Page 11

Footsteps on the staircase. A thud of heavy boots. I swallow a squeak of terror and sprint for the door I’d left open for easy escape. I close it almost all the way, hoping the guard won’t notice it’s cracked open, but I don’t dare shut it because the handle creaked lightly when I walked in.

Then I hide in the shadows behind the bed, crouching low, and stifle my quickened breaths as much as possible.

I’m trapped here, and if the guard enters, I’ll have to fight my way out.

I eye the poker standing beside the cold, empty fireplace.

That’s what I’ll go for. I have my knives, but I’d rather not kill anyone tonight.

Besides, I’d have to get dangerously close to the guard to stab them.

The poker is not an ideal weapon, but at least this room is large enough for a good swing.

The footsteps are closer now. I hold my breath, fear pounding through me. Are they hunting for me? If they heard anything from upstairs, that could mean they’re sweeping the place room by room, searching for an intruder. But I’ve been so quiet…

The footsteps stop. A moment later, the guard moves away. I hear a quiet cough, then faint creaks as they head up to the third floor. I don’t move until the sounds fade completely.

Then I tiptoe to the door, check the hall, and dart toward the stairs. I step only on the edges to avoid creaks and nearly fall onto the carpet. Turning away from the light in the kitchen, I slip into a dark, empty hallway.

Heart pounding, I try the first door on the right.

Locked. Panic rises. I need to hide before the guard comes back, and I don’t have time to pick a lock.

There’s a coat rack nearby, cloaks hanging from it.

It could work in a pinch, but I’d have to stay completely still and hope my boots aren’t visible.

At least I’m no longer dripping water. With luck, the footprints I left upstairs have dried. The guard has no reason to be suspicious yet. But if they spot anything…

Good thing I secured the rope I used to climb down. Leaving it dangling outside an open window would’ve been a dead giveaway.

The gods smile on me—the fourth door opens. I slip inside without checking the room and close the door behind me. Pressing my back to it, I listen. The guard’s footsteps echo faintly. They’re not hurrying. Hopefully, they haven’t found anything.

When the footsteps finally recede, I breathe a sigh of relief and turn to survey the room.

I freeze in place, staring at the darkened space. Two beds stand against opposite walls of the small room, with several chairs and a chest of drawers set around them. And in one of the beds…

Oh, fuck.

The guard is fast asleep, his breathing deep and even.

He’s lying on his back, his arm thrown wide.

I catch a glimpse of naked brown skin, illuminated by the streetlamps outside the window, and quickly turn away.

That’s Toby, one of the newer gang members.

Lindie pointed him out once when we were having tea, and I thought him handsome at the time.

Now he presents another danger, another chance for me to get caught.

He hasn’t made a sound since I barged in, and I thank the gods for that.

He could have crept up behind me and grabbed me while I had my ear to the door.

This must be the room where the guards on duty rest between shifts.

There aren’t any personal items around, just the beds with simple blankets.

Toby’s boots rest on the floor beside the bed, so he’d be ready to jump into action the moment he’s called.

My palms are sweaty as I reach for the handle and crack the door open. I can only hope the other guard has returned to his post and isn’t waiting out there for me. But if I tarry here too long, Toby will wake, and then I’ll have two of them to worry about.

I slip into the hallway, which is blessedly empty.

This is the moment you run.

All my instincts, honed through years of living on my own, scream at me to abort this mission and leave while I still can. But I can’t, not when I’m so close to finding answers. I know the information I need is here, most likely in Damen’s study. I just have to locate it.

If everything goes to shit, I’ll climb out the window of Damen’s study and escape onto the street.

That might be best anyway, but the guards would discover the rope I left hanging.

In broad daylight, there will be no hiding it, and I’m certain they’ll search the place top to bottom once Damen returns and discovers I’ve robbed him.

That is—if there’s anything in there to steal.

I close the door to the guards’ room behind me, easing it shut until the latch clicks softly into place. I tiptoe farther down the hall. I only went into that room because it was the first open door I saw. Nothing about it radiated luxury like the door to Damen’s bedchamber had.

So I squint through the thick darkness, peering along the hallway for the most ornate door I can find. I hold my breath as I pass each shadowy doorway. I’m betting on the fact that the gang leader is vain, a man who would flaunt his wealth and status.

There. The second door on the left side of the stairs. It stands out—wider, heavier-looking, with a polished brass handle that catches a glint of light.

But it’s locked.

I drop to my knees. My fingers tremble as I fish out my lockpicks.

Precious seconds tick by. This one’s no easy task, not like Lindie’s flimsy bedroom latch.

The mechanism is more complex, and I have to slip my stiletto into the gap and lever it with steady, careful force.

The metal scrapes faintly, sending a small jolt of panic through me.

My breath hitches. Then, finally, a soft click.

I glance down the hallway, then stumble inside, pulse roaring in my ears. Relief hits me in waves, so intense, dark spots dance across my vision.

Too close.

I shouldn’t be here. This could be suicide, because I don’t know what the guards would do if they found me.

If I’m lucky, they’d try to capture and detain me, waiting for their leader to return and question me.

But if I startled them too badly, they might shoot first and ask questions later.

I wouldn’t be the first intruder in this house to end up with a crossbow bolt through the neck.

My hand flies to my throat. I swallow thickly, forcing myself to steady my breathing as I take in my surroundings.

I was right. This is most definitely an office.

The scent of leather and ink lingers in the air, and heavy drapes frame tall windows that look out over the street.

I can only hope it’s Damen’s and not someone else’s.

None of the other rooms in this hallway seemed half as fancy as this one—walls lined with shelves, a thick rug muffling my steps, and a massive desk that commands the center of the room.

I don’t dare light a candle, not with the faint crack under the door where light might leak out.

Not with the street visible just beyond the windows.

There’s bound to be a guard out there, eyes trained on the building now that it’s empty.

A flicker of light in a supposedly vacant room would give me away instantly.

I creep to the desk and shuffle through the papers. I carry them as close to the window as I dare, tilting the pages toward the glow of the streetlamps.

But it’s all regular correspondence, dinner invitations, food orders for the mansion, and one particularly strange request for a red-plumed bird originating from the isles in the south. What I don’t find is any mention of Lindie, and my heart sinks with every sheet I check.

But would Damen leave information like that just lying around on his desk? His study was locked, yes, but perhaps he doesn’t trust his people completely.

With a renewed sense of hope, I kneel in front of the desk again, positioning myself low in case a guard walks past and peeks in.

I open the first drawer slowly, anticipating the creak of the mechanism.

Inside is a tangle of writing supplies, spare quills, corked inkpots clinking gently as I shift them aside.

I close it and move to the next. More of the same—typical bits and bobs a man of business might keep. But there’s more here, too, several daggers with gleaming blades, a garrote, and a stiletto knife. Polished. Ready to use.

I nick a dagger with a jewel-encrusted handle, thinking it might come in handy someday, especially now that I’m putting myself firmly against Damen’s gang.

I’m still no closer to finding Lindie, and my time is running out. It must be close to midnight by now, and I have no idea whether the Ravens will return tonight. If they merely left for dinner or a party, they might start trickling back in any minute. I can’t be here when that happens.

Cursing under my breath, I check behind all the paintings on the walls, then snoop through the armoire by the wall. There are several interesting novels inside, but no ledgers or business books. But he must keep them somewhere…

My gaze settles on the small decorative table by the window, resting on a skillfully woven carpet.

It holds a tray of crystal goblets and a bottle of dark spirits.

I’d passed it on my way to the armoire but hadn’t really noticed it.

Now, thinking of my own hiding place, I walk over and carefully pull the table aside.

The glasses chime softly against each other, and my heart thunders in my throat.

When nothing happens, I move the table a few more inches and crouch to flip the carpet out of the way.

And there it is, a hatch in the floorboards, with an iron ring the size of a biscuit inlaid in the wood. Relief and pride surge through me. I did it. If Damen had anything to do with Lindie’s disappearance, this is where the information will be.

With trembling hands, I open the hatch and find an iron lockbox inside, not unlike the one the orc had stashed under his bed. But when I lift it out, huffing with effort, my hope plummets again.

The safe is locked with a number dial. I’ve seen them before, and I practiced on one I bought from a locksmith in Morav, but doing it on the fly might be too difficult.

I heft the safe onto Damen’s desk, trying not to smash any of his items. Then I put my ear to the top of the box and slowly turn the dial with my right hand, listening for the tumble of the pins inside the mechanism.

This is too dangerous.

A panicked voice in my head grows louder and louder, but I smother it and focus on my task instead. The door to the study is closed, and unless I make a sound that draws the guards, they have no reason to suspect I’m in here, behind what is supposed to be a firmly locked door.

The quiet of the house helps. I still my breaths and train my ears on the sounds of the mechanism. The clicks of the tiny metal parts rolling inside are barely audible, but that makes the tick of the pin sliding into place even louder. I grin and move on to the next number in the sequence.

The metal warms under my cheek as I keep my head pressed to it.

The second and third pins drop into place soon after, but the fourth and last one eludes me.

I chew on the inside of my cheek, wondering what to do.

There are too many combinations to risk trying them all.

If I try the lock before all the pins are aligned, they’ll roll out of place again, and I’ll have to start from the beginning.

I walk over to the table I’d set aside, pull the stopper from the liquor bottle, and take a slug straight from it, not bothering with the crystal goblets.

The brandy burns its way down my throat, and I stifle a cough, but moments later, warmth spreads through me, steadying the trembling in my hands.

“All right. One more try.”

I set my cheek back against the metal top of the lockbox and close my eyes.

I block out the faint noise from outside—the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the drunken singing from a nearby tavern.

Everything else fades as I focus only on the clicking of the invisible pins, the only thing separating me from my goal.

The dial turns almost all the way around when I hear it. It’s not as distinct as the other ticks , but it’s there, and I stop immediately, excitement rising.

There . All the numbers are in place. I lift my head and turn the lever at the same time to open the lockbox.

A soft crack is the only warning I get. A cloud of smoke explodes from the lockbox, engulfing my hand.

I stare at it for a startled moment. Then the pain explodes.