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She stiffened, her chin jerking up in a thin show of defiance. “And how many thieves are you in the habit of speaking to, Lord Kilronan?”
“Fair enough, yet you haven’t answered my question.”
“You haven’t asked me one.”
He handed her the victory with a flick of his fingers. “Let me correct that at once then. Who are you, Miss O’Connell? And what were you doing in my library?”
Uncertainty flickered over her face before hardening to stubborn resolve. And from the porcelain elegance emerged the steely features of the thief who’d broken into his home and fought like a tigress. Two sides of a very interesting coin. “It’s not Miss O’Connell. Not anymore. It’s Cat now. And I’m whatever I have to be to survive.”
“No angry father beating the streets looking for you? No brother with a blunderbuss and priest in tow?”
Her lips compressed until white lines bit into the hollows of her cheeks. “No one.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugged, reluctantly letting his curiosity go. A burglar who spoke and carried herself like a queen tantalized with possibilities, but he’d reached his quota of mysteries already.
“As for your library,” she continued, “I was stealing.” She crossed her arms. “Now are you going to send for the Watch or not?”
He bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue. Settled for, “Not.”
She sat up, clearly confused, but also clearly relieved. “So if you don’t plan on sending me to Newgate, I can go?”
“Not quite.”
She slumped back in her chair.
The answers he sought were in the diary. They had to be. Why else would it have been hidden away and not with Father’s other personal papers? And not just hidden away but warded and written in a language every scholar he’d contacted had labeled gibberish? The diary contained the keys to finally understanding the truth about his father’s death. Perhaps even clues to his brother’s disappearance.
And he sat across from the only person he’d found who could decipher it. Newgate would wait. Cat belonged to him now.
He drummed his fingers against his leg. Paced the rug in halting steps while he chose his words. “I’ve a deal to set before you.”
She fidgeted with a raveled thread on her sleeve, her wary gaze never leaving his face. And just like that, jade green eyes faded to gray. Darkened to blue. Was her hair dark brown? Deep claret red? Did it curl at the nape or was that a trick of the light?
He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Sent his answering spell floating on a whispered breath. “Visousk distagesh.”
As usual, his stomach shifted, moving into his throat as if he’d drunk too much wine. But when he opened his eyes, her fluid features had settled back into place, her mouth hanging on a startled oath.
“How did you do that? No one’s ever been able to —” She clamped her lips shut, sullenness hardening her delicate features.
“I used a nix to break through your charm. Crude but effective.” He allowed himself a cool, satisfied smile. That particular bit of magic had been the devil to learn. But he’d done it. Not that Father had been particularly impressed. It took more than mastering a minor spell to win his praise. “But I was right.” He perched on the edge of the desk, using the casual pose to mask the growing ache in his leg. “You and I have something in common.”
Her mouth remained pursed in a surly line. She was going to make him fight for every inch. Very well. He’d been fighting for the last six years. Had perfected the art of banging his head against a wall. “You’ve heard of the Other?” he asked.
She gave a jerk of her chin that could have signified anything.
He continued, undaunted by her lack of response. “Men and women who bear the blood of both Fey and human. They range in power from the mightiest Amhas-draoi warrior to the fisherman whose nets are always full or the artist whose ability seems almost . . . magical. Or should I say we range in power. You’re one of them.” He let fall a pregnant pause. “As am I.”
“So we’re both freaks,” she grumbled. “Good to know.”
“Some might call us that,” he replied smoothly. “Others label us witches or devils. Creatures of the dark.”
She gave a mocking bark of laughter. “Fools with straw for brains and those that wouldn’t know one of the Fey unless it tipped its hat to them and introduced itself.”
He raised a brow. “So you do know what I’m talking about. Good. That makes things easier.” Leaning back, he plucked the diary from the desktop behind him. Opening it to a random page, he crossed to where she sat, hunched and waiting. Shoved the book into her hands. “Read it.”
She jumped; her eyes passing over the writing. “I told you, I can’t.” She tried handing it back, but he’d already walked around to the other side of the desk.
“And most people believe your story, don’t they?”
