’re fewer in number and they seem to stay closed for longer intervals.

As my body releases the tension of crossing the bridge, my muscles turn weak and watery.

I sit down against an eyeless part of the wall, but I can’t really relax.

I keep thinking that I might have to cross that wretched bridge again on the way back, unless we find another safe path out of Annordun.

If the Doras álainn could have transported us into the central keep of Annordun, it would have done so, which doesn’t bode well for us being able to portal directly out of the fortress once we have our loot.

We’ll probably have to retrace our steps to the beach.

When Flex starts to cross the bridge, my stomach drops. It’s agony watching each of my team members navigate the strip of stone—though I find myself wondering if it would truly be a loss if Scriv fell.

I’m most worried about Boulder and Maven.

They’re thicker-bodied, so it’s harder for them to keep their weight balanced on such a narrow surface.

If Maven falls, the Doras álainn goes with her, and we’ll be stuck in Faerie, unless Drosselmeyer’s hoard includes some other type of device for passing between worlds.

I want to close my eyes and blot everything out until everyone is safely across.

But Skull used to say that a thief never shuts their eyes unless they’re safely in their own bed behind locked doors—and sometimes not even then.

So I watch, eyes wide open, until the entire crew, including Maven, is on the ledge with me.

“Let’s hope that was the hardest part,” says Flex.

We all turn on him instantly, voicing groans of protest.

“Why the fuck would you say that?” exclaims Boulder. “You’re asking for a curse on this job.”

“Shit, sorry,” Flex mutters.

“As penance, you get to lead the way for a while,” I tell him. “There’s a door ahead that might require your particular skills.”

We move along the ledge to the door, which is locked with a very prosaic iron lock.

“Iron hurts the Fae,” Maven says. “And I’m guessing this is spelled to resist their magic, too.”

“It might be immune to their magic, but not mine.” Flex crouches with his ear close to the lock, listening as he plies his tools.

He has to pause and blow on his hands to warm them a couple of times, but within a matter of minutes there’s a rewarding click, and he presses the handle down with a flourish, opening the door.

“Well done,” I tell him. “I’ll get the next one.”

The door takes us inside the wall. By the light of a couple Iridian crystal sticks, we descend flight after flight of narrow stairs, while the temperature grows progressively, frighteningly hotter. Finally we emerge through another door on the inner side of the second wall.

We’re nearly at ground level, and I can see the gray bulk and pointed towers of the central keep ahead. It, too, is studded with eyes that open and shut at coordinated intervals.

The keep stands on an island, encircled by a lawn of blue grass. Between us and it, there’s a moat of bright orange lava, giving off a violent heat that’s the startling opposite of the cold wind we experienced above.

A series of tiny stepping stones lead across the moat, spaced ridiculously far apart. Here and there, instead of a stepping stone, there’s a tall post with a chain, probably meant for swinging from one point to the next.

Maybe a tall, agile Faerie with immortal strength, small feet, and healing powers could make it across this obstacle course, but for us humans, it’s hopeless.

“No way across,” says Boulder heavily.

“Is that it?” asks Flex. “We go back?”

“We should have done the job I suggested,” Scriv grumbles.

His comment clinches it for me. We’re getting to the inner keep, if I die trying.

I pull my pack around to my hip and take out Maven’s list of the Fae-Hunter devices, scanning the phrases she wrote down about what each item might possibly do.

Maven blurts out the words just as I’m reading the entry from the list. “The catalytic dust!”

“The catalytic dust.” I grin at her. “Perfect.”

“Catalytic dust turns liquids to solids for a few minutes,” Maven explains to the others. “If we stay close together and move fast, we should have just enough of it to get across.”

“Are you sure it works?” Scriv asks doubtfully.

“Yes! I tested it by accident. I’d spilled a little of my tea on the table, and when I opened the bag of dust, several grains of it sprinkled the same area and turned the drops of tea into solid beads! It was fascinating.”

Flex purses his lips. “What I’m hearing is that you spill things frequently.”

“Fair enough.” She chuckles. “But it worked then, and it should work now, if we’re quick and careful.”

“You can lead the way on this one,” I tell her.

Maven takes the bag of dust from her pack, and we cluster behind her while she sprinkles the first handful on the lava.

The reaction is immediate. The surface of the lava hisses and hardens, forming a thin slab of dark rock across the molten orange.

Maven walks quickly onto it, scattering more dust ahead of her, creating a fragile path that creaks ominously as the rest of us step on. I bring up the rear.

“Spread out your weight!” Maven calls. “Single file. Quick, quick! Step lightly and swiftly, or it will break!”

The burning atmosphere of the moat is so overwhelming that I throw back my hood and free my face from the cowl. I’m sweating copiously from the temperature and from sheer terror.

The magic of the dust prevents the solidified magma from re-liquefying immediately, but the effect only lasts for a few minutes.

The moat is like a broad river. All around us, the lava glows and gurgles.

The air above it wavers with the intensity of its heat.

My whole body wants to go slowly, cautiously, but instead we have to run lightly across the thin layer of rock that separates us from a painful death.

In several places where Boulder steps, the lava rock cracks, and by the time I get to those spots I have to jump over rivulets of liquid fire. I have no idea what the Fae-Hunters planned to use the catalytic dust for, but I’m pretty sure it was never intended for something this dangerous.

Just like on the bridge, I don’t dare look far ahead, but I glance up just once, long enough to see the edge of the moat coming blessedly nearer.

It’s a low wall, beyond which lies the sloping blue lawn that surrounds the keep.

Maven and Flex have reached the grass safely, and they’re pulling Scriv up.

Maven lifts her eyes to mine, then shifts her gaze behind me. Sheer terror washes over her face and she screams, “Devilry, run!”

I don’t look back, because the instant she yells, I can feel the heat of the lava nipping at the heels of my boots.

I race forward, but Boulder has landed too heavily on the path ahead of me, and a section of the thin slab separates from the rest, tilting dangerously.

He jumps forward, stepping too firmly again, and lava washes across the film of rock, bathing his boots.

Roaring with panic, he makes a flying leap for the wall.

I’m half-conscious that he’s made it, and that the others are helping him put out the fire on his feet, but I’m mostly focused on springing softly, catlike, onto the remaining sections of the path. They’re like platters of thinning ice, floating on a lake hotter than a blacksmith’s furnace.

Maven shakes her bag of dust, but nothing comes out. She can’t help me.

I use one of the stepping stones to reach the final piece of the path, but thanks to Boulder’s leap, it has drifted too far from the bank for a safe jump.

“Fuck,” I hiss. I stand there, helpless, knowing that in a few seconds the slice of rock beneath me will vanish. I only have one chance, and that’s a nearby post, similar to a gallows, with a chain dangling from its cross-arm.

Taking a deep breath, I coil my body and jump, feeling the thin slab of rock sink under the pressure of the leap. I’m fully extended, reaching as high as I can. The acrid scent of my own sweat and the burning leather of my boots fills my nose.

My palms hit the chain—they slip a bit, and the grind of the iron chafes my gloves, abrading them right down to my skin. I tighten my grip with all the panic of survival, kick against the post to arc backward, and then swing forward like a pendulum. At the peak of the upward swing, I leap again.

Boulder moves to catch me, but Scriv holds him back. It’s a subtle touch, but I notice.

I land in a crouch, feet planted, one palm to the grass, and then I straighten. I look at Scriv first, then at Boulder, letting them both know what I saw.

They would have let me burn.

There’s defiance in Scriv’s eyes, shame in Boulder’s.

“You made it,” says Maven with faint relief. “I thought you were done for.”

“We knew this was going to be risky,” I reply, inspecting the damage to my boots, which is thankfully minimal. “Big risk, big reward.”

“Unless we die,” comments Scriv. “Then we get nothing.”

“We’re not dead yet.” I force cheer and hopefulness into my tone. “Come on. We’ve got a Midwinter’s Eve miracle waiting for us.”