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ZULA

I t was him, the lanky redheaded man she’d seen in town. Up close, she noticed the spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the clearness of his deep green eyes, and the slant of his mouth. Why was she looking at his mouth?

Slowly, the stunning man peeled himself off her. “I sincerely apologize. I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I ran you over. Are you hurt? Mother always tells me I need to watch where I’m going. Normally, I trip over my own two feet, and now I’ve tangled you up in my tomfoolery.”

Zula gawked at him, and to her annoyance, a giggle bubbled at the back of her throat. A giggle! Normally, she would have reacted fast and punched whoever had run her down in the throat, but she couldn’t help the slight niggle. He looked familiar. Why?

He held out his hand to help her up, and she stared at his long, slim fingers—not rough, so he didn’t do hard labor. Bright red hair stuck up from his head, rather damp from sweat, but it was a good look on him.

She gave herself a shake, determined not to be enchanted by his odd mannerisms. Too much was at stake for her to be distracted. With a frown, she took his hand.

His skin was warm, his grip stronger than expected, and when they touched, she felt a flutter in her lower belly. Despite the heat of the day, a shiver of awareness went down her spine as he helped her up, pulling so hard she almost fell into his chest. She snatched her hand away, embarrassed by her odd reaction and eager to put some distance between them.

“No, I’m not hurt,” she said, picking up the sack she’d dropped. “But you should really watch where you’re going. ”

He ran his fingers through his hair, peering at her with those large eyes. “I know. I’m terribly sorry. I got turned around out here—the road’s a bit longer than I expected.”

“Ah.” Zula peered at him again, then wished she hadn’t. Her heart was doing funny things. She pointed down the path. “Keep heading that way. You’ll find a bridge and then the village. If you get lost, I’m sure someone will happen along to give you directions.”

He pressed a hand to his heart, an action that would have appeared like mockery on anyone else, but he had the most sincere expression on his freckled face. “My thanks are with you. And what about you?” His gaze lingered on her burlap sack. “What brings you to the jungle this beautiful afternoon?”

Zula wrinkled her nose, caught off guard by the question. “You’re a bit bold for asking, a complete stranger who ran into me when I was minding my own business.”

He stepped back as though she’d slapped him. “I see I’ve offended you. My deepest apologies. I’ll be on my way. I just wanted to ensure you aren’t as lost as me. ”

She gave him a deadpan look. Was he flirting with her, trying to impress her? If so, he was doing a terrible job.

Pivoting on her heel, she strode away in the opposite direction of the village. Part of her wanted to break into a run, while another part wanted to go back and discover why the man looked so familiar.

A worrisome thought gnawed at her as she walked. He claimed to be lost, but as far as she was aware, only trolls lived in the jungle, because they were on the border of the kingdom.

Long ago, a peace treaty had been struck with the trolls. They kept their land on the edges of the kingdom and did not attack it, and the kingdom ensured the citizens did not bother them. So what was the redheaded man doing so close to the border?

Ever since she’d left the tavern, she’d had the sensation that she was being watched. By whom?

Thieves operated by word of mouth, relying on the loyalties of those they’d worked with before. She’d never worked with Scarred Joe’s gang, but it made sense that he’d send someone to spy on her. Had she been too hasty in sending Issa away so quickly?

After walking through the jungle, she’d decided to take Issa’s advice and change into a disguise. After stealing from the trolls, she would put on her blue-feathered hat again, to be sure everyone knew she was the thief. Her window of opportunity for completing the heist was closing fast. She had the rest of the afternoon to find the jewel, steal it, and return to the river, where a boat would be waiting. No one would expect a water escape, and she was rather proud of the ingenuity of the plan.

Shaking off the unsettling feelings from her encounter with the redhead, she shifted her focus back to the task at hand and snuck off the road into troll territory.

The troll village was easy to find. It lay atop a swell of land where a babbling waterfall flowed down into the same river she planned to escape on. A nest of trees swayed heavy with bananas, papayas, coconuts, and other fruit that grew in the jungle. At the scent of coconuts, Zula’s rush of adrenaline faded into bittersweet nostalgia with memories of scavenging the jungle with her father .

But that had been before her life transformed, and she was grateful for the shift, glad not to be stuck living a lonely life of survival in the thick of the jungle. Now she had a good life living on the outskirts of the law, adventure always at her fingertips and a popularity that lingered. Except she intended this heist to be her last.

Tucking the sack under her shirt, she climbed a vine and, imitating the mannerisms of the monkeys, swung from tree to tree, bringing herself closer to the ledge that overlooked the village. The stone-and-moss colors of the trolls moved into view and Zula perched on a tree branch, watching them through the foliage.

Trolls.

She should have felt bad, but that was the thing about stealing—she never considered the fallout of her thievery, only the rush of excitement, the thrill that consumed her as she plotted out the ideal way to pull off a heist and left her calling card: a peacock-blue feather.

Zula always arrived early on location to spend a few hours watching and blending in. Unsurprisingly, the trolls used magic as a barrier around their village, which was why Zula had taken to the trees to enter instead of strolling in. If they sensed a break in the magic, they’d be wary, and she wanted to ensure they were completely unaware of her presence.

The trolls were civilized and peaceful. They lived in buildings made of logs with thatched roofs, cultivated crops and kept fruit orchards, the bounty used as trade with the kingdom. Aside from harvest days two times a year, they kept to themselves, and the citizens who lived in the vicinity were ordered not to disturb them.

A baby troll tripped over a pile of hay, giggling as it stumbled upright, only to fall again. A group of young trolls emerged from the jungle, nets filled with fish. They shouted and bragged, proud of their catch. A group of female trolls returned from foraging, laying out the plants they’d found on stones, grinding some and setting others aside. Everywhere Zula looked, she saw harmony, peace, friendship, and love. Their lives were peaceful, idyllic, and a twinge of jealousy poked at her.

She stole treasure, but the trolls had something intangible that no one could steal. They had each other .

Ripping her focus away from the families, she spied a structure overlooking the waterfall, a crisscross of branches that made out a tower, an altar, a place to worship. The jewel would be kept there. She didn’t even need to see it. The gang that hired her had described it: the size of her head, a heavy egg-shaped jewel encrusted with gold, silver, sapphires, diamonds, rubies. The trolls believed the priceless jewel protected their village, brought them luck and good fortune. Zula wondered if it was the source of their magic.

She knew little about enchantments, particularly those woven by trolls, but all kingdoms relied on some king of spells or wards to protect themselves from others. Stealing treasure upset the delicate balance of magic, Zula only knew that truth because of her magical ukulele.

Briefly, she wondered what the thieves would do with the jeweled egg. It would bring her immeasurable wealth and the kind of freedom she’d only dreamed about. She could retire from her lifestyle, lie by a river and fish, try her hand at baking delectable cinnamon buns, and go play at any tavern she pleased. The only problem was the fact that she didn’t know what she wanted. She lived for the thrill of the heist, and despite the danger, she still burned for adventure.

T he sun was sinking in the sky when Zula opened the sack and unwrapped her ukulele. She swung her numb limbs and pressed her fingers against the strings. Warmth filled her as she closed her eyes and played. Not one of the fast-paced songs she sang in the taverns, but a slower, poetic song intended to lull the listeners to sleep. Tiny golden motes of magic hovered above her fingers as she played, and her confidence bloomed. As the light faded, she made out the shape of the trolls, stopping, sitting, sleeping. It wasn’t until she heard the rumble of a snore that she allowed the music to fade.

Zula swung down from the tree and jammed her feathered hat on her head. Tucking her knife into her belt, she dashed to the tower and climbed to the top, where the egg perched in a nest of silk. It was caged by wood, likely spelled by magic, but the music of the ukulele was potent, dispelling all magical traps for a matter of moments after the music played. Using her knife, Zula picked the lock. It came free with a satisfying whisper. Her fingers itched as she looked at the naked egg.

A rainbow of light skittered across the encrusted jewels as it glowed with its own inner light. A lustful ache pinched at her and her eyes watered. For the space of a moment, she wanted it for herself: the beauty, the jewels, the glistening magic of it all. What would it be like if she kept one of the priceless relics she stole? She had a den without treasures, but this was the ultimate prize.

With a defeated sigh, she dropped the sack over the egg. It took her a few tries to move it, straining as the heavy egg rolled into the sack. She tied the sack shut, realizing she wouldn’t be able to swing through the trees with it. Gritting her teeth, she bore the weight with one hand while she slipped a feather free, and placed it on the empty silk nest.

Gingerly, she made her way down the tower. By the time she walked out the door, she’d adjusted and was ready to run. She headed back toward the grove of trees as the glow of a crimson sunset settled around her. A lightness came over her, as it often did in the aftermath of a heist. Reaching for the rope she’d left by the tree, she started to swing up when two meaty hands closed around her waist.

The sack was snatched from her hands, and the next moment, she was airborne.

Only by sheer willpower did she keep a bloodcurdling scream from escaping her lips. Instead, she tucked her body into a ball, preparing for impact.

It came, hard.

A wall of mud rushing around her, a billow of dust engulfing her throat, and a sickening crack followed by a bloom of pain shooting up her leg. A shadow loomed over her, and she reached for her knife, ready to fight off the thieves who had tricked her.

Instead, she found herself looking at the impossible.

She’d played her ukulele. The magic should have put everyone in the vicinity to sleep, yet Zula found herself staring into the scowling face of a horned, red-spotted troll.