Page 83 of A Thief Among Fae

I should wait for Finnian and Brandur to come downstairs. They told me to stay put. But the plan’s already gone to hell. The map was supposed to be in the vault that I opened, not the housecarl’s bedroom. She’s outside of it now, and I’m the only one here to nab it before she goes back in.

As long as I’m careful, no one will get hurt.

The housecarl investigates the hallway as I sneak into her cramped bedroom. The bedsheets are ruffled and carry a whiff of cologne. A fur-covered brush lies on the sole wooden chair, and a weapons rack holds an axe lovingly polished.

Unlike the vault, the map has no shimmer to suggest it’s warded. Makes sense, when no one would look here for it. I carefully untether the frame from the wall, then free the backing.

The two pieces scrape. I wince at the jarring sound. Quickly, I roll the map and tuck it under my arm. Then I hang the frame, hoping it’ll delay the housecarl from realizing the map is gone.

As I lunge for the doorway, I see a silver chain necklace with a sapphire pendant on her dresser. The housecarl’s footsteps echo from the kitchen as I bite my lip in debate. If the tomb raid fails, I’ll have nothing to bring home to my family except for broken promises. That sapphire could help me save for a healer now.

My heart hammers from something other than exhilaration.

Guilt. It deafens every other thought. As I slide the necklace into my pocket, its minuscule weight sinks my stomach. This isn’t a barrow, where valuables have been left to degrade. This is the housecarl’s bedroom, perhaps the sole place she feels safe.

She’s a person. A living, breathing Avedoran. So are the sleeping gentry upstairs. And no matter how wealthy this family is, they’ll be disturbed when they learn burglars have broken into their home. And this housecarl, just a private guard earning a wage, will suffer most of all. She’ll be fired, accused of co-conspiring with the burglars, or worse. What if the lord threatens to blackmail her about their affair? The infamy would stain her name much longer than his.

My hand fists the necklace. I’ll put it back.

The floor creaks as footsteps move toward me. Every hair on my neck prickles. The bed. It’s the only place to hide. I throw myself to the ground and roll underneath it. The housecarl enters as I hold my breath, my nose squished against the wooden frame.

The wolfdog enters at her heels. I am so incredibly doomed.

My heart pounds. I hold my breath as it sniffs the air.

“What’s wrong, Fang?” the housecarl asks.

The wolfdog halts at the edge of the bed, nose twitching. A deep growl rumbles from its throat. My muscles lock, fingers clenched so tightly around the stolen necklace that the chain digs into my palm.

I see her shadow shift as she looks around. Then she bends down before the bed.

I have seconds.

The dresser. The axe on the rack. The frame—anything. My Gift latches onto the first object I can focus on.

The chair.

It lurches across the floor with a loud, grating scrape, and the brush clatters to the floor. The housecarl spins, reaching for her axe.

I roll out from under the bed, jump to my feet, and race to the door. My shoulder slams into the doorframe, and I hiss in pain.

The housecarl gasps. She swings her axe. I dodge, careening into the kitchen with the heavy steps I’ve been warned against making. I spin, unsheathing a dagger with my free hand.

Her dark eyes widen when she sees the map. I notice that her skin has a tinge of gray—half goblin. That’s why Lord Snow-Shod gifted her a map of Torok’s mountains. As our gazes meet, I realize I can’t bring myself to hurt her. So all that’s left to do is run.

As I lunge for the cellar door, a sharp pain erupts down my back. Something hot and sticky coats my gambeson as I stagger. I grit my teeth, burying the pain as I vault down the cellar stairs.

Thank the gods she didn’t hack my spine in two, but my pulse hammers as I reach the barrel under the trapdoor.

With freedom so close, I freeze. Finnian and Brandur are still upstairs.

“Shit,” I seethe, turning to face the housecarl. The wolfdog barrels past her and lunges for my legs, teeth bared. I freeze the wolfdog’s collar with my magic, pinning it in place. It rasps as it tries to lunge toward me, its giant paws scrambling.

No matter how guilty I feel watching it struggle, if I let it free, it’ll maul me. “Order your dog to stand down. I don’t want to hurt it.”

“You bitch!” she snarls. She hefts the bloody axe. “Let him go!”

I need a distraction—the glass orb Maeve gave me. I untether it from my pocket and smash it between us. Smoke blooms with a loud pop, obscuring the room. My magic can feel the movements of the housecarl’s clothing and her axe. Without sight, I have the advantage.