Page 1 of Heart of Thieves

PROLOGUE

The Puppeteer came for the Liar in the silver hours before dawn.

She did not exert her magic upon him, as some might have expected. She did not speak, nor did she strike.

She watched.

Cloaked in starlit shadow, she lurked like mist against the window-pane of the sheriff of Opalton’s bedroom, her gaze tracking Nic’s angular form as he knelt next to the bed where the elderly man lay soft and sallow and snoring. From his own pocket, Nic produced a tiny, glittering die the color of a ruby and pressed it gently to the slumbering man’s sternum. The stardust within shimmered as it drained into the wilted skin. A moment later, the die was empty and dull, and Nic was rising to his feet, dropping it like a meaningless hunk of coal into his jacket.

He was a great deal taller now than he had been when the Puppeteer knew him. His features sharper, shoulders broader, muscles thicker. And his scar was as ethereal and disconcerting as the one she carried on her own skin.

But in many ways, he hadn’t changed at all. He watched people like he was trying to learn them, just as he had when they were younger. No matter how quickly he moved, he still seemed to carry an invisible weight upon his shoulders. And the wrinkles around his eyes—the ones she knew came from heavy thoughts and a heavier heart—had only deepened.

He was still good. Here he was, returning stolen secrets to atone for his wrongdoings. Releasing the gods’ magic because he knew deep down it didn’t belong to him.

He certainly didn’t deserve the Deep.

The Puppeteer unlatched the window.

It made the barest squeak, and Nic whirled, ripping the pistol from his belt and pointing it at her face.

She smiled as she leaped like a cat into the room, her cloak swirling around her shoulders, its hem slinking to the floor an instant after her feet.

“Hello, Nic,” she whispered.

He stared, mouth agape, eyes wide as shining moons. “Laurel?” It was a gasp that struck someplace deep in her core. The place that had tended memories of him like blooms in a garden.

The sheriff stirred, and the Puppeteer grasped Nic’s fingers, pulling him silently into the hallway and down two flights of creaking stairs to the cottage’s main level. Nic uttered not a word as they moved, but he gripped her hand like he was afraid she’d slip away all over again.

And that grip . . . it settled her.

He’d been searching for her, she knew. Dozens of times, she’d hidden from the people he hired to sniff her out. What she didn’t know was whether he was searching because he cared or because he still wanted the moonshard.

The gods had condemned him the night he attempted to steal it, but as long as its pieces stayed embedded like scales on her hands, he couldn’t finish the job. Couldn’t complete the transformation from altar boy to demon.

As long as she stayed away, he had a chance at restitution.

But it was time to snuff out the darkness that was destroying Aethera and all of Celestia. Strangle the weeds so goodness could grow.

The Puppeteer dragged Nic into the kitchen and locked the door behind them.

“You’re alive,” he croaked.

He gawked like she was an apparition. A ghost. An angel.

“I am,” she replied with a smile.

“Stars,” he cursed, and then he wrapped both arms so tightly around her that her bones creaked. “Where have you been?”

His soullight sparked through her skin where their bodies touched. A hum of the wickedness that lived inside him, that crackled along every nerve. A beast she would tame.

“Does it matter?” she asked. “I’m here now.”

He pulled back, still gripping her arms, casting his gaze down to where the voratium splinters glittered on her hands and wrists as though she wore gloves of glowing diamonds. “Is that—?”

She nodded, lifting one of her palms so the soullight inside the shattered moonshard pieces refracted against the copper pans hanging beside their heads.

“And you.” She traced a finger along the galaxy tails of his scar over his cheekbone, keeping her voice light. “It seems you did not come out of that temple unscathed, either.”