Page 2

1

VEIL

One Month Later

I ’ve been waiting for over an hour for the proper mark. My stomach is growling, tight with hunger, but I don’t dare leave my spot. Tucked into the mouth of a small alleyway, I have the perfect vantage point to study the outside market.

It’s late afternoon, and the area is bustling with people, the kiosks bursting with bright colors and titillating flavors.

The market only opens on weekends, and I’ve been waiting all week for the chance to snatch some unlucky elite’s wallet. No one else from the city can afford to shop here anyhow. Luxurious furs, garish jewels, and mouthwatering food that I myself could only ever imagine purchasing.

I would leave this city if I godsdamned could.

It was the first thing I tried to do after the night of the Feast of Fools. But I realized very quickly that I was unable to.

Physically , I couldn’t escape, as if something was keeping me bound to the city of Pravitia. Try as I might, I could never reach the city borders. Streets would become endless, or I would find myself walking in circles. The city limits no longer existed. I could never pierce whatever— force? —keeping me locked inside.

When my fate finally dawned on me, just as comforting as cellophane wrapped tightly around my face, I nearly went into a catatonic state.

I might have escaped the maze, but I was imprisoned nonetheless. Since then, I’ve wondered if the force keeping me here is the same one that pulled me to Pravitia in the first place.

My gaze continues to sweep the market, the crowd of oblivious upper crust taking leisurely strolls from one kiosk to the next, enjoying the rarity of a sunny winter day.

I’m growing impatient, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I track them one by one, my simmering repulsion for them burning incessantly inside of me.

I hate them.

I hate them all.

The ruling families especially.

Even though I’m rather new to the city, the social order of Pravitia is all too familiar to me.

The city I left behind was disturbingly similar.

Ruling families.

Gods.

The mad elite.

Although I don’t recall anything as ruthless as the maze hunt. Then again, I never had the pleasure of being as close to the inner circle as I was that night.

I haven’t since either.

I can’t even fathom the depths of their depravity …

I only know the rumors and what I’ve seen with my own eyes. Like the blond one with the mismatched eyes, whose name I learned later is Gemini Foley, servant to the god of trickery.

A month has passed since he chased me through the maze, and still, I dream of him. Every night, I wake up in a cold sweat, cursed to relive those terrifying moments when he had me trapped under him. A cold shiver travels down my spine at the memory, and I let out a small sigh, my lungs feeling tight.

My eyes finally land on a suitable mark, and I straighten, now on full alert.

Middle-aged man with a haughty expression under his salt-and-pepper beard. I could make a fortune selling his suit alone. I watch him slip his money clip into the left inner pocket of his suit jacket, and I grin.

Perfect.

Pushing off the wall I was leaning against, I begin to trail him, weaving between bodies effortlessly while keeping my attention fixed on him. After slipping on my red-rimmed sunglasses, I slide my hands into the pockets of the long tweed coat I lifted a few weeks ago. It’s two sizes too big, and I swim in it, but beggars can’t be choosers. Or more accurately, muggers can’t be choosers. The quality is luxurious enough to masquerade me as being part of the wealthy for a few minutes, just long enough for me to accomplish what I came here to do and disappear back into the crowd.

I track my mark with the same relish as someone who’s been promised a warm meal and a cozy place to sleep after weathering a cold winter day.

My urges are similar in nature.

The desperate will to survive.

To fight for a rightful place at the table.

I study the man as he stops. Picking up a cigar from a display case, he runs it along his nose, closing his eyes as he inhales the smell of tobacco.

My intuition tickles the back of my neck, like a careful whisper nudging me along, urging me to act. I’ve never doubted it before—and never been caught before either.

Pickpocketing is in my blood.

Taking advantage of the man’s distraction, I head straight for him.

Pretending to trip, I land directly into his chest, my hand inconspicuously slipping under his jacket, my fingers curling around his money clip before he even notices the weight of my body on his.

“Oh my!” I say breathlessly, acting like a damsel in distress to lull this idiot into a false sense of security. “Clumsy me.”

His money clip is already safely in my coat pocket before his hands smooth down my arms, helping me back onto my feet. My eyes dip to his gold watch, and I quickly run through the possible scenarios where I could add it to my collection, but decide against it.

“Never be too greedy,” I hear my father remind me from beyond the grave. “That’s when the risk of getting caught is at its highest.”

I pretend not to notice how the man’s gaze travels hungrily down my body, my coat open, revealing my favorite leopard-print shift dress underneath.

“Lucky I was there to catch you,” he says, his eyes now stuck on my breasts.

I hide my disgust under a shrill, forced laugh. “Lucky indeed.”

The same intuition signals to me that it’s time to leave. I listen, not giving the man the chance to react before I zigzag my way through the crowd. I vanish into a small side street on the north end of the market.

The high I experience after a successful pickpocket is unmatched. Like a pleasurable thrill thrumming throughout my body. And for those small, fleeting moments, I feel invincible.

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t addicted to the feeling. A time before the compulsion to steal didn’t pulse under my skin like an itch I could never quite scratch.

When I’m a ways away from the market and prying eyes, I take the money clip out of my pocket and grin victoriously when I find a few thousand dollars neatly folded inside of it. Stuffing the money into my coat pocket, I throw the clip into a garbage can nearby and make my way back to my apartment to change.

This calls for a celebration.