Page 82 of A Thief Among Fae

The taxidermy deer head over the study doorway stares at me from every angle. Back home, no one would dare waste so much fur when it could line boots or be sold. The study itself is no less ostentatious. Bookshelves line the walls, packed with tomes dulled by dust. Leave it to the rich to own all the books in the world and never read them.

My thoughts drift to Desmond and his fascination with books. Would he be appalled by this facade? Does he have his own library in the Hollowlands?

“We’ve got a problem,” Finnian hisses. He’s staring at the only bare patch of wall, right behind the stately desk. There’s a vault set into the wall with a metal door and a combination lock.

Covering it is a thick pane of glass.

Finnian inspects the tracks that line the left and right edges of the pane. He tries to slide the glass up, but a system of complex clamps holds it in place. There’s no keyhole, no fingerprints or smudges to use as clues.

“See how the glass is glimmering?” Finnian asks. “There’s an alarm enchantment on it. We’ll have to smash it, but that’ll wake the whole house.”

“It won’t give us much time to flee.” Brandur scowls.

“Lord Snow-Shod has to open it somehow,” I hiss.

Finnian nods. “Looks like the combination lock on the vault also springs the pane into motion. Yet how does he access the lock?”

Brandur glowers at it. “He has a class three Gift, an uncommon one, but not powerful. Not unlike—” his gaze darts to me. “Like her.”

“Untethering?” My voice rises in shock. They shush me, and my cheeks heat. “How do I guess the right combination?” I whisper. Someone with my Gift could move the lock’s dial without touching it, but the combination is the real problem.

“Leave that to a thief.” Brandur grins. “One who doesn’t have a Gift to open any lock he chooses. Spin the first dial, but slowly.”

They wait in tense, agonizing silence as I turn the dial. “Stop,” Brandur hisses at the faintest click. “Now turn it the other way.” Another faint click. “The other way, again.” At the third click, the glass slides up on the automated tracks, and the vault hisses open. Anticipation pounds in my chest as I lay eyes on the framed canvas inside.

It’s an oil painting of Grimulf Square.

“Garoth’s tits,” Brandur swears. “If the map isn’t here, it must be in the master bedroom.”

Finnian drags his hand down his face. “Or he’s gifted it away to curry favor.”

Brandur scowls, his sharp lower canines bared. “My intel disagrees.” He points at me, then the floor. “Stay.”

I want to argue that they might need me again, but I hold my tongue and nod. They leave me in the study, and I watch them creep upstairs to the bedrooms.

Each passing second is torturously long. The cabinet’s silverware is right there. Surely the Snow-Shods won’t notice if a single set goes missing, and if the lord can afford to outbid Rune Erickson threefold on a map, he can afford another. If I brought even four spoons home, Mom’s eyes would light up like the stars.

Follow orders. Follow orders.

A deep breath swells my chest, and I creep into the hallway. At the end is a single door. Someone coughs on the other side. The housecarl’s bedroom—she’s still awake. A low bark follows. My steps are feather-light as I creep into the dining room. Slowly, I open the cabinet. My fingers hover over a silver spoon, the handle adorned with delicate filigree.

The dog barks again, and the housecarl’s door swings open.

Shit! I crouch underneath the table, holding my breath as the housecarl moves into the kitchen. She yawns.

From my hiding place, I peer into her room.

Framed above the bed is a yellowed map, the corners adorned with inked illustrations of the Divine Five. The cursive calligraphy is difficult to read in the dim light, but I recognize the curve of the triangular peaks and the label beneath them—Torok.

That’s the map! Excitement flutters in my chest. Who would’ve thought that the lord would gift it to his illicit lover?

Cabinets creak open as the housecarl rummages through the kitchen. “Will you quiet down if I feed you?” she hisses, then retrieves a chunk of raw meat from an icebox. She throws it to the dog. It catches it and swallows it whole, turns my way, and stills.

Panic squeezes me. This is no normal dog. It’s twice the size of any I’ve seen, its head as tall as the housecarl’s stomach. Uncanny amber eyes stare at me as the lips of its giant maw pull back in a snarl. This dog is half wolf.

I have to distract it. My magic lashes out, grasping everything within sight. I hone in on the cellar door and swing it until it creaks.

The wolfdog’s ears perk as it swivels, and the housecarl turns to look. “The cat again?” she mumbles.